A philosopher, a psychologist, and an extraterrestrial walk into a chocolate bar …. Jass Richards

about the grammar of what she’d just said, Spike considered the implication.

      “So better to just kill the woman than get a paternity test,” she said.

      Jane thought about that. Because it was way more interesting than grammar.

      “They want us to be sluts,” she said. “And then they kill us for being sluts.”

      4

      Half an hour later, they parked on a side street off Rue Saint-Denis and walked a couple of blocks to Sophie’s Croissant Café. Now they both really needed chocolate.

      “Women have no idea,” Spike said as they walked, already trying to figure out how the SlutWalk Moment of Truth had gone so wrong, “how much men fail to see them as anything but sexual.”

      Jane agreed. “Though, to be fair,” she said, “most men see themselves that way too. Physical strength, financial wealth”—she looked around her—“visible underwear—they’re all just proxies for sexual prowess.”

      “Wow,” Jane said as soon as they entered the café. Scattered throughout were a dozen little tables, all white marble and gold filigree, each with two little chairs just as ornate. Jane walked toward the first grouping, fascinated with the intricate detail. It was so … baroque. Spike drew her attention upward then, to the three chandeliers, all crystal and gold and somehow lace. Jane circled each one, absolutely amazed.

      They claimed a table, eventually, in the corner by the window. A bit private, a bit watch-Montreal-while-we’re-here.

      Jane struggled with her high school French to place their order. Two plain pain au chocolat, one for her, one for Spike, then another one, with chestnut cream, for her, and two cups of tea. She was perfectly aware that the waiter’s English was probably much better than her French, but she wanted to make the gesture. It was appreciated, judging by the smile playing in his eyes. Either that or she’d ordered a horse in a hat.

      “So,” Jane opened, “we really need to figure out what we think about SlutWalks.” They’d avoided the issue to date. Like many second-wavers, they’d assumed the young fun femme faction would become fringe, not mainstream, feminism.

      “Yeah,” Spike said.

      She waited until their tea and pain au chocolat was in front of them. And Jane had taken her first bite. No point in starting before then.

      “I blame Beyoncé,” she said. “Remember that one song she does, while behind her, projected on the backdrop, are quotes from—actually, I don’t know—”

      “Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.”

      Spike stared at her, surprised. Well, not really. But still. “How do you know this stuff?”

      Jane shrugged, and took another bite of her pain au chocolat.

      “Anyway, one of the quotes is something like ‘Girls are raised to see each other as competitors, not for jobs or accomplishments, but for the attention of men.’ And while it’s projected, Beyoncé struts across the stage clearly primped for the attention of men.”

      Jane nodded. “It’s like those ads for pick-up trucks, where the greenhouse-gas-emitting and fracking-motivating, hence ground­water-contaminating and land-destroying, truck drives through pristine forest over clear streams against blue skies.”

      Spike stared at her again. This time because she didn’t know what was more impressive about Jane’s statement, its content or its form. “Yeah. It’s like that. Exactly.”

      Jane grinned. Then continued. “There’s a complete disconnect. It’s as if Beyoncé is utterly oblivious to the contradiction between …”—she searched for the accurate pairing—“the medium and the message, no, the appearance and the reality, the action and the consequence—”

      “Or she is aware of it,” Spike suggested, “and she’s just using—whatever sells.”

      “Feminism sells?” News to her.

      “Superficially. The appeal to equality, power …”

      “Ah. Well, I suppose that’s encouraging …”

      “Or not. What’ll happen when Beyoncé’s fans discover that she was right about the end, but horribly mistaken about the means?”

      “Mistaken about the means or mistaken that there is a means? To that end.”

      “The latter.”

      They imagined liberal feminists becoming radical feminists. En masse.

      If only.

      Then, since Jane had finished her pain au chocolat—her first one—she beckoned to their waiter and ordered more tea.

      “I think we also have to blame Miley Cyrus,” she eventually said. “ ‘I like to have sex, so what?’ is not a particularly feminist message.”

      “Not because it’s pro-sex,” Spike added, “but because it’s not anti-patriarchy. It’s not anti-women’s subordination.”

      “Yeah, when did being pro-sex become feminist?”

      “I don’t know. But ‘The new feminist is in control of her sexuality!’ ” Spike mimicked one of the women who had been at the SlutWalk.

      “Well, that’s certainly better than not being in control of her sexuality,” Jane said. “And come to think of it, it follows rationally from having reproductive rights—access to Plan B, for example.”

      Spike nodded. “It’s exactly what we thought in the 60s and 70s when we got the Pill. As I tried to say. But—”

      “Maybe a lot of women have just overgeneralized the ‘choice’ part of feminism.”

      Spike agreed. “Simply put, not all choices are feminist.”

      “Exactly. I know it’s considered unfeminist to blame women, but we do have agency.”

      Again, Spike agreed. “We’re not children. Or idiots.”

      “Isn’t that redundant?”

      Spike narrowed her eyes at Jane. Whose choice not to have kids was surely one of her better ones.

      “And it’s unfeminist to believe otherwise,” Spike continued. “If we expect one group of men, the more mature—let’s just say—to speak out and take action against another, the rapists, then we ourselves should do the same. We should speak out against women who are complicit in our subordination. Who choose to be complicit in—”

      “But choice is complicated,” Jane protested. “That’s what makes consent, and coercion, complicated. The standard view is that consent is assent that’s capable—referring to cognitive capacity, informed—one understands the consequences, and voluntary. But to be voluntary, a decision would have to be totally free of pressure—physical, psychological, social, economic.”

      “So are you saying that true consent is impossible?”

      “Yes. At least sometimes.”

      Spike thought about that as she finished her pain au chocolat. “You might be right,” she eventually said. “At least with regard to sex. Just listening to the radio all day, which many people do, is like ingesting a constant-release aphrodisiac. Every song, every line of every song, is sung with a moan or a whimper—”

      Jane nodded. “Miley Cyrus has become the norm.”

      God help us. They stared at each other.

      “Okay, we need a moratorium on sex,” Spike said. “Until we stop that shit.”

      “We could bomb the radio stations. The recording studios. L.A.” Jane thought