She walked along the midnight beach, barefoot, floating and weaving in and out of the line where the water kisses the sand. The sky was dark and endless but the beach was illuminated by an unnatural sickly blue. The glow from some distant fluorescent radiation and the pollution of city lights bathed the sand in a cool ashy white blanket. The cold water on her skin sent chills through her body, goosebumps coming and going with every other step.
What was she doing out here so late, all alone, hair falling in her face in the night air? She looked up at the skyline and felt her heart sink in her chest like a dead weight as she admired the warm glow of the nearest skyscraper. What a marvel. That man can build and build and design such innovative structures. But for what? To house? To provide for? No. These glowing giants in the night do not serve families. They serve money. They serve bastions of egos. They are phallic symbols of man's desire to be recognized for their appearances with the extra pride of being utilitarian as well. Yet she is still in awe of them, regardless of her penis envy, regardless of her half-attempts at feminism.
Statik may do as she pleases, she may follow her whims, she may even be so bold as to say "tell me I can't and I'll show you I can", but she knows her place as a woman. Not that she's saying "there are just some things a woman can't do." It's more of accepting that there are some things a woman doesn't HAVE to do, or rather, why bother doing other than for the sake of proving to men that she can? It's not enough women give childbirth and bear the emotional brunt of catastrophes, family affairs and tragedies? Hospital visits, doctor visits, caring for the sick and wounded, wiping noses, sweeping floors, writing thank you cards, making homes warm and inviting, sheathing a hard working man's cock in the night so that everything is right in the world again....that's a tough job. Does she really have to open a jar of pickles alone? Does she really have to squish that bug? Does she really have to carry a briefcase and wear shoulder pads? Does she really have to refuse a man opening a door for her? Does she really have to wear a uniform and go to war? Must she give up the old ways of fainting spells and not finishing her plate?
The answer to these, Statik muses, is NO.
Being Politically Correct is Bullshit. Seriously, aside from equal wages and voting, the Feminist movement didn't do much for her than eliminate the 70's era kind of tolerance for boorish Man-Pigs.
It is a good thing she wore black tonight.
This way she can blend into the horizon as just another strange silhouette and be left alone. Leave me alone tonight.
As she walked on, the chunky buildings looming in front of her twinkled in their dull, fool's gold kind of way. Unimpressive and sparkling, the artificial lights establishing their nocturnal presence seemed such a waste, considering the center of the city was abandoned after 6pm most days and left as hollow beacons. Just another territorial marking on the face of the planet.
She looked down at the creeping waters, bored and restless. She tired of teasing the ocean with her bare skin and decided to head home. Perhaps tomorrow she would find a way to release her carnal yearnings. For now, she must go home, tie herself to the bedpost and bear the call of the sirens one more time.