style="font-size:15px;"> “Not because it’s pro-sex,” Spike added, “but because it’s not anti-patriarchy. It’s not anti-women’s subordination.”
“Yeah, when did being pro-sex become feminist?”
“I don’t know. But ‘The new feminist is in control of her sexuality!’ ” Spike mimicked one of the women who had been at the SlutWalk.
“Well, that’s certainly better than not being in control of her sexuality,” Jane said. “And come to think of it, it follows rationally from having reproductive rights—access to Plan B, for example.”
Spike nodded. “It’s exactly what we thought in the 60s and 70s when we got the Pill. As I tried to say. But—”
“Maybe a lot of women have just overgeneralized the ‘choice’ part of feminism.”
Spike agreed. “Simply put, not all choices are feminist.”
“Exactly. I know it’s considered unfeminist to blame women, but we do have agency.”
Again, Spike agreed. “We’re not children. Or idiots.”
“Isn’t that redundant?”
Spike narrowed her eyes at Jane. Whose choice not to have kids was surely one of her better ones.
“And it’s unfeminist to believe otherwise,” Spike continued. “If we expect one group of men, the more mature—let’s just say—to speak out and take action against another, the rapists, then we ourselves should do the same. We should speak out against women who are complicit in our subordination. Who choose to be complicit in—”
“But choice is complicated,” Jane protested. “That’s what makes consent, and coercion, complicated. The standard view is that consent is assent that’s capable—referring to cognitive capacity, informed—one understands the consequences, and voluntary. But to be voluntary, a decision would have to be totally free of pressure—physical, psychological, social, economic.”
“So are you saying that true consent is impossible?”
“Yes. At least sometimes.”
Spike thought about that as she finished her pain au chocolat. “You might be right,” she eventually said. “At least with regard to sex. Just listening to the radio all day, which many people do, is like ingesting a constant-release aphrodisiac. Every song, every line of every song, is sung with a moan or a whimper—”
Jane nodded. “Miley Cyrus has become the norm.”
God help us. They stared at each other.
“Okay, we need a moratorium on sex,” Spike said. “Until we stop that shit.”
“We could bomb the radio stations. The recording studios. L.A.” Jane thought then that maybe she’d been hanging around Spike too long. Or maybe just long enough.
“Sometimes though,” Spike backed up a bit, “consent, and coercion, is pretty simple, isn’t it? I mean, coercion is shutting the fuck up because otherwise he’ll kill you. Coercion is allowing yourself to be assaulted by your live-in partner because—if—that’s the only way to feed your kids. Coercion is doing something because your drink was spiked.”
Jane took a bite of her chestnut cream pain au chocolat. Oh.
“But wearing make-up on a daily basis just because it’s convention? Reddening your lips, putting a flush on your cheeks? Pushing up your breasts, baring your legs all the way up to your crotch, wearing heels that arch your back? In short, making yourself sexually attractive, sexually attracting, for a day at the office—just because it’s convention? That’s not coercion. That’s stupidity.”
Jane took another bite.
“Why wouldn’t men think women are always sexually available? That’s the way they present themselves!”
And another.
“And then women get pissed off when men see them as sex objects.” Spike shook her head in disbelief.
Jane licked the last bit of chestnut cream off her fork. She noticed then that the forks, and the spoons, were just as florid, just as elegant, as the chairs and table.
“Of course, the greater problem is that it’s convention. Women are expected to appear sexually attractive, attracting, as a matter of routine.”
Jane nodded. “ ‘Femininity is the behavior of female subordination.’ Sheila Jeffreys.”
And on that note, they ordered dessert.
“But beauty—”
Spike knew where Jane was going. “There’s a difference between attractive and sexually attractive. At least, there should be. It’s just that because men dominate art and advertising, the two have been equated. By them. No doubt because to them everything is sexual. In fact, if it’s not sexual, it doesn’t exist.”
“You’re right.” Jane sighed. “If you really just want to use your body as a canvas for beauty, you’d wear funky gold glittered hiking boots, you’d paint an iridescent rainbow across your face, you’d do a hundred other aesthetically interesting things …”
Spike nodded. “And only when men don’t see us as Hooters will the woman who’s a Walmart sales associate be considered for a managerial position.”
“I dunno … You’re back to thinking appearance matters. We know that women in full-out nun regalia get raped. So it would seem that appearance isn’t a motivating factor for rape. Well,” she qualified, “unless the man had issues with nuns …”
Spike squinted at Jane. Clearly, Jane had issues with nuns.
“In any case, quite apart from rape,” Jane continued, “I thought we established that no matter how we look, just like no matter what we do, men don’t, won’t, take us seriously. Certainly not seriously enough to consider us for a managerial position.”
“Yeah.” Spike sighed deeply as she leaned back in her chair. “You’re right. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t. So what’s the point?”
Their waiter brought their dessert. Spike had ordered profiteroles. Mainly because of how they sounded. The word. Not the profiteroles themselves.
Jane had ordered a Chocolate Volcano. It came on a plate drizzled with chocolate syrup, and there was a puff of real whipped cream on top. When she put her fork to it, thick chocolate lava oozed out of the cake. “Oooo …” oozed out of Jane.
Several slow minutes later, Jane resumed. “So okay, let’s say women do give up their push-up bras, their high heels, and even their make-up.”
“Like we did in the 70s.” And look at what didn’t happen, Spike added to herself.
“What if men then say that any woman who simply bares her ankles is asking for it. Or bares her face. We all walk around in burkas then?”
It
