I genuinely thought I had lost the capacity to be astonished by the self-delusional capacity of feminists, but Jessica Valenti has proven me decisively, absolutely wrong. Without the slightest hint of irony, Valenti ponders whether ‘she should laugh off a lifetime of sexual objectification- or get angry?’ in an article headlined with this image of herself:
Come on, Jess. Really? You look hideous. You’re not that ugly.
The whole piece reads like something a teenager wrote from an insane asylum. Valenti recounts seeing a penis on the subway, which somehow managed to ‘terrify’ her, recreating a familial ‘cycle of violence’. In NYC, she ended up being the only person on a subway platform just after 9AM to witness the pervert jerking off to her allure. Sounds totally legitimate.
It’s called the cycle of violence, but in my family, female suffering is linear: abuse is passed down like the world’s worst birthright, largely skipping the men and marking the women with scars, night terrors (and fantastic senses of humour). My aunts and my mom joked about how often it happened to them when they were younger: the man who flashed a jacket open and had a big red bow on his cock; the neighbourhood pervert who masturbated visibly in his window as they walked to school as girls. (The cops told them the man could do whatever he wanted in his own house.) “Just point and laugh,” my aunt said. “That usually sends them running.” Usually.
Assuming for one second the pervert masturbating to Princess Jessica is true (which I highly doubt), why on earth would this cause scars, night terrors and a fantastic sense of humor? No mechanism for this process is given. A man with a bright red bow on his cock. Sounds totally plausible. And how did the bow fit in his underpants? Was it crushed? Did it retain its shape? Is this like a Christmas bow (the kind that oppresses women), or a normal ribbon tied like a shoelace bow? So many questions!
Valenti then recounts how her father shoved a pipe down his pants (!) to guard his damsel on the subway from any future perverts who want to jerk off on her. A pipe. No really. What kind of pipe? A metal pipe? A PVC pipe? Where did he find it? Just lying around your apartment in Brooklyn, where presumably maintenance is done by the landlord? And didn’t the rigid pipe shoved down his pants make him look like the pervert? The whole story is like a laughably amateur young adult novel I Was A Victim of Some Stuff I Heard About One Time That Sounded Scary.
Jessica’s palpable, tortured need to be the object of sexual desire is really rather pitiful. She recounts her dawning awareness that she is hairy, pimply, unattractive and in possession of a rather large nose, but still insists on dressing like a whore, for which she is shamed and reprimanded by her teachers, yet never seems to come to the awareness that dressing like a thirsty hooker at school is inappropriate and her desperation for sexual validation is embarrassing and cringe-worthy. She is jealous of her pretty friends, longing for the male approval she imagines they get. She never stops to consider that the only thing all her untoward examples of gross, base, animalistic male sexuality (whether true or not) have in common is her.
She instead chalks up her treatment to hungry lust on the part of her teachers or other adult males around her. The problem can’t possibly be her, her toxic understanding of sexuality, her tortured need to be desired, her craven need for male attention. No, no, that’s not it. It’s patriarchy, which has miraculously transformed her from the ugly duckling she sees in the mirror to the willowy, dewy-skinned maiden whom men swoon over on sight.
It’s one of the great ironies of feminism that in liberating women from femininity and families and homes and even the most basic standards of conduct and decency, women have chosen freely to reduce their status to ‘warm hole to fuck’. That’s crass and rude, I know, but other than a vagina, what do most feminists have to offer either men or society? Women have never been particularly adept at inventing great things, or discovering great ideas or crafting great art or literature, and that continues to be the case. An elite group of women have invented, created, designed and contributed, but for most women, our main contributions have come in the form of children and loving families and communities.
Feminists have torn the paradigm to shreds, leaving women nothing to offer socially other than sex. Women like Jessica find themselves in a brutal competition, with no real skills to compete, and no language to articulate their frustration and anger at both: feminists are angry they are reduced to sex objects, and angry that no matter how much they delude themselves, they’re not particularly appealing sex objects.
Did Jessica Valenti really experience the kinds of sexual maltreatment that she claims? Perhaps. I highly doubt it, but even if she did, what truly galls her is that her sexuality appealed to the lowest common denominator of men: the strange, mentally deranged frotteurs on the NYC subway system. Her desperation reeked, marking her as the perfect victim, and that’s gotta suck. Her insecurity coupled with the brown jumpsuit that snapped at the crotch and the baggy jeans that displayed the cutout above her hips screamed her lack of confidence and unwillingness to set and guard her own boundaries.
Needless to say, I was never subjected to such treatment, but I never wore brown jumpsuits that snapped at the crotch and revealed my hips. Even at 12 years of age, I was familiar with the concept of ‘dignity’.
Jessica ends her excerpt insisting that her current anger is really optimism, but honestly, with age 40 looming on the birthday horizon, I think Jessica’s anger has a whole lot more to do with her evaporating sexuality and her bitter understanding that her best years were wasted stewing in a toxic brew of fear, immaturity, anxiety and jealousy. Jessica hates that she was never quite the beautiful lass she so desperately wanted to be. What no one bothered to tell Jess was that virtually none of us are, and generally speaking, most men don’t care. A plain face in a body within normal weight range paired with an industrious spirit and a cheerful heart will always win the day.
We have a word for those women, too.
They’re called ‘feminine’.
To paraphrase Jane Austen, beauty is not the only feminine virtue. It’s not even the most important one.
Sorry you missed out, hon. Not all is lost, though. Try a paler lipstick, closer to your natural skin tone, never forget that moisturizer is your friend, and for the love of god, smile!
Lots of love,