**TRIGGER WARNING:**
As mentioned in the title, this short story of mine certainly won’t be for everyone. It originated as a role-playing prompt intended for a *very* specific purpose. Then, I realized there were likely others who’d also get some value out of it — even if that value was only borrowing the story below and using it as their own prompt. Which you have my permission to do, by the way.
This post is not intended to offend anyone. If you must feel an angry comment below, go ahead, that’s what the comments are for. I hope you get some catharsis out of it. Just know, I won’t be fighting back. I have no intention of engaging in any political debates.
With all that out of the way, let’s get to the actual disclaimer part. This story contains all the themes you’re expecting it to, so I won’t apologize for that. You read the title, after all. But I will say, if you’ve ever experienced any kind of online humiliation or abuse, this story might not be for you. These concepts are handled very mildly, with no real trauma involved. But I figured I may as well let you know in advance.
Hopefully this little symbolic gesture helps to stem the tide of downvotes, but we’ll see. Just try not to take it personal, folks. *It’s just a story…*
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We met in early 2017, on a frigid January morning, in the heated midst of the *Woman’s March*. You were standing in a tight circle of protesters, each of you wearing identical knitted pussy-hats over yours frozen ears, and each of you holding a placard more naive and absurd than the last. *(Your’s read: **”The Patriarchy Can Eat a Dick”**. At least you had a sense of irony, I suppose; the other’s were far worse.)*
I approached you with a camera-man and a microphone, feigning sympathy with your cause. I seemed genuine and respectful when making my request — not to mention *a little* charming — so you gladly agreed to do an interview with me.
In the theatre of your mind, you couldn’t help but imagine seeing yourself bloviating on YouTube later that day, then immediately sharing the link with everyone you knew. It wouldn’t be as good as getting yourself on the news, but there was still plenty of time left in the day for that… Whenever the *Woman’s March* would be brought up in the course of conversation — not just during this Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner, but for *years* to come — your family and friends would associate *your name* with it. But, that’s not what happened; at least, not how you’d imagined it would happen…
It took a few minutes for you to realize that I was treating you as some sort of inside joke, mocking your responses subtlety enough so that my audience would know to laugh along, without spoiling the joke by letting you in on the fact that it was at your expense. You thought the interview would likely be posted on some Alt-Right YouTube channel to incite mockery. Enraged and indignant, you and the circle of pussy-hat wearing protesters stormed away violently, trying to take away my microphone in the process. It didn’t work.
You found the YouTube video I‘d posted a week later and contacted me shortly afterward, threatening legal action. *(In the comments section, they’d taken to either calling you ‘that attention whore’ or ‘the older one with the nice tits’. Your pussy-hat was clearly knitted by hand, which itself inspired a whole separate chain of comments, pondering on what it must be like to grow-up with a psycho mother who thinks making genitalia out of yarn constitutes meaningful political action. One commenter wondered if you chose that ugly off-pink coloured wool to match the dusty shade your actual cunt.)*
After a few days of exchanging heated emails back and forth, you decided not to pursue any legal action. Not because you’d realized that you had no case, which was indeed correct, but because you’d started to… *enjoy* my replies. It was nearly impossible to admit to yourself, but it was true, all the same.
My messages were unapologetic and raw, but still understanding and sympathetic in their own way. You found yourself slowly being seduced by my worldview; not convinced, but compelled; *enchanted*, even. It was like taking some exotic drug, both intoxicating and freighting.
You never mentioned our private conversations to anyone, because you feared what your friends and family would think of you exchanging emails with a “Nazi” *(your words, not mine)*. Even when my popularity surged to ridiculous heights, you kept our correspondence secret. In time, my emails became one of the few aspects of your day-to-day life which you anticipated. That, and sneakily watching my YouTube videos with your headphones, so no one would know the ideological and personal conflict you felt.
After our correspondence had already taken on a familial — albeit not quite friendly — tone, the video I’d made of you suddenly gained viral traction, causing GIF’s of your comedically exasperated expression to spread like wild-fire. Thankfully, your family remained oblivious of your over-night internet infamy. You never saw the meme posted anywhere you regularly interacted online — within *your bubble*, that is — but once you peeked over the ideological fence, you saw it *everywhere*… Reddit, Twitter, Imgur, *EVERYWHERE*.
It’d become ubiquitous amongst right-wing trolls, who’d use the GIF’s to solicit a cheap laugh. Others had taken to gleefully tormenting your own Twitter account, like sadistic gremlins praying on your sudden vulnerability in the spot light. You deleted your account, telling your family that you’d simply “grown tired of social-media”. You even encouraged them to do the same, in hopes that you’d limit their chances of being exposed to your humiliation. Basically, *you were the new Trigglypuff…*
I brought up your new found status as a meme a few times during our conversations, mostly with an apologetic air, but sometimes with what approached humoured indifference. I reassured you that the joke didn’t have any legs to it, and that people would move on eventually — likely sooner rather than later.
Infuriated and hurt, you asked me how I’d feel if my family saw *me* being made fun of in public. I told you that I wouldn’t like it at all, no more than I enjoyed being labeled a ‘sexist’ or a ‘Nazi’, simply for understanding economics enough to know that the *Pink Tax* and the *Wage Gap* we’re both self-propagating, self-serving myths. “That street goes two directions”, I said.
Even though I’d seemed cruel about the whole ordeal, you did hear me call the meme “lame” and “over played” during a livestream. “The meme came from my show and I don’t even think it’s that funny. Get a grip, folks…” And sure enough, your infamy seemed to vanish, as if in the blink of an eye. Everyone moved on; there were other Trigglypuff’s, and no one’s attention span is that long.
Eventually, the frequency of our emails tapered off. You still watched my YouTube channel regularly, always alone and always with private browsing turned on, but we had no further contact. That is, not until January of the following year, when I sent you a message out-of-the-blue. I asked if you were going to the *Woman’s March: Redux*. When you confirmed that you were leaving your family at home to protest for the weekend, I suggested that you change your plans…
I’d also been planning to attend the march, hoping to trick another gullible participant into becoming a lucrative meme. “You were pretty lucrative, you know that?” But then, I told you that I’d recently reconsidered, now suspecting that the *Woman’s March* had become a case of diminishing returns. I decided that I’d take the weekend off from producing content. Instead of interviewing uneducated protesters for a laugh, I was going to take a well-earned rest. *(Making a video five days a week can take a toll on you after a while.)* I booked a good hotel room for two nights. You were invited to join me, I mentioned, too casually to be trusted. I told you that I made sure it would have an excellent view of the protests taking place on the street down below.
“Why stand out there in the cold, when the two of us could simply watch the surreal, estrogen-induced spectacle from a distance?” I pitched it as your ‘vacation from Feminism’. Wouldn’t it be more productive if the two of us had a long, civil conversation in my hotel room? Why stand out there, screaming at the top of your lungs and achieving nothing but welcoming more ridicule? …Join me, instead. Maybe the two of us could get somewhere. Hell, maybe even a proper interview? Something more dignified that last time.
After you rejected my offer, feeling shocked and repulsed by what you thought were *obvious* sexual implications, I replied with my hotel and room number regardless. Then, I mentioned that if you found yourself standing out there in the cold, feeling dumb and miserable, you could always come join me. The invitation was an open one.
Still beside yourself and throughly disgusted by my approach, you asked *how stupid I thought you were?* “You don’t want to prove your point”, you said. “You just want to *fuck* me.” Then, you sent a follow-up email sent thirty seconds later: “You’re disgusting… *Yuck dude.* I thought better of you… So yeah, I must be pretty stupid I guess.*”
My reply came a second later. “No, sweetheart. You’ve got it backwards. I want to *fuck you* to *prove my point*. You’re right about what I intend to do, but not about my intentions. I very much want to prove something to you..”
You didn’t reply to that; you *couldn’t* reply to *that*.
You attended the *Woman’s March*, just like you’d always planed to. After some deliberation, you packed your hand-knitted pussy-hat into your carry-on bag. You weren’t going to let a bunch of twenty-something virgins bully you into silence. *That wasn’t who you were,* you decided.
But, I’d been right about one thing, you’d come to realize. While standing out there in the street, holding your placard high above your head and chanting loudly, you felt *dumb* and throughly *miserable*. Every few minutes, you caught yourself looking up at the large hotel which loomed above the street, wondering which window was mine. *…Could I see you?* You found it increasingly hard to hold the placard above your head with enthusiasm.
You began checking your email, wondering if I’d sent you a message. When you saw that I hadn’t, you scrolled up and looked at my room number again… *Do I go to him?*, you asked yourself. The mere idea of going to my hotel room caused a your skin to feel like it was on fire. Whenever you caught yourself considering the idea *seriously*, a wave of dread would then suddenly wash over you, extinguishing the giddy excitement you’d felt only moments before. Until eventually, the cold rationality failed to put out the burning sensation within you. After hesitating for a long moment, you left your placard in a near-by bush and began walking toward the hotel’s lobby at the end of the street. *I wonder if he’s watching me right now… I wonder if he already knows he’s won…*
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/ai6z79/a_story_that_begins_during_the_2017_womens_march
Nice writing. Part 2?