The Alamo Drafthouse has been known for putting customers of a shitty caliber on blast for their irascibility–from complaining about being thrown out for arriving late to being banned for texting. So it should come as no surprise that the theater is at the center of moviegoing controversy once again with its Wonder Woman women-only screening. And though the female-only showings have thus far been announced for the Austin location (sold out, by the way), Brooklyn can’t be far behind. Why “men” should feel scandalized about women coming together to celebrate the first major blockbuster starring a non-dicked person in the lead role of hero (Maleficent was all about female villainy, and Tomb Raider wasn’t Marvel or DC) is unclear.
Does this concept threaten their masculinity–that a superhero with a vag is more powerful than any “male” one that’s come before her on the screen (especially Superman, that little bitch)? And, further, what’s the big deal about women preferring to enjoy Wonder Woman in all her glory sans the twigs you call a peen in their midst? Who knows? Maybe “men” have never really been told there’s a specific area they can’t go to before (like women to the workplace or the voting polls), and the jarring nature of exclusion is too much for them to bear. All one can really say is, it’s a woman’s prerogative to be among other women for a momentous occasion such as this. Moreover, “men” generally despise being in a large group of laydays anyway, being that they’re viewed as hen-like in nature when there’s too many of them in one place. So, on a deeper psychological level, this fear of being excluded derives from the overall “male” apprehension of late that there’s going to be a female takeover/takedown. Which, if the 2016 election told you anything, really shouldn’t be a cause for concern for “men.”
It has happened to the best of us, and the worst of us in possession of a vagina that seems more and more symbolic of the power and chutzpah of a dick. The rejection and loudness of an unanswered text, a false promise, the lull into believing that it could actually be different this time. You mistakenly decide to put yourself in a position of vulnerability, and the second you do, a switch seems to snap within the “male” mind: must act like an asshole, must leave this bitch in a state of obsessive wondering.
You start to contemplate if maybe you’re not one bad experience away from joining a cult, the Manson kind, where you suppose, at least, there’s only one “man” to focus on, as opposed to the barrage that appears content to fuck you over, leave you with your own, much bigger metaphorical dick flapping in the wind after you took it out with plans to use it, only to find it sagging there helplessly, with no one around to insert it into. We’ll never know what thought processes, if any, go into these bizarre decision-making methods that prompt “men” to shut down, disappear into the ether. We can only know that it must somehow pertain to something we’ve done, some unnoticed flaw we displayed–a flabby thigh, a show of over earnestness. So when you find yourself with your dick in the wind, the only thing you can take comfort in is knowing that at least it was bigger than his.
It isn’t just a certain Republican presidential nominee that has revived an interest in “men’s” activism. It’s that, for a particular sect of faux penis possessors, women have gone too far (see: Beyoncé), provoking a not so understated backlash that has left, in its wake, an absurd desire for women to, in essence, “be quiet” and stop looking and being so goddamn superior.
Some “rights” “men’s” activists are keen on
The steady build of “men’s” activism, which developed in the 1970s out of the fear that the feminist movement of the 60s was getting, well, out of hand–which just means a woman preferred to use her hand for other things besides cooking and manual stimulation of a non-existent dick–has only increased over time as a response to “men’s” natural panic at no longer being subjectively viewed as the “better,” more powerful sex. But the incongruity–the sheer oxymoron–of the movement and term is circumcised by one simple fact: women have never subjugated “men.” Instead, they have let them believe, all this time, that they have even a modicum of control, letting them be free–even with their derogatory “activism.” A feminist, on the flip side, is merely an advocate of equality, not oppression. Though, in the current epoch, it feels as though feminism’s definition is becoming dangerously muddled with misandry’s. Which, if “men’s” activists aren’t careful, will win out in the end.
Looking for loyalty? Looking for someone who sucks you off in equal measure? Or how about just someone to make you feel like you’re not less than nothing? If you are, Missing A Dick does not recommend trying “men.” They will not only reel you in like a pussy-wielding fish, they will also throw you back in the water once they’ve gutted you and drained you of anything valuable.
How you will look after being cast aside
Anything you think you can get from “men,” you can actually get from practically anywhere else. Orgasms? Babeland. “Stimulating” conversation? Read The S.C.U.M. Manifesto aloud to yourself. Someone to hold you at night? Revert to your goddamn teddy bear. There is nothing a “man” really has left to offer women anymore, which is why it’s rather strange that he chooses to toe the line so indelicately between annoying and useless. You would think those on the verge of total extinction would be a bit more concerned.
“Men” have this mythology surrounding them that they’re not all that sensitive. And they’re not, except when it comes to themselves. So when Missing A Dick comes along to roil their delicate self-perception and ego, the ire can tend to flare up and, inevitably, the question, “Why do you hate ‘men’?” will be asked as a means to insult and infer that I am some kind of feminazi.
The question “men” ask re: Missing A Dick
But I don’t hate “men”–they’re perfectly lovely if and when they can eat you out or give you an orgasm. Or write you poems and otherwise appeal to your vanity. But how often does this actually happen? Usually only when they first meet you and enjoy the novelty of your pussy. Once it becomes day old bread to them, all of their formerly enjoyable qualities disappear and suddenly you start to feel like Madonna after kissing Drake. This is when it becomes easy to point out their glaring shortcomings, now that they’ve revealed their true and constant self to you. And this isn’t to say that women aren’t chockfull of annoying qualities, especially when clustered together in groups. But at least we tend to look better while being a pain in your ass.
I understand the need to flee a scene the second things get too real/awkward/etc., however there is something decidedly sociopathic about men who Irish goodbye. It’s like they can’t be bothered to acknowledge anyone’s social needs but their own. The only decent excuse for leaving without an announcement–at least to the person you came with–is an urgent medical emergency (e.g. seizure or intense attack of diarrhea).
All you need to do is make this simple gesture.
Williamsburg men are, of course, notorious for their lack of consideration for others, particularly women (it’s like they resent them for literally missing a dick as opposed to just metaphorically missing one). But if they could just see that demonstrating even the smallest and simplest modicum of courtesy, like saying goodbye through a gesture or grunt, they would be so much closer to having more than a gash where their dick should be.