One, Two, and Three

Every now and then I like to share intimate details of my life with you, the People. These shared confidences help us grow as activists. And since I got lucky and laid last night, I think I will talk about sexual relationships.

Number One. My first feminist I met in university. She introduced me to contemporary feminist theory ... her book shelves were filled with the stuff. I define her as a feminist because of the book, that special book that I have found all feminists to have. I have never read it, but it has a distinctive cover. She also liked to be tied up. Unless she was tied up, she did not want to have sex. So, I learnt alot about knots.

Number Two. My second feminist I met when I first moved to Toronto. My telemarketing skills allowed me to play up my shallow and superficial knowledge of feminism. She liked me from the first denunciation of the patriarchy when we were ordering dinner, to the lurid anecdotes about back street abortions over the pasta course, to the final agreements about gender inequality while sipping the chardonnay. She took me to her home for sex; on her book shelf was the book, and she kept hand cuffs in her night stand beside her bed. Number Two liked to be tied up too. My previous exposure to knots was added unto with new concepts, like the mechanical properties of silk scarves, keeping satin sheets clean from wax drippings, and the importance of having a spare key.

Number Three. Feminist number three was a rich electrical engineer, she had the book, travelled to Toronto, and liked to be tied up. She embraced the sexual revolution. She wore corsets, had a supply and variety of slippery and strong ropes, and called me Master in our intimate moments. I gained weight, thanks to her expense account. She fed me oysters. I discovered that I liked eating clams. One of our weekend rituals was her rising early to make me breakfast in bed. Then she would clean the kitchen floor, wearing only a collar with a bell. Then she would crawl back to me, and beg to perform fellatio. Please Master, indeed.

Statistics. No one could conclude that there is a connection between a desire for male sexual domination and feminism. There is neither evidence, nor a reputable researcher willing to risk his testicles and tenure. And as you journey in life, and you bump into feminists (the real ones, with the book), try to walk for a mile in their black patent leather stiletto boots. Maybe they are so angry because their corset is too tight, or was not fitted right. Maybe they are lonely for their Master, like Gollum pines for his Precious. Maybe her bum hurts from the belting she got. Just shut up, nod your head, and agree with the current spending demands. Someone is getting oysters for Hors d’œuvre, maybe someday that someone will be you.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this at Mitchieville and DustMyBroom.