A tough, gorgeous, take-no-prisoners femme searches for a butch who's got the balls to top her. She rejects a million wusses on the way, all too flimsy to hold her egg sac.
The latest entry is a memoir by Alisa Valdes Rodriguez, called The Feminist and the Cowboy, reviewed by Noah Berlatsky at The Atlantic: "Woman Rejects Feminism, Continues to Disdain Femininity."
When Miss Rodriguez finds her starmate, the Big Cowboy presumeably fucks her silly— and I'm guessing she came so hard she finally got the good night's sleep she'd been searching for.
Mouthy, bossy femmes— who happen to be submissive in bed— crave strong medicine. They can't just roll over on their backs and mew for the average Walter Mitty emo-boy. Tough bottoms need a top they can look up to.
You'd think Rodriguez had never known a gay leatherman to imagine she was so unique.
What critic Noah can't abide, is that Valdes, like some other revisionist Divas, revels in her newly-discovered submissive qualities by claiming that she rejects "feminism"--- that she had to dump all that women's lib stuff to get peace of mind.
Yeah, I've read it a million times, the cliché: "I used to be a feminist, but now I've discovered the 'Natural Order' and my man who treats me right— What a relief."
It's a jinx. The women who write these declarations typically find themselves in divorce court with decidedly feminist issues within months of writing these self-abnegating confessions. Boy, does their attorney get an earful.
If you are crazy enough to write a story and yell: I'm NOT a feminist, dammit!— the Furies seize upon you; you are lashed upon the cloven hooves of a million male chauvinist pigs. Betrayal is in the wings.
Whether it's suddenly-dingbat Alisa or liberal Noah, they both miss the sex motive that lies underneath all the shouting.
People want to get fucked the way they want to get fucked— and then make up the most ridiculous rationalizations to explain themselves.
"Feminism" can just get in line with all the other absurd things lovers point the finger at, to take the attention away from their bright red cheeks. It's okay, honey, you can come out of the kink closet.
The mistake of the feminist apologists is taking both their precious orgasm, and gender theater SO seriously. They need a backstage pass to kink reality.
It's the legacy of purtianism to lie about what lust "means," the endless cognitive dissonance— nothing else. The Liar Prude talking, not the honest observer.
Noah writes in his review: "It's true that feminists from Julia Serano to... Susie Bright have, in different ways, tried to figure out a way to create a feminism that embraces traditional femininity."
What? That description cracks me up. He's well-intentioned, right? No one, from my mother to my worst enemy, would say, "Susie embraces traditional femininity." Mostly because I'm such a klutz— if I embrace traditional femininity in my next life, I hope it involves gliding across floors, perfect smiles, and never dropping a stitch.
I have embraced gender theater in all its campy glory, however-- never taking it as science or inevitablity, cross-switching as I please, delighting in femme and butch drag. That's what "masculine" and "feminine" is— don't try to make something more out of it. There is no natural in the dark, my sweet.
I have a lot of empathy for femme bottoms, although I notice that sometimes they just wake up one morning and feel like a randy horned goat. One day their Big Strong Cowboy wants to curl up in a ball— that happens too. It's all good.
Sugar and spice and everthing nice...
Slugs and snail and puppy dog tails...
You can have it all between the sheets and not make an ass of yourself trying to spin an anti-feminist, or "traditionally feminine" theory about it!
This is tragic:
The day after I posted my Cassandra-like warning, Alisa Valdes, the author of The Feminist & the Cowboy, wrote on her blog that her lover had knocked her up, then immediately abandoned her, "took her back" after "miscarriage," beat the crap out of her multiple times, raped her, and threatened to kill her-- she was terrified enough at one point to jump out of a moving truck and limp 16 miles bloody for help. She hasn't seen him since.... JESUS!
"What I actually wrote," she said in her blog post,"was a handbook for women on how to fall in love with a manipulative, controlling, abusive narcissist.”
The night after she posted her devastating confession, her agent/publishertold her to take the admission down, that she was ruining her book's future. So she did. But she's still talking about it. She seems confused and torn, like so many people with "Stockholm Syndrome."
I don't appreciate being prescient about things like this. You can only watch this crime so many times before you know the how the story ends— it's horrible.
If Alisa by some miracle is reading this:
—You can get what you want sexually without enduring abuse at the hands of psychos and bigots. There are butch tops, both male and female, who are kind, egalitarian, sane, and dare I mention it, "feminist." You are not the "weaker sex," but you are being abused— and if it doesn't end with your demise, it will certainly end in bitterness. I hope you get help and I hope you get help from sex-positive comrades— not "romance" exploiters or sexist scolds.
Illustration: "Bedtime for Frances," drawing by Garth Williams