Walk a Mile: How I Catfished a Dude to Understand Sexism


They always say to walk a mile in another man’s shoes to truly understand him. I never got this saying, namely because of its sexist implications by not using gender neutral pronouns. That being said, as a man I know that I am unable to understand the institutional and structural implications that women face daily. Frequently I am surprised by the varied and unique struggles of womanhood. For example, I learned yesterday that they bleed from their vaginas once a month. Like what the fuck? That’s some pretty fucked up and gross shit. If I bled from my penis more than once every two months (as I do now), I’d be pretty pissed off. Another example I recently learned: women are objectified. What the fuck people! That’s so messed up. I, on the other hand, try my best to level the playing field by womanifying objects. Wow, that lamp sure has maternal instincts. Boy oh boy, that couch sure has childbearing hips! In any case, I’m here to tell you the story about how I got to know what it’s truly like to be a woman. To do so, I spent 4 months catfishing a dude named Rob. It taught me to embrace my womanly instincts and to buy stock photos of a blonde girl from Iowa City.

It began, like all love/catfishing stories, on Tinder. I knew that Rob would be a good subject due to his presumably weak mental capacities. In all his photos, even the ones inside, he wore a hat. This brought me to the likely conclusion that his tiny brain resulted in an abnormally tiny skull which needed protection from the outside environment. In any case, I gave him a quick superlike so that he knew I meant business and totally wasn’t a bot. We matched, and he immediately fired me a message asking if if it hurt. I responded, to ensure he knew I was a real woman, asking if he was referring to the miracle of childbirth that only I, as a woman, could experience. He said no, called me an angel, and he was immediately on the hook. I slowly got him more and more invested in me. I gave him my phone number, began to tell him my deepest darkest secrets and fears relating to womanhood, and as we both fell in love with one another, I knew that sexism was alive and well.

Finally, months after we first met and our relationship blossomed, we were planning to meet. I was supposed to fly in from Iowa on his dime, but since I actually lived in Kingston, I was able to use his money on alcohol and an elaborate disguise. I aimed to become a younger, still alive, version of Mrs. Doubtfire. I’ll be honest, after my montage-esque transformation, I would definitely take myself out to a nice seafood dinner. But autoeroticism aside, I went to greet him immediately.

“What the fuck? You clearly are a dude! You have stubble and are wearing a thrift store Cinderella outfit!” He screamed at me, crying out in anguish at the love he knew he lost and would never find again. I cried too, knowing that my only love was gone as well. How could he assume I’m a man because of the fact that I was actually a dude. If that’s not sexism in action, I don’t know what sexism is.

I honestly may not know what sexism is guys, is it like when you have sex but at a really small level like an organism?