The feminists stood in a circle around Katie’s kitchen table. A lone pillar candle sat at its center; the candle’s flickering wick illuminated the feminists’ butterfaces. Birth control pills and a half dozen Diva Cups™ were arranged in the shape of a heart around the candle. It was pink and smelled of peonies, hemp, and Luna Bars.
“Hello, women,” Mikaela said kind of abrasively. Her hair was dyed blue and she wore a black T-shirt with the slogan THE FUTURE IS FEMALE printed across her average chest. “Welcome to the Feminist Meeting, where we talk about how much we hate men and figure out different ways to ruin their lives.”
“Yes, that is what we do at these meetings!” Xanthipe agreed, high-fiving some of the feminists around her. She was wearing a half-shirt that exposed not her mediocre breasts but her fat stomach cascading over her shorts. It was precisely the kind of a stomach that would kill a healthy, flattering erection.
Susan pinched Xanthipe’s stomach fat, smiled, and said, “I’m proud of you, Xanthipe.”
“I’m proud of you, too, Susan, whose name used to be Steve,” Xanthipe responded. Then they kissed on the lips.
“Wow, that’s so neat,” Mikaela said. “It’s so great that we can pick our own names and genders and make our bodies as gross as possible to men, even though we still need their sperm to procreate because that’s what God created us to do.”
“Stop!” a feminist screamed in that way women do when they’re just looking for attention. “I am triggered.”
Gasp, went the feminists.
“I am sorry that I triggered you,” Mikaela replied. “What word triggered you — men, sperm, or procreate?”
“Stop! Focus on me! I, too, was triggered,” Lena Dunham shouted from the back. “Mostly, I was triggered by the word ‘men,’ because oh, I hate them so. Also, I love having abortions.”
“Having an abortion feels so… GOOD!” three feminists chanted together in sing-song.
“Alright, alright!” Mikaela yelled playfully, scratching an itch on the collarbone above her breasts like a tease. “I know it’s great to have a vagina, because it protects us from being held accountable for our actions, but we are at a meeting. Shawna, why don’t you kick things off by shrieking about your week?”
“Thanks for that empowering introduction, Mikaela,” Shawna said in a look-at-me kind of way. “Well, today marks the third anniversary of me severing ties with my father after I found out he doesn’t donate all his money to Planned Parenthood. I celebrated by re-watching Amy Schumer’s The Leather Special and having an abortion. My favorite thing about being a feminist is ignoring facts, and my second favorite thing about being a feminist is making men buy me stuff even though I’m not going to have sex with them. This is my fight song, take back my life song, prove I’m alright song–”
“My power’s turned on!,” the feminists chanted in unison, completing the ceremonial reciting of Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song” chorus.
“That was nothing short of rousing, Shawna,” Mikaela said. “Now, Xatherine, tell us how you dismantled the patriarchy this week.”
“Gender is fluid and we’re all on a spectrum,” Xatherine said, and the feminists nodded solemnly. “I had a very productive week. On Thursday night, I wore The Outfit – you know, the one women wear when they want a man to flirt with them. Only, when a man finally did ask me for my number, I screeched in my shrillest voice and cut off his penis! Want to see?”
“Oh, do we!” the feminists squealed with delight.
Xatherine pulled out a bloodied paper sack from her purse. The feminists smiled widely.
“Incredible work, Xatherine,” Mikaela said. “One less penis means one less microaggression. I haven’t worn a bra in three years. Now, let’s move onto this week’s event calendar–”
“WAIT!” a tall feminist hissed from the back. “I have an announcement for the group and I won’t be minimized by you, Mikaela, just because you’re in a position of power!”
Mikaela shuddered and cupped her incredible honkers as a sign of solidarity. “I would never minimize you,” Mikaela said slowly, which really sent her vocal fry into overdrive. “Please, sister, make your announcement.”
“Thank you for calling me your sister, even though you and I are not related,” the tall feminist replied. “I’m menstruating and need a tampon. Specifically, I need a tampon for my vagina.”
As if their lives depended on it, the feminists wildly rummaged through their giant purses stuffed to the brim with Margaret Atwood novels. Voodoo dolls resembling the good guys flew in the air.
“Me! Me! I found a tampon!” Xanthipe said, and the rest of the feminists whooped and hollered and clapped for Xanthipe. “Now, I’m going to try and toss this tampon to you, but if you don’t catch it, we can try again!”
Xanthipe tossed the jumbo tampon to the tall feminist, who caught the tampon and immediately did what women do when they do the tampon thing — like, right there in the middle of the living room. The feminists burst into uproarious applause.
“Mikaela?” Susan said. “The more we work, the more I’m reminded of the wage gap and how it isn’t a myth. Can we just stop working and re-watch Amy Schumer’s The Leather Special?”
“You make a compelling argument, Susan,” Mikaela said in response to Susan. “Does anybody object to watching Amy Schumer’s The Leather Special?”
“Or…” Lena Dunham said playfully. “I could show you some deleted scenes from my HBO show, Girls, because it’s sexist if you don’t want to see me naked! I discovered Adam Driver before Star Wars. Men steal everything from women!”
“I’m with her!” the feminists said, laughing and hugging one another as Lena Dunham plucked the Blu-ray disc from her armpit hair. Soon, they were gathered around the television, the scent of chamomile tea and unwashed dreadlocks drifting through the room stuffed to the brim with smiling, aggressive feminists.
“With friends like these,” Xanthipe whispered to Xatherine, “you really don’t need a Plan B… get it?”
“As if!” Xatherine joshed, cupping her itty bitty titties in a sign of solidarity.