Recently, another story played out in my life the way it always does. A man in the periphery who I assumed to be good, or at least neutral, and a story from a friend that proved otherwise.
Background reading here. Also, go look at the comments on Facebook, they're even better, and we don't bother deleting them! I think the white dude reaction to very gentle teasing about books I openly admit to owning as well speaks for itself, so I will not bother to add to it. I will say that I had not really meant to make much of a point about anything, just goofin' on the books dudes tend…
This novel is for John, without whom I would still be writing fantastical accounts of beasts, magick, and women allowed to smoke in public. This novel is for Friederich, who had access to a reputable publisher for male writers and, with the pomp of his cravat, saved my precious manuscript from becoming a worthless serial, installing it to proper jacketed status with a mostly self-explanatory title. To dear Roderick: you knew that vampiric fiction would…
One of the greatest aspects of ancient Greek civilization was the persistent belief that there was nothing women liked better to do than assemble a gang, air their tits out, and roam the countryside beating men to death. This was, sadly, a myth, but it did not stop generations of European painters from imagining what savage bands of female murderesses might have looked like. The Venn diagram of "female devotees of Dionysus who…
Liz Watson's previous work for The Toast can be found here.
There is no article of male clothing more maligned in contemporary online culture than the fedora. Once the favored hat of gangsters and sexy archaeologists, around 2011 the fedora came to be internet shorthand for a Certain Kind of Dude: a basement-dwelling, Cheeto-eater who loathes his contemporaries and seeks refuge in TV and video games. A guy who believes in the
Previously: Misandrist lullabies. "May men offer themselves to me -- to build with and to do with as I will. Relieve them of the bondage of self, that they may better do my will. Take away their personalities, that victory over them may bear witness to men I would help of my power, my love, and my way of life. May they do my will always."…
If it hasn’t happened to you yet, it will. He, and it will be a “he,” will attempt to catch your eye from the other side of the train. You will pointedly ignore him, concentrating even harder on the book in your hand, boring holes into the paper and yet not taking in a single written word. Time will pass, and then he will approach you. You will hear his shoes squeaking as
I thought it was hilarious at first when Mallory declared in a comment thread that it was her fitness goal to be able to pick up and lift a grown man over her head. Afterwards, I started noticing that other Toasties were declaring this in a tongue-in-cheek way, and I started thinking, “well, why not?” The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it wasn’t any more ridiculous or unlikely than any…
Say you’re this straight guy. You’re an artsy, liberal-minded type, employed in some capacity by the music industry. You live in Brooklyn. You have a beard. You get laid with relative regularity. You think you are very, very cool. On a summer Sunday night, you’re on a rooftop bar in Williamsburg, and you’re three gin and tonics deep. You’ve met up with a friend of yours from work and some of her friends. You are…
I. The Motorcycle Crash II. Eaten By Bear at Zoo III. Slowly Crushed By His Collection of Sweet Lids IV. Beaten to Death By a Loan Shark V. Infection From Tattoo He Got With Third Wife VI. Burned Alive During The Wicker Man-Style Ritual That Stars Hollow Performs Every Eighteen Years
Imagine with me, for a moment, the setting: The year is 1969. The Canadian Prime Minister is about to have an affair with Barbra Streisand; hair is long and flowing and is also a musical; and, one day in May, contraception, abortion, and homosexuality are all legalized at the exact same time. (Surprise! ‘Summer of 69’ actually could be about the year.)