Sisters of the revolution, please allow me to paint a picture of a fourth-wave feminist: She draws on a hot lip, hits the club with the her ladies, moves her body freely with the music, and farts on every single dick that grinds into her backside.
As the latest wave of feminism, our politics have evolved. We had the sister suffragettes on the picket line, Gloria Steinem wielding her pen, the riot grrrls of the 90s, but what I am suggesting today is the ultimate reclamation of body in a space that is unequivocally patriarchal. This is the next generation of feminism. This is dick-farting in the club.
We’ve all lived it: We roll up with our girls and these men, these boorish brutes, they grab at us as if it is their right, humping our bodies like we’re an erection-facilitating puppet. I’m crying out to you sisters, take back the night! I have taken back my sacred space, one juicy rip at a time.
Why must we sacrifice our femininity to take back our power? Why must we hide the natural functions of our beautiful female bodies? Our attempts at an unattainable level of beauty and basic courtesy are finished. Let your body live. Let it dance. And let yourself shart all over his dick if you have to because we are human beings! Our foremothers would have been proud to see us using our natural bodily functions to assert our place in the world. Live your truth! Because that nacho verde app we shared at happy hour was not playing games. AND NEITHER ARE WE.
So I ask you all to embrace the putrid mix of vodka tonic and “just hummus because you’re mostly drinking tonight.” Let it turn your stomach into the ultimate weapon—a mechanism of power that will leave him saying, “Did the bass just drop, or did that bitch just fart on my dick?” To which we will hold our heads high and scream proudly from the mountaintops. Yes. Yes. This bitch just farted. On yo’ dick!
The time is now. We will stand back no longer. We will dance. We will fart on dicks. And we will overcome.
