The Bitches At My HighSchool

Popular culture is incredibly toxic to the standards for acceptable behaviour laid down by the generation that fought World War II. Their hard work and self-sacrifice for the most part built the wealth that the western world enjoys. Unfortunately, most western women are too damned self-centred and narcissistic to see that they are squandering the legacy of that generation. Today's western woman latches on to a man, and then spends and spends and spends and spends. Then when she has sucked the man dry, she moves on to the next one like some kind of locust. The training for this kind of use-and-dispose behaviour starts in highschool, and is re-inforced throughout. Only the female who is able to out-bitch and out-flaunt the others is able to attain supreme social status.

If I sound a bit bitter towards western women, then I might be guilty as charged. Though the girls in my past are not something I dwell on, a flash of anger always strikes me when I think back to my first years in highschool. I was a much kinder and gentler young man then, and I liked the way I was. Frankly, I think that if I hadn't been, for lack of a better word, brutalised by the girls (and their idiot boyfriends) at my first highschool, I might have been able to adjust to life after school much better, and would have been much further along in my life plans.

When I first started highschool, my parents enrolled me at a local non-government school. It wasn't one of the really expensive private highschools that some families send their kids to, but it was a step above your usual frisk-you-for-knives-at-the-entrance government-run daycare for teenagers. My Dad wanted me to have a good education (don't most parents?), and this particular school had a good reputation in the area. Plus, it was close enough to walk, and a number of the kids I had gone to primary school with were also going to be there.

HighSchool is a time of change for most young people. You enter adolescense, and for most young guys, girls start to become a whole lot more interesting. Along with that, the social heirarchy that will domainate the rest of highschool starts to form and it is usually based on which girls are the "hottest" (read: get the most attention from boys) and which guys can pull the most girls (read: act like the biggest douchebags).

Like most nice guys, I had been brought up to be kind, polite and respectful. I was taught that if I was polite and respectful, most girls would regard me as a "catch". Certainly at thirteen, I had no reason to doubt what I had been told, and my relatives and their friends had done nothing to disabuse them of this notion. All of that was worth precisely squat when I entered the world of highschool.

There are a few things that you should all know before reading on. Firstly, I developed physically quite a bit sooner than my classmates. They still had smooth shiny faces when I was learning how to shave. I had always been one of the shorter kids in my class. Now I was actually about average, which was a huge acheivement for me. It also meant that I was a lot stronger than practically every other male in my year-group. This posed a problem, as I was heavily opposed to violence at that age, but when I did get into scuffles, the other person always came off badly second-best... so when I tried to explain that I didn't start a particular fight, I was never believed! More on that later. The second thing worth noting, is that my highschool had THE highest concentration of hot girls I have ever seen. Even to this day. Out of about 75 girls in my yeargroup, over 40 were easily 8.5 or above. That's a pretty damn high average.

Most guys in highschool come to realise that the prettier, or hotter a girl is, the more she can get away with, and the bitchier she can afford to be. In fact, there's a really good book on the subject, entitled Queen Bees and Wannabes, by Rosalind Wiseman that served as the basis for the movie Mean Girls (if you want to know more about the book, here is a link to its page on The concentration of highly attractive girls at that particular school meant that they really behaved like they owned the place. They ran roughshod over the teachers who tried to stand up to their behaviour, and they were the darlings of the teachers who were themselves social climbers. That first year of highschool really was hell for me.

The Social Order

A particularly good example of the kind of behaviour that I came to expect of those girls was the time that one of the girls in my year actually decided that she liked me. Any girl who breaks the social order in highschool usually answers for it at the hands of the Queen Bee and her BFF's (Best Friends Forever), and since I was the pariah of my yeargroup for having two brain cells to rub together, she had committed the ultimate social faux-pax by showing an interest in me.

Her name was Cameron, and though she wasn't the prettiest girl in my class, she was a solid 6. She had a bubbly personality and was enjoyable to be around. She wasn't really bright, but she didn't pretend to be and was happy to admit as much. The phrase "down-to-earth" is overused these days, but if it ever described someone, it was Cameron. She was practical and realistic about things, and didn't much care for the games played by the other girls. The two of us had been at primary school together, and started to notice each other about halfway through the year.

We both knew we should keep our interest in each other as quiet as possible, for both our sakes. We didn't meet up with each other during school hours for the most part, but we'd often hold hands on the way home, after waiting until everyone else had gone. We'd walk and talk a lot, but mostly we'd just enjoy holding hands the way 13-year-olds do. Unfortunately, someone (I still don't actually know who) found us out, because I arrived at school one day and was barraged with all kinds of disgusting questions and comments about the two of us.

"Have you done it with Cameron yet?"

"How did you have sex with a whale?"

"Did she show you all the pimples on her ass?"

Those are probably some of the tamer ones.

In order to do as much damage to both of us as possible, and prevent any chance of either of us continuing to spend time with one-another, the top clique of girls began to spread the rumour that I had sexually assaulted Cameron. Yes, you read that right. They started telling anyone who would listen that I had sexually assaulted another student.

I had tried to pull her skirt off.

I had tried to grab her hand.

I had tried to rub her leg.

The story grew wilder and more conflicting with every passing hour, and of course it eventually reached the teachers (which I'm sure was the plan all along). Cameron was absolutely distraught. She hid in the girls toilets and point blank refused to come out. I can't say I blame her, but all of that made the more self-righteous teachers absolutely convinced that the rumours they were hearing must have been true. The sports teacher interrupted class just after lunch to take me aside and question me on the matter. I was too scared to even think straight by that point, and when I admitted to having touched her hand (we'd been holding hands only two days before), he informed me that the matter was going to be "dealt with" by more senior teachers, and possibly by the police!

It's hard to describe what it's like as a 13-year-old to be standing there literally thinking that your life is over. I had been treated so sternly by the teachers I had spoken to, that I was half-convinced that I must have sexually assulted Cameron by holding hands with her! Thoughts about whether she had specifically given verbal consent to hold her hand whirled through my head, as I desperately tried to think of any witness who might verify that I had acted properly. I had the worst sinking feeling in my stomach as I realised that our careful attempts to be sure we weren't seen would most likely work against me.

The school must have told my parents what I was "suspected" of at some point, because after I arrived home, (I was just about ready to be physically ill by this time) when my Mother brought the dreaded subject up. She asked me how I had touched hands with Cameron and what kind of things we had done. It may only have been holding hands, but it was still horrible and embarrassing to relay all that information to my own mother. I knew she was trying to help of course, but she had to drag it out of me anyway. After she had the whole story, she sat down next to her crying 13-year-old son and summarised the whole episode.

"So you and Cameron have become good friends?"


"And you like each other in that way?"

"I guess so."

"So you've been holding hands on your way home from school?"


"Is that all?!"

My mum was incredulous that the school had taken things as far as they had and she haughtily informed them that she would not have them do any further "dealing with" anything at all, and that the matter was closed (my mum was, and still is, the kind of woman you don't cross unless you really want to get your ass royally kicked).

Of course Cameron and I never had much chance after that, as we were both watched like hawks by the teachers who felt that their familiarity with the Bible gave them the special job of ensuring that young people didn't start to reach puberty until after they were safely married. Certainly the top clique of girls took every chance to rub my "sexual predator" status in my face, and were quite smug about telling me there was no way I would ever get a girl since I was such a total loser, and a pervert besides. Do I really need to explain that this kind of thing can be really damaging to a young male?

What kind of culture encourages this kind of behaviour? A kind where women are calling all the shots, that's where. And a sick one at that. What's the point of this rant? I'm not sure... I think I lost it somewhere along the way. Chalk it up to bitterness if you like.


"The race is long and hard and only against yourself." -- BigBoss.

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