I Don't Want To Convert You

I Don't Want to Convert You

Hello, darling.

It's true, I don't want to convert you away from feminism, at least... not *completely*. I *love* your inner feminist. She's so... *cute.* With her plump pouty lips, stamping her heels as she enters the room and places her delicate hands on those wide hips, so full of feminist fire and girl-boss brimstone. She's adorable. When I see your inner feminist rise to the surface it's not intimidating, it's *dreamy*. My salacious thoughts about what I'll do to you melt her fancy words into an unintelligible melody of silly, playful notes as she mouths off to her betters.

I don't want to convert your inner feminist, I want her to be my *witness*. I want her to *watch* you with a smug look on her face as you type me that first message to teach me the error of my ways. I want her to feel those little bubbles of doubt rise to the surface the more you converse with me, the deeper I pull you into the abyss. I want her to inhale that rich concoction of denial, hormones, indignity and lust as your body warms up in all the wrong places. I want her to stare in disbelief as your hand drifts away from your keyboard and sliiiiiides down your navel to rest under your panties in your favorite sweet spot.

And months later, your inner feminist–now chained up and starved of attention in some dark, long-forgotten chamber of your humiliation-addled mind–will beg and *plead* for you to, "Please! Please, stop *rewarding* him! He's *ruining* you!" as you giddily impale your face on the cock of the misogynist that broke you, abused you, and re-educated you. I want her crying, with as many tears running down her face as there is drool dripping off of yours.

I don't want to convert your inner feminist, I just want to play with her, to tease her, to *torture* her. I want you to be a ***good girl*** for me and drown her in your gushing, unbridled lust for the man who sees you as a sex toy, a housewife, a baby belly. I want her to attend the funeral of your pride and your self-worth. Let's face it, you didn't have that much to begin with. She will despise how easily you gave up the rights your predecessors fought so hard for, just to amuse me, to become my depraved plaything.

And darling, there's another reason I don't want to completely convert your inner feminist, the *darkest* reason of them all. It's because she's going to *help* me. You see, once you've been *enlightened*, you won't want to leave your friends behind. Leaving them in the cruel clutches of feminism, brainwashed by a shrill cult of victims and witches seems... mean, doesn't it? They were your friends, after all. So you'll help me *rescue* them, you'll be my little double-agent, my spy.

And whatever tattered shreds remain of your once-proud inner feminist, you'll exploit them. Her 'knowledge' and 'studies', her poisonous ideology, her catch phases and talking points, you'll mimic all of them to blend in seamlessly with the zealous feminist crowd, with your unenlightened coworkers and friends. You'll dust off that feminist vocabulary to navigate the matrix of foolish feminists and convert them. One by one, you'll lure the most vulnerable among them and feed them to the devil, so they can be just like you, a perfect gender traitor feeding innocent girls to men.

So don't worry, sweetie. You have nothing to fear. I am *safe* and *healthy* for you, because I *don't* want to convert you, at least... not *completely*.