She pushed the chair against the wall. It was a sturdy armed chair; that’s why she preferred this motel. Then she helped him, still a bit groggy from the drink she’d doctored at the bar, from the doorway to the chair. Using zip ties—impossible to loosen, let alone break—she lashed his wrists to the arms, then his ankles to the legs.
When the sedative wore off, she put on the boxing gloves and started to hit him. First, a few jabs to his shoulders, to get his attention.
“What the—”
Then one to his stomach.
He struggled for lucidity. Then he struggled against the restraints.
She concentrated on his face. She broke his nose, one of his cheekbones, his jaw. He’d heal, but it would leave a mark. Not exactly a disfigurement, but people would be able to tell. He’d been beaten.
“Smile,” she said.
“Fuck you,” he drawled, then spit out a tooth.
She broke a few ribs. Then pummelled his shins. That hurt.
“Smile,” she said again.
At the beginning, he’d shouted. Then he’d screamed. Then he cried. Finally, he just moaned.
When she was done, she took off the gloves, bagged them, snipped the ties, then left.
She didn’t ask for his number.
She didn’t even know his name.
At first, the men who’d been beaten didn’t report it. They were embarrassed. Ashamed.
Then a few started doing so. But the police laughed at their claims. Dismissed them as cover-ups for intoxicated who-knows-what. S&M gone wrong or gang-related retaliation, they didn’t really care.
In a few cases, when the victim was actually believed, no charges were pressed. Because how could it be proved? Had the victim recorded it on his phone? Had a credible witness been present? (Besides, what had they been doing in a bar in the first place?)
And because even when the incident had been recorded—and posted online at one of the many websites dedicated to such things—Boys, Boys, Boys, Beaten; Another Dad Bites the Dust; Black Men and Blue; Knocked Out Dudes—the women got off.
“And did you believe he was consenting?” the woman’s lawyer asked. In a crowded court room.
“Well, yeah. A friend told me he was into this sort of thing.”
“And you believed her?”
“Sure.”
“It didn’t seem implausible?”
“Nah. You see it all the time. Men fighting, punching each other … They like it.”
“But that’s crazy!” the victim cried out with indignation. He’d intended to assert his objection by rising forcefully to his feet, but all he managed was a painful crouch. “Who would consent— To this?” He pointed to his face, still swollen and bruised.
The judged looked pointedly at the prosecutor, who nodded then gently pulled at the man. “Sit down and be quiet,” he hissed.
“But I said ‘Stop!’,” he protested. “I’m sure I did!” He met his assailant’s eyes.
She shrugged. “‘Stop’ means ‘Continue’. Your face said ‘Continue’. Your screams said ‘Continue’. Your moans— You enjoyed it! You know you did!”
“What sane man would have consented to what you did?” He stared at her in disbelief. “Let alone enjoy it?”
“For centuries,” the woman’s lawyer continued with her case, initiating a slide show on the projector screen, “men have enlisted in order to fight—”
“But this man isn’t a soldier,” the prosecutor interrupted.
“They have voluntarily entered the ring to be hit again and again—”
“But—”
“And every day we see movies and video games—a great number of movies and video games, all easily accessible—depicting men willingly engaging in physical fights.”
“That’s TV!” the prosecutor objected. “They’re actors! Acting! Real men don’t—”
“And although they often minimize their injuries, it’s clear they’re very proud of them. Win or lose, the men, and their injuries, are imbued with the heroic.”
“There is nothing heroic about this!” The prosecutor presented one of his own images, the victim’s chest, an ugly mess of purple and yellow.
“Regardless,” she continued, “as my learned counsel well knows, it’s the mens rea, the state of mind, of the accused that determines whether or not a crime has been committed here. She believes he consented. Perhaps with good reason, perhaps not. Either way, ergo, no crime was committed.”
And so the woman went free. As did the next woman. And the next. And the next. Not convicted of a crime, nor even of a tort: when damages were mentioned, lawyers pointed out that at least the defendant hadn’t left victim with a squalling infant to look after.
Worldwide, women went about beating up men. After all, that’s what men were for. Fighting. Being beaten up. Women took out their frustration, their anger, on men. Television and video games started showing women beating up men, started showing men enjoying being beaten up by women. It became common. It became normalized. One in four actual men were beaten. By women. Few reported it. What would be the point?
