Note From The President, Cerebus 96, March 1987Copyright 1987 Dave Sim
Time to ruffle a few feminist feathers, but, then, I'm a masculinist so we shouldn't be surprised, should we?
I Last night something happened that once more proved to me that a not inconsiderable distance remains to be covered before we are at that point we affectionately used to describe as "liberated".
(A few ladies in the audience have just winced, gentlemen, because the terminology of their "movement" wears about as well as the "I am woman hear me roar" theme song it spawned. Others, unmindful of subtlety, still cling to the sobriquet and become, consequently, ridiculous).
As it is that no one in his (or her) right mind is going to have sexual relations with someone they meet in a bar in this AIDS-ridden time period and as it is that I have no interest in becoming semi-permanently attached to anyone and as it is that I'm addicted to wearing nice clothes, drinking alcohol and dancing and as it is that bars are the only place suited to all these disciplines (or lack thereof) and as it is that spending hours getting ready to go out and seeing what you attract for the sheer joy of ego-gratification has served very well as female entertainment for most of this century that is how I choose to pass many of my hours in this vale of tears.
In short, I never ask girls to dance. I wait to be asked.
My percentage is about the same as most women. I attract a lot of very average looking women whom I politely refuse and the occasional nicely-dressed hot-looking chick whom I dance with.
Last night I had just been served a double Bacardi and coke (tall) and had finished maybe two sips of it when a female hand descended on said drink, placed it on the bar beside me and then grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the dance floor. She was definitely in the hot-looking category but it would take someone of an infinitely more charitable disposition than myself to describe her as nicely-dressed. (A not altogether uncommon condition among the hot-looking).
My first instinct was to pick up the drink and throw it in her face.
But I was stopped by the sure knowledge that I would be thrown out for causing a rucus (if not booked for assault). I ended up dancing with her but the masculinist in me was steaming and I left the floor mid-way through the song and returned to my place.
Reverse the situation.
What if some guy instead of asking a girl to dance walked up, took the drink out of hand and pulled her towards the dance floor? Once again, he would either get thrown out or booked for assault.
It bothers me immensely that women think nothing of indulging in behaviour they find unconscionable by virtue of what they have between their legs and the unspoken assumption that no guy is going to pass up a chance to get close to it.
And no, ladies, she was not drunk. She had the clean, sparkly, fresh-scrubbed Ronald Reagan's America look about her and her clothing. She thought she was being cute.
What she was being starts with "c" but it isn't cute.
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