The walk of shame is a right of passage, not rape
Poor judgement — moi? Ce n’est pas possible!
Coyote ugly. It’s a phrase men use to describe the experience of waking up, hungover as shit, in bed next to a girl so ugly you’d rather chew your arm off than have her stir. Yep, another night of too many shooters and very poor judgement. Well played, tequila. I’m willing to bet that every single varsity athlete or high status (medicine, engineering, computer science) male on any given college campus has had the experience. Why? Because they get hunted. All the time. By women. You see these guys staggering bleary-eyed into the dorm rooms the next morning, bro-punching their friends and saying “Dude, how could you let me do that?”
The walk of shame. A right of passage. One that men seem to relish, enjoy and get over pretty damn quickly. Yeah, you fucked an ugly chick. Or a fat chick. Whatever. You drank too much, lost all your reason and tumbled into bed with someone you wouldn’t normally touch with a ten yard pole. Ho hum. Where we going tonight, bros?
Women, on the other hand, are completely fucked in the head in this exact same situation. They get dressed up in their best whore clothes, head out to a frat party, drink their faces off, end up in bed with some guy they wouldn’t normally touch with a ten yard pole, wake up the next morning feeling like a total slutbag and then it happens. Someone must be to blame for this. I can’t possibly have gotten shitfaced and exercised some really poor judgement. Moi? Ce n’est pas possible! I am an innocent blushing virgin with impeccable moral standards. Why, only whores get smashed and fuck random guys in a frat house, and I am not a whore so JESUS MOTHER OF GOD I WAS RAPED!
Bitch, please. You weren’t raped. You were trashed. Why is it that men are held responsible for their actions no matter what their state of inebriation, but women get a pass. It doesn’t matter if you were drunk, stripped naked, straddled the guy in your best cowgirl and fucked like a banshee. You were drunk. You can’t consent. You were raped.
Dude might have been just as pissed up as you, but he can’t cry rape because rationality. Only men are rational creatures? Really? Bull. Shit.
There are women so delusional they actually think we live in a “rape culture”. What the fuck?
No, we don’t live in a rape culture. We live in a Don’t You Bitches Have Any Friends culture. Me and the Princess have our fair share of experience dancing like madwomen in our lingerie in night clubs filled with horny men starting looking like the cast of Ocean’s Twelve after that last appletini. Many nights ended with crazy slobbery make-out sessions with the DUDE WHO LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE BRAD PITT.
Here’s the thing. We protected each other. Not from Brad Pitt. From our own BAD JUDGEMENT. Rape culture holds men, and only men, responsible for what women do. And thanks, but I prefer to be responsible for my own fucking behaviour. And when I’m about to do something really stupid, that I will regret the next morning, I rely on my friends to save me FROM MYSELF.
So go ahead. Wear those fishnets and hoochie shorts. You look fucking hot! Play beer pong! Strip for that guy. Go ahead and fuck him. Make all those decisions BUT UNDERSTAND THEY ARE YOUR DECISIONS. You don’t get to wake up the next day feeling like a whore and ruin a man’s life because YOU ARE A SLUT. Women–and men–who really were violently brutalized by strangers totally against their will aren’t helped by your idea of a rape culture. In fact the rape culture YOU created makes it worse for them by equating a truly violent and awful crime with bad decisions made while drunk.
So embrace your slut. Or trust your friends when they tell you it’s time to say nighty-night to Brad. Or you know, shut the fuck up. . Take your pick.
Lots of love,