A Certain Hunger

by Chelsea G. Summers

“You have what I call ‘resting bitch face.’ It’s interesting,” he said. I looked at him and arched a brow. “Well, wait until you see it in full fucking action, little man.”

I knew that lust was a dangerous thing, but I wanted these men to lust for me because, even though I didn’t know the precise shape and weight of lust, I knew that lust was power—and I wanted power even then.

Feminism comes to all things, it seems, but it comes to recognizing homicidal rage the slowest.

I didn’t miss him, but then I never liked him all that much. I loved him, I suppose, but it was the love of an itchy sweater that looks too good on you to throw it away. Every time you slip into that sweater, you know you’re going to get compliments and admiring glances, and every moment you’re alone, you’re going to scratch your flesh raw.

One by one, we quieted. One by one, we knew what was coming. We saw the train rocketing into the tunnel, and we saw that girl tied to the tracks. One at a time, we grew silent, captivated, and horrified.

“In confronting face to face the animal as we kill it, we assume the moral responsibility for taking the animal’s life. It is a holy act of sanctification, not this—what do you call it, genocide of cows. No hamburger should cost less than four euros. I spit on McDonald’s.”

Our friends see the frailties, the insecurities, the unattractive bits that we have to keep hidden from the rest of the world because—and this is the meat of the matter—it’s hard work to be a woman. It’s a full-time job. Our female friends, the close ones, are the mini-breaks we take from the totalitarian work it requires to keep up the performance of being female.

Despite their numbers, brutal women catch us by surprise. We expect random acts of violence from men. Men are the people who brought us the golden hits of war, genocide, rape, drones, and football. We do not expect murder, pain, and sadism from women, but we are co-opted idiots.