A female celebrity recently celebrated her love for being a “slut” on a broadcast programme. The male interviewer, intoning a slur, called her a slut at every turn until she felt comfortable and voiced her discomfiture. Having bragged earlier that her family supports her decision to self-identify as a slut and live as such, she suddenly developed a moral sense of things and asked the interviewer why he is unforgiving of a woman with a high body count vis-a-vis a man. Their dialogue ensues.
“Why do you only condemn a female with a high body count?”
“Because that makes her a slut.”
“And what does it make you if you are a man with a high body count?”
“A slut maker,” he said.
As we condemn the slur intoned by the male interviewer, shall we invalidate the toxic femininity of the “slutty” interviewee? More is the pity that they both enjoy a cult following among modern, “emancipated” youngsters.
While being male permits no one bragging rights to reckless sex life, the consequences for a female are often more devastating. Dissenters may argue with their keypads.
There is a lot to teach our daughters. That chastity is nonnegotiable; it simply makes perfect sense. That promiscuity renders the female toxic, like a garden filled with poisoned fruit.
Sleeping around projects a lack of morals. And lack of morals makes no one “emancipated.” It’s neither ennobling nor liberating for a female to stack up multiple body counts, let alone, a girl. It simply makes her a slave in a factory of fluid sharers. Intercourse with her, even in matrimony, is akin to coupling with an emotional cripple.
This article refers to the millions of ‘daughters’ with a choice, the unmarried horde who embrace promiscuity as a sport. Not the percentage left broken by sexual abuse, rape, commercial sex work, to mention a few. Thus the flaming misandrist may stifle her gall.
A female with no morals may consider herself free today; she may argue that she doesn’t need any man, quoting the married fraudulent feminist, who teaches women never to see marriage as an achievement, in time, she would find herself a broken debauchee.
If your daughter tells you abstinence and marriage are restrictive, teach her to navigate their humane shoals; help her to appreciate why they have been grounded on human experience through the centuries.
Teach her that the “modern” female with a high body count, will forever subsist as a gymnasium of bodies soullessly masturbating her psyche, until they rupture the membrane of passion she shares with any new partner.
Teach her that promiscuity isn’t liberating. It isn’t freedom. Teach her never to see men as tools by which she could achieve all her acceptable and inordinate yearnings. A woman who approaches men as tools gets used up, like a tool, till she becomes broken.
And if she’s smitten with feminism, teach her to project African feminism, developed outside sullied and biased academia, one that seeks the inclusion of both men and women in nurturing the family against social, economic, and political constraints.
Teach her to embrace that brand of feminism that complements and humanises the patriarchy. Not the one that antagonises it. Help her understand that beneath the misandrist’s bedazzling, theorised nirvana, life is a purgatory.
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Misandry eats deep into the contemporary female psyche, like a virus. It infects 13 and 14-year-olds. ‘Modern’ teens at 15 through 20, swim in its slurry. By age 21 through 30, they hasten through various stages of awareness, embracing furry anti-male slogans, weaponising felt and ‘unfelt’ grief into savage animosity towards men.
Yet they need men to fulfil random impulses thus social media becomes their performance theatre, where they share everything mostly of a sexual nature.
Once upon a time, a Facebook celebrity loved to post the adventures of her soul as she masturbated. She bragged about her capacity to attain mind-blowing orgasms and denounced the existence of God in the same breadth. She recounted with relish, how she screamed to taunt her very religious siblings and extended family, in the heat of a squirt.
She condemned adultery but boasted about flirting with married men. Eventually, she got pregnant by a supposedly perfect hunk, who identified with her misandrist ideology. The latter, she bragged, begged to be with her knowing she could only offer him an “open marriage.”
Unknown to her, her perfect beau belted out the notes she loved to hear. He was the liberal, feminist male, who joined her in scoffing at ”chauvinistic men,” online and offline, while raiding her secret places.
Her gravest mistake was getting pregnant for him. He deserted her in a heartbeat. Now a single mother, she “coaches young girls to achieve their dreams.”
Like this curious character, many misguided females shop for non-committal sex with random males on social media. This minute, one such character brags about how many ‘oafs’ and ‘scums’ she has bedded in random, passionless sex in the backseat of her ‘personal car,’ on her ‘personal sofa’ and ‘six-foot bed’ inside her ‘personal apartment.’
If she gets pregnant, she either terminates it or keeps the baby. Either way, she becomes the ‘sapiosexual’ man-hating feminist, who lives by her terms and ‘does not give a hoot what anyone thinks.’
Innately she craves for someone to love and trust. Outwardly, she seeks solace in bitter, misandrist literature. Someday, she might write a daring, ‘feminist’ novel that gets her celebrated among the herd.
Beneath the glitter of acclaim, however, she is a weak, needy female craving a man’s love and attention. Occasionally, she might “experiment” in the arms of a fellow woman or girl, a bored housewife or married woman who flirts with her on social media en route to a tryst or two.
Eventually, the latter find her boring, her touches, gross, and her rant too repetitive. Then they run back to their husbands whom they never deserted for her in the first place.
Now hovering in her late 30s, she realises that it is only on the pages of feminist literature and misandrist fairy tales that married women ditch their husbands to marry or move in with feminist lovers, no matter how earth-shattering their joint climaxes are.
Forty creeps on her while she is busy posting anti-male messages on Facebook and Twitter; and penning yet another feminist-lit blockbuster. But where she attains no literary or artistic renown, she simply fades frustrated, into her life’s eternal midnight.
Eventually, she finds religion and rediscovers sudden wisdom in the scriptures she hitherto pilloried as patriarchal nonsense. She has no more use for tired slogans and banal anger. Most of her peers are now quietly married away and severing connection with her kind. She begins to covet the marital securities and stability she scorned in her youth.
She tries to live again but it’s too late. She discovers that she had been enjoying for years, her 15 minutes of fame. The truth dawns on her in a moment of eternal damnation. Her orchestra is done playing and it’s time to exit the stage.
It’s about time we raised our daughters to be so strong they can be gentle, so educated they can be humble, so fierce they can be compassionate, so passionate they can be rational, and so disciplined they can be free. Apology to Kavita Ramdas.
