Pegging Is Political

"What do you think?" Hannah asks.

I carefully close volume one of Ninja Priestess Ymelia and lay the two-hundred-page graphic novel down on the coffee shop table.

"Oh boy!" I say. "How do I meaningfully critique this without coming across as some basement-dwelling incel frothing at the mouth."

"Just be honest," she replies.

I chose my words carefully. "I think the author has a very specific worldview and that worldview shines through on every page."

"Yeah, it's not exactly subtle," replies Hannah. "But it's fun and out there! What do you think of the art?"

What I want to say is that if I had a ten-year-old daughter, and if she came home from art class with some of the panels in this volume, I'd been seriously conflicted about whether they were going on the fridge or not. At the very least I'd maybe hide her crayons until she has developed even just the vaguest notion of how colour works. "You're better," I say.

"I don't know," says Hannah. "She's got her own style. She's very distinctive. It's like punk impressionism."

"Hmm," I say.

Hannah picks up the book from the table. "Well, the bottom line is that, whatever you think of this, she has a publishing deal and she's local. It's a great chance to make some connections and find someone to bounce some ideas off."

"Yeah, more power to..." I stop as I'm a hundred percent certain that the person we're waiting for has just walked in.

Sometimes you form a mental image of a person you've never met before, just from their art, writing, music, or even just the way they express themselves online. Nine times out of ten you're completely off the mark. But the tenth is always a doozy.

She has short, spiky hair dyed the colour of mold, a ring through her nose, and four through each ear. She's wearing ripped jeans, has a sparkly belt with the word 'bitch' on it, and a T-Shirt bearing the legend 'Pegging is Political.' It's unclear whether fat is political or merely hormonal, but even just one more X on the T-shirt size would surely be way more flattering on her. She has short sleeves and has tattoos all the way down to her wrists. I spot Ninja Priestess Ymelia in there at least twice. How to put this? I wouldn't hang her arms on my fridge either.

The bottom line is that she's clearly showing that she doesn't believe in patriarchal standards of heteronormative attractiveness and, by God, those standards clearly don't believe in her either. I feel like I'm a sexist pig just from my reaction, but, equally, I'm pretty sure that if I told her I found her completely minging, she'd curtly reply that that was the whole point.

She walks into the middle of the room, spots the comic, and comes straight over. "Hannah?" she asks.

Hannah gives her a squealing embrace as if they're old friends. "Wren," she says. "Good to finally meet you in person. I like your T-shirt."

"Well it puts the fear of God into them, doesn't it?" Wren laughs.

Wren's actual name is Brenda Ross and, in fairness, I can't blame her for changing it. Nevertheless, I'm also pretty sure I'm going to be subconsciously avoiding saying her annoying new moniker as much as possible.

"This is Ben, my fiancee," Hannah says indicating me.

"Yeah, hi," she says. We shake hands stiffly.

"Can I get you anything?" asks Hannah, a tad too ingratiatingly for my liking.

"An extra large Cinnamon Dolce Latte would be good," says Wren.

I'm completely devoted to helping Hannah's career take off. I decide that the best way to help in this instance is by not being here to say the wrong thing. Or the right thing in a weary put upon tone of voice.

"Right, it was lovely to meet you, but I'm going to leave you two to it."

"Already?" says Wren.

"Yeah, I'm going to get the weekly shop in while you talk art," I say confident that even the worst kind of feminist, and I'm already fairly positive that she is the absolute worst kind, could hardly object to this.

"Call me when you're about done," I tell Hannah. "Oh, do we need butter or not?"

"Think we're okay." Hannah leans over and gives me a kiss. "Later."

The truth is a shop will only take me twenty minutes, what with neither Hannah nor I being particularly culinary. I stop off at the game store and get a couple of RPGs and a RTS in a three-for-twenty quid deal. Then I get an all-day breakfast from the Sainsbury's cafe and kill time on my phone. Only about an hour and a half in do I actually grab a trolley. Even so I end up sitting in the car waiting.

Finally, when I've had enough, I make the call.

"Hi," says Hannah. "Oh, hey, is that the time? Sorry, had no idea. Have you been waiting long?"

"It's no problem," I say. "But the ice cream is melting, so either we go together in the next fifteen minutes or so, or I run everything back and come and collect you in an hour."

Hannah hesitates for a moment. The phone goes muffled and I hear her discussing with Wren. When she comes back she says, "Okay, we'll call it a day. Do you want me to come up to the multi-storey?"

"Nah, wait outside and I'll pull over."

Hannah's on her own when I get there, but as we drive off we pass Wren walking back into town hand in hand with some awkward lanky bloke. I'm not judging. He looks like he'd have fit right into my old Dungeons and Dragons group.

"That's Dave," Hannah says by way of explanation. "He dropped by for the last hour."

"I see," I say. I find myself wondering what Dave's political stance on pegging is. "And was it a productive session?"

"Well we didn't really discuss art," says Hannah. "The conversation didn't go that way and I didn't want to appear pushy."

"So what did you discuss?" I very carefully avoid saying 'for two and a half hours'.

"You know...stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Girl stuff."

"Girl stuff?"

"Well, okay, fourth wave non-exclusionary radical feminism."

"Oh, right, girl stuff," I say.

"See, I knew you'd be like this!" she says.

"Like what?" I ask.

"You don't like her, do you?" she says.

"I don't know her," I say factually. "That's okay. There's no requirement that we like each other's friends. You don't like Gordy."

"Yeah, but I've known Gordy eight years now. He's had umpteen chances. You took one look at her T-shirt and scarpered."

"I did not," I say. "I just didn't want to be a third wheel."

"That's why she wears it, you know. She says it separates the men from the boys."

"It certainly separates the men from something." I realize immediately that I've put my foot in it. Hannah is looking at me properly cross now.

"Sorry, that came out wrong," I say. "All I'm saying is that you've known her a couple of hours, and already we're arguing, and I'm damned if I know why. So, no, I doubt she's going to become my favourite person any time soon."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's a month later. I drop by our office room to see what Hannah's up to.

"What do you think?" she asks, wheeling her chair back so I can get a proper look at her artwork.

"It's crap," I say. I promised Hannah always to be completely honest with her about her work. It's not normally a problem because I don't normally dislike her work anywhere near as much as this.

"Well," she says, unusually defensive. "Wren and I agreed to try out drawing in each other styles and then bring them to the meet tomorrow."

"Yeah, I figured something of the sort," I say. "Your version of her is way better than her version of her. It's just total crap compared to your version of you."

"Don't be like that," she says. "It doesn't hurt to try out new things."

"Yeah, but it's not new things, is it? Just because the idea of getting perspective right is going on six hundred years old it doesn't mean that getting perspective completely cock-eyed is a great idea all of a sudden. Not being able to draw knees isn't a new and exciting development in the world of art. At least, it shouldn't be."

"Would you say that to Pablo Picasso?" asks Hannah.

"Well, Picasso is hit-and-miss at best," I say. "I probably wouldn't tell him to his face that Guernica is a bunch of arse, not given the subject matter, but I'd be thinking it. All I can say is when he has that spark you can look at it and know it works, even if you don't know why it works. I look at that and I just feel...ugh."

Hannah wheels herself back and takes another look at her own drawing. "I'd nearly finished and you've taken all the wind out of my sails."

"Sorry," I say. "Let me...okay, let me try and do some constructive criticism."

I scan the picture. It makes me feel like my eyes are bleeding. I desperately look for something I can helpfully make less terrible.

"What's going on with your dragon?" I say. "There's not a lot of Albert in him."

Albert is our pet gecko. We got him specifically so Hannah would have something to model her larger reptiles on. Even in a fantasy world of dragons and giants, we try to find something real for her to base her sketches on. We simulate fight scenes, to get static choreography right, panel by panel. We've even visited places like Iceland and the jungles of Thailand and spent hours of our holidays location scouting. It can be hard work, but the results are unarguable. We get out what we put in.

"No," she says. "The whole lived verisimilitude stuff, it doesn't really gel with Wren's style which is more purely imaginative. I decided to give Albert the day off and just draw what I thought a dragon might look like."

I sigh. "God damn it. I was there the day you really started to take your fantasy seriously. The day you actually got good at art. She's not just dragging you off to the side, she's making you regress. She'll be having you poop in your diaper soon and telling you that it's Protest Art."

"Ben! Come on. There's no call for that."

"Yeah, sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to go at you quite so hard. This just...seems like a misstep."

"It's her, isn't it? She winds you up."

"She does not. I don't care about her either way. I just think she's a bad influence on you. Artistically, I mean."

"Right, that's it," says Hannah firmly.

"What's it?"

"You're getting to know her, properly. Tomorrow. She's actually very nice."

"Come on, it's my day off. I had it all planned. Drop you off and play Xenoblade Chronicles in the car for three hours. I've been looking forward to it all week. Besides you really want to swap unfounded dislike for well-founded dislike?"

"You're coming, no excuses."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

We meet at the coffee shop. I'm under strict orders. I have to stay for the full three hours. I have to smile. I can give a gentle critique of either of the women's art, but I'm not to get confrontational.

After that, I can refuse to attend any and all events that Wren might attend for the rest of my life, excluding weddings, christenings, funerals, and Hannah's distant but inevitable Hugo Awards ceremony.

We order our drinks. When I ask if they have anything alcoholic, Hannah gives me the side-eye. I settle for a piece of the cheesecake.

Wren arrives twenty minutes late, no excuses offered, and my teeth are already set on edge by the customary round of squealing greetings. She's wearing her pegging T-shirt again,

"Okay, the first order of business," says Wren once they've quietened down. "The style swap pictures. You've finished yours right."

"Of course," Hannah beams. She goes for the canvas in the custom bag.

"Wait, wait, wait," says Wren. "On three."

They both prepare their pictures, carefully maneuvering them into position so only the backs are showing. Then, "Three...two...one."

They flip them around at the same time and there's yet another round of excited piggy squeals.

I take in Wren's picture.

It is, unfortunately, rather good.

She's got Hannah's style down well. It's a sky scene, a dragon rider's castle at the top of a mountain at night. I can tell at a glance that even if I set to it with a protractor and ruler, I won't find the perspective off by a millimeter. The moon is shown high in the sky but there are also multiple glowing orbs placed around the castle. Again, a scan shows that the illumination and shadow is going to be equally flawless, even with multiple light sources. The light even bounces off the fog covering the base of the mountain in interesting and authentic ways.

That covers the technical stuff, the stuff I'm good at. Artistically and compositionally it works as well. There are a number of strange dragons that have never featured in any of Hannah's pictures.

"I don't have a gecko," says Wren by way of explanation. "But we have frogs in our garden, and a butterfly landed on the birdbath while I was sketching outside."

So, Wren can draw. She just chooses not to.

That's infuriating.

The discussion of Wren's piece goes on for a while. I remain quiet, hoping against hope to find something intelligently negative to say before I'm asked.

When I am, all I can say is, "It's lovely." I don't even grit my teeth or anything.

Conversation then comes round to Hannah's version of Wren. Wren stares at it for a while. "It's good," she says, but in a tone of voice that suggests she's holding back.

"Really?" asks Hannah.

"It's good for a first go, but..."

Then she's off. She's not rude exactly, but for a supposed punk she is sure is particular. Hannah has used the wrong kind of day-glo orange. She's subconsciously allowed too much classical composition into certain parts of the frame. Worse, she's made the cardinal sin of making some of the women warriors shorter and less muscular than the men and that sends entirely the wrong message.

I'm smiling at Hannah getting her just desserts, but then I realize she's listening attentively, lapping up the advice. She actually seems to think she's learning something.

I sigh and get up to go to the bathroom. I sit hanging dong for as long as I think I can reasonably get away with then wash my hands and head back.

"Hey, Ben," says Hannah when I rejoin them. "Wren thinks she can get me a commission."

"Great," I say. Now, this is genuinely good news. Something that will finally give the pain of this coffee shop existence meaning. "What would that be?"

Wren has a look on her face like the cat who gotten even more cream after a lifetime of being fed exclusively on double-fat cream. She pulls another picture out of her bag and presents it to me.

It's in her usual style but it's not Ninja Priestess Ymelia. Instead, it's a woman who looks a hell of a lot like Wren, although slightly taller, more muscular but with a strange proud corpulence, standing behind a bent-over man, who looks a lot like Dave, although even more lanky and feeble, were that possible. She's grasping him by the hips and thrusting something, not quite pictured, into him. She has a face displaying the joy of victory. His expression is more difficult to read. Perturbed, perhaps.

The caption says

Taking Back the Power One Thrust at a Time

"National Pegging Week," says Wren.

"I see," I say carefully. "That's a week and not just a day, is it?"

"Oh yes," says Wren quickly. "A day would be most unsuitable. It'd give the impression that it was the sort of thing that should only be done once. They'd get it over quickly and that'd be that for the whole year. That's not what we want to say at all."

"And the National Pegging Week Corporation is commissioning a work from Hannah, is it?"

"The committee, yes. They're commissioning a dozen of these from various up-and-coming female artists," says Wrens. "I can recommend Hannah if she's up for it."

"It's not much, but even a nominal fee means it's paid work and would be highly visible nationally and maybe even internationally," says Hannah. "It'd be great on my CV and, who knows, it could grab some further attention."

"Superb," I say. "That's really great news. I've got to ask. What exactly are the rules for this? I mean, where good taste is concerned."

Wren recites for me. "It's perfectly okay to show the harness. If showing the dildo, the artist should stick to a simple geometric tube, including a rounded, not a mushroom end. Nothing obscenely big and no veins or simulated testicles allowed. No fluid is to be escaping the dildo. Lube may be pictured in a bottle or, if being squeezed onto the dildo, it may not be done so in close proximity to the receiver's rear. Strictly no real penises and no anus to be shown on the men. A cock-cage may be shown as long as it fully covers the member. Bondage wear is allowed, but no visible nipples or any hint of vagina under the harness. Artists are reminded that sexy beautiful women come in an infinite variety of body-positive shapes, sizes, and skin colours."

"Okay, that answers my question," I quickly say.

"Turn around is tight," says Wren to Hannah. "End of next week. Are you going to be okay with that?"

"I'll make absolutely sure I am," says Hannah. "Even if it means calling in sick a few times."

"Okay," I say, "I'm sure if you turn in something light and frothy in the punk impressionist vein that'll be highly suitable and won't even take you too long."

"Oh, no," says Hannah. "I'll be doing it in my style. After all, there's no point in turning in something shoddy in a style I haven't fully mastered and no point getting attention for work that isn't representative of what I usually do."

"I see," I say.

I have a sinking feeling in my stomach because I just realized exactly what this means:

Lived verisimilitude.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's later that evening. I'm staring at the collection that Hannah has amassed on the dining room table.

"Didn't you get anything a little more novice-friendly?" I ask.

"What smaller? The purple one is pretty small," says Hannah defensively.

"It's the smallest, I grant you," I say. "Smallest doesn't necessarily mean small."

"This is what Wren had," says Hannah, then looks like she knows she's made a mistake.

"These are Wren's?" I say incredulously. "Ew!"

"It's okay," says Hannah. "They've been sterilized and they always use condoms on them when they play with them."

"'Play with them' is a very pretty little expression, isn't it? The playing being shoving them up another man's bottom."

"Yeah..." says Hannah. "I know it's not ideal but we're on a deadline. If I mail order them they might take another 48 hours to arrive and then I've lost nearly half my time to do this."

"Let's just take a drive out to the local Ann Summers, shall we?" I say. "I think they are open late."

They are indeed. They don't seem to have what we need though. After we circle the naughty back area of the store twice, Hannah grabs a shop assistant.

"Heya, where are your strap-ons?" she asks.

"Ssh," I say immediately. "You don't need to tell the whole store!"

A middle-aged lady in the process of trying on some thigh-high boots gives me a strange little smile.

"I'm sorry," says the shop assistant. "We're all out of stock at the moment."

"You don't have any?" asks Hannah, somewhat exasperated. "Not even a single one?"

"We're in the middle of restocking in the lead-up to National Pegging Week," the assistant explains handing Hannah a 25% off leaflet from the counter. "Our manager, well, she's pushing it quite hard."

"Well, she would be, won't she," says Mrs Boots. The girls start cracking up. At my expense, I can't help but feel.

There's a discussion about when they'll be getting the next lot in. The shop assistant points to a dainty and smooth little pink thing on the leaflet that seems ideal from my perspective, but it's not arriving till Friday.

"You could always try the sex shop down need the bus terminal," says the assistant. "It's a bit...well, you know, but if your husband is absolutely desperate to be pegged this evening, they may have something to put a smile on his face."

"Thanks," says Hannah. "Oh, and he's not my husband."