Objectifying Women

Dagny adjusted her fifteen-inch Macbook pro screen to what she considered to be a more flattering angle before accepting her boyfriend, Hank’s incoming FaceTime call.

“Hey babe,” he scratched his hairy chest, “you look fucking sexy.”

“Aw thanks,” she purred, tilting her head playfully to the side.

“Unbutton your shirt for me babe. Let me see those amazing tits.”

Dagny frowned. “Aren’t you going to ask me about my day?”

“It’s just that you turn me on so much,” Hank explained, “babe I’m sorry. How was your day?”

“Jesus Christ, Hank! Don’t pretend like you care when I know you don’t. You’re like a walking boner. All you do is objectify me.”

“Babe don’t do this,” said Hank, putting on his best puppy-dog face, “you know I care deeply about you.”

“Yeah about my boobs,” Dagny scoffed, “would you even still be talking to me, if I didn’t possess breasts?”

“Aw of course I would,” said Hank, depressed by the dismal thought.

“What if I was in a horrible automobile accident and lost my legs?”

“I would still talk to you if you lost your legs,” he said after pausing a moment too long.

“Ok what if the damage was so bad, they had to amputate everything from my belly-button down?”

Hank cringed, horrified by the image of Dagny as just a torso, a mere stub of a human. No ass? No pussy?

“…As long as I get to look into those beautiful eyes.”

“What if,” said Dagny grinning maniacally, “in the accident my body caught on fire and all that they could salvage was my brain, which they placed in a vat?”

Hank blinked. “Well if you were just a brain in a vat, I couldn’t talk to you now could I? And you couldn’t hear me for that matter.”

“Ok, ok,” Dagny agreed, recognizing the inconsistency in her argument. “What if they were able to hook my brain up to sensors and a computer that could speak, allowing us to communicate? Would you bother?”

“Of course,” said Hank, his brow furrowed with thought, “but I’d have to—you know—find someone else to fuck.”

They both laughed.

“Babe give me a sec,” said Hank, standing up to reveal his pale belly and deplorable basketball shorts, “I need to take a piss.”

Listening to the familiar, comforting sound of Hank urinating, Dagny began to wonder if she would even be herself without her corporeal presence. Her mind was uglier than her exterior—her thoughts fleeting and deranged compared to her tangible tits—her soft and feminine figure.

Indeed if she were reduced to her consciousness she would be nothing but a question mark. She was no Stephen Hawking. She had nothing valuable to offer The World aside from her warm and fertile body.