I try my best to be a good feminist ally and I take every opportunity I get to have my consciousness raised. Some of the most enlightened sisters in the movement have shown me something crucial that’s missing from my male-feminist-ally knapsack.
I was never taught not to rape.
Misogyny is alive and well, and I don’t just mean guys using their mouths to say things like “Man, chicks can be so annoying sometimes.” You see, sometimes those same men will use their mouths and their penises on, in, and around women’s vaginas without asking first.
This poses a major problem for me. It’s not problematic, per se; it’s just a problem. What’s a man to do if he’s never had the proper childhood instruction in not raping? I decided it was time to totally educate myself. I would find whatever the equivalent of Rosetta Stone is for not committing violent sex crimes and bang those lessons out every night.
There’s already been some resistance from people in my personal life. The other night I was discussing my situation with my boy Franklin over some Taco Bell and he didn’t think I needed any lessons. He told me that only sociopaths do shit like drug girls’ drinks or have sex with them when they’re too drunk to give consent.
On some level what he was saying made sense to me but it was still problematic. I was forced to abandon my volcano nachos with double meat and extra lava sauce and run to the bathroom before I shit my pants. Unsure of what to do, I crouched on the toilet seat, cross-eyed, in pain, and shitting my brains out while hiding from Franklin until the lights went out. Then I made a beeline for the door before the restaurant closed.
Franklin isn’t the only friend I’ve lost due to coming to terms with my male predilection for forced sexual intercourse. I was having some brews with my friend Ace and a few of his work buddies when things got pretty weird. They’re construction workers, and they all started bragging about their catcalling activities. They talked about how they were just waiting for “one of these bitches to look their way so they could take ’em to the highest construction beam and run a train on ’em.” My buddy Ace started making obscene sex gestures, saying it was going to be like that classic photo of all the construction workers eating lunch on the beam over Manhattan, except the sandwiches would be replaced by rape.
I ran out of the bar crying.
Ace and Franklin are both blocked on my phone and my Facebook now. But it’s alright. I’ve had a few man play dates with another male feminist ally I met, this cool guy named Rubinald. I found Rubinald by searching for the term “Good Men Project” on Craigslist.
Rubinald never says anything negative about women. He hardly ever mentions them at all. I’m certain that our friendship won’t be anywhere near as problematic as my friendships with Ace and Franklin were. I even talked with him about my latest mission to teach myself not to rape and he was totally cool about it.
I came up with a game I use as part of my training called “No, no, very bad!” where I watch videos of sexy women walking down the street at night. I reach out and try to touch the screen, and a buddy slaps my hand away and scolds me. The more he scolds me, the higher our score.
Rubinald loves playing that game with me.
The last time we hung out, as I got up to leave the bar, Rubinald said “Hey, Marcus!”
I said “Yeah, Rubinald?” as I sipped the last bit of my Bailey’s Irish Cream and the bass of a loud techno track vibrated the ice in my glass.
“Don’t rape, bro,” he said, winking at me while licking his lips.
Cows say “moo,” ducks say “quack,” and men say “rape!” If men were robots, we would be called “rape-bots.” The only way to get a rape-bot to not rape is to reprogram it. You have to erase the stock firmware that’s infected with roofie strategies, Sean Paul lyrics, and ways to ignore a woman as she tells you to stop. The updated, “Fem-man-ist v2.14” firmware comes pre-loaded with “I need feminism because…” signs, apologies, and cunnilingus instructions.
Let’s all get upgraded.