Darth Vader is a big black dick raping the galaxy. The hard plastic shell of his costume mimics an erection, and Vader carries a large and imposing physical stature. Don’t believe me? His dickhead helmet is a dead giveaway. Vader represents the kind of toxic masculinity that’s become a popular point of critique after the jump to Progressive light-speed post-1960.
While Vader eventually meets his emasculation when the mask comes off and he’s revealed to be a fat white doofus, Lucas permits Vader to carry the credibility of power and dread for two-and-a-half movies, perhaps mimicking the white man’s “reign of terror” until a kind of genocidal emasculation was put into motion, in media and academia, by second-wave feminism and the sexual revolution.
There was a kind of charming innocence to Sally Rapehoax and her wild tales of repeated violation. It was the mid-1990s, a decade defined by the supposedly deep and emotionally esoteric secret lives of women. Tori Amos and the Lilith Fair exemplified this tone; the female identity needed to be something markedly different and incomprehensible to men.
Sally’s claims of rape were inoffensive because there was no perpetrator named; the claim was entirely about Sally and her own identity. To believe Sally meant that she was a victim saddled with a sexuality so strong that it engendered an overwhelming animalistic lust in men who were willing to risk their lives to have her by any means necessary; to believe Sally was a liar meant she was a deeply troubled girl with a wild imagination. Either way, you’re going to feel sympathetic to Sally, so mission accomplished. This kind of rape accusation carried with it the wistful innocence of Jack Horner shooting naughty movies on film- you know it’s wrong, but it’s not really hurting anyone either.
We were somewhere around our second bottle of wine when I made the startling realization that Fake Winehouse’s unexpected British accent had faded into something typical and American. When I had picked her up that night for drinks at The Reptile Zoo, I told her I wasn’t expecting a British accent. She asked what I was expecting, and I didn’t have a good answer. You exchange a few messages with a girl on OKCupid and agree to meet for drinks; what is there to expect?
But it was when the accent disappeared entirely that I realized the true depth of the situation. I had cut right to the heart of it and was sitting on the main nerve; Fake Winehouse was a fucking lunatic. And I’m a stupid motherfucker who likes that kind of thing. Yeah… that’s me, the normal girls are boring type; I want the curve ball. I want the crazy girl; I want the hyper-emotional; I want the bizarre.
So of course the unexpected accent disappearing entirely from a girl who wonders why I think it’s funny that she’s “never been to Europe” is right up my alley. When the bill comes, I ask Winehouse how much she’s gonna throw in and she tells me that she didn’t bring any money. This was very funny to her. The accent was back. Son of a bitch. Who is this girl?
Women say rape is about power because that is how they primarily understand sex; an exchange of power. A woman can wield her sexuality to the detriment of a man- the proverbial carrot on a stick- in order to manipulate ruthlessly to her own end… or completely relinquish this power, taking intense pleasure in relinquishment, when a man exceeds her threshold of attraction.
It bears repeating that real rape is a vile crime on par with brutal assault and a notch below murder- as serious as a crime can get.
However, Fake Rape is an overt power-grab by abusing the cultural and evolutionary dynamic of men lacking inherent public sympathy while women enjoy a nearly infinite supply of it.
It was third period lunch- a bit early in the day, yes, but if that’s when you were given a lunch period, you were kind of fucked. So it’s 10:15am and I’m dipping french fries in mayonnaise, because that was “so European,” sitting with my friend Sally Rapehoax.
Sally was a boring and plain kind of girl, but in High School sometimes you’re stuck with the people you befriend in ninth grade. Fine, whatever, but my jaw dropped when Sally casually mentioned, “yeah, I’ve been raped before,” almost as if she’s telling me about her homework, or her favorite Nirvana song, or how profoundly connected she felt to “The Craft.” It all seemed the same to Sally, but my world slowed down just a bit…