Rape Culture or Stupid Boy Culture?

That was the question asked by my good friend Big Ben when he introduced me to this little ball of entitled male fuckery: Fifty Shades of Rey: The Trappings of Cultural Sophistication (Or why I’ve Sworn Off Hipster Girls)

What follows was going to be my FB message reply to him, but it started to get kind of long and involved, so I thought I’d make a blog about it. For those who don’t want to read the original article it can be summarized pretty quickly. Fearing the dreaded ‘friendzone,’ Boy decides to kiss Girl and becomes insanely disappointed when this does not automatically result in sex. Boy turns to Internet to shame Girl for her lack of sexual availability when she’d rather see a rock show than suck his dick in his dorm room. The entire article is also reprinted below in case they take it off the New School site, which they probably won’t do, but just in case.


1. “Reliving teenage memories?” He’s 22 at the very most. The people who have teenage memories of Dinosaur Jr. are the parents of 22-year-olds, not their dates.
2. They didn’t even make out.
3. Why the fuck didn’t he ask to go WITH HER to the Dinosaur Jr. show?
4. She wanted to reschedule, get over it! It’s not like finals are happening for THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.
5. This dude is an unmitigated douche.
6. “Mind-blowing sex” aside, I see the literary mechanism he was trying to trip with the repetition, and it’s not working. Which ultimately bothers me waaaay more than the obvious entitlement and misogyny.
7. Everything is rape culture, however some actions support its continued health, and this is definitely one of them.

Which leads me to…


1. We could chalk this up to bad writing, but why does he only write about how he kissed her, not how she reacted or even if she kissed back? “With my kiss, I hoped that I had dispelled any platonic stigma around the nature of our relationship.” As if being able to define the terms of a relationship is only something a male can do to a female with physical action. Rather than, you know, ASKING HER if she likes him, or would like to start a sexual relationship with him.
2. I get not being interested in unavailable people, but the stink of entitlement coming off this dude just because he wanted to get his dick wet on a Tuesday and she wasn’t hooking it up until Wednesday is fucking baffling. He’s acting like her pussy is a 24-hour Wal-Mart closed on New Year’s Eve.
3. I like how this motherfucker speculates on this girl’s state of mind, her tastes, and her intentions, then says “And yet, she would have been mistaken.” This guy knows what girls like. Girls like what the fuck I tell them to like because I know what they’re thinking, and they’re thinking wrong.
4. Finally, the whole concept of “swearing off X girls” is totally stupid and presumptuous, not to mention misogynistic as all hell. Basically what he’s saying is every girl with a penchant for lame-sounding indie rock will likely behave the same way because while men are allowed to have complex emotions and motivations for their actions, women everywhere are little more than an ill defined hoard, flapping our cunt-puppet mouths at exactly the same speed and rate of our collective idiocy. Oh, and that there is no inherent value in wasting your time on females who won’t fuck you. Not because it’s a good idea to know what your sexual needs are and be honest about getting those met, but because girls are for fucking. Not for bonding with over music, or having real and meaningful discussions. Only fucking. Nothing else.

Just to clarify, when I say that everything is rape culture, I just mean that rape culture is our culture, that there’s no difference. I kind of hate whoever came up with the term ‘rape culture.’ Like, I get what they were trying to convey and everything, but it kind of murders discourse. As soon as you whip out the word rape, everybody’s going to go on the defensive and clam up. Then the only people left are the ones who are too angry with the perceived slight against themselves on the basis of gender to pay attention to the fact that every normal person suddenly has someplace else to be. Rape culture is just the kind of culture who’s puritanical views on sex, incorrect assumptions about gender roles, and inequality between groups creates an environment where rape is easier to commit than other, similar crimes. That’s our culture. I mean, there are worse examples, but ours still sucks. Calling it rape culture just freaks everybody out and makes them think we’re accusing people of being or supporting rapists when really, they’re just as misguided as the culture they inhabit, a situation every one of us has found ourselves in at one time or another.

Yeah, it’s fun to find some guy who’s really, insanely far off in left field and give him a reading from the feminist cook book (I mean, I totally just did that), but it’s also a good opportunity to make this a teaching moment. Which is why I tore this article a new asshole so that writer dudebros of the future can look upon it’s prolapsed glory and reconsider publicly shaming girls they try but aren’t able to fuck.

Columns, Opinions — February 21, 2013 2:06 am
Fifty Shades of Rey: The Trappings of Cultural Sophistication (Or why I’ve Sworn Off Hipster Girls)
Rey Mashayekhi

Not long ago, I spent a pleasant evening in the East Village with a lovely young woman who I’d known, in one capacity or another, for several years. We had hung out only infrequently over the course of that time, and though our relationship was platonic, there was always a chemistry between us that (at least in my estimation) cried out for me to make a move. And that’s exactly what I did that night, seeing her off with a kiss before she got on the train to Brooklyn.

Plans were made for the coming weekend, and I was genuinely excited about the possibilities. My friend was both smart and beautiful, and as far as interests went, we shared common tastes in music and literature. Sure, she counted the likes of M. Ward and Nick Zinner among her personal heroes, frequented Williamsburg bars like Night of Joy and had recently returned from a trip couchsurfing across the Midwest—but so what? I also dig the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and friends would certainly attest to my love of Brooklyn bar-hopping. Besides, there was something about her bookish, Deschanelian vibe that I found very endearing.

With my kiss, I hoped that I had dispelled any platonic stigma around the nature of our relationship and signaled my intent to take things further. But come Saturday, as I eagerly awaited the date that lay ahead that evening, I received a text.

“Reeeeally tempted to go to that Dinosaur Jr. anniversary show tonite. Just curious, is rescheduling for tmrw a possibility?”

For those of you not intimately familiar with the American alternative rock canon (though this is The New School and I’m sure plenty of you are), Dinosaur Jr. is a seminal indie band that got its start in the 80s and went on to become one of the most influential groups of their era. The band’s second and arguably best album, “You’re Living All Over Me,” had been released 25 years ago that month. To celebrate its anniversary, they had scheduled an anniversary show at Terminal 5 that would guest star indie icons like Johnny Marr, Frank Black and former members of Sonic Youth. As a music connoisseur myself, I could almost forgive her for blowing me off.

But I can’t lie, it was a major turnoff. I couldn’t reschedule; finals were right around the corner, and the latest issue of this very publication was slated to come out in a matter of days. I had papers to write and stories to edit and besides, I didn’t want to go out the following night—I wanted to go out that night, and I didn’t appreciate being stood up for a bunch of aging punks from Western Massachusetts. So that was that.

Now, I’m not naive. I recognize that in all likelihood, my friend realized that a night out with me simply wouldn’t have been as interesting or memorable as catching the Dinosaur Jr. anniversary show, as sad as that may sound. Furthermore, life is short and love is fleeting, while art lasts forever.

And yet, she would have been mistaken. Because other than informing me that I could never compete with the likes of J. Mascis, this person also gave up an evening of food, drink and mind-blowing sex in favor of reliving teenage memories with her favorite rock stars. I ask you, would it not have been more fun and convenient instead to go to dinner, get mirthfully drunk on cocktails, have the mind-blowing sex and then spend the rest of the night listening to “You’re Living All Over Me” in my bedroom? I dare you to claim otherwise. Hell, we could have listened to “Daydream Nation,” “Doolittle” and the entire Smiths discography while we were at it, and basically recreated the entire show right there. Except with mind-blowing sex.

Which is why from now on, whenever I meet a girl who claims to share my tastes in post-punk or creative nonfiction or the films of Jim Jarmusch, no longer is the first thought in my mind how beautiful and smart and compatible this person is, but rather how she would probably prefer an evening reading “The White Album” or watching “Stranger Than Paradise” over spending time with me. Or worse, how she would prefer an evening with Jim Jarmusch himself.

But that’s fine. Because while she may have all the wondrous cultural artifacts of the Western world on her side, at least I have mind-blowing sex on mine.