She calls me on it

“Mr. Patterson!” I try to hide my grin as she splutters. “You shouldn't say things like that, Mr. P.” Too late I remember that she is taking a Womyn’s Studies course and that she has had almost two months of indoctrination by Dr. Lark. “From the very beginning of history, males have been putting down women by using condescending references to our appearance to diminish and subjugate us,” she rattles off a well-rehearsed spiel, “but this is the 21st century and it is time for a change.” I've heard this exact line before in a presentation made by the very same Dr. Lark and her crew as she led a workshop on gender equality at the high school where I taught. Don't get me wrong - for the most part I am a strong supporter of women's rights, and in this particular instance Alison was spot-on about my choice of language. I do however wish that the earnest acolytes of these classes used regular language instead of spouting out this man-hating drivel that circulates like stale water in a fountain.

“Hey Girl,” I interject before she gets to far into this recitation, “this is a no-judgement house remember? If your boyfriend is allowed to holler ‘Fuck’ at the top of his voice, I should be allowed to at least say ‘tush’ don’t you think?” It is a bit of a jerky thing to do, but by bringing up something she’s already embarrassed about I put her on the defensive.

“It’s not the word, Mr. P.” I can see her trying to find an argument that fits the circumstances, “it’s just not appropriate to talk about spanking like that. Not to someone who’s almost twenty.” It wasn’t exactly what I was thinking about when I said I’d take it out on her tush, but the mental image of this angelic cherub draped over my knees as I reddened her pretty little ass was pretty enticing.

“So you’re not objecting to being punished, just the nature of the discipline involved?” The color in Alison’s cheeks spreads to her ears and down her neck towards the valley between her breasts where her gold cross hangs, but she refuses to surrender without a fight.

“Yes, exactly!” She seems almost relieved that I put her back on the right track. “Men have been using the threat of physical **** to diminish and-”

“-subjugate womenkind since the start of the agricultural revolution and the rise of patriarchal religions.” I finish the sentence for her and am rewarded by seeing her expressive eyes widen as she hears me use the same language as her professor. “Except,” I go on thoughtfully, “I’m not sure that the repression of your sex necessarily started with the agriculture and the rise of cities.” I can see her listening in spite of her reservations about my attitude. “It is a cliché, Alison, but what about the stereotype about the caveman dragging his mate back to his cave, isn't that also **** against women?”

“Mr. P, please!” Alison is getting more and more bothered by my musings, and I wonder if it is the image of a caveman carrying off his mate that has her so flustered. It is an interesting idea, but I dismiss it with a shrug. I don't want to **** the poor girl, especially because she is correct about the inappropriateness of my behavior, so with a smile I send her on her way.

“OK, Ms. Miller,” I use the prefix deliberately, “you have studying to do, and I wanted to get some bread baked, so you can continue to reform this curmudgeonly old man some other time.”

“Oh I will, Mr. P,” she gushes as she collects her demo kit, “but I’ve got to make a bunch of calls first. I’m going to sell so many knives that you’ll never have to worry about your rent money again.” As she walks away I can’t help watching her ass sway in her tight shorts and feel a swelling in my pants yet again. ‘What the Hell am I doing?’ I exhale the words softly feeling almost like a teenager checking out the girls he is too shy to ask out.