If You Date a Girl, Make Sure She’s Not a Feminist

Coffee cup

Coffee cup (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Lakeidra Chavis

If you date a girl, make sure she’s not a feminist.

Meet her at a whatsitsname rock concert. Afterward, find someplace, any place, and have sex. Don’t call her the next day. Call her the following week. Go on a few coffee dates. Nervously reveal to her how you didn’t really like the band. In fact, you actually hate them. Go on more coffee dates. Fall in love with her fondness of vanilla soy lattes with extra cream and no sugar. Don’t question her unrealistic and strange coffee habits. Stop going on coffee dates.

Make love to her, fuck her and have sex with her in all of the other ways people describe having sex. Sleep over at her house. Lie in her bed restlessly, pondering the enigmatic meaning of life. Tell her how you think of all feminists are butch lesbians. Fall in love with her laugh.

Tell her she’s beautiful. Tell her that her body is amazing. Tell her that her eyes shine like diamonds. Fall in love with her flattery. Fall in love with her eager acceptance of your lazy and cliche compliments. Fall in love with her contentedness.


Take the next logical step in this story, and get married. Have seven kids. Make more money than she does. Come home from work late and eat home cooked meals.

On your death bed lie in a wasteland of painkillers and regret. Look back drearily on your mediocre and non-challenging life. In the moments before your last breath, think about what your life could have been.

Meet her at a Coldplay concert. Use a cheesy pick up line to sleep with her. Stand there pretending to be interested and half-heartedly concerned as she rants about the objectification of women. Apologize. Ask her for her number. Don’t call her the next day. Call her the following week.

Go on a few coffee dates. Fall in love with her fondness of vanilla soy lattes with extra cream and no sugar. Question her unrealistic and strange coffee habits. Stare in shock as she tells you she doesn’t give a fuck. Go on more coffee dates.

Listen to her talk about the war on women. Pretend you know about the war on women. Ask her why she’s such a feminist. Regret asking. Buy her flowers and tell her she’s beautiful. Realize that that’s not good enough.

Buy her a copy of Ray Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man from a used bookstore. Tell her she’s intelligent. Fall in love with her smile.

Go to the movies. Go the river. Go anywhere and go everywhere. Fall in love with her sporadicalness.

Go on more coffee dates.

Lie in her bed entranced by her vocal pondering on the meaning of life and human rights. When she’s finished, tell her how you think all feminists are butch lesbians. Get into your first argument. Lose…miserably. Fall in love with her boldness.

Fall in love with her. Be illogical and let romance cloud your thoughts. Marry her. Raise three kids and stress over the fact that both of you work late. Tiredly make home cooked meals with her. Fall in love with your partnership.

Talk about her love of women. Fall in love with women. Become a feminist. Fall in love with feminism.

Die young. On your deathbed lie in content and fondness. Remember all of the details of your last and enduring romance from all of the moments she wouldn’t shut up talking about them.

Tell your three kids, who are now young boys, about dating girls. Tell them to never date a feminist.

They’ll save a lot of money on coffee.

3 Responses to “If You Date a Girl, Make Sure She’s Not a Feminist”
  1. Anon says:

    There is a porch overlooking a flat yard strewn with a single weeping willow, hovering far off in a corner of the property, leaving the view of the road and driveway completely unobstructed. At the end of the porch is a floral cushioned wicker swing that hangs too close to the painted railing and bumps into it when it’s rocked too hard. A shiny black motorcycle sits in the driveway near a basketball hoop, half whiskey barrels filled with drinking water for dogs dot the flowerbeds, and a pool waits in the back to jump into when they overheat. A few tennis balls litter the yard, and a small dead patch of grass holds hands with the concrete path from the driveway to the porch. Before this; a black Indian Chief cruising down R-3 at sixty, right lane, wearing sneakers, jeans with a Zippo in the right pocket, and a bleached cotton tee blowing in the wind with a pack of menthol’s tucked in the left sleeve. Low hanging tree branches along a back road rattling and blowing in a merciful summer breeze. Before this, a few flights, a handful of years and a maw of bad decisions. And before this; innocence and youth. A party with black lights and loud music with every unknown dream and failure, dressed in complete chromatic from loose blue, to skinny blue, to heavy frilled black and everything in between, dancing, grinding and running, but mostly standing awkwardly in the background making excuses to run a finger along the fabric of a collared shirt or a homecoming dress, or finding enough courage to wrap two hands around an unshaven neck or a soft waist.

    The sun, sitting low in the sky, falls gently on her face and reflects in her brown eyes that are staring at me, glazed over and dilated. Beyond her is her yard that stretches out like a blanket and softly rests in a beautiful, sharp green hue. I feel the sun run its fingers over my shoulders and down my back, my arms and my calves. The asphalt in the road at the end of her driveway is worn to a dull grey, but the tar below me is satin and black and reflects my face when I look down. The heat radiates off of it and sticks to the rubber soles of my sneakers and to the tires of my Chief like a malevolent omen. It sticks to the white flip flops on her feet and the charm bracelet dangling from her wrist like a frozen pendulum, fixed in time, marking the singularity of this moment. Marking that time did not exist before this and no moment will exist beyond it. I feel like I could fragment in this moment forever, not so much that the girl standing in front of me looks very beautiful, but that she is beautiful because her heart is in the right place. However, her arms are too short and her legs are too slow to catch it from falling into a cage of invisible bars crafted from her own self affliction. She is dreaming right now; she doesn’t know where she is or even who she is. She is as much as me as I am, for all I know, but she doesn’t realize in her dream that once I drop into gear and speed away from this picturesque neighborhood and its salubrious neighbors, and ride alone into the night, burning gasoline and cigarettes at both ends, this moment will have never of existed.

    I really like your writing; you should post more of it. Also, congrats on the EIC appointment.

  2. 1.) Who are you?
    2.) How do you know about that?
    3.) Holy cow, your writing is really good!! Like, it’s better than my post! Which is why I was slighty jealous and hesistant about publishing your comment–which is literally a novel. It’s very poetic and the way it flows makes me think you have a knack for writing. Create a blog cause your writing is seriously amazing!!!
    4.) Also, I will find out who you are eventually

  3. Joe America says:

    “If You Date a Girl, Make Sure She’s Not a Feminist”
    This is very good advice more so than ever. This is because many women now avoid this label like the plague, It is widely looked down upon by guys, totally the opposite of what is portrayed in mainstream media. Most women are well aware of this. So the ones that claim they are involved in feminism actually buy into all the man hating philosophy This pretty much dooms any chance of a successful relationship

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