Gynocentrism, even when it is not recognized as such, pervades every aspect of our society.
I recently went to my local bakery to enjoy a soup and sandwich. I seated myself at the only available table, one with four chairs. Not long after my order had arrived a pair of young women entered, looked around craning their necks, obviously hoping for a table. The first singled me out with her chin to her comrade, they spoke briefly, then approached. The first, the taller of the two stood before me and imperiously demanded “Can you give us this table?” “There’s a place for you over there”, she said, cocking her head to the corner to indicate a little half-board crowded by a commercial coffee grinder and condiments.
I looked meaningfully at the meal I was enjoying on the table. I invited them to sit with me, and pointed out the alternative, a free couch with a coffee table near the door where they had first entered. Blondie Longhair, the taller of the two responded “We’re women! Don’t you think it’s impolite to not give up your place for a couple of women who are asking nicely? You’re only one man!”
I put my sandwich down and replied “Do you believe that your vagina is a magic lamp? That you need only rub it to make your wishes come true?”
They stared at me stunned, aghast, even. I’m not sure if they attempted to stare me down, or were simply speechless. The second girl looked askance at the first, who then spat out “You men are so selfish!”. She stormed out, trailed by her little friend. They did not choose to use the couches.
Sometimes respecting one’s fundamental dignity means daring to be an uppity nigger man in the face of genetic royalty.
It was a satisfying moment.