Misogyny [parts 1,3 and 4]
There are a lot of bastards in the world
There are a lot of misogynists in the world.
There are a lot of misogynist rogues in the world.
There are a lot of war-like, misogynist bastards in the world.
There are a lot of evil, war-like, misogynist bastards in the world.
There are a lot of
A few hours later I was still at the bar, with a couple of French girls next to me. One tall, one short, both thin in the calf and fat in the ass. They’d come in looking for their hotel and I’d persuaded them to sit with me until it was late enough to go to bed. I’d lied and told them their hotel was on the next street along, which they believed fast enough to make me certain they believed a lot of other things random strangers told them. If only all women had such passive simplicity to them, I thought as I helped them place their bags down on the floor. It would make it much easier to get a fuck.
A little bubble popped into my head and Geena Davis appeared, telling me I couldn’t say shit like that. I ignored it/her and continued with the sleaze.
We drank. I told them more lies, about my job, the places I’d been to and written about for the magazine, which was a larger publication when I re-told my story. Luckily for me, and luck was always with me, they hadn’t read many travel guides, they hadn’t read much at all in fact, and they hadn’t been to any of the places I name-checked. “Tokyo?”
“Oui, in Japan.” She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. “Have you been there?”
“The Tokyo in Japan, sure.”
“What are the women like? They seem a little simple, n’est pas?”
“Nesper? What’s that? Oh, right, you’re talking French. Yeah, they’re kinda simple. And some of them have orange faces too.”
“Not sure. I think they’re aiming for brown, but…yeah, anyway, they’re not that interesting. Too easy to step on, too fucking happy all the time.”
“Not as nice as French women?”
“Not even close.”
“You like us?”
“French women, sure. Simone De Beauvoir was French, so was…what’s her name? The one from ‘Three Colours Red’…”
“Julie Delpy? She’s not exactly French…”
“No, not her, the other one…black hair, French eyes…wait, what do you mean she’s not French?”
“What about your women?”
“Who’s that? British?”
“Err…yeah. Have you been listening to my voice? I’m from London.”
“You look Indian…”
“Yeah, I know, but…”
“Or the other one…Afghanistan.”
I stared at them, wondering what the hell they were looking at.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, blowing smoke at her friend. “We have some Indians in Paris too. Their French is not so pretty, but they don’t cause so many problems.”
“Great. But I’m British, not Indian.”
They looked at me like I was a liar.
“Ah, fuck it, what was I saying? French women…very clever…not racist at all…”
“You said we were full of philosophy…”
“And very beautiful…”
If I squinted and just listened they could almost be British. God, women were depressing. It was the same routine over and over. If you wanted to pick up and just fuck then you had to go through this. If you wanted something with more substance (something a little closer to my level, although I’d long since given up finding an equal), then you had to be patient, something I couldn’t be. Fuck it, I had money, I had a great job, why did I need to put myself through this?
[Feminist or self-intervention?]
There was a room and at the end of the room was a low table and behind the table were some of the most intelligent women the world had ever seen. Germaine Greer. Marie Curie. Susan Sarandon. And more I couldn’t recognize. They were shouting at me, asking me why I was such a motherfucker, and when I opened my mouth to defend myself, the words that came out were insanely quiet so I walked closer to the table and stood over them and told them it wasn’t my fault, those French girls were stupid, that was all. It wasn’t like I hated women, I didn’t, I loved them, especially smart ones, it’s just I never met many of those.
Susan Sarandon told me the French girls spoke four languages.
They had masters in Biology and Law.
“Both of them?”
Marie Curie asked me how many languages I could speak.
“That’s not the point.”
The door opened and another woman walked in. It was a feminist I’d met in Brighton one time. She had normal hair and normal clothes and a normal face and didn’t seem angry at all.
She reached the table and asked me why I had run away from her.
She told me I did. She told me I talked to her, realized she was smarter than I was and then ran away.
“I thought you didn’t like me.”
She said she didn’t.
Germaine Greer slammed her fist down on the table and said enough.
She said I had to learn to respect women otherwise it would come out in my writing and I’d lose half my audience.
“My writing’s neutral…I think…”
She reached under the table and brought up some pieces of stapled-together paper. It was a manuscript. She flicked through and showed me all the negative portrayals of women I’d written. It was overwhelming.
“Shit, you’re right. I’m an asshole.”
They all nodded.
“How can I change this?”
The feminist from Brighton said I could start by making the table higher so they could look down on me instead of me looking down on them.
“That seems a bit extreme.”
It’s the only way, they said.
The table got higher and the women disappeared out of sight. The feminist from Brighton tapped me on the shoulder and told me to stop relating women to sex all the time.
“You mean…become a monk?”
“Can we have sex?”
She started taking off her shirt.
“Just once…quickly, before Germaine Greer comes back?”
“Not once, not ever.”
She threw the shirt on the floor.
A laser shot through the air and drilled a neat little hole in her cheek. She fell down dead.
A man in an alien costume who came from a planet near another planet very far away from here ran into the room and told me to run.
“To Man Town. It’s safer there.”
“Oh. You hate women too?”
“That’s their argument, not mine. Now get out of here. I’ll find the others and teach them their place.”
I looked down at the body of the feminist.
She was still dead.
Maybe women and men go to a different afterlife, I thought.
“What are you still doing here?” the alien costume asked.
“I don’t know.”
I thought it through. I speak one language. They speak lots. I’m a piece of shit. They’re activists. There are stupid women. There are stupid men. I’m seeing conflict where there should be none. This alien costume’s gun is very close to me.
I took his gun and shot him in the gut.
He shook his fist at me, fell backwards and died.
I waited for someone to cheer, but no-one did.
I waited for something else to happen, but nothing did.
Oh, I thought.
Suddenly, in a split second, every action movie ever made flashed through my brain and instead of male heroes, there were women. Joan McClane. Jane Rambo. Kelly Reese.
A voice came from above.
It was Susan Sarandon.
That’s not what we want, she shouted.
Everything went orange.
And then black.