Submit. Submit. Submit.

If women were built to submit, it wouldn’t feel like being asked to cram my fully grown female body into a tiny teacup. American men wouldn’t be flaying women alive one slice at a time until the maternal mortality rate is worse than that of Turkey. They wouldn’t have to get their pet psychiatrists and investment bros and pastors to go on podcasts to tell women only they can solve men’s problems with what’s in between their legs. They wouldn’t have to give women cutesy titles that say, “Wouldn’t it be easier if you spent all day cooking and popping out children without a thought in your head?” They wouldn’t be stripping us with publicly available AI tools. Forcing us to lie down. Spread wide. Submit. Submit. Submit. It wouldn’t feel like furious hands pressing against soft skin, leaving a trail of bruises.

J.S. Douglas is a speculative fiction author living in the Pacific Northwest.