For example, from these dark-room encounters, men attain a certain kind of ‘‘unexpected stimulation,’’ ‘‘fresh sentiments,’’ and so forth. Do they then become vigorous? They seem to, making some women think they have become a little too much for them. But they relapse. They’re absent-minded, drowsy, and muddled. Just when you’re about to come, he suddenly gets up to close the door, sings incessantly, curses people, and so forth. In any case, he relapses and makes a bad showing. A record of men’s sexual failures would make an extremely amusing book! There are also those serious men whose facial muscles are strained in the whole process as if it were torture. They’re sweaty as though about to faint. You can’t help but feel great sympathy, and so you forget about getting pleasure and just hope he feels at peace. You act like this, and yet you get nothing in return. As he is about to leave, he stands there heroically (this kind of man sometimes is very athletic), flings a scornful glance at you, and utters a ‘‘hunh’’ through his nose. He decides that you’re dysfunctional, while he is a defeated hero. Other men can’t hold up for even a couple of minutes before they’re paralyzed like a dead dog, but they don’t acknowledge defeat and keep pestering you. They want you to confirm that their couple of minutes were wonderful. In this pestering, they seem to have fabulous stamina. If they had the same in real action, that would be wonderful. Exhausted by hours of this, you have no choice but to tell him ‘‘you’re wonderful,’’ ‘‘it’s so great,’’ ‘‘you are every inch a man,’’ blah, blah, blah. Only then is he satisfied: he stands up and scampers out happily, leaving you alone and furious in the dark room. This is pretty much the same for all women. The upshot is that women get a raw deal and have to clear away the mess. They are tortured by hunger, too, and are uneasy both day and night. They are left with a good many illnesses that last a lifetime, as well as eternal regret. All serious, pure women die young. Yet, those men who are innately undeveloped can live a very long time. Women create everything and with difficulty sustain all of society. Men reap what they haven’t sown and still complain all day long. They say we hamper their careers and don’t let them achieve any satisfaction (as if they had big appetites). They’ve become so weak because of women. They claim we drag them down.
Let’s get back to Madam X. What kind of man can Mr. Q be? These two flirted with each other for a long time, yet actually hadn’t gone to bed until Madam X racked her brains to come up with a scheme. She dragged this good-for-nothing man into the granary, and only then did she get what she desired. Before that man entered the granary, he must have been irresolute and nervous. It’s eighty or ninety percent certain that Madam X kicked him so hard in the butt that he tumbled inside. He got up from the mud, covered in dirt like a drowned mouse. What kind of initiative could he have taken? He was so alarmed that he couldn’t figure out what was happening. It’s likely that he simply sat on the ground and wailed. Can you expect him to be the one who took the initiative? If Madam X hadn’t done her best to comfort him, and hadn’t changed her ploy and teased him, he would have wanted to escape from the granary! From the beginning he undoubtedly had the idea of escaping. He wasn’t thinking of actually doing this thing. The one who was thinking of doing it was Madam X. Someone may ask: Why did he go to the granary? Did he not want to, did Madam X force him? I can answer: on the way to the granary, he was harboring an illusion-he thought he was going there to observe his beloved’s eyes! Hadn’t he always been greatly interested in the light in the eyes? When Madam X asked him to go, he was overjoyed. We can imagine that he dribbled the ball as he ran. He thought it was a great opportunity to study the interesting subject in detail. He would never have dreamed that as soon as they went in, Madam X would close her eyes. What she wanted to do was the real thing. In fact, the so-called wavy light in Madam X’s eyes was merely an artifice. She first deployed this trick to disarm him and then arranged everything to her heart’s desire. This wasn’t her invention. It had been around since ancient times, and Madam X was merely very practiced at performing it. As Mr. Q was walking behind her, dizzy from thinking about the wavy light, the clouds, and the butterflies, they reached the granary and he was kicked in the butt and fell. This was a good kick, very educational. He was kicked back to reality and began to fulfill a male’s responsibilities. Weeping and wailing were useless, as was any thought of escape. He was in Madam X’s clutches: did he dare not perform? So, he did. No matter how, it was done: this was acknowledged at our meeting in the dark room.
How unfair this world is to women! What is there that we don’t have to plan, work hard on, and initiate, and what do we get for our efforts? Nothing! In sex, we women take the initiative, but it’s the men who reap the pleasure. What a mockery! No matter how hard we try, the world always jokes with us and ridicules our desires. Men are not only poor in bed, but unfortunately they also command public opinion and never acknowledge that they are good-for-nothings. Each one says he’s a hero and boasts everywhere that he’s made it with lots and lots of women and in one night can perform many times in a row. They thrust out their chests as they walk down the street with their heads high, singing martial songs in loud voices. They leave us crestfallen. Really, anywhere except in bed, they dominate the world and lord it over us. They also say that their careers demand this, and tolerate no opposition. They all talk in a decisive tone. This is sick! It doesn’t add up! Since ancient times, women have acquiesced in this. It’s really miraculous.
Why do we accept it? Because we’re lazy. When men manipulate the world, our eyes remain half closed. We’re too lazy to reflect, but just happily parrot men’s words. We do so simply to please men, and thereby make things easy for ourselves. Sometimes men really go too far and smear us, even lying about things in the bedroom. We feel wronged and become furious all over again. We want to fight back, but our brains are so rusty that we can’t think of any words sharp enough. I’ve lain in the dark so many times thinking of our sorry condition. I’ve wanted to cry my eyes out and rid myself of my depression. Sometimes I jump out of bed, intending to wake my husband to interrogate him. I never succeed. After being satisfied, the man immediately falls asleep, dead to the world. There’s no way to wake him. By daybreak, he has long since forgotten what happened the night before. He insists he performed like a hero. As he talks, his saliva runs out his mouth and his eyes are bright. Even if we say that it was Madam X who made the first move, so what? I want something more substantial than this kind of victory, which merely follows an ancient convention. The convention harms us, making us satisfied with present circumstances, and we overrate ourselves. So I say that we must not consider the question of initiative or victory. I loathe this initiative. It harms us and probably we’ll never be able to get over it. We can’t extricate ourselves from the mire, and yet we’re still complacent and proud. As it happens, men are quite the opposite. When women are foolishly intoxicated, men figure out ways to strengthen this psychology; they understand profoundly that this is a kind of anesthetic that benefits them greatly. On suitable occasions, they sing our praises-‘‘mother,’’ ‘‘goddess,’’ and so forth-but they’re quietly laughing their heads off. And so, after being praised like this, our foolish sisters redouble their efforts to curry favor at night and take even more initiative. They take care of these good-for- nothings as if taking care of infants, doing all kinds of things that make people blush. The women are confused and don’t even know whether they’re satisfied or not.