By Lainie Speiser

If you’ve been reading these columns of mine, and thanks for that, I’m sure you get the picture that I’m a strong, independent, politically incorrect, loud-mouthed woman who is unmistakably feminist. I even got a present from my client, Alia Janine the porn star turned stand-up comedian and host of the “Whormones and Impeccable Taste” podcast, a silver bracelet that says, “Feminist as Fuck.” I wear it proudly, and when certain people accuse me of being a misogynist or an exploiter of women, I just raise my wrist. Bam, bitch, I’m Feminist as Fuck.

I don’t just talk the talk; I walk the walk. I am self-made, self-paid, nobody has made my life possible but Mr. and Mrs. Speiser who made me (and loaned me money from time to time). I’ve paid the check on just as many dates as have been paid for me; I chose to be alone most of my life until I met the right man late in life, and I have just as many male friends as I have female friends (and only a quarter of those male friends are gay). I’ve earned everything I have because of my abilities, drive and personality, and if my huge boobs and sexy eyes happen to make having me around a little nicer, that’s okay by me too.

But I like to feel like a woman no matter what I’m doing, and nothing makes me feel more like a woman than serving my man. I was raised by a woman who ruled our home with an iron fist, but there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for my dad, and that’s why they are still married. Because looks are fleeting, but making your man feel like your hero is forever. If my husband comes home from work at midnight, I got dinner waiting for him, and I’m dolled up and happy to see him. Even before I met my husband, I loved playing the part of sexy hostess and always remembered the favorite beer or food of whoever I was seeing. I’d have the music I knew he’d like on the stereo and if he liked me in thong underwear, then butt floss it was. That’s why nobody but my first boyfriend ever cheated on me because I was nice and giving, and if this was no longer working for them, they were respectful and just told me. The average man does actually respond to consistently sweet behavior. Like dogs, they always remember their mistress.

When I was getting married, I took it upon myself to do pretty much everything except pay for most of it. As I stayed up until 2 a.m. licking envelopes of our wedding invitations, David would get up to use the bathroom and say, “Do you want my help with anything of this?” He probably didn’t really mean it, but the idea of David pitching in was not a good one to me. “No, this is women’s work, leave me alone.” And I meant that, because if there was anything done wrong, anything that got left behind, I’d just end up yelling at him, and really it would be my fault. Men are good at doing taxes, fixing the running toilet and killing vermin. That’s what I need in my life.

No matter how many times David tried to get me to do things like change the light bulbs or speak to a contractor, it’s an epic fail. I have a huge fear of falling; I don’t understand what a good estimate is for getting new windows, and it’s all just a boring, anxiety-filled waste of time for me. I can’t read a map, I can barely add, subtract and multiply and I only watch sports on TV with him because we make out during the commercials and I like making the snacks.

“Daddy, something’s wrong with the Roku! Can you come home early and fix it?” is a typical helpless demand of mine. “I’m in the middle of something, can you try to figure it out? Did you check the internet connection?” David will ask, knowing what I’m going to say next. “Yeah, I don’t know what’s going on can you just do it? I’m getting stressed out. I’m getting a headache and the sweats!” I exclaim in a voice three octaves higher than how I usually sound. “You know I only do these things for you because you suck dick so good,” he always says, giving in. “That’s all I know how to do, suck your dick. Now get over here right now, I have Craig and Johnny coming over to see the Absolutely Fabulous movie.”

Ladies, there’s nothing wrong with using your sexual wiles to get chores done around the house. I used to date a pilot who loved coming over to fix everything naked while I wore nothing but an apron and high heels, ordering him around while drinking dirty martinis and smoking cigarettes. I know a real feminist may want to put together Ikea furniture by herself— my sister the housewife is a master at that— but it feels like a waste of my time because it will take me hours to do when I can make a man feel useful by having him do it for me.

Another thing I learned from my mother is to give a man space. When my dad left for work every day and said goodbye to her, that was the last time they would talk until he got back home. She had his work number, but never felt like calling him. If us kids were acting like idiots I never heard, “Wait till your father gets home!”. She didn’t want to bother him with these things; it wasn’t in their unwritten love and marriage contract. If they spoke at all during the day it was only my father to tell her he was working overtime and what hour he would be home. That was it. She didn’t wonder if he was telling the truth or not; she wasn’t suspicious of anything he said or did. My mother knew my father was scared to death of her and was secure that his fear would keep him on the straight and narrow. When the relationship is good, you can let time and space hang between you, and everything is fine.

A feminist doesn’t text her date an hour after they’ve said goodbye. A feminist encourages their man to have a life outside of her, so they can have other things to talk about. A feminist appreciates her own time away from her relationship to be the best person she can be.

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