As a feminist, I believe that the English language is inherently sexist. Think about it: Everything is male-centric. The entire world seems to revolve around men and their dicks, but if a woman wants to touch one of those oh-so-mighty dicks? Bam! She’s a slut!
I do not believe women should be defined by their sexual history. I do not view women as a Starbucks cup, something that’s supposed to be used once and then forever considered trash even though I still fill it up with homemade coffee until it falls apart so I look expensive to my coworkers. No way! Women are so much more than that.
That’s why I believe slut shaming is always 100% wrong unless I am about to finish. No man should be going around calling women names unless they are in my bed, kitchen, or bathtub and I am about 30 seconds away from le petit mort.
I didn’t always feel this way. When I met my new boyfriend, Tom, I was hesitant about exploring things. I have always considered myself, well, French vanilla. But he more the connection between Tom and I grew, the more willing I was to try new things, like let him call me names I really wanted to call my boss after my last review. I found that not only was this suddenly acceptable to me, I can no longer reach orgasm unless a man has insulted my virtue. But only if it’s Tom, and only if I’m really, really close.
Look, there is a method to my madness. I believe a man shouldn’t be allowed to call me any names unless he can actually get me there. It shouldn’t be a big deal how much sex I have if nobody can actually make me finish. After taking Feminist Theory 101, I realized the Madonna-whore complex is ruining the lives of women. Women aren’t either virginal mothers or dirty harlots. I am a motherly goddess and also a skank, and I demand to be treated like both but only at very specific moments.
Whenever I get a corn dog, I always wonder if I should just bite into it or slowly eat the surrounding bread so I can expose the wiener. I want men to think of me like that. When I am out to dinner with them, I am the corn dog still in its warm cornbread coat, safe and wholesome. When I am close to the big moment, I am that exposed wiener.
So gentlemen, if you want to be a true feminist, keep it classy. Unless you’re about to make me scream.
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