Thoughts from the ammo line

This week Ammo Grrrll explains: YES MEANS YES and THIS LAW MEANS ITS AUTHORS ARE INSANE. She writes:

Writer Ashe Schow of the Washington Examiner has an excellent column about the proposed new “Yes Means Yes” law from two Law Professors who definitely need a hobby. Google it for facts and details. The gist of it is to make virtually every sexual encounter rape, unless “affirmative consent” can be proved for each and every stage of the event. And if you married guys think you are going to get a pass, you are sadly mistaken.

How “yes” can be proved without either videotaping or getting signed documents from the parties is beyond me, but what I want to discuss is not the specifics of the law, but the changes such a bill would entail in areas that perhaps have not been thought through.

Every year, billions and billions of “bodice-ripping” Romance Novels are written, published and consumed like salted peanuts. At least it seems like billions when I am stuck in an airport looking for a book to read on the plane and this is all that is on offer. I have read exactly one in my entire life. I gather it wasn’t supposed to be a comedy, but I found it hilarious both for its Victorian reluctance to mention clinical names for either body parts or sex acts, and the overwrought prose.

Here is my take on the new improved genre after Yes Means Yes becomes law.

Samantha gazed at Haven as he lifted the log off her sprained ankle. His rippling muscles tore the buttons right off his shirt, drawn rather too tightly across his surprisingly-hairless chest, if the cover photo is to be believed. One of the buttons got caught in Haven’s long golden hair, which is almost a mullet, only cooler, obviously, and not at all gay.

Samantha felt an ache. In her ankle, of course, which we mentioned earlier was sprained. But also in her nether regions. She had never wanted anything as much in her life as she wanted Haven’s throbbing man-thing. Well, except for wanting that cannoli the time she was on Atkins and was really sick of meat and eggs and cheese. Oh God, why can’t we have World Peace, and why can’t carbs make you thinner, she wondered aloud?

Haven pressed her bee-stung ruby lips against his chest, in part to get her to stop talking. This was a definite intrusion into her Safe Space, and illegal according to the Law Of No Touching, but Samantha was willing to stipulate that it was fine. She could always change her mind later if Haven gave her a crappy birthday gift or something.

Neither nether region had stopped throbbing so Haven pulled Samantha even closer, as close as he could get what with the throbbing and all, and whispered romantically, “May I touch your left bosom? I’m right-handed and that would be easier.”

“Yes, yes! For God’s Sake, get on with it!” she said breathlessly. But no. Haven was no fool. His cousin, Heathcliff, got kicked out of college for failing to mention his fiancee’s left thigh on the Permission List and he was taking no chances. He then went through the entire mandatory inventory of other body parts as Samantha tried to remember if she had left her iron on, and dreamed of the cannoli.

When, at last, Haven had received permission to touch the other bosom, each arm, her nose, each ear, her lady bits, shins, ankles and toes, and had given his Notary Public the GPS coordinates to find them in the woods, Samantha found that she had mostly lost interest.

“Let’s just cuddle,” she said and pouted prettily when she realized that Haven did not appear to be overly disappointed.

Clearly, this will also impact porn.

Act One, Scene 1: A livingroom with minimal furniture and shag carpeting. Four hard-looking, bored women who look like they have never read a book in their lives are gathered for “Book Club,” wearing highly unlikely outfits for a book club gathering. They are drinking white wine, which, as any fool knows, must be chilled and – oh, no! – the refrigerator is on the fritz. What a clever plot twist! Luckily, the hostess has the refrigerator repairman on speed dial.

The refrigerator repairman arrives at once and not in the typical nine-five time frame, almost as though he was waiting right outside. He has also brought three buddies of various races with him. It must be a union shop with flagrant feather-bedding and diversity requirements for government contracts.

The repairmen pay scant attention to the fridge and get right down to business removing their clothing, as your less reliable repairmen sometimes will tend to do. From the looks of the toolbox, apparently there was a misunderstanding about what “Bonded” meant. Then they take out their long, long, uh, lists and ask, in unison, “May I touch your…”

Much, much later the women all cry at one of Oprah’s recommended books – a mendacious howler about Several Cups of Tea – and drink a great deal of warmish white wine.


Books to read from Power Line