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I thought I would sit down and write a little bit about feminism and why I have not become a feminist. However, there is a slight problem. As soon as I sit down and write down the word “feminist”, the mind turns to associations of futile anger and bitter narrow-mindedness.

Furthermore, it’s not even a word invented by me or the likes of me. It’s a word that binds, it’s a word that crams me into yet another stereotype.

What stereotypes, I hear you say.

Let’s start with the first one. In the English language, the word “feminist” cropped up towards the end of the 19th century during the Victorian era. This was a time in which the term “female hysteria” was something else than a harmless little sarcastic joke referring to your girlfriend’s “that time of the month.”

This was a time in which hysteria was in fact a wide-spread phenomenon categorised as an official illness. The word “feminist” began to be used as an insult to any individual attempting to question the natural order of things and who, quite hilariously, suggested that there might actually be more to women than that thing they have instead of a penis and their ability to give birth to people. That they might actually be more than their sex.

Crazy perhaps, but such things were indeed claimed by some strange and stubborn individuals for whom there was no specific word. It was therefore becoming increasingly difficult to ridicule them and refute their arguments. Based on their obsession with the human rights of wives and other feminine creatures, some clever chap started referring to this odd bunch as “the feminists.” This worked pretty well, because giving the negative connotations of anything feminine, it would be bloody hard for any chaps to buy into the madness and join the ranks, as he would then be associated with being feminine. Or queer, or eunuch, or just plain freak. And so the word “feminist” was introduced to political debates.

When it came to the negative connotations of femininity, The Church had already been doing a splendid job for the last couple of thousands of years. Sexually frustrated virgin monks in isolated monasteries had, over the centuries, developed a rather warped and confused view on sexual intercourse, which allowed fear to take over to such an extent that by the time we got to the 20th century, the very concept of “woman” was shrouded in erotic mystery, fascination and, most of all, Great Fear.

This worked, because if you made a mistake, you had a scapegoat. And the Church was kind enough to provide you with her. Without Eve’s curiosity and active search for wisdom and the nature of reality we would still be rolling around in the garden of ignorance and not even be in this mess. What a bitch.

All women are of course descendants of the primal bitch. Except if the individual woman in question is in fact one’s mother. In which case, according to logic, she isn’t really a “woman” at all. Or, rather, mother is not a woman, she is the woman. Mother is the pure woman, the highest type of woman. Ideally a mother would of course be a virgin, but since biology doesn’t work that way we’ll let Mary (the mother, not the Magdalena one) work as an example of female purity quite impossible to imitate, of course, but that’s exactly the point. She is the perfection which ordinary bitches will never obtain.

These, if you didn’t guess, are the stereotypes of the flawless mother and Eve, the original dumb blonde.

But wait, there’s more.

A woman who has not yet attained the status of motherhood is what we call a mother-in-waiting, or a vase waiting to be filled. She is a pause or a comma in a sentence – and she is in a state of perpetual anticipation. It’s OK if she likes the sentence, but if she happens to think that the sentence doesn’t even make any sense, she’s in a bit of a tricky spot… until becoming a mother sets her free and she may finally serve her sentence. So to speak.

But sometimes things aren’t that simple. A married woman who keeps having sex for years but still does not manage to give birth, is somewhere between a prostitute and a table without legs: useful yet useless at the same time, and ultimately without any deeper meaning. There’s not much point to her existence and she causes unnecessary confusion.

Until menopause sets her free, of course. After that, she becomes an old woman with no obligations, someone who can’t get pregnant but is no longer sexually desirable, so no one really cares anymore anyway. It’s pretty much a win-win.

Confused? So am I! But hang in there, there’s more.

In some marriages, a certain unhappiness between husbands and wives may arise as the inevitable consequence of sexual ignorance and the suffocation of the sexual desire in women which itself is the direct result of denying women the right to determine over and enjoy their own bodies. After all, she who does not know her own body is not very likely to want to explore someone else’s.

This is where the prostitute comes in quite handy. If a woman is a prostitute, she is very useful for the purpose of (male) satisfaction and for acting as a voluntary bridge between the unhappy and divided men and women who cannot satisfy each other out of deep seated shame and fear of a suppressed sexuality and a lack of mutual respect.

Thanks to the prostitute, the wife may now focus on the child bearing and rearing and simply just enjoy being mum, while the prostitute takes care of the natural needs of the husband. The prostitute saves the wife from the sexual task which is too much to handle for someone already stressed by having to look after the children all by herself while trying to “break the glass ceiling” and dreaming of “having it all.”

In case you were wondering; when it comes to the sexual needs of the wife, it’s quite simple, because she doesn’t have any. This is because a woman’s sexuality is by its very nature rather passive. She doesn’t really get turned on by looking at the male body, but prefers instead to gaze at her own breasts in the mirror and imagining what it would be like to have a penis and have sex with a woman. This is why all women are secretly bisexual, you see, and the male body is in fact nothing much to be looked at and certainly not a thing of beauty.

In fact it is male sexuality which is the more visual of the two, so the female body is by definition prettier and more object-like. This is why pornography and sexual exploitation of women and girls are actually based on biology, by the way. They certainly have nothing to do with anything as vague as “patriarchy”, “capitalism” or “the history of the Christian church”, that’s for sure!

Young man, we may go as far as to say that if you are not utterly obsessed by copulation and if you have never had sex with prostitutes and if you seriously think that women in short skirts are not in fact asking to be ravaged by the primal animal that you really are, there might just be something wrong with your testosterone levels and I’d get that checked out if I were you.

You know, those stereotypes.

In the beginning, I wrote that “feminism” is a word not invented by the likes of me.

That it’s a word that crams me into yet another stereotype.

It’s true.

Feminism brings to mind nothing but futile anger and bitter narrow-mindedness, but the anger and bitterness are not mine or ours. It is the anger and bitterness of 2000 years of fear perpetuated by a value system whose first job was to hide the Gospel of Mary, cover the female body, silence her voice and by doing so lead both women and men into a paranoid war of the sexes in which each battle brings us further and further away from each other.

It does everything in its power to keep us apart so we will not be able to break through those 2000 years of lies and embrace each other fully and absolutely, without fear. Because if we did that, we would be free and their world would crumble.

Why I never became a feminist?

Because I was born one. That’s why.