Men Have A Penis, Women Wear Bras

Sean McGuire

Feminism is a word which most men do not like to utter, let alone is it something many of them care to understand the concept of. For many of us the theory has connotations of militant women campaigning and protesting in every way possible to cleanse the planet of the parasite that is the male species. If you take the Latin word for man ‘Vir’ and add the word ‘us’, meaning us men who are in contempt of the laws of feminism, then you could be mistaken for thinking that in the eyes of every member of the sisterhood, we are as welcome on planet Earth as any virus that has infected it over the years.

Of course every movement has its nemesis and every idea, both radical and plausible, has its antithesis. However, since one of the greatest Mancunians that ever lived, Emmeline Pankhurst dared to question why the genitals that she was born with should determine her status in society, feminism has perhaps been the strongest, most controversial, opposed and argued ideology to have entered the mind set of every free thinking individual. These questions remain today; and it is evident that despite previous biology claiming otherwise, it was that day in 1903 when Ms Pankhurst formed the Suffragettes that the human chromosome xx became x why?

With myself being a rare member of the male species daring to cast a view on feminism, my audience might ask, ‘why would I feel that I am in a position to cast an opinion on a mantra so sacred and exclusive to those of the female sex?’ The truth is, I am not. The people that know me will know that my lifestyle probably has the same effect on feminism the way kryptonite had an effect on Superman.

However, having grown up in a female-centric home where I had a stay-at-home-mum and since I was the only boy amongst four sisters, one of which was my twin, I do have life experience as an outsider looking in at a world that is still on the whole a completely foreign sphere of the universe to most men. Another admission is that because of my blasé attitude to my studies at University, I regularly forgot to choose my module options before the deadline. Therefore I spent most of my time in lectures studying branches of English literature against my will; and feminist literature happened to be one of those things.

So how does feminism affect my life? Why have I been inspired to write a blog on a subject that should not concern my primitive, beer-swilling, football-watching, loutish, lazy, foul-mouthed, chauvinistic, cocky, insensitive mass of flesh and bone that has been put here solely to piss off every woman on the planet?

First of all, let me explain my vantage point. Let me explain my coordinates of where I am lay, poised with my finger on the trigger of a sniper rifle that is set to pierce the constitution of the United States of Feminism, because here is the twist. I am not going to go on an anti-feminist rant, because to me feminism is just a belief structure like any other. Whether it is religion or politics, a belief is a belief; they are neither fallible or infallible and everybody is entitled to believing in whatever they want to.

Secondly, I am trying to rationalise why so many self-proclaimed feminists find that they end up associating themselves with me – someone who I’m guessing they would happily publicly burn hours before their bras even came close to being incinerated, given the freedom and the chance. Moreover, I am trying to convince myself why I am giving this issue a second thought, considering that, in theory feminism is a topic which should take up the least percentage of my brain mass. It is also a retort to some of my fellow journalists who have recently written articles on feminism.

To add impartiality to this argument, I have recently realised that I live in a paradoxal universe.  Amongst my regular circle of friends I am deemed as a ‘nice guy’ and someone who is trying to make something of himself – a gentleman and a generally stand-up person. Yet in environments of work, academia and certain social environments I am always construed otherwise; contrary, argumentative, hostile, blunt, rebellious, mischievous and showing disregard for any rules – generally a bad boy who carries all the bad boy tendencies.

I deny neither assumption of myself; however I do find the ‘bad boy’ element of my personality interesting in terms actively encountering the issues of feminism because recently I have had an epiphany regarding feminism and the relationship between men and women.

So here’s the bombshell. Extreme feminists and bad boys are more alike than any other category of human being on the planet. We both believe that our team is the greatest. We are the most arrogant, self-important, disregarding-of-the-other-sex entities that exist in nature. We fight for what we believe in and have opinions on everything that is in opposition to our belief structure. We do not sit about idly waiting for things to happen, we actively make them happen – hence the term activist. The bottom line is, ‘we get shit done’.

So on reflection of my three decade long relationship with my twin sister who could probably be described as the complete opposite to me, I have come to a decision as to why she is a strong-minded, opinionated, argumentative, contrary, pro-feminist who knows what she wants and gets it. I know why she is like this now because I am exactly the same apart from the fact that while her lifestyle could be construed as feminist my lifestyle could be construed as anti-feminist.

How has this happened? We had the same upbringing and we went to the same school. So there you have it – the answer lies within. We are the same, but the genetics of our sex makes us different. That is it. Women have a vagina and men have a penis but that is now, on reflection, where the differences end.  So even though our outlooks have appeared different over the years, in reality they have not; we have always been equal, we just have different ways of showing it.

Feminist women have the same characteristics as anti-feminist men. In the height of drunken arguments I have often fallen out with such women because once our personalities become exaggerated over alcohol, our rationale becomes too oppositional to take in. However, here lies my conclusion.

Feminists do not hate masculine, ‘bad boy’, anti-feminist men. Instead they hate the fact that they like them, because after all we are two peas in a pod, we are so alike that it is impossible to keep away from each other. In addition, think about everyone you have ever liked in your life – we as human beings do not like another person because of what that person believes in, instead we like that person because of what we believe that person is. This is the loophole in feminist Dogma that prevents feminism from ever reaching its conclusion; and until the day where hell freezes over and we all morph into one indistinguishable sex, feminism will always be an unresolved conflict.


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