I consider myself to be a feminist. I’ve been called a traitor to my gender by dipshit “men’s rights activists.” I have written thousands of words about how I don’t match up with the traditional concept of masculinity. But even I think Andy Hinds’s Slate article is ridiculous:
I’m a stay-at-home dad to twin 4-year-old girls who are already smarter than me, and my wife is a brilliant doctor who kicks ass and saves lives every day. I grew up with big sisters and a mom whose authority was unbreachable. I celebrate every inroad that women make into business, technology, science, politics, comedy, you name it, and I get angry about “slut-shaming” or “stereotype threat” or whatever is the affront du jour. And yet, in the caveman recesses of my imagination, I objectify women in ways that make Hooters look like a breakout session at a NOW conference.
But he doesn’t entirely lose me until he goes here:
Like road rage, ogling, while momentarily satisfying, actually consumes energy and attention, and ultimately makes the task of driving more difficult. When I interact with the staff at the kids’ school, and later the female cashiers and shoppers at the grocery store, again it’s a bit of a relief to make myself focus on their faces. Instead of undressing them with my eyes, I’m cloaking them in imaginary burqas. It seems like I shouldn’t have to do this, and that it’s not the “right” solution, but it’s working, and it’s less draining than catching myself furtively checking out the parts that are—forgive me—on display, and then creep-shaming myself.
Jesus Christ. Look. Sexual politics are obviously really weird. And there are some harmful sexual fantasies that must be curbed. But this is ridiculous. We’re animals. We can’t always control what our brains do. What makes us human is how we react to those impulses. Leering, creepily lurking, or any of the more overt ways some men respond to an attractive person on the street are obviously not okay. But fantasies and daydreams and appreciation of beauty are an everyday—and often highly enjoyable—part of being a human. I hope Hinds is exaggerating in this piece, because it reads like parody.