I must be sexy, but never “slutty”. Nice and sweet, but not a prude.
I must be interesting enough so that he doesn’t stray, but never more interesting than him.
I must be charming when appropriate, but fade into the background as required.
I am so pathetically grateful for a man that bothers to make me cum that I confuse an orgasm for love.
Between the ages of 20 to 45 I will be constantly asked deeply personal questions about my romantic relationships and reproductive status, despite whether or not I want (or can physically have), a family.
If I have career success I must downplay it, because how dare I emasculate him with my income and talent.
As the lines on my face become deeper, I become increasingly invisible. As he ages he is seen as more dignified and refined. I must cover my grey hairs ashamedly, while he gets to claim the George Clooney inspired “salt ‘n’ pepper” look.
The smile lines around my mouth and eyes present me as infertile, and therefore undesirable. His create character.
Because I embrace my sexuality I am labelled a slut. What is the male equivalent for slut?, and I do not mean “man-slut” or “man-whore” because that is just as offensive.
I am perpetually single, attracting either emotionless men who are so disengaged that they do not even notice my power, or aggressive men, who wish to beat me into submission with narcissism and control.
The nasty men have won, because I now struggle to recognise the decent ones. I forever have my guard up.
My confidence is intimidating and arrogant, while his is powerful and authoritative.
He is passionate. I am shrill.
I must always be seen to be aspiring to become more beautiful, despite the cost or physical consequence. It is okay if I am not there yet, as long as I never forget that I am not good enough as I am.
The blood in my underwear, which connects me to almost every woman on this planet, is more disgusting than the blood on his hands that rises from fear and dominance.
I must have nice big tits and a juicy arse, giving him something “to grab onto”, while still maintaining a low enough body weight to be thrown around like a piece of meat. When does my body become my own?
I must appear submissive.
Casually going out with my friends results in my refusal to provide sexual favours for drugs. I am forced to decline politely and cautiously for fear of what aggravating him might lead to, when all I want is to spit in his face and say “I am not your whore!”.
In preparation for a one night stand that may never come, I must spend $30 a month on the pill and alter my natural hormone production, because a man I’ve never met is going to be really bad at hiding how pissed off he is when I ask him to wear a condom.
.75 cents to your $1 is not equal.
I must pretend I am a prepubescent child and eliminate every hair from my body. If ever caught out between waxes, I must apologise profusely with obvious shame, to be granted forgiveness. How dare I show myself as human. His beard is, of course, rugged and manly.
As young as 4-years-old, I have been taught that when a boy teases me and pulls my hair, it’s because he likes me. So, am I to believe when I was dragged down the street by my hair and sexually assaulted, that was because he was just hopelessly love-struck?
From a very young age I am taught that in order to have value in the world I must shrink myself. I must pacify myself as to not make a scene. I must starve myself to the point of weakness. I must sacrifice my own health, happiness and success in order to maintain “value” in this patriarchal society. Suppressing myself to elevate him.
“I was scared he might beat me to death”, and “I didn’t want to embarrass him.”. These are the two major reasons woman will do something they don’t want to do, and usually the second is because of fear of the first.