The Rapist Checklist (repost)

Ok, I was going to post something new and original today but I noted something in the comments. One of my old posts, entitled The Rapist Checklist has been paleoposted somewhere else once more.

Every now and then someone stumbles onto an old post and posts a link somewhere else. Now this post in particular really pissed off a bunch of people at the time and it continues to do so. I re-read it again this morning trying to see if I saw it in a different light now so many months after the original posting. It read the same as it did the day I posted it and made just as much sense to me.

However, you all would be amazed if you saw the sheer number of men who get ragingly pissed off by this post. For that reason alone I thought that it was worth reposting so today I’m copying it to this new post, just because I think it’ll be alot of fun to visit memory lane.


The Rapist Checklist

Some things to remember…

1. You are a rapist if you get a girl drunk and have sex with her.

2. You are a rapist if you find a drunk girl and have sex with her.

3. You are a rapist if you get yourself drunk and have sex with her. Your drunkeness is no excuse.

4. If you are BOTH drunk you may still be a rapist.

5. If she’s alternating between puking her guts out and passing out in the bed then you’re a rapist.

6. If she’s sleeping and you have sex with her you’re a rapist.

7. If she’s unconscious and you have sex with her then you’re a rapist.

8. If she’s taking sleeping pills and doesn’t wake up when you have sex with her then you’re a rapist.

9. If she is incapacitated in any way and unable to say ‘Yes’ then you’re a rapist.

10. If you drug her then you’re a rapist.

11. If you find a drugged girl and have sex with her then you’re a rapist.

12. If you don’t bother to ask her permission and she says neither ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ then you could be a rapist.

13. You are a rapist if you ‘nag’ her for sex. Because you manage to ply an eventual ‘yes’ from a weary victim doesn’t mean it’s not rape. You are a rapist.

14. You are a rapist if you try to circumvent her “No” by talking her into it. She’s not playing hard to get, and, even if she IS it’s not YOUR responsibility to ‘get’ her. You’re still a rapist.

15. You are a rapist if you manipulate her into sex when she doesn’t otherwise want it. If you say, “If you loved me you’d do X” then you’re a rapist. If you say, “All the other kids are doing it!” then you’re a rapist.

16. If you threaten her, or act in a way that SHE thinks you’re threatening her then you’re a rapist. If you puff up and get loud and frustrated while trying to ‘talk’ her into sex then you’re a rapist.

17. You are a rapist if you don’t immediately get your hands off of her when she says ‘no’. You are a rapist if you take your hands off of her and then put them back ON her after 10 minutes and she eventually ‘gives in’ to this tactic.

18. You are a rapist if you won’t let her sleep peacefully without waking her every 15 minutes asking her for sex. Sleep depravation is a form of torture and YOU are a rapist.

19. If you’re necking with her and you’re naked and you’ve already gone down on her and she says ‘No’ to sex with you and you have sex with her anyway then you’re a rapist.

20. If you’re engaged in intercourse and she says ‘No’ at ANY point and you don’t immediately stop then you’re a rapist.

21. If she said “Yes” to sex with a condom and that condom breaks and you proceed anyway then you’re a rapist.

22. If she picked you up at a bar looking for sex and then decides that she doesn’t WANT sex and you continue then you’re a rapist.

23. If she changes her mind at ANY point for ANY reason and you don’t immediately back off or you try to talk her into it and get sex anyway then you’re a rapist.

24. If you don’t hit her and she says ‘No’ you’re still a rapist.

25. If you don’t have a knife or a gun or a garrote and she says ‘No’ then you’re still a rapist.

26. If you’re a friend of hers you can still be a rapist.

27. If you had sex with her the night before but she doesn’t want morning sex and you pressure her for it anyway then you’re a rapist.

28. If you’re her husband you can still be a rapist.

29. If it’s your wedding night and she doesn’t WANT to have sex with you and you force or coerce her anyway then you’re a rapist.

30. If she’s had sex with you hundreds of times before but doesn’t want to on the 101st time then you’re a rapist.

31. If you penetrate her anally, orally or digitally against her will then YOU my friend, are ALSO a rapist.

32. Women do not owe you sex.

33. Buying her dinner does not entitle you to sex.

34. Paying her mortgage does not entitle you to sex.

35. Buying her clothing does not entitle you to sex.

36. Buying her lingerie does not entitle you to sex. It also doesn’t mean that she has any obligation to wear that lingerie around you.

37. Spending any amount of money on her does not, ever, entitle you to sex.

38. Seeing her legs or cleavage does not entitle you to sex.

39. If she ‘turns you on’ you’re not entitled to sex.

40. If she has fucked every man in a 10 square mile radius and she doesn’t want to fuck you and you have sex with her anyway, then you’re a rapist.

41. Her clothing is not a reason for you to rape her. Her LACK of clothing is no reason to rape her. If she’s wearing a thong and pasties you STILL have no right to rape her.

42. If she’s a prostitute and she says “No” then you’re a rapist.

43. If she’s a stripper and she says “No” then you’re a rapist. Likewise, if she’s a stripper and she’s been rubbing against your dick all night long and you follow her to her car and have sex with her against her will then you are ALSO a rapist.

44. If you watch a woman being raped without calling the authorities then you’re as bad as a rapist and you may also be a rapist yourself.

45. If you don’t fight rape then you accept rape.

46. If you don’t believe a woman when she says she was raped then you’re encouraging rape.

47. If you choose to remain friends with a man who raped a woman you are encouraging rape.

48. If you confess to the authorities that you raped a woman it does not exonerate you. You are not suddenly a model of good behavior.

49. If you ‘only’ raped one woman, you’re STILL a rapist.

50. You cannot tell who is a rapist by the way they look. Rapists are your friends, your brothers, your fathers and you won’t know it.

51. Do not get frustrated with a woman if she doesn’t trust you. SHE already knows that rapists don’t wear signs on their foreheads. Something you think is innocuous SHE may find terrifying.

Hmmm…I think that about covers it. Any questions? Good.

Oh, and feel free to add new ones in the comments and I’ll edit the post and put them up here for reference.


Published in: on May 31, 2008 at 1:58 pm  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , , ,

The FreeXXX Girl


It’s a search I get all the time, and each and every time it pops up on sitemeter

I want to scream at the top of my lungs.

 A few weeks ago I was sitting at my desk sipping gingerly on my hot cup of coffee. I popped into sitemeter to log the searches and there it was again, “FreeXXXpics” my hand trembled and my smile turned into a frown of wrath and fury. What was it about this particular phrase that sent shockwaves through me? 

I very nearly threw my coffee cup at the wall that day, so enraged was I by the search. Clearly, this shit was getting to me. Several days later, I took my burnout time but now I’m back again and the phrase is still haunting me. So, this morning amidst the chaos of homeschooling, networking for the rape campaign, researching and so on I decided to plug in my Zoo Tycoon for a few minutes. 

As I was cleaning my virtual Rhino cage it hit me. In a flash a lightbulb went off over my head and I closed the program and began to write, the first draft of that writing was confused and garbled. Perhaps it still is now but I suspect that remains to be seen. 

The FreeXXX search bothers the fuck out of me because it shows callousness so deep, an entitlement so broad, that it literally bounced entirely off my paradigm for all this time. 

My lizard brain got it though; my lizard brain understood exactly what was pissing me off about this particular search term. 

“FreeXXXpics” exposes its searchers for exactly what they are, male privileged fucktards who feel that they are so entitled to women to degrade that they shouldn’t even bother paying for it. 

They want to use as many women as possible with as little outlay, and one phrase keeps ringing through my head, they don’t even feel they should have to pay for it. The women, the scads of women being paid next to nothing, all of them have stories, all of them have lives, none of them looked lovingly at Mommy and Daddy as a child and said, “I want to grow up to be a FreeXXX girl”. 

These women had hopes and fears and dreams and aspirations. These women were little girls with button noses and piggy tails who trotted around the playground at recess. All of their dreams from childhood, their aspirations of being veterinarians or schoolteachers or botanists are gone and what’s left? A cunt. A pussy. An object.

A thing. 

Those lost dreams of having ponies or growing up to be a doctor or counselor or marine biologist are shattered on the floor like so many shards of glass. Their stories are individually different, individually unique but as a collective most of them tell a very similar story. How many abusive boyfriends did it take to train them to be the FreeXXX girl? How many pushes, punches, rapes, and abuses did it take for them to finally watch as their dreams fell from that high shelf in their minds and shattered into fragments of lost hope on the floor? 

All that pain, all that loss, all those souls and dreams and aspirations…and they’re not even worth a fucking nickel. Not a dime, not a quarter, not a fucking cent.

They’re worth a wad of cum in some jerk-offs hand and he won’t pay them a cent. 

I don’t know why, but the fact that their dreams and hopes aren’t even worth a fucking cent to these men grates on my very last nerve. It angers me in a way I can barely describe. I can see the faces in my mind and I roll back the years to a little girl in braids, who is swinging on a tire swing, or a dark haired little girl riding a pony, or an African American little girl playing in a schoolyard. I see dollies and trucks and fishing poles. I see small hands playing in dirt, picking up worms or playing dress up.

I was a child once. They were children once, just as you, just as your mother, your sister, your aunt. At some point they saw a person on TV, maybe it was a Veterinarian, or a Scientist or even the fucking President and they looked up at their parents and with a big smile said, “That’s what I want to be when I grow up”. 

What happened to them? Men happened to them. Society happened to them. They bought into the idea that transforming themselves into a cunt, a pussy, a sexbot was empowering AFTER they realized that Vet, Scientist and President were out of the question. 

How many dreams do you see around their dead eyes when you type in that horrible phrase? And why don’t you even feel it’s worth a penny to you? How could you? How could you feel so entitled to women and cunts and pussy and your own chubby little cock that you can look at them and NOT see the sparkles of the glass that was their aspirations? 

I can see nothing but the reflections of shattered hopes. 

These men have no value for life, no value for emotion or dreams of anyone but their own. They don’t even think that her lost dreams are worth a measly dollar, they are worth less than a candy bar from a vending machine. They’re worth less than a cup of coffee at the gas station. Their aspirations don’t even merit the same worth as a piece of penny candy, so much so that they go out of their way to specify that their degradation MUST be free. 

What scorn and disdain for life these men must have.

I’m sitting here on my laptop and I’m remembering the point at which I stopped fighting it. The point at which I stopped resisting the oppression around me and I succumbed to it entirely. What was their breaking point? What moment was it in their lives that pushed them to stop fighting it? 

It’s a horrible thing to be apathetic to the pain and sadness of another soul. It’s even more horrible to actively seek out that pain and sadness. The worst sort of horror is when you say that you aren’t willing to give up a fucking thing to be able to get off to that pain and sadness. 

These are the FreeXXX girls. 

These are the daughters of the Patriarchy, these are the women that the institutions of man has created and I bleed for them. These are the girls who men don’t even care enough to pay for. These are the women that are truly expendable in our society and they know it. They’re the FreeXXX girls, the FreeHotttCunts, they are the girls that male society hates and loathes and yet craves to get off on. 

It must make men feel so superior and powerful to have that kind of misery, the sadness and legacy of broken dreams and shattered lives, at their fingertips. It must be such a power rush for them to see these women, these living, breathing, feeling women, reduced to mere holes for their amusement, degraded and humiliated. And to be able to acquire this sort of power, the sort of power that the nerdy geek-boy who’s a closet misogynist has always longed for, to be available for free. 

There can be no doubt that the Patriarchy takes care of its own. It supplies degradation and power for free at the click of a mouse. How many of them? How many faces and lives? The FreeXXX girls, the slut of cyberspace, the fuckhole object who has her face cum upon by countless millions of men. The ultimate object, free, ready, voiceless and faceless a mock-up of the male fantasy of control and domination right there for every male to violate and use. 

Yes, the Patriarchy takes care of its own. Creating women who are lost and alone, posing them, starving them, addicting them to whatever drugs and numbing medication they can use to dull the pain and then putting them out there for free. And, to ensure that it has covered its bases, after destroying their hopes and dreams, after locking them into pink collar hell and taking every ounce of power and autonomy they can have, after training them for 18 years they cover their tracks by saying, “It’s her CHOICE!” 

And that is supposed to be the end of the discussion. 

But it’s not the end for me. The audacity of these dudes that they won’t even pay a cent for the misery and suffering of these women, that they specifically request to have their objects free makes my stomach churn with an emotion I can’t even identify. A strange mixture of hate and sadness and rage roils in my gut, threatening to spill out and onto my keyboard. 

Even now, thinking about those words with that FREE stipulation added to them I am shaking and sick. It says much about our world that the FreeXXX girl has become so popular; it says much about the mindsets of our worldwide culture that a woman can be stripped of everything and be free for the taking. That she can lose her dignity, her autonomy, her personhood, her dreams, her life, her aspirations and she is so worthless, and all that she has lost is so worthless, that she is free to whomever wants to use her today. 

The FreeXXX girl is the equivalent of the free bumper sticker. Cheap, worthless, and only there to get out the message. That message being: “Come one, come all, we gotcher’ degradation and objects here”. And to uphold this institution of man we must have a lot of these women available, we must teach them that they are better than the freeXXX girl at all costs. That they are not only better but that they can have her like oxygen or food. She is one more consumable resource to men and how many of them are there? How many do they see? 

Are they looking at 20 FreeXXX girls per ‘session’, 3 sessions a week? 240 a month? How many faces do they remember? I wager that few of them remember any. The faces are interchangeable to them, the dignity and dreams and the little girls hiding inside the shaved bodies and starved torsos are interchangeable to the men who seek them out. 

This is the entertainment of our ‘culture’ (and yes, I use the term loosely). This is the entertainment that makes more money than almost every other form of sporting entertainment combined. This is the number one entertainment for our world, the FreeXXX girl, the unlimited access to the most wretched and disposable members of our society. You can tell a lot by a society’s entertainment, what do you see when you look at ours? Where do women fit into that equation? 

Look at Rome. What do you see when you think of that civilization, gruesome blood sports? Gladiators? No surprise that Rome was a violent culture, look at what they enjoyed doing in their spare time. 

Look at us. What does our entertainment look like? Shattered women, displayed, distorted, starved and shaved. They are eerily reminiscent of slave markets where the slaves were ‘advertised’ with few (if any) clothes on, degraded, stripped, unempowered. 

There is little surprise that our society is a rape world, a rape culture for a rape world. There is little surprise that women are the largest group of poor, the largest group of welfare recipients, and the largest group of the abused. 

Years ago this country, the U.S.A., outlawed slavery. It outlawed men being able to take their egos and self-esteem from the complete degradation of other humans. But women, who were the driving force behind outlawing slavery, were soon to literally take the place of the slaves. Women of all color, black, asian, white, it didn’t matter; men, white men, black men, asian men, all knew that they must, at all costs, continue to abuse at least one segment of society. They must, at all costs, keep at least one group available for mass consumption, for mass degradation, for mass hatred, and the men, all of them, decided that they could unite in the oppression of women. 

Years ago our country outlawed keeping slaves, but women of color were never freed and women of all stripes soon took the place of domestic slave. Sure, they did it before the new laws, women have always held the same place as the FreeXXX girl, a place of worthlessness, of expendability, but now, with men being able to unite in their oppression of women, ALL women took the brunt of what was. And that continues to this day. 

And today, this very moment, dreams are being lost and right now, as I type this some woman has had the shit kicked out of her one too many times and her beautiful sculpture that represents all of her hopes and aspirations is crashing to the floor. Right now another FreeXXX girl is being created. She will be sacrificed at the altar of male pride and ego, the altar of the penis because she MUST be sacrificed. She MUST be made available to anyone who wants her and she is made for men. She is empty and hollow and servile because she must be to feed men’s lust for power and control.

I figured out today why the FreeXXX girl makes me hurt so badly, why my hands shake and my mind becomes filled with useless babble, she is a marker of what every woman is to men. She is the embodiment of what men project onto the masses of women, the millions of us who are trying to crawl out from under the boot of the Patriarchy. She elicits within me so much anger and shame and fear because she is what they want US to be. 

Hopeless, robotic, empty vessels that they can use and discard. Emotionless things who appear only to be used and degraded and then disappear with the click of a mouse.

I yearn for a world when every man looks at that computer and sees, in brilliant clarity, not the cunt or the pussy or their own flaccid penis, but rather the sparkles of the dreams that were. I long for the day that they see the glass on the floor when they see her face and her dead eyes and the idea sickens them and they turn away with the click of a mouse. 

She shouldn’t be Free, her dreams were worth something, her emotions, her smile, her humor her intelligence, they were worth something. They are worth something, they’re worth a million of the men who would use her today. And that is a price I’m willing to pay. 

~ Biting Beaver

(thanks to Deedle for contributing this gem)

Introducing My Warrior

I got an email this morning from someone. It was an email talking about her repeated rape at the hands of a young man. This is not the first such letter I have received in my email and the feelings it evoked in me were neither uncommon, nor unique insofar as I have had them before. 

The pain from these women bleeds through in their words, the screams I hear when I read their stories resonates so deeply inside of me that I tremble with barely contained rage, fear and sadness.

I have received several such letters since starting this blog. And more confessions and stories and voices than I can separate in the clutter that is my mind. Each and every woman on this site has a story, chances are good that it is that story that brought them here in the first place. Now, those stories may not be alike in the details, not every woman has been raped, not every woman has been abused, but every one of them has found a thread of commonality in a radical voice. For whatever reason they have seen the cancer infecting this society, seen its ugly face and the barren wasteland and dead women it has left behind.

I cried this morning. I locked myself in my bedroom for a few moments and I cried. I cried the tears of sadness and rage that explode from my soul each and every time I read another story. I sobbed quietly beneath my covers, not wanting to upset my children who were busy reading their books for school. I cried the tears of the victim and survivor and I cried for yet another life destroyed, shattered by the force that is male pride and entitlement. 

As I read that email this morning, as I have done on other mornings when a commenter has been moved to write to me, I felt rage burning fresh in my blood. I felt sadness and a loss so deadly that it brings everything home to me. It reminds me, in violent waves, about the society in which we women are forced to live. A society in which half of the population hates us for no reason I can discern.

This has been a trying week for me. I’m working on Friday fun with Site meter and the searches that are there are terrifying in their honesty. “Beautiful girls being raped”, “Sluts being beaten and raped”, the searches march across my screen, a grim reality and testament to the world in which I live. It is a testament to the violence of men, the undiluted essence of hatred with which they view us.

And on this morning, there was another letter, another story, another scream from another woman who has joined the rank and file of the millions of survivors. Always, there is confusion in me when I see the proof of male violence and hatred towards women. Ever there is confusion, a sort of disjointed question that hangs thickly in the air, tainting my skin and forcing itself to be articulated.


That is the scream that rips through me. It is the question that lies unanswered and unspoken. Why? 

Why? Why? Why? WHY???? Why do they do this to us? Why do they hate with such ferocity? Why do they spoil and silence these beautiful voices that are just waiting to be heard? Why do they contaminate and rip and tear and steal from women?

This is the word, the question that I asked myself as I cried this morning. This is the one thought that tore through me, demanding an answer, but I know that no answer will ever come. No answer can quiet that scream. When they say, “It’s because I wanted to”, it doesn’t make it stop. I want to say “WHY did you want to?”, “What did we do to you?”, “Why didn’t you care?”, “Why does our pain bring you such intense pleasure?” Why? Why? Why?

They cannot provide a suitable answer, they cannot quiet the “Why?” flitting in and out of the corners of my mind. They cannot provide the answer anymore than they can give that girl back her life, anymore than they can undo the damage they wreak. There is no easy answer; there is only the reality of the millions of screaming voices, the millions of voices that have been silenced.

People come to me and say that radical feminism cannot be taken seriously because the women in it are largely composed of survivors (although, they say ‘victims’). I say that it is because of this that radical feminism needs to be taken seriously. We are the proof of male violence, right here is the most honest and sincere proof you can find. It is because we are so largely comprised of so many survivors, and not just survivors of rape and molestation, but survivors of male pride and violence in all of it’s forms it takes, that we need to be taken seriously.

Everyone reading this has a story. Kaka Mak, Delphyne, Ginmar, Laura, Mink Stole, Kelly Bell

, and all the others (I know your names but I can’t list them all, they ring through my head even as I type and I know that the numbers are too large to list) all of you have a story, a need, a desire. Each and every one of you has experienced the proof of male entitlement and violence. No, chances are good that not every one of you has experienced rape or sexual assault, but ALL of you have seen the truth and ALL of you have been affected by the hatred that men show us. 

Occasionally, one of you reaches out to me, trying to make sense of it all and I, sadly, have no sense to give. I have no greater wisdom, no sage advice, no greater understanding of the unending question of “Why?” but there can be no doubt that your stories are just as real.

From the rage, to the sadness, to the helplessness and back to the rage, the stories are there. The violence, the entitlement, the ego, the aggression, all of us have felt it to some degree or another. From the woman who spends her entire day scrubbing toilets for minimum wage, to the women who have been harassed in the park or on the street all the way to the women who vowed to love a man only to find herself the recipient of his fists, down to the woman who went on that date with the ‘nice guy’ and ended her night being raped. All of you have stories and it is these stories and this deep seated, undying desire to make it stop that brings radicals together. 

The letter I got this morning affected me down to that primal part of my soul and I felt the desperation that so many of us have felt. The overwhelming sadness and helplessness of it all. It woke that sleeping warrior within me who first cried for the loss of yet another woman, who screamed and mourned and sobbed for the loss of yet another one of us. But now she is angry again. And her anger feeds my desire, it is her indignation at the masses of women left behind, sold out, forgotten and silenced that compels me to push forward, even when I stop for a moment to sob and regain my footing. She fills me with anger and rage and focused energy to try and accomplish the impossible. And only when the rapes, beatings, and cycle of male violence has stopped will she be sated. 

I stand in the face of these men who search for, “slut rape”, and “sexy girls being beaten and raped”.

I stand in the face of all the men that have stolen my sense of safety and security. I stand in your face Richard, and Scott and Kevin. I stand in the faces of Steven and Shawn and Brian. I stand in the faces of all the men who would take what I never offered and I stand in the face of the fucker who stole the innocence and youth from the girl who wrote me just today. 

I am your worst fucking nightmare. 

Here is my promise to you Mr. “Story-Snuff”. I will be your conscience if you refuse to have one. I will be the screams that you tried to silence. I am your worst nightmare, the walking skeleton of the dead bodies of the souls that you destroyed with your violence, with your entitlement and with your ego. I will not shut up until you have felt, tenfold, the pain that you have wreaked upon the women you have encountered. I, and others like me, will force your eyes open to the pain that you have caused and if I have one desire that burns through me with the fiercest passion I have ever known it is this: I want for you to never have another moment of peace in your lives. I want you to never sleep soundly again, I want the souls of these women to haunt you for all eternity, even into your next life and the lives beyond that.

I am no longer a victim, I am a survivor and I will continue to tell every person I meet of you and your kind. I will force-feed the pain of millions down your putrid mouth until you vomit it up, then, I will force it down again. 

You, all of you, every one of you that come to this blog looking for, “Sexy women being raped and beaten”, YOU are my mark and my crosshairs are firmly on you. You are the reason that we all have stories, you are the reason that every day more women, thousands more women, millions in the world, join the rank and file of the survivors and my voice is aimed at you.

I will not let you forget the screams until they have stopped. I am the ever present reminder of your fucked up entitlement and I will not be silenced until my ashes are thrown across the ground. My voice is small on its own, but it is a part of a sea of voices, a vast army of voices that is growing larger and stronger by the day. Each and every time you beat another woman, or rape another woman, or push your fucked up entitlement onto another woman, in whatever form it takes, you create another one of me. Do you hear that? You create another me. 

The numbers keep rising and when they rise up and the sobs turn to cries and the cries to screams and the warrior in us that YOU created and YOU awoke comes seeking her vengeance then you will know that it was YOU who created us. 

To my readers, I hear your voices, I believe your truths and you are not alone. Those of you who have felt male violence and who are scattered and afraid and unsure about yourselves take heart for there are millions of us in this world and those who have found our anger and our rage will speak until you feel able to do so. There are millions of hands extended to you, keep talking, keep speaking, your voice is powerful and your stories are truth. Don’t stop writing to me, and don’t stop talking, your voice is perhaps your most valuable weapon and your truth is an inspiration. 

~ Biting Beaver

Published in: on April 19, 2008 at 12:28 pm  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , ,

Sword of Power

I think many of us have experienced That Moment. That moment we think we see the light, that moment of Power. The first moment may have been the moment in Middle School, maybe High School for ‘late bloomers’ that moment when we wore a shorter skirt than we normally did to school and suddenly, the boys who previously ignored us, flocked to us.

Perhaps we had The Moment when we were in our boyfriend’s car necking on a Friday night when we were supposed to be at the movies. The Moment when he looked at you and you saw something on his face that was strange, alien. Before The Moment girls were something to be avoided by boys, we were perhaps picked on, teased for having ‘cooties’. We spent our days at school watching other girls being teased or getting their asses grabbed. Maybe we saw the young boys gather around a certain girl and cry out things like, “Itty Bitty Titty Committee!” or, maybe we saw them snapping the strap on her brand-new training bra. Maybe we had seen the boys, standing at the bottom of the stairwell, taking turns looking up the stairs at the girls who were wearing skirts. Perhaps we saw that the girl was, in effect, helpless. There was no recourse available to her. Maybe we even watched, horrified, when she went to a teacher and we saw the teacher pat her on the head and tell her, “Boys will be Boys. Just ignore them honey and they’ll stop”.

There was certainly A Moment that came before the moment in the car. The first Moment, the moment when we realized with shock and a little bit of horror, that boys could act in almost any way they wanted in regard to our girlfriends and come out of it unscathed, or with only a slight warning from a teacher. We saw the boys acting with impunity, maybe we watched them circle around our girl-friends and take turns touching her ass while she circled and tried to play it off like she was laughing and joking with them rather than being the proverbial butt of the joke. Nevertheless most girls realized, rather early on, that we were helpless in the face of the boys.

If you were like me you may have beat the shit out of them back in Elementary School, while you were still physically able to do so. But all of that changed in Middle School. When we came back to school after a summer of climbing trees and romping with our friends we saw that the boys were much bigger than we were. They were also more aggressive than we remembered as well as louder and more brazen. Soon, many of us knew which girls we should avoid, which ones brought the most amount of torment onto themselves by some mechanism which may still be elusive to us. We watched as they went to the teachers, telling them that so and so boy snapped their bra-strap, or so and so boy touched their butt or even dry-humped them on the playground. We watched as the teachers wearily pulled the young offender to the side and reprimanded him half-heartedly and we watched as the same group of boys teased the ‘tattle-tail’ relentlessly on the schoolyard. We watched and we had A Moment.

We realized that we were powerless. There was probably fear, the fear of having them zone in on you, the fear of finding the group of boys as we rounded a corner in the hallway. I think that, to varying degrees, women have gone through this all over the country. Our times in school were a time when we realized that we were not, and never could be, Just Another Person.

We probably watched the boys calling each other ‘Sissy’, the very term that our Mothers and Fathers called us, but they were using it derogatorily, they were using our pet-name as an insult. We probably heard them laughing at one another, telling the weaker boy that he “Threw like a girl”, but…but…We were girls! What was this? We probably heard them taunt another boy who was crying on the playground by saying something like, “Cry little girl! Cry!!” and we looked at ourselves and thought, “Is there something wrong with being a girl?”

But all that changed, didn’t it? During our first years in school we had The Moment when we realized we were powerless from all but the most heinous of teasing. We learned that having our asses grabbed and being tormented about our breast size or having our bra-straps pulled were part and parcel of our lot as girls. It probably happened slowly, insidiously, until we realized, maybe many years later, that boys made us feel powerless, weak, afraid, and maybe even ashamed. Later we found another Moment, a Moment in which we saw Power.

That Moment may have been in the passenger side of the car, maybe it was at your parents’ house when they were out for the evening. You may have been kissing your boyfriend and you opened your eyes and saw….something. Something so alien that it failed to register in your consciousness, but your lizard brain got it, your lizard brain speaks that language and recognized what you saw. Power. For that brief moment you looked at him and knew, somehow, that he would do whatever you wanted if you would let him touch your breasts, or let him give you a hickey or let him do whatever it was that he may have wanted to do.

The Boy, the ever-powerful boy was giving you Power. The same boy who tortured you in 3rd or 4th grade. The same boy who ruthlessly pulled bra-straps and led the gang of other boys to touch your friend’s ass while she was walking down the hallway. The same boy who grabbed your purse and rooted through it, looking for the tampon or maxi-pad that they knew was in there. The boy who then pulled it out and stuck it to the floor or the wall or who just played “Keep away” with it until you were almost in tears from embarrassment but were too afraid to cry. The girls didn’t help, they just watched, terrified of bringing that wrath down onto themselves if they said anything. The teacher only mildly scolded them and you most likely went away feeling ashamed for being so upset. That very same boy was now looking at you with a look of Submission. A look of Desire. Desire so fierce that you knew that Power, the only Power you may have ever been allowed, resided in that gaze.

This is the Second Moment in our lives. The Moment we note that our boyfriends bulging crotch and bulging eyes gave us Power. From there on out we tried our best to recapture that Power. We curled our hair, we slathered our faces with makeup, we wore short skirts and shirts that showed the beginnings of our cleavage. We jostled with the other girls, competing for The Power. This was a new thing to us, this Power. We thought that we finally had insight, that we finally understood. Our sex was powerful if we flaunted it.

From there on out we turned on our girlfriends, getting angry at the girl who wore the short skirt and who was surrounded by the troop of boys. We saw the looks in their eyes and knew that she had The Power. We called her whore and slut, because we thought that she had The Power. And she did, didn’t she? The boys didn’t torment her in the same way. Instead, they seemed to accept her, to want to be around her. She seemed to be safe as long as she kept them desiring her. When she was desired they treated her well, they didn’t snap her bra, they didn’t torment her ruthlessly, they seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be treating her kindly and with respect.

“So,” we thought, “That is where Power lies”. And we believed it. We jostled for position, trying to be the one that stood out above the others. We learned that Power lay in the hands of boys and men.

I did all of this and more. I sought that Power for most of my life. I turned myself into the proverbial sex-kitten, evoking and wielding That Power like a sword, brandishing my sex for all to see, watching the men go glassy-eyed and slack-jawed as I gyrated on the dance floor in some bar late at night. My Power, my sense of self, was utterly reliant on THEM. And it was in this that I found the paradox of my supposed Power.

It occurred to me at some point that the Power I wielded was only an illusion of Power. My Power was utterly and completely dependent on men. All those years I thought I held a large Sword of Power and suddenly, I realized that my sword was a gift, given to me by the men who wanted me to believe I had Power. The edges were dull and it could not cut, it could not wound in any real capacity and then it became clear. The Power in my sword was false and I saw the sword for what it really was, a cheap Made-in-Taiwan plastic imposter.

It slowly dawned on me that Power given from the Powerful to the weak based upon the weak’s ability to entertain the Powerful was not Power at all. In other words, the Power I thought I had was only there because I chose to submit to the people who held the Real Power. The Men. Men were the keepers of ‘Real Power’ and I had succumbed to the inherent bargain. That bargain was that I was allowed to feel Powerful if I acted in the way that they wanted me to. I was allowed to feel Powerful as long as I continued to make them feel more Powerful than me. Make no mistake about it, all my capering and dancing and wooing served to make them feel MORE Powerful than me. They had the Power of the King and I had the Power of the Court Jester, Powerful only as long as I kept the King entertained.

I looked around and realized that I had been jostling for the position of Court Jester and you know what? I got that title, I got it and I wore it, but I thought it was a different title.

As the years flew by and the men got older I had to do more and more to keep my title intact. At first, way back in those early years, I had only to wear a short skirt. Then, I had to let a boy put his hand up my shirt, then down my pants. Finally, I had to let him inside of me and even that wasn’t enough to keep The Power. Soon, I had to writhe and contort my body in an effort to keep The Power I had been given. I began to live and breathe for the pleasure of men. Delighting in the scraps of Power I was allowed to have. Later, I had to pretend that I liked anal sex, I had to pretend that the man I was with was pleasuring me greatly. I had to scream and gyrate, I had to succumb to being called names like ‘Whore’ and ‘Slut’ and pretend I enjoyed it. As the years dragged on I had to work harder to keep my plastic sword, I had to scream louder and act more sheepish, I had to dumb-myself down for I realized that few Men liked it when I was more intelligent than they.

The day I looked down and realized my sword was plastic I realized I had also been duped. That I had sold myself to be the Court Jester. I had become the Porn-star, I had become ‘Every Man’s Fantasy’ I had managed to become the ‘Object of Desire’. There was nothing you could do to me that was too degrading, nothing that was off-limits. I craved that look in their eyes like a Junkie jonesing for a fix. It was, after all, the only ‘real’ Power I had ever known. Every man who met me lusted after me, my boobs were presented in push-up bras like fruits to be picked. My hair was styled in the fashion of ‘Just had hot-monkey-sex’ look, my eyes were suitably sultry and my gaze was always poised to meet the gaze of a man from under my eyebrows. I had mastered the art of appearing submissive yet sultry and Men continued to put plastic swords in my hands. Every movement I made was for the sake of the men around me and I was skilled at the art of presenting my body in the best light possible. My back was arched, my shoulders were back, and my chin was slightly down. This was the existence I carved out for myself and you know what? It worked. It worked right up until I realized that I had been tricked.

I made a vow that day, I vowed that I would capture THEIR POWER. The Real Power. The Power of Independence, the Power of Intelligence, the Power of Success. Since then I have been labeled many things. I have been called “Frigid”, my beliefs have been teased as being “Renaissance”, I have been called and labeled a “Prude”, I’ve been accused of being a “Man Hater” of being “Rabid” and “Extreme”. Many times it feels as though I’ve landed back in the days of Middle School and that I have become the girl that seemed to bring chaos with them, the girl who was tormented ruthlessly. I think I know now what those girls did to anger the boys so much. They were Taking Power. They had, somehow, seen that the sword was plastic and they refused to play the games that the boys wanted them to play for Power. Instead, these girls had shown that they wanted the Real Power, the plastic sword wasn’t enough for them and god, how this angered the boys.

Now, when I see young girls and women displaying themselves for that Plastic Sword of Power, my heart goes out to them. When I see Porn stars on the screen I see in their hands, the Plastic Sword. When I see “Girls gone Wild” I see, held in one small hand, that almighty Plastic Sword. When young girls pass me on the street looking like Barbie dolls I look sadly at their hands and realize that they too are clutching that Sword. And I’ve found through the years, that women hold onto that sword as tightly as possible, it saddens me but I don’t get angry, I can’t get angry because they don’t realize that the Sword is plastic, they don’t realize that they’ve actually gotten the job of the Court Jester, they believe they’re a bona-fide member of The Court.

They cloak themselves in ‘Empowerment,’ but Empowerment based upon how well you can contort your body is not Empowerment. Empowerment based upon how practiced you are at screaming the scream of the fake orgasm is not Empowerment. Empowerment based upon molding your body and your mind to make Men Feel Power is not Empowerment. These are the trappings of Court Jester and the Power bestowed upon you is the Power given to you by the Truly Powerful.

I believe that we, as women, will only find the true Sword of Power when we remove the trappings of achieving the Plastic Sword of Power. I believe that we, as Women, will only be Powerful when boys no longer tease in Middle School. I believe that we, as Women, will only be Powerful when we are no longer raped for profit. I believe that we, as Women, will only be Powerful when we refuse to allow our bodies and our sex to be bought and sold as commodities.

~ Biting Beaver

Published in: on April 19, 2008 at 12:20 pm  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , ,