She Found Her G-Spot And Lost Her Manners.
The beastly beatitudes of bitchcraft.
Those fingers in my hair
That sly come-hither stare
That strips my senses bare
It’s bitchcraft
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 are deciding to cast aside propriety these days, following what Virginia Woolf once said: “If you do not tell the truth about yourself, you can not tell it about other people.” Then again, she also said “Great bodies of people are never responsible for what they do.”
You might say bitchcraft is a release, something women do by being, well, bitchy, although, to be fair, it’s not bitchy if you call it empowerment.
Well, who cares about responsibility, right? Far better to piss a few people off, then remain silent and demure. All that ever got you was some guy saying you were the most agreeable woman he’d ever met, even though you didn’t agree with a single thing he said, and he didn’t call again because, well, he wasn’t sure you were challenging enough—which he thought was a given when he showed up on the first date in gym clothes.
You might say bitchcraft is a release, something women do by being, well, bitchy, although, to be fair, it’s not bitchy if you call it empowerment. As relationship coach, Sarah May, said: “Women are feeling more empowered to do what they want,” which seems to include being candid to the point of kicking conformity to the proverbial curb.
According to a recent study, single women are feeling less obliged to maintain social standards today. 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.
“It’s hard being a woman,” 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.
Back when I was single, 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 being a woman,” 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.
“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.”
On another occasion, a woman and I agreed to met at a Tim Hortons. 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 hung up, sending a text 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.
“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.”
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.”
“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, 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.”
Now they’ve all found their G-spots and spend Friday nights in the sort of ecstasy we normally associate with sports.
Turns out, following 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 in the sort of ecstasy we normally associate with sports.
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? It’s not like the Islanders are setting the world on fire.
“So,” I asked, “is your vibrating horseshoe replacing men these days?”
She looked at me like I’d caused all the Islander’s mistakes
“Are you an idiot or something?” she snapped.
That’s a question I hate being asked. There’s no empirical evidence for or against in my opinion. All I could do was remind her that idiocy kept eighty percent of the male population happy until the Eastern Conference Finals.
“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.”
I called for the bill, figuring I was about to be called an a moron — which has no empirical evidence, either — when 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, being a sucker for punishment.
“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.” This left an awkward moment, since she was wearing pants, and I couldn’t comment either way. We put on our coats and walked out to the parking lot, having another awkward moment when it looked like she might call me an idiot — or asshole — again.
Once the Islanders are mere distractions, we don’t stand a chance. Not against bitchcraft, anyway.
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 when a vibrating horseshoe makes the Islanders — and coffee dates — mere distractions by comparison. Well, that’s a defining moment, isn’t it? Once the Islanders are mere distractions, we don’t stand a chance. Not against bitchcraft, anyway. If we’ve got any brains at all, we’ll leave women to their devices — even real devices — and hope the Islanders make it to the Eastern Finals. Otherwise, frankly, we sunk.
And I’ve got no defence for it
The heat is too intense for it
What good would common sense for it do?
Robert Cormack is a satirist, 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. Check out Skyhorse Press or Simon and Schuster for more details.
