Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.
Margaret Atwood, The Robber Bride
I follow Margaret Atwood on twitter because she interacts with really funny nature accounts (she’ll rt something like @DucksIncorporated or @Birdwatchersunited and the tweet will be like, “The beautiful spring feathers of the meadowlark.”) Anyway. It’s easy to forget that she’s also a very dank writer.
You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman.
This line, oof.
Been spending a lot of time lately trying to untangle how a lifetime of patriarchy has fucked up my own sexual agency. Nothing like getting derailed inside your own head by worries of how you look in the moment, whether you measure up to some external standard…