Those fingers in my hair
That sly come-hither stare
That strips my senses bare
Scientists, psychologists and, well, men, are trying to come to terms with a growing phenomenon known as “bitchcraft.” As it’s been described in the journals of all things bitchy, the simplest explanation I could find was: “The art of pissing people off by telling them the truth.”
More and more women have decided to cast aside the usual rules of propriety, following what Virginia Woolf once said: “If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.” Of course, she also said “Great bodies of people are never responsible for what they do.”
Well, who cares about responsibility these days, right? Far better to tell the truth and piss a few people off, like calling men the mongrel dogs they are.
While 43% of women felt they should keep their legs shaved in 2007, only 20% believe that now.
You might say bitchcraft is a release, something women believe is a long time coming. As relationship coach, Sarah May, remarked: “Women are feeling more empowered to do what they want to do, versus what society deems they should.”
According to a recent study, single women are feeling less obliged to maintain social standards. Take beauty, as an example. While 43% of women felt they should keep their legs shaved in 2007, only 20% believe that now.
Women are also more likely to ask men out than they were a decade ago — and 2.5 times more likely to receive a response than men. If all it took was dumping the Lady Schick, I’m surprised they didn’t grow hairy legs sooner.
My only concern — besides women having hairy legs — is where all this bitchcraft will lead.
A few years ago, I arranged a coffee date with a woman for the next day. We got talking about women in the workplace, equal opportunity, etc. “It’s hard,” she said, and I admitted it was. Then I told her it was no picnic for older single white men, either — which is why I hate picnics.
Screw propriety. You don’t gain confidence being polite (or clean-shaven). Better to be blunt and let the hair grow on your legs.
“If you have grey hair in the workplace,” I said, “young people don’t even want to know you. It’s like we’re a virus.” She hung up the phone, sending a message later saying, “I’m cancelling our date. I found your conversation this morning morbid, and I don’t need that kind of negativity right now.”
On another occasion, a woman and I agreed to met at a Tim Hortons equidistant between where we lived (about 70 km apart). The morning of the date, I called, saying there were actually two Tim Hortons in the town agreed upon. “Which would you prefer?” I asked. She said she didn’t care, then hung up. A text arrived a few minutes later, saying, “I can’t believe we had to discuss this. I think we should both move on.” I blame Tim Hortons.
That’s the thing about bitchcraft. If you feel offended, then you are offended. Screw propriety. You don’t gain confidence being polite (or clean-shaven). Better to be blunt and let the hair grow on your legs.
Another woman started our date asking if I was doing this strictly to get material. “You use a lot of personal examples in your articles,” she said. Then she proceeded to explain what she was looking for in a date.
“I like edgy,” she said. “I like to get where I’m calling the guy an asshole. Not in a bad way. I just like calling guys assholes.”
After twenty odd years of marriage, she was ready for any orgasm that didn’t come with “Don’t expect treats like this every time the Islanders win.”
“Don’t we all,” I replied, but she was already on to her next edgy topic. This one concerned G-spots, which she confessed had eluded her through two boring marriages and six seasons of Sex In the City.
“I thought it was an urban myth,” she told me, describing how she discovered her G-spot at the tender age of fifty-nine. That seemed like a long time to wait — longer than AppleCare — but she assured me it was worth it. After twenty odd years of marriage, she was ready for any orgasm that didn’t come with “Don’t expect treats like this every time the Islanders win.”
Turns out, after her second divorce, she ordered a handy dandy little gizmo shaped like a horseshoe. Once she discovered her G-spot, she ordered some for her clients. Now they’ve all found their G-spots and spend Friday nights howling like hyenas. I’m amazed they aren’t out humping parking meters.
In any case, this led to her finding her “voice,” which ironically started between her legs. As she admitted, that’s why she likes edgy conversation and calling men assholes. After two relatively sexless marriages, who wouldn’t? I mean, it’s not like the Islanders are setting the world on fire.
“So, is your vibrating horseshoe replacing men these days?” I asked.
She looked at me like I’d caused all the Islander’s mistakes
“Why would you ask a question like that?” she snapped. “Are you an idiot or something?”
Men don’t generally have vibrating horseshoes. Even if we did, we’d probably use them to mix margueritas.
That’s a question I hate being asked. There’s no empirical evidence. All I could do was remind her that self stimulation was keeping half the male population happy until the Eastern Finals.
With that, I called for the bill, figuring I was about to be called an asshole — which has no empirical evidence, either. But then she started talking about old age and how everyone was having stuff done.
“It’s crazy,” she said, wiping the last of the three-cheese avocado dip with a piece of bread. “At least I’m not having everything lifted, or tucked — or removed entirely.”
“Would you if you could?” I asked.
“Who says I can’t?” she snapped again. “But where the hell would I start? My stomach looks like two swag curtains. I’d be lifting skin till the next Big Bang. Actually, my legs are okay.”
The waitress brought the bill, and we left, having an awkward moment outside when it looked like she might call my car an asshole.
That’s the thing about bitchcraft. Raw honesty requires constant maintenance. You can’t just throw it out occasionally. You need to use it daily, letting men know women aren’t waiting for treats anymore.
Especially not when a vibrating horseshoe makes the Islanders — and coffee dates — mere distractions by comparison. Her last confession? The kids are nervous wreaks because of the hyena howls. “Can’t help it,” she said. “It’s that intense.” The eldest (28 years old) bought a Bowie knife. It’s an odd house.
And I’ve got no defense for it
The heat is too intense for it
What good would common sense for it do?
Robert Cormack is a freelance copywriter, novelist and blogger. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online and at most major bookstores.