CUPIDEROS FEMINIST CHRONICLES 3
FEMINIST CHRONICLES SERIES
HOW TO FLY A MARSHMALLOW KITE?
Political Fiction Flash Stories
© Copyright Cupideros, Thursday, December 24, 2015
1,729 words



Description:
Bri “Brianee” Dinwiddle, former pushover for men and sex worker, is determined to keep her cool as she returns to college, studies for her Women’s Studies degree, but finds out that Zeta females and Alpha male winners in the battle of feminism end up lonely.



JUST OFF
A COLLEGE CAMPUS
ON THE STREET
NEAR THE COLLEGE BOOK STORE



In the quiet college bookstore at the gender studies section of books, on a peaceful day after class, sexy slim Bri Dinwiddle perused “How to Fly a Marshmallow Kite?” well aware a flyaway wisp of her cornstalk blonde hair dangled below, at her ears, and almost touched her pink blouse; however, she refused to pretty herself over it.  She felt confident.  Men will just have to get used to women in yoga pants and sweat shirts and messy hair.  She wore pink yoga pants, blouse and pink and white Nikes.  She turned the page.  In the same aisle, a mere half-inch sliver of space away in another bookshelf group at the gender studies section of books, started the men’s section where a handsome man searched, one book already in his hand.  He wore yellow and red checked shirt and tight Levi’s.

Bri noticed his furtive stares. 
He noticed hers, too. 

No mistaking their horrifying crimes remained between them; they were male and female attracted immensely to one another, for the affection of one another, or its equivalent powerful need–sex.

But, feminist Bri, former sex worker, had a rule: No picking up men or being picked up by men in a bookstore.  Bookstores sanctified the mind.  Men and bookstores mixed like white powdered chem lines in the sky fallen into water systems.  Toxic.  In her small slender white hand, she adjusted an earlier book picked from another section: The Samurai Book of Five Rings.  Turning it over and raising it to her snowy breasts, it would snugly fit inside her melon-sized tit black bra after buying it.  The mysterious hunk held a book for purchase, too: “Why Women Believe in Fairytales and How to use that against them.”

They synchronized.  His book choice was crap, she admitted. This was college.  Students often were forced to buy and read things they otherwise passed up.   But his male brain and her female brain exchanged pickup signals.  Bri slipped out the opposite side of the book aisle.  She repaired her wisp of cornstalk blonde hair, smoothing it back with its sisters and she headed to the checkout.

And in typical Alpha male fashion, at the height of time before the next classes started, the brown-haired man beat her to the checkout.  Bri countered, refusing to get in line.  She was a Zeta female.  She made the last moves.  She allowed herself to win.  She returned to the sex aisle.  "How to Master the Real Decision Makers: His Cock and Balls?“ looked like a good buy.  Probably the prime manual for Victoria Secret’s Models, but so what, Bri mused. 

Minutes later, signaled by the tinging of the bookstore’s bell, the door shut behind her.  Two books bought, Bri was pleased.   Between white pillow cushions left and right, The Book of Five Rings fit snug into her black bra.  She sighed and smiled. 

People walked up and down the dover-white colored sidewalks.  Happy people.  Or so it seemed, on Bri’s left a small lavender poster tacked to the wall read, Why are there no trees on campus?  A Liberal Feminist protest rally held at 2 p.m.  She walked on.  As she approached the Political Science building, a hot pink poster on a telephone pole read, Neoliberalism Symposium on "Why Each Blade of Grass is an Individual,” chaired by Margery Hatcher.  Held at 3:30 p.m. in Unity Hall. 

Bri double-checked the date, yesterday.  Unity’s unity.  Well neoliberalism continues to fail.  What was new?  She kept walking.  Acutely now, aware that as if in a western movie, as students scrambled for their classrooms, suddenly, all the sidewalks cleared except for one man walking toward her as they approached the Political Science building.  At least, the corny western pregunfight music did not played in the background.

Bri shrugged her shoulders.
When at once, the surprised bookstore beau still walking toward her said, “Class canceled, professor pregnant or some other female malady, flimsy, excuse.”

They had the entire sidewalk–uncomfortably–to themselves.  Whatever sexual or romantic tension they enjoyed before immediately resumed frying.  No excuses prevented them from chatting now. 

“I saw you in the men’s gender section.”
“Hi, I’m Jett Bliss.  Don’t tell anyone!  I was forced to take this class.  I’m in law enforcement.”
“I’m in Women’s Studies.”
“Didn’t they rename it Gender Studies to include men, too?”
Bri replied, “They’re trying to hide the classes from the female sex.  Wait, you mean, you don’t want to study about men?”
“Men’s only problem is women.”
“That’s because men cause men and women problems.”
“That’s exactly why I want to work in law enforcement.”

Bri was confused, but men did that, confused women before asking them out on a date.  She knew it was coming, and she’d have to friendzone him.  Because Rule Two was never make a date with a guy when he confuses you with drink, conversation, a joke or his package.  Her blue eyes drifted downward, briefly.  She hoped he didn’t notice.  They were the same height, kissing would be a snap and a click for them.
He was already in a wooden condition.

“You’re smart for a feminist.”
“Double-Talk.”
“I mean it.  You’re not politically stupid like a lot of feminist.”

He had a boyish appeal every girl loved–at first. 

“If you can be an Alpha male, I can be a Zeta female.”
“Zeta female?”
“Zeta females get the last word, action, and move in a relationship.”
He chuckled.  "Men get the first move, but women get the last move.“
Bri grinned, "Only the last move matters.  I used to be a pushover.  Let men run over me.  I ended up doing sex work–”
“Wow!  Sex work.  I’ve never met a smart whore before.”
“They’re all around you.”
“I suspected as much.”
“Men all around you, too, seek out those sex-working females.”
“Touché. Ouch!”  He shook his head as if their conversation headed straight for the nearby green garbage can.  "You don’t look that old.“
"I started younger than I wanted to,” Bri retorted, growing angrier by the second.

Another guy ran, leaped the few steps of the Political Science building and stopped beside Jett.  He wore a dull orange T-shirt.  "Scraping at the bottom of the feeding bowl, I see, Jet.  She’s not even your type; a sex worker, but that’s a nice sparkly 20s dress she is wearing.“
"Hey, Westin.”
“Former.”  Bri’s confusion returned.  She was not in a dress.  Stupid Westin caused her to double-check her clothes for a second.  Fucking Gas lighting male whore.
“Hey, Jett.”  The two men gently clashed their fist.  Slow and gentle, Westin extended his balled fist toward Bri.
“Do I know you?” Bri snapped, incredulous of his previous comment and overly familiar gesture assuming their friendship.
“See, Jett.  Stupid feminist.  If you did know me, Bri, it’d be embarrassing.”  He turned to Jett.  "Dude, she is reading that fairytale book “How to Fly a Marshmallow Kite?” that’s how I knew she was a sex worker.“

Bri tucked the book deeper inside her straw-shoulder bag.

"What’s the Marshmallow book about, Bri?”
“You wouldn’t understand.  It’s a feminist book.”
“Feminist like it, but former sex-workers carry it around in public with no shame.”
“Westin cut the name-calling.”
“I’m telling you, dude, political radar is totally absent in all feminist.  Once they decide to become women, separating themselves from us guys to work on their own problems–man–disaster–boom.”
“Now that sounds like a fairytale, Westin,” commented Bri.
“That was Jett’s line, Bri.”  Westin tugged on his dull-orange T-shirt.  "I thought better of you being in law enforcement and all.“
"I’m doing okay.  I just met, Bri.  Hey!” 
Westin snatched Jett’s purchased book.
“Why women Lie About Rape and Other Unreported Statistics?” nice buy, Jett.“ Westin nodded his blond-short conservative head, approving Jett’s buy.
"Required reading.”
“Should be.  I tell you feminist can’t even stay calm in an argument.  Also they just have no sense of how evil this damn world is.”  Westin started to leave. 
“Bullshit!” Bri heard herself shouting.  She regretted the action immediately.
“He’s only joking, Bri.  It’s a male thing to say provocative B.S. to people, especially women.”

Bri’s gut reacted.  Confusion.  And not only from Westin, but also from Jett.

Westin turned around, “Bri, Gatsby would love that glittery silver little hot dress you got on.  Nice and sweet!”
Bri exploded.  "What the Fuck are you talking about?  You sexist meatball and spaghetti dick!“  Her long blonde ponytail whipped around and over her shoulder, now hanging down past her melon titties.

Westin kept walking without turning back to acknowledge her.

Jett stared baffled at Bri. 
"He deserved it!”  Bri heard the blood rushing hot in her veins.  She fell into Westin’s trap and reacted just as he predicted.   On the other hand, she was no longer a pushover.  Defending herself was her right.
“I’m sorry, Bri.  I have to go.”
“I’ll see you in class.”
“If, I keep the class.”

Bri stood there suddenly alone.  And to make matters worse, she knew Jett felt lonely, too.  However, Jett refused to acknowledge the missed opportunity between them, while she did acknowledge the energy percolating before. 

Why was she such a sap for dick?  Cocks were plentiful.  She didn’t need to fixate on one.  Or was it her hidden woman nature driving her to sabotage herself in order to get pregnant and have a child?

What child?  Another Alpha male jerk bastard, bound in league to other Alpha men who abuse, subvert, and harm future women and girls, is that the child’s dad she wanted to mate with?  Being a lesbian was out of the question because she was heterosexual; besides that was a waif exit from the problem between males and females.  She was a strong Zeta female.  She’d stay heterosexual, stay in the fight for feminism.

She made the Zeta move, but her victory tasted empty, like a cake full of cotton candy covered by a thin baked outside layer of dough.  Bri looked into her beige straw-shoulder bag as she stood before the Political Science building, “How to Master the Real Decision Makers: His Cock and Balls?” and “How to Fly a Marshmallow Kite?”  As soon as possible, she had better finish reading them, and the palm size Book of Five Rings–that she looked forward to reading immensely.


–THE END–

#CUPIDEROS FEMINIST CHRONICLES 3
#FEMINIST CHRONICLES SERIES
#HOW TO FLY A MARSHMALLOW KITE?
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