The Red Light District: A Beacon of Feminism

Well hello Internet, what’s shakin’? It’s your man Seven, back with another one of those block-rockin’ blogs. This week, I turn to my softer side—or harder side, depending on how you look at it.

In our modern lexicon, a word that I’ve always loathed was “feminism,” both for its meaninglessness and its ludicrous hypocrisy. Meaningless because its very definition proves its irrelevance. “Equality between the sexes” has been achieved. There is literally nothing a man is permitted to do in the West that a woman is not permitted to do. The gender pay gap has been debunked, and in point of fact there are many facets of our culture that favor women over men. But of course, as we all know, feminism doesn’t mean equality. Feminism is about subjugating men as revenge for centuries of alleged male privilege, thus it is inherently hypocritical. Some men used to be mean to women, so now all men today must bow to the will of and take a backseat to all women, who demand that men prove they are doing their part to make up for the sins of their grandfathers. Well ladies, I’m here to proudly declare that I’m doing my part: I’m a whoremonger. And there’s nothing more feminist than the red-light district.

If women ever had the occasion to read this blog, I imagine some of them would disagree. “Girls in bikinis shaking their booties for the entertainment of male gawkers is sexist! You’re objectifying women!” On the contrary, the gogo is a bastion of free-market capitalism for women to redistribute the wealth of men directly to themselves through their own volition. The gogo allows women to circumvent higher education—they can succeed without paying exorbitant university fees and avoid an inherently sexist environment where women are underrepresented. It offers women who wouldn’t otherwise have one a chance at economic independence. And where else can a woman wield as much power over men? Simply by virtue of her wiles, she can separate a man from his money without complaint or protest. Where else are women appreciated and worshipped purely for being women? Nowhere. The gogo celebrates all attributes of femininity. It promotes those aspects of womankind that are uniquely female.

And what could be more feminist than an arena where a woman can say “Yes, I’ll have sex with you, but only if you pay me.” I mean, isn’t that the x-rated equivalent of saying “No, YOU make ME a sandwich”? The woman gets to decide whether or not it will happen. The woman sets the price. The woman controls the whole affair from soup to nuts. If that ain’t female empowerment, nothing is. And I didn’t come up with this idea. A popular feminist view of our day is that when a woman chooses to engage in sex for a reason other than procreation, she’s taking control of her vagina and using it for her own ends. In the gogo, a woman owns her sexuality. It is a tool, a weapon, a source of power, a means of production. It is female sexual liberation iconified.

In a gogo bar, the men are the least-important people in the room. Literally every female’s standing is above every male under that roof. The job of all the male staff in the gogo is to serve the needs and wants of the gogo dancers. Without those dancers, the male staff wouldn’t have a job to go to. If you were to tell customers, “The girls won’t be coming to work, but the bartenders and waiters will be here to serve you drinks,” not a single patron would enter. The women in the gogo give purpose to the men in the gogo. That’s feminism.

The first time I walked into a gogo, my feminist world view changed. Up to that point, I was a staunch anti-feminist, diametrically opposed to what seemed to be a war against men waged by enraged witches who hate males for being male. Then I saw the gogo. I sat down, with the glorious view of a platoon of powerful women. I felt small compared to that shimmering wave of female sexuality. Then a lovely young lass sat down next to me. The mere act of her attention disarmed me to the core. She put her hand on my hand, and I almost melted into the cracks between the cushions of my seat. She whispered in my ear and I unconsciously reached for my wallet. She asked me for a drink and I wanted to throw all my money in the air so it would rain down around her. If female empowerment was electricity, the gogos could light the city like they light up the darkest corners of my soul.

So to any woman who would accuse me or any other red-light hound of being a misogynist, or to anyone who would claim that whoremongers don’t respect women, let me just say…………fuck off. I lift up women with my hard-earned cash and my tired-out wang on a weekly basis. If they gave out medals for feminism, one should be hung round my sack. All six of the girls in my harem hold the cards. I merely present myself where and when they say, and give them whatever they ask for. You wanna see pure feminism in action? Catch Seven in the gogo. Mic drop.


And until next time, fellow feminists, keep your balls clean, you pint glass full, and cheers to another day in the most pro-female place on the planet: the red-light district. Peace!