Ammo Grrrll returns to share A COUPLE OF THINGS I KNOW FOR SURE ABOUT SEX. She writes:
One: If you get caught on a plane called “The Lolita Express” or on a boat called “Monkey Business” (is there a train called “The Appalling Old Degenerate”?), you should have to wear a hat emblazoned with “Somehow My Weenie Ate My Brain!”
Two: In the endless, tedious discussions about “rape culture,” over and over I read testimony from coeds – adult women! – who willingly get into bed with guys and then are amazed when sex occurs. Is there some parallel universe where that is considered unusual?
The reason I ask is that I can say with dead certainty that I have never in my entire life gotten nekkid into bed with a male person without the expectation, nay the fervent hope, that sex could occur. But that’s just me.
Help me out here, young ladies, because I’m pretty Old School. How humiliating can it be if you get naked with a guy and yet you expect no response? (“Hey, nuthin’ to see here. Just your average naked woman from the dorm next door hoping to catch a few Zs while you watch ESPN. Carry on.”) Here we have a generation of women who have been putting condoms on cucumbers since kindergarten who apparently do not have even a passing acquaintance with actual male sexuality.
True, after many many decades of marriage, sometimes you both say, “Good Night, Dear” and go to sleep. But with an unclothed man and an unclothed woman in a nice warm bed, well, you can’t ever make book on nothing happening. (Insert childish “over/under” betting joke here.) Men might miss subtle hints. But your average healthy man, finding a naked woman in his bed of her own free will, takes that as a big fat clue that he might get lucky.
If you don’t want that, what in blue blazes are you doing there?
So, let’s say you accuse a man of “rape” and this is your tale of woe: “Well, we were pretty drunk. I got into bed with this naked guy that I had had sex with before. We did a bunch of drugs. We did some stuff that Bill Clinton said wasn’t sex anyway, but I was so wasted I think I passed out and I may or may not have missed the finale. This happened two years ago, and I was fine until Spike, my Feminist Studies professor, informed me I had been raped. Now I’m a hero fighting against sexual assault. I’ve met Joe Biden! Oh, also, I had sex with him (my ‘rapist,’ not Joe Biden) a few times after that. But he’s kinda mad at me now.”
You do not want me on that jury. You really don’t. Ladies, I find such narratives an embarrassment to my gender and an affront to actual rape victims, several of whom I have known. Oh, trust me, their stories are nothing at all like yours and involve ugly weapons, grave threats to their lives, and grievous bodily harm. Your whiney tales are not embarrassing just because you had crappy sex – we can discuss the soul-deadening misery of the loveless hookup culture at another time — but because you won’t take ownership of your part in it. And are now planning to utterly ruin a man’s life over, basically, nothing. Which makes you a liar and a coward. At least one of these causes célèbre originated after Mommy found the adult daughter’s diary and blew a gasket.
Of course in academia there are no actual trials or juries of peers. The right to representation, to face your accuser, even to know the charges against you, is so yesterday. Every day is Kafka Day on campus. These things used to be called “he said; she said” situations. Now, it’s just “she said; and said and said.” With a great big megaphone from the Grievance Industry and a Title Nine bludgeon from the Federal government. Two young adults go out for an evening of drinking and hookup sex. One goes on to fame and fortune as a brave battler against sexual “assault”. One has his life utterly destroyed. Who, then, was the predator we hear so much about, and who the prey?
If an adult woman consensually participates in sex and the worst thing that happens is that she manages to fall asleep at some point, the consequences pale in comparison with the life-altering disaster of being falsely accused of rape. You don’t have to register for life as a person who slept through sex. Granted, you might not want that on your Facebook profile. You also don’t have to wonder how you will ever get a job after being kicked out of college. Assuming you are lucky enough to avoid or survive prison.
I try to examine my soul about whether I would feel different about the disgusting “rape culture” falsehoods if I were the mother of daughters instead of sons. I don’t think so. Not only am I a woman myself, of course, but I’m pretty sure I would advise an adult daughter (among many things) not to go into biker bars in Daisy Dukes and tube tops; not to get too drunk to drive or to keep an eye on her drink at all times; and definitely not to get into bed with a naked man unless she expects to have sex. And quite soon.
Just wait until the first woman is accused by another woman of sexual assault. It’s only a matter of time if it hasn’t happened already. Then how will the unhinged “Women never lie” crowd know whom to exalt as a heroic victim and whom to crucify as a rapist?