Logging onto any social media site lately has been emetic for any woman, with the unfortunate overdose of #MeToo on our news feed. Sexuality is supposed to be private, and if it is selfish to say, so be it, your trauma is private as well. As a self made woman, who has never felt the need to cry about being sexually assaulted or even experienced any actual assault from the men in my life, it is encouraging watching people that I know, mustering the courage of sharing their trauma, although the cynic might question how many of these incidents are actually true. Women, just like men, lie, a lot, and sometimes the easiest way to score up in a victimhood Olympics, is to claim to be a victim.

 

Don’t believe me? Here. And here. And here. And here. And bloody HERE.

 

But the question that bothered me was something different. As I dug deeper into some of these stories (and I would like to emphasise the word ‘some’) I felt a little uncomfortable with the scenarios and experiences these women were calling “assault”. Take the Sam Kriss story, the left-wing journalist and male feminist, who was accused by a fellow journalist he was dating of sexual assault and instantly his career was over. It is a special time for right wingers. Harvey Weinstein was a Hillary Clinton guy and major donor to the Democrats. In UK, Clive Lewis, Labour MP mockingly called a man a bitch, or as some transgender activists would say, a dog born with female sexual organs. Lately, another Labour MP, Jared O’Mara was done with, for some idiotic forum comments from a decade back.

It’s understandable why people get more angry at others, who claim sainthood and then fail to live through those ideals. Proud sinners, are well, proud sinners. But these careerist lads, of course grovelingly apologised, and were instantly hanged, drawn and quartered by a online lynch mob.

 

But then I read the details of the Sam Kriss story, in Cathy Young’s article. So, kissing on the way to a bus, after a night of binge drinking, is sexual assault? Who knew!

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