“The Psychology Of Woman*”

*(Course of study at University of South Florida, 1975.  I was but one of four or six guys in a class of more than 20 in this Women’s Study’s program for upperclassmen at the Temple Terrace (Tampa) school.  I made the only 100 on the first two tests: one, label the parts of female genitalia; two, describe in order the phases of female sexual response.  When the professor announced next class the grades and the fact only one person in that class got 100 percent, she handed me my two papers both marked in red with 100! prominently displayed.

Why, she asked me?  I had no clue as to her motive, either in my success with the tests or any implied thoughts as to the rest of the class’ inability to regurgitate facts readily recited – twice! – by her in lecture and again found easily in both narrative-and table-form in the textbook.  So I resorted by my usual haunt: cynicism.

“I’m a believer in the United States Marine Corps combat philosophy: “Know The Enemy!” Ma’am!  We did not then or later get along.)


Women’s Psychology

course in college was a hoot!

Consciousness Raising!**


**(Saturdays we had group Consciousness Raising gabfests: one guy with six or so gals sitting outside in a small circle gabbing about…about…about – hell, I don’t k now what.  I had brought self-made fruit salad (ambrosia, my flatmate girlfriend who taught deaf and blind kids to communicate for Hillsboro County Schools said as she took her share Friday to wow her fellow teachers with her boyfriend’s “cooking.”  I laced my share with two kinds of orange liqueur and a dash of Grenadine and squooze lime (she got just the pomegranate-n-lime). There was a french baguette slices with cheese-crufiy-n-hard sausage toothpicked platter too. The ladies asked where I had bought that.  I replied: the bread I baked Friday: the fruit I made after class Thursday and marinated until the morning except for my girlfriend’s share which she took to work on Friday; the cheese-n-stuff platter I assembled Saturday morning after I did the laundry as my girlfriend folded or ironed after we had done the breakfast dishes.  And they quickly went on to complain about their husbands, boyfriends or everyone else who did not understand them.  Four more such meetings produced in me an urge.  I quickly wrote up assigned Consciousness Raising notebook, brought it into the Prof’s office and told her I would accept any grade she assigned and expected that all other tests I took would be performed flawlessly so would she kindly consider a grade of “C” since I no longer would be  partaking of boy-bashing by biddies too young to know how to hook a worm or insist on shared drudge duties which do not annoy when done together.

I got a “C” for the course.  Not a single woman from my Consciousness Raising group asked – ever – why I had decided not to continue attending Saturdays.)


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