You know what it doesn’t look like?
“Coyote ugly.” It’s a phrase men use to describe the experience of waking up, hungover as shit, in bed next to a girl so ugly you’d rather chew your arm off than have her stir. Yep, another night of too many shooters and very poor judgement. Well played, tequila.
I’m willing to bet that every single varsity athlete or high status (medicine, engineering, computer science) male on any given college campus has had the experience. Why? Because they get hunted. All the time. By women. You see these guys staggering bleary-eyed into the dorm rooms the next morning, bro-punching their friends and saying “Dude, how could you let me do that?”
The walk of shame: it’s almost a rite of passage. One that men seem to relish, enjoy and get over pretty damn quickly. Yeah, you fucked an ugly chick. Or a annoying chick. Whatever. You drank too much, lost all your reason and tumbled into bed with someone you wouldn’t normally touch with a ten yard pole. Ho hum. Where we going tonight, bros?
Many women, on the other hand, are completely fucked in the head in this exact same situation. They get dressed up in their best whore clothes, head out to a frat party, drink their faces off, end up in bed with some guy they wouldn’t normally touch with a ten yard pole, wake up the next morning feeling like a total slutbag and then, it happens:
Someone must be to blame for this! I can’t possibly have gotten shitfaced and exercised some really poor judgement. “Moi? Ce n’est pas possible! I am an innocent blushing virgin with impeccable moral standards. Why, only whores get smashed and fuck random guys in a frat house, and I am not a whore so JESUS MOTHER OF GOD I WAS RAPED!”
Bitch, please. You weren’t raped. You were trashed.
Why is it that men are held responsible for their actions no matter what their state of inebriation, but women get a pass? It doesn’t matter if you were drunk, stripped naked, straddled the guy in your best cowgirl position and fucked like a banshee. You were drunk. You can’t consent. So you were raped. Right?
Dude might have been just as pissed up as you, but he can’t cry rape because: rationality. So only men are rational creatures? Really?
There are women so delusional they actually think we live in a “rape culture.” What the fuck?
No, we don’t live in a rape culture. We live in a “Don’t You Bitches Have Any Friends?” culture. Me and The Princess have our fair share of experience dancing like madwomen in our lingerie in night clubs filled with horny men who were starting looking like the cast of Ocean’s Twelve after that last appletini. Many nights ended with crazy slobbery make-out sessions with “the dude who looks exactly like Brat Pitt” (except when we looked at him in daylight later).
Here’s the thing: we protected each other. Not from the guy who looked like Brad Pitt through our appletini-googles. We protected each other from our own bad judgement. “Rape culture” theory holds men, and only men, responsible for what women do. And thanks, but I prefer to be responsible for my own fucking behaviour. And when I’m about to do something really stupid, something I will probably regret the next morning, I rely on my friends to save me from myself.
So go ahead! Wear those fishnets and hoochie shorts. You look fucking hot! Play beer pong! Strip for that guy. Go ahead and fuck him. Make all those decisions but understand they are your decisions. You don’t get to wake up the next day feeling like a whore and ruin a man’s life because you were a slut. Women-–and men–-who really were violently brutalized by strangers totally against their will aren’t helped by your idea of a “rape culture.” In fact the rape culture you create makes it worse for them by equating a truly violent and awful crime with bad decisions made while drunk.
Women and men who really were brutalized aren’t helped by your phony version of a rape culture. In fact the rape culture you create with your lack of personal responsibility, your “I’m a pure snowflake and men are sex maniacs who oppress me” mentality makes it worse for people who were truly hurt and not just regretful.
So embrace your inner slut. Or trust your friends when they tell you it’s time to say nighty-night to appletini-Brad. Or you know, shut the fuck up. Take your pick.
Lots of love,
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