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FEMINISM AND THE OEDIPUS SYNDROME

I was born in the waters of a lake and hit my head on the stones as I came thrusting out of my mother's stomach. I was the first and last son. I never wondered if this had any impact on my life, even though today, when I see lakes, I am overwhelmed by a feeling of depravity, remembering my mother - not the stones. From then on I have to see her. It was like some kind of magic mushroom that made me spring up and now I have to find the way myself and whatever happens. Throughout my life I sucked from various breasts, but never from her own. I never missed mother. There were many women who I made them replace her completely. It was not love, it was exactly what I said: replacement. Did I exploit them? Perhaps. Did they want it? Probably not. That’s what we all do. This is love. To choose the most likely woman who will give you what you can not give to yourself. Love is an act of selfishness and I am its master. Or at least until I met Linda. A woman sweet and bitter, beautiful and foul.


We met at some feminist event. I used to go because I liked watching the angry faces in reddish female youngsters. It offered me some kind of pleasure. I'm not sure if my mother's issue played a role in it. All these filled-up with ideas youngsters, in a few years, will have grown together with their ideas that will remember and laugh nostalgically while drinking tea with their husband, cheating on him with a guy like me. It was a sunny morning just before spring and Linda was more beautiful than ever -of course I didn’t know how beautiful she was before this day-. She held a makeshift sign that read: ‘’THE FUTURE IS FEMALE’’.


I laughed, as she was too young to know that this slogan is from 70s feminists and not from the latest fashion collections that launch feminism as a new fabric from Paris. Yes, I know about fashion, ironic. Linda looked angry - with the world, with her father, with the men, I do not know - but this pretty little face was so exquisite that her anger felt like a delicious cigarette after a long meal. Short hair and dark circles under her eyes made her look like an impoverished French actress. I approached her and asked her if she was politically engaged, acting confident and with an indifferent style that I always knew it works.


- "No, I'm here because I like big crowds" she answered sarcastically without even looking at me. She was busy with the sign she held, which continued to fold in two because of the strong wind that had suddenly appeared.


- "I would not say that this gathering is crowded." It was a matter of 100 people around.


- "Can I help you with something or you’re just looking for conversation?"


Linda was a classic case of hard-faced girl just wanting the right treatment to take the kitty out of her. This finding, of course, was something that Linda would later defeat. I did not answer, and I took a few steps further, as I pretended to be reading a political booklet. I watched her with the edge of my eye shouting and jumping up and down, full of passion, while all I had in my mind was how her breasts would look like under her short t-shirt. The protest was finally over and Linda turned to me with her cheeks still reddish.


-"What are you doing here; You do not seem to be a feminist to me"


- "Do feminists have a specific face?" Linda lost it for a while and looked at me with hatred. Good cover for her defeat in the chat.

I continued:

- "My mother was a feminist. She hated men so much that when she saw she was giving birth to a boy, she just left me there and went to work with her poetry." I was not sure if she would understand the sarcastic nature of my humor but I gave her a chance.


"Your mother must have been a wise woman." Linda had no mercy. Continued:


- "Why did you look at me all the time? What did you expect would happen? "


- "Honestly speaking, I was thinking of how your breasts would look like under the short t-shirt." I took my risks. All or nothing.


"That's how they look like" she said, lifting her shirt up to her jaw, leaving her white, white breasts exposed to my eyes and the other hundred pairs of eyes around.

I stumbled, and then the incredible happened. Dozens of T-shirts were lifted up and uncovered pairs of breasts began to stare at me with no disgrace, making men parallelize, two cars crashing, a grandmother to drop her denture and the sun to change track. Young women between flushing, hatred and adrenaline coming from the unexpected, practical female solidarity, were screaming around me, bouncing and shouting slogans. The protest was quickly transformed into a boop soup and I was hungry. I was in paradise. If that's what Feminism is all about, then I'm definitely an eternal and loyal supporter.


- "Linda I love you." I told her in the most old fashioned way.


- "I don’t." she said and winked playfully at me.


It was a nice sunny morning.

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