Tammy Wynette is one of the best country singers ever. Something about her voice, which she typically starts out real low and subtle and which eventually climbs to a power and glory that make my heart almost pop from the beauty. Country music is as full of sexism as Rock, most of it tied to the glorification of a woman’s subordinate place serving a man, rather than outright sexual objectification.

But this song has it both ways, and almost questions the status quo in a way that a man can hardly argue with, which it has to, in order to avoid tripping any all-too-sensitive male kneejerk reactions to the slightest threats to their hegemony.

I’ve never seen the inside of a bar room
Or listened to a jukebox all night long
But I see these are the things that bring you pleasure
So I’m gonna make some changes in our home

I’ve heard it said: “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em”
So if that’s the way you’ve wanted me to be
I’ll change if it takes that to make you happy
From now on you’re gonna see a different me.

Because your good girl’s gonna go bad
I’m gonna be the swingin’est swinger you’ve ever had
If you like ‘em painted up powdered up
Then you oughta be glad
‘Cause your good girl’s gonna go bad.

I’ll even learn to like the taste of whiskey
In fact, you’ll hardly recognize your wife
I’ll buy some brand new clothes and dress up fancy
For my journey to the wilder side of life.

Because your good girl’s gonna go bad
I’m gonna be the swingin’est swinger you’ve ever had
If you like ‘em painted up powdered up
Then you oughta be glad
‘Cause your good girl’s gonna go bad.

Oh Yeah Your good girl’s gonna go bad.

Because it dares to create a possibility of questioning why a woman’s role can be both reviled and glorified for close to the same reasons, I’d call this song almost feminist.

Here’s a uniquely evil song that charted in the sixties. It turns out there’s a whole genre of songs about being forced into prostitution by your own mother. This fits into my theory about the 1960s in America being the most misogynist culture ever.

I was lucky enough to get a comment about heavy metal songs being misogynist, too. I have to admit that if we start looking into hard rock and rock music in general the shit will get to be so thick that it is almost limitless.

“Well, I remember it all very well lookin’ back
It was the summer that I turned eighteen.
We lived in a one-room, run down shack
on the outskirts of New Orleans.

We didn’t have money for food or rent
to say the least we was hard-pressed
when Momma spent every last penny we had
to buy me a dancin’ dress.

Well, Momma washed and combed and curled my hair,
then she painted my eyes and lips.
Then I stepped into the satin dancin’ dress.
It had a split in the side clean up to my hips.

It was red, velvet-trimmed, and it fit me good
and standin’ back from the lookin’ glass
was a woman
where a half grown kid had stood.

She said, “Here’s your last chance, Fancy, don’t let me down!
Here’s your last chance, Fancy, don’t let me down.
God forgive me for what I do,
but if you want out girl it’s up to you.
Now get on out, you better start sleepin’ uptown.”

Momma dabbed a little bit of perfume
on my neck and she kissed my cheek
Then I saw the tears welling up
in her troubled eyes as she started to speak

She looked at our pitiful shack and then
she looked at me and took a ragged breath
She said, Your Pa’s runned off, and I’m real sick
and the baby’s gonna starve to death.

She handed me a heart-shaped locket that said
“To thine own self be true”
and I shivered as I watched a roach crawl across
the toe of my high-healed shoe

It sounded like somebody else was talkin’
askin’, “Momma what do I do?”
She said, “Just be nice to the gentlemen, Fancy.
They’ll be nice to you.”

She said, “Here’s your last chance, Fancy, don’t let me down!
Here’s your last chance, Fancy, don’t let me down.
God forgive me for what I do,
But if you want out girl it’s up to you
Now don’t let me down,
now get on out, you better start sleepin’ uptown.”

That was the last time I saw my momma
when I left that rickety shack
The welfare people came and took the baby.
Momma died and I ain’t been back.

But the wheels of fate had started to turn
and for me there was no other way out.
It wasn’t very long after that I knew exactly
what my momma was talkin’ ’bout.

I knew what I had to do.
Then I made myself this solemn vow:
I’s gonna to be a lady someday
though I didn’t know when or how.

But I couldn’t see spendin’ the rest of my life
with my head hung down in shame.
You know I mighta been born just plain white trash.
but Fancy was my name.

She said, “Here’s your last chance, Fancy, don’t let me down!
Here’s your last chance, Fancy, don’t let me down.
God forgive me for what I do,
but if you want out girl it’s up to you.
Now get on out, you better start sleepin’ uptown.”

Wasn’t long after that a benevolent man
took me in off the streets
One week later I was pourin’ his tea
in a five roomed penthouse suite.

Since then I’ve charmed a king, a congressman
and an occasional aristocrat
and I got me an elegant Georgia mansion
and a New York townhouse flat.

Now I ain’t done bad

Now in this world there’s a lot of self-righteous
hypocrites who call me bad.
They criticize Momma for turning me out
No matter how little we had.

But I haven’t had to worry ’bout nothin’
now for nigh on fifteen years
But I can still hear the desperation
in my poor mommas voice ringin’ in my ears.

“Here’s your last chance, Fancy, don’t let me down!
Oh, here’s your last chance, Fancy, don’t let me down.
God forgive me for what I do,
but if you want out girl it’s up to you.
Now get on out, you better start sleepin’ uptown.”

Like Wives & Lovers, there’s a strong theme of resignation and surrender in this song. How normal it was for women to feel this way is what I find the most horrible part about these lyrics. The one way out – capitulation to male desires – is all about becoming fully invested in being a member of the sex class. The uselessness of women unless they are objects of desire.

Even as women become more conscious of being worth more than just being used by men, the rise in porn culture attacks from the secret places that men hide their midnight desires, trying to undermine men’s ability to realize the obvious humanity of the women all around them.

It’s the image of patriarchy-pleasing handed down from mother to daughter that creeps me out the most about this song. An obvious male fantasy, yet one that makes twisted sense if you accept your fate as an oppressed and poverty-stricken person in a world of money and men. A simple update to becoming an empowered stripper would make this song as relevant today as it was then.

I have male parts dangling down there somewhere, so I try, I really try! not to comment on the enormous struggle women suffer to liberate themselves from oppression. Especially the struggle with femininity, which the radical feminist will decry and denounce from time to time.

Since I have no first hand experience with being female and suffering the oppression of male dominance, I prefer to let the women talk to the women about these issues, since they know best what feels right and should be able to understand better than I how to communicate helpfully to women who struggle with the desire to dress feminine in a world that rewards femininity and punishes the rejection of it, sometimes brutally, sometimes subtly.

In my last post I referenced the excellent blog I Blame The Patriarchy, where I started my studies of gender under the tender, witty tutelage of Twisty Faster, perhaps the most amusing and creative feminist writer who has ever lived. With scorn, sarcasm, wordplay and insight, she changed me, single handedly, from a normal pornsick dude who aspired to being a nice guy to an outraged person who aspires to a state of humanity devoid as possible of the turgid trappings of masculinity that never fit me anyway. Thanks to her I started to read the classics of radical feminist thought and found myself rethinking everything.

In this same post, Twisty’s commentariat, who have collectively taught me even more than Twisty, came back once again to the knotty and deep problem of women rejecting femininity. Twisty had made an off-hand comment asking women to at least reject some small bit of feminine baggage to show some feeling for the plight of women being killed the world over for the sake of the same system that condones killing our sisters.

There’s not much to be said about men killing women outright out of pure hatred for women. But asking women to reject femininity is harder to swallow, and leads to some real problems in the home, in the workplace, on the street. One commentator threw up her hands at the idea because a woman will be raped just as readily in rags as in stilettos. The feeling of helplessness was palpable.

Short hair, short nails, jeans and t-shirts, hairy legs, hairy pits, no make up, getting up, showering and ready. It’s so easy. Maybe you need to shave the legs – nobody wants to be stared at. The rest of it is below the radar, nobody really notices. Depending on the body shape, people can still tell you’re a woman.

I’m not saying to do it. But rejecting femininity is rejecting a lot of crap you have to buy and things you have to do. It’s not difficult, because it is verifiably easier. You find your comfort spot along the continuum from girly girl to unadorned human and that’s it.

The argument that you’re just as liable to be raped dressed up as dressed down doesn’t make sense to me. The real crime is that men, in their insufferable dominance, have staked out the unadorned human look for themselves and women comply with this ownership by continuing to regard this look as not feminine enough or even masculine.

Amanda over at Pandagon has a post on tit-gazing that gathered dozens and dozens of eager responses, most of which were so brain dead about gender that it was classic and disheartening at the same time.

Many of the male commentators trotted out the same things I used to say to well-meaning feminists before I had a chance to really look into what women think of sexism. Things like men are “genetically coded” to look at breasts sexually and that it was a “pleasure”, one that couldn’t be denied a man unless it was for “moralistic” reasons, like only a Puritan would not look at a tit and pop a boner.

Men who claim that they can’t help staring at tits are actually claiming that they have trained themselves to to look at tits as signals of sexual availability. The excitement they feel at looking at these select tits – they must not be old, or perhaps in some case must not be small or saggy, and they must not be related to you too closely, like mothers, daughters, sister – seems to be a completely esthetic pleasure, but is actually a response to the stimulus of sexual arousal that is created by the assumption of sexual availability.

Men walk around constantly seeking signs that they have learned to interpret as sexually arousing, and these same signs tend to categorize a subset of human beings that they deem fuckable as primarily arousing and only secondarily human, if at all. This is not some deeply-seated genetic coding or other evo-psych bullshit or else it would have caused the human race to auto-distruct through inbreeding thousands of years ago.

This is just something men do because they think they need to be constantly seeking arousal in order to be sufficiently masculine. When you train yourself to recognize tits as fair game for your personal arousal, and you spot a pair that conform to whatever criteria you have established as kosher – not my Mom’s! – then you tell yourself you can’t help it. Pathetic.

On the other hand, I still look at women and see beauty. I love the way they look, and I know for a fact that I can see sexless beauty in almost any woman of any age. Sometimes a young and beautiful woman will cross my field of vision and I’ll see her youth and beauty with the same appreciation I have for a flower in full bloom or a sunset. But my gaze is relaxed and devoid of sexual intent these days. I see nothing fuckable about beautiful women any more. The arousal is gone.

The desire to see beauty everywhere has led me to try to see the beauty in old people and even though old people have many things about them that signal the body falling apart and aching, I still see beauty there, like a dried flower or the last lingering touch of a sunset past. But I still have a hard time seeing the beauty in men, since I see chronic masturbators who live in smug denial of their assumptions of privilege, rather than what they might think others would see if they were looking at them. That’s my bias.

I asked my conservative dad to send me anything anti-feminist that comes his way, since, like many older people on the net, he is in the middle of a never-ending deluge of refrigerator-magnet-style philosophy, sentiment and right wing crap allegedly spewed by George Carlin and suchlike Snopes fodder and nonsense.

It brought me back to the profound belief that men hold so dearly; that women, by virtue of arousing men against their will – against the man’s will, mind you – control men completely. A trained feminist will instantly bristle at the slightest hint that a woman has any power over her oppressor. A woman brainwashed and living in denial about her position in our culture will relish the thought, and the younger she is, the more likely she will buy into it.

Men live in a world where they expect and ever-higher level of privilege and deference given to their dicks. Any reduction in the imaginary privileges they expect will result in the baby rash cries of privilege thwarted. The slightest curtailment of the deference they expect results in a feeling of being controlled, because they expect to be in complete control at all times.

If you can see this from the standpoint of a man, you can understand how the slightest effort to remove women from servitude to their needs – like doing the dishes once a week – is seen as not just balancing the scales a little but as an infringement of privilege that, if it passes unprotested, leads to a downward slope where men are wearing dresses and high heels and makeup and being fucked in the ass by other men who didn’t fall for these fiendish tricks.

Men who intuit that relinquishing privileges will lead to them being reduced to the feminine state that they consciously assert is the one in control and making the rules will fight with all the strength they have to prevent themselves from degenerating to the same state they claim makes the rules. It’s a delicious paradox. So revolting and stupid, once you think it through.

Men claim that women make the rules as a way to excuse themselves for keeping women in their place. By reminding women and other men that women make the rules, they give themselves permission to rebel against any and all attempts to curtail sexist behavior.

I had to invent several other men to populate this blog who don’t exist. Misogynist Mike, who thinks women are all stupid whores. Men like him are everywhere, and if you are one you can expect to be moderated into nonexistence on sight. But I will use his persona to illustrate the viewpoints of men like him, and show men like myself how we can slip into his ways of thought without questioning it.

Then there will be Pornsick Pat. Many a feminist male sympathizer will be much disturbed by seeing things he does and thinks are really good are also shared by this fellow. This blog will maintain a rigorous and firmly-held standard that pornography degrades women and that it also degrades men just as much, and will attempt to help men understand that this degradation is why they instinctively feel ashamed of consuming porn.

Lastly, we will have Your Nigel. This is the fellow who you date who could never be like Pornsick Pat and Misogynist Mike but who simply hides the truth from you because you could never date a guy like that and he knows it.

I will be posting on topics like rapists and those who defend them. The level of public acceptance of rape is getting to the point where it’s alarmingly close to being mainstream sex.

I’ll also touch a little on the topic of the beauty industry and examine it from the standpoint of how it creates a tendency towards pornsickness in men through constant titillation and how it creates and supports men hating women for not being as they should be, rather than from the more typical feminist viewpoint of how terribly oppressive it is for women.

I hope you like what I write, and if you don’t, let me know. I have a pretty thick skin. Comments will be heavily moderated, and might be a little slow – we shall see. Men who spew hatred of women will be banned. Men who think they know everything and want to argue until they have “won” will be banned. Women who do the same things will be banned if needed, but I expect this to be a safe place for women, and intend to keep it that way, even though the intention is to raise the consciousness of men who want to become more aware of the cruel and unsuspected effects of a misogynist world on their all-too human hearts.