In my “trying to be a real man” phase, I got into the obscure genre of “fratire” books, where men’s rights activists mix humour with oppressive and tragically limited performances of masculinity.
One book was “I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell” by Tucker Max.
OK, the dude writes well, and I suppose I could have a politically-incorrect chuckle at some of his stories nowadays, but that would be while simultaneously vomiting over the book due to what a complete asshole this guy is.
He admits to being an asshole. He owns it, it’s almost part of his charm. But, he’s still, actually, an asshole.
I just remembered yesterday how I once read a story in this book where a friend of Tucker’s makes him reflect upon the fact that statistically speaking, one of the numerous women he’s had sex with was probably trans. After dredging up his memory, he remembered one whose vagina didn’t lubricate naturally and who had really big hands. He realised that this woman was probably trans. And then utterly freaks out and screams. That’s the punchline.
The weird, weird thing is that when I read it I had no idea of how shitty that was. I think I just chuckled along. Maybe I thought his reaction was over-the-top, but I didn’t realise how completely dehumanising it must be to be a woman in that situation.
Now, of course, I realise. I realise that even if a guy could enjoy sex with me if he didn’t know I was trans, I suddenly become horrifically, traumatically unattractive as soon as he finds out. I can only assume that this is from some kind of radioactive mega-powered space cooties.
Yes, apparently my body traumatises people.