Please stop breathing down my neck.

I hate it when W comes over my house.

My parents like having him over because he does stuff around the house. Shelf to be installed? Brother to tutor? Opinion to be solicited? W’s their man. Whenever he makes his once-a-month weekend stay at our place, the family monopolizes him. That’s great.

My mother makes things very difficult for me while he’s here. I cannot talk to him or engage with him in any meaningful way. My every action is scrutinized. Not even a single moment of mine goes noticed, nor a single detail. My mother is meticulous and doesn’t let any of that go. It’s a blistering silent interrogation process so horrible I can’t even begin to describe it.

Constancy; 1/7/10

Sally Hawkins, from Persuasion

Disclaimer: You probably don’t want to read this post if you’re in any way related to me. This story is generic and I’m not pointing fingers at anyone. And none of the girls I’m discussing are actually related to me or know anybody who would read this blog. Seriously.

I realize this is going to be an inflammatory post. And I know that most my material comes from anecdotes and not hard numbers. But if this situation is true in one case, it’s still a grievous one, and it is certainly true in more than one case. As this is my forum, I feel that I should write it out of my mind. I’m going to restrain my anger here, but just. I mean, this is at least the twentieth time this has happened.

Anyway; I consider it urgent.

Here’s some context:

Say you’re a fresh-faced Brahmin girl with an interfering, intellectual and sometimes loving family. I’ll throw in the South Indian part. South Indian Brahmin girl, got it?

For the purposes of this rant, you’ve been “secretly seeing” a guy since you’ve been in middle school or high school. I guess they don’t call it middle or high school there, so I’ll have to amend that; a guy you’ve seen since you were in your intermediate or your tenth or even before that. He’s the love of your life. Most of the stupid Hindi songs you watch on TV make sense to you because, gosh darn it, you’re going to be in love until the end of time.

Apparently, Feminists Fuck Better

Good ol' Ashley Judd.

Cracked.com, while being a source of endless amusement, is a place where my eyes get opened constantly. We’ve written about how we’d do Cracked if only it had a penis. (Instead of, you know, thirty.)

Their recent story on sex myths highlights a Rutgers study that challenges most preconceptions of feminists and romance. According to the Science Daily:

The authors [of this study] also tested the validity of feminist stereotypical beliefs amongst their two samples, based on the hypothesis that if feminist stereotypes are accurate, then feminist women should be more likely to report themselves as being single, lesbian, or sexually unattractive, compared with non-feminist women.

Rudman and Phelan found no support for this hypothesis amongst their study participants. In fact, feminist women were more likely to be in a heterosexual romantic relationship than non-feminist women. The authors conclude that feminist stereotypes appear to be inaccurate, and therefore their unfavorable implications for relationships are also likely to be unfounded.

Feminist-bashing is a popular exercise. Much is made about how they want to reject relationships, romance. According to conservatives, feminist women want to be asexual men, devoid of gender but masculine in drive and ambition. But that’s obviously not the whole story. Life has this funny habit of defying expectations and making stereotypes look as cruel and as stupid as they really are.

She’s not a slut if she didn’t want to do it… at first.

Oh darling, no, we mustn't! Not 'til you put a ring on it!

I was over at F’s earlier, and picked up a book I keep seeing around but haven’t yet bought. It was a romance by Judith McNaught, with one of those mild covers that doesn’t indicate anything vaguely erotic, unless you cought the castle thrusting up through the clouds. As I flipped the pages, my eye landed on tongues and other such things, and I found myself smack dab in the middle of a love scene. As we’re wont to do, I began reading it out loud in a melodramatic voice.

“What,” F demanded, “is so enjoyable about RAPE? All these love scenes are rapes!” (She has read the book.)

“Ah, but you see,” I explained, “it’s to avoid being a slut. She can’t want it. But if he rapes her and she enjoys it, then it’s ok, because she’s not a slut.”

F shook her head in disgust.