Not long ago, the toothsome writer and feminist stalwart Amanda Marcotte got to feeling, well, frisky is the word, I think. Maybe it was more like peckish. Or twitchy.
Maybe it was the sugar-frosting on her Oaties, or the crunch of her carrots that had her all bothered.
Whatever it was, Amanda had an itch that needed some scratching, so she checked her box at PlentyOfFeministsWithoutBikes and discovered that both her and a certain hotty named RAINN – the “Rape Abuse & Incest National Network”, a website you can find by typing in “Rape.com” – shared a lot of interests in common, namely, addressing the issues related to the crime of rape and more importantly, fighting sexual violence in general.
Amanda was intrigued and then, excited. Could a hook-up be arraigned between a rape culture journalist and “one of the most active and important organizations in the country fighting sexual violence”, as Amanda coyly put it?
Amanda was transfixed by the question and was determined to get an answer. She ran home and got all tarted up – she added extra hair extensions to her already formidable armpits and crotch, put on her nicest thong and her flaming red bra. She completed her seduction outfit with some faux pleather boots, a clutch of pearls and a tie-dyed Che Guevara body shirt to match the left arm tattoo that reads “Hatred as an element of struggle; unbending hatred for the enemy, which pushes a human being beyond his natural limitations, making him into an effective, violent, selective, and cold-blooded killing machine. ”
She was ready.
Now, for the phone call.
“Hello, RAINNY? Yes, this is Amanda Marcotte, the journalist with Slate?” (Amanda always seeks to build a feminist consensus when she talks by ending every spoken sentence with a question mark.)
“Anyway, I saw your profile on, like, POFWB, right? And I’m like, we should meet-up and talk, right? Because the White House is doing a paper or something on rape, and we have that in common, right?
“SO, if, you are interested in getting together – you ARE? I’m so pleased, right? How about we go, like, grab a hot dog at Chippendale’s in Roslyn Heights, m’Kay? Ten O’clock, see you there!?”
The music was pounding to the beat of NSFW Blurred Lines and the cocks were flapping as Marcotte plowed through the screaming crowd of women to the remote table where RAINNY sat quietly. Amanda was a bit disappointed that RAINNY was wearing a drab business suit – how bourgeois – but she decided that, really, it was what was under that suit that mattered the most.
After a few drinks and a bit of small talk about Hillary and Femen and those awful Men’s Rights Advocates, Amanda started to close the sale.
“Waiter, another round for the table? RAINNY, I’d like to take you home and teach you about rape culture?”
“Wut?” said RAINNY.
“Oh, you know, RAPE CULTURE – the very useful way to describe the idea that rapists are given a social license to operate by people who make excuses for sexual predators and blame the victims for their own rapes, you know?”
Amanda’s own heart was in her throat. This seduction was not going well. Perhaps she could nag RAINNY into going home with her to “discuss” rape culture.
“RAINNY, you’re making me scratch my head, here, and I feel like you’ve been leading me on? The concept of rape culture has been really useful to me in getting stuff from men, and what are you doing here but trying to undermine me? Come home with me and we can talk about it?”
RAINNY was clear in response. “Amanda, it was nice getting to know you, but when it comes to believing in your ‘rape culture’, you need to accept that NO means NO, as in, NO, I reject your rape culture as a dumb myth. There has never been one bit of proof that such a thing exists anywhere, and honestly, your continuing to harp on it is getting to be, well, a little creepy, and NO, I won’t be going home with you, either.
Amanda unbuttoned the top 3 buttons on her shirt dress and smiled with a twinkle, “Do you like my bra? I call it my ‘burning bra’ because it is so red – get it? If you come home with me and we talk about how rape culture is bad, I’ll let you play with it.”
RAINNY stood up. “Amanda, this is weirding me out. Thank you for the drinks but I have to work in the morning and you are getting a little silly, honey – can I get you a cab?”
Amanda stood up, her face redder than her politics, her question marks faded as her shirt, and started screaming. “YOU are the sloppy one! YOU are embarrassing and misguided! I’m going to denounce you! I hate you! Taking precautions for people you care about makes YOU a VICTIM-BLAMER! RAPE APOLOGIST! MISOGYNIST! EM-ARR-AY!
RAINNY made a smooth but quick exit from the club, and Marcotte flopped down in her chair. “Now, who is going to love me?” she muttered. “I think I’ll get drunk and get laid? Maybe that will show that dog some rape culture, right?”
Editor’s note: feature image by James G. Milles
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