It was my privilege

Strolling through college campus unaccompanied as I often do. Not worried about being harassed or raped because I am a man. See group of young ladies struggling to set up a folding table. Two strong women have extended the legs and are trying to flip the table upright. I approach them uninvited and say hello. One flees, triggered. “let me help with that girls” I easily flip the table upright with… my masculine strength. Now upright, I can see the sign taped to the table top. FEMINIST BAKESALE. I give a low-pitched chuckle with my testosterone privileged vocal cords. “So you girls have been busy in the kitchen, what did you bake?” One strong woman stands with a box to rest on the table. Her eyes are welled with tears at the oppression she is suffering. “C-cupcakes” – “I love cupcakes, let me see what you have there” I reach my phallic hand over and open the virginal box this poor woman is holding. My male gaze objectifies the cupcakes. “Oh those look good. How much?” Another strong woman speaks up, images of Susan B Anthony flash in her head. “They’re a dollar for men because of the corrupt patria–” I stop her short in a textbook case of verbal rape. “That sounds fine. Give me the whole box.” I pull out a capitalist paper bill with the image of a Cis White Male Slaveowner on it. The strong woman before me whimpers in psychic pain as I hand the bill to her, she has been reduced to a slave — nay — a commodity. “Thank you” she says meekly, feeling violated. I give a sensual grunt as I bite into one of the sweet, moist cupcakes. “Mmmm… It was my privilege.”

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