sexist observations on blue stockings

sexist observations on blue stockings

Whenever a bluestocking descants at length on the glories of democracy, I am focused on the glory beneath her saree or kameez or T-shirt.

What kind of lingerie must an emancipated woman like her get into? As she talks about transparency, I have another kind of transparency in mind. Nude in my head, she goes on and on about how we are all equal beneath. True, true! But some are surely more equal!

As she gets excited and uncrosses her thighs, my pulse races.

"We need deeper penetration of democracy!" she exclaims, red in the cheeks.

Deeper! Deeper! Absolutely, my beauty.

"Deepening and enlarging democracy, that's what it's all about," she raves.

Is she making a Freudian pass at me, I wonder wistfully. The ballot box with its tiny aperture becomes a metaphor – of democracy entering the sacred orifice, a bacchic rite, a Tantric orgy....

She keeps fisting her fingers, up and down, up and down...what a repressed female, I think to myself. Then she licks her lips, naturally devoid of lipstick (intellectuals don't wear lipstick, as you know). The layer of saliva gleams on her upper orifice, hinting at – o, so much!

Why does Plain Jane part her hair down the middle, and not visit a beauty parlour and get it done up nice like other women?

The parting so reminds me of the other parting! It is agony.

Then her face – utterly devoid of grace. Why can't she get a facial? I don't mean the kind of facial they get in lewd movies, of course.
Bluestockings wear as little as possible – they deplore the hijab and the niqab. Which is just fine by men folk like me: the fewer clothes women wear, the more happy are men.

As the poet observed:

"No beauty she doth miss
When all her robes are on
But Beauty's self she is
When all her robes are gone."

I then give my guest an ice cream cone, and she finally shuts up and sucks and licks on it deliciously.