I confess, I initially found Gesine K.—that now infamous figure, celebrated by some and reviled by others—rather agreeable, at least in terms of her undeniably striking physical allure. After all, she possesses all the requisite qualities to exert a magnetic pull upon men that notoriously susceptible breed, so easily swayed by superficial charms. Her bosom is of an expansive, alluring proportion; her hair, a radiant platinum blonde, announces her presence from afar; and her bright, ringing laughter—though admittedly tinged with mockery—poses a formidable challenge to any red-blooded representative of our tragically vulnerable, if not downright feeble, sex.
In short, Gesine K. is a natural lodestone for adventurous men—and heaven knows there is no shortage of those in our labyrinthine cities, where the pursuit of willing partners (be they of the opposite sex, or indeed nowadays even the same) has long ranked among the most popular pastimes.
The defence counsel for the thirteen men—pitiful specimens of manhood slumped in the dock, heads bowed, with only two of them sitting upright in what might be construed as defiance—began by addressing the deeper motive behind this perennial urban sport.
„My Lord, I need hardly explain to you, the esteemed jury, nor to this educated assembly, that the unfortunate gentlemen to my left – who fell prey to the physical charms of the alleged victim – were hardly guided by cool, rational deliberation. In the intimate congress between man and woman, once the veils of modesty have been cast aside, dispassionate reasoning is nigh impossible. Any student of nature, observing with the impartial eye of science, knows full well that the primal reproductive impulse seizes men with an imperious and irresistible force. From a strictly scientific standpoint, my clients cannot be held morally culpable. In moments of such elemental, biologically ordained arousal, a man is no longer master of himself – he is but a slave to the ancient programming etched into his very genes. Indeed, the plaintiff, Miss Gesine Kuddel, does not even trouble to conceal the fact that she has ruthlessly exploited the inherent weakness of her victims. It evidently afforded her a perverse, dare I say diabolical, pleasure to first lure these men with her charms, only to then denounce them as criminals and hold them up to public ridicule. Permit me a rather crude analogy: we are all familiar with those devices of blue light deployed on balmy evenings to spare us the nuisance of mosquitoes. We call them, quite aptly, mosquito traps. And what, pray tell, has the plaintiff done? Through her malicious stratagems, she has fashioned herself into nothing less than a walking man-trap!“
At this outrageous assertion, a storm of protest erupted – not only from the predominantly female spectators but also from many men, who were scandalised by the defence’s brazen argument.
As for myself, I have observed these proceedings from the outset with mixed feelings. I admit, the woman struck me as instantly likeable. Those voluptuous curves, that dazzling hair, and – when summoned to the witness stand – the bright, impudent, mocking laugh were devilishly hard to resist. I cannot say with certainty that I might not have found myself among those poor wretches in the dock. For the defence is quite correct, scientifically speaking: the reproductive instinct has a way of clouding rational thought in the blink of an eye. Had the dice-playing boy above the clouds willed it so, I too might have met with such misfortune.
Even the defence’s rather crude analogy holds a kernel of truth, though it may be somewhat far-fetched. My thoughts linger on those wretched mosquitoes. Do they not, in their own way, hurl themselves towards the fatal flame with something akin to rapture, driven by an instinct hardwired into their poor, tiny brains? In their deluded ecstasy, do they not mistake the searing glow before them for paradise – only to meet annihilation upon a man-made pyre? And has not Gesine K. done precisely the same to these men? She has selected the males of Homo sapiens – the most advanced species on the planet – as her prey, transforming her own body into a lethal beacon.
Now, mosquitoes are of little concern to us – our sympathies for them are limited. But the young men in the dock are another matter. Even this crude comparison works in the insects’ favour: at least they seek sustenance when they descend upon us, whereas Gesine K. sought no such satisfaction. She cannot even plead the urgings of her own desire. She was no hungry lover deprived of rightful pleasure. No – she received these men only to capture their transgressions on hidden camera and brand them as rapists. She is no victim, but a cold-blooded predator.
So thunders the defence counsel, heedless of the murmurs and occasional heckling from the gallery. The prosecutor, at this point, leaps to his feet in outrage.
„My Lord, I must protest in the strongest terms at this shameless inversion of right and wrong – all the more appalling for issuing from the lips of a fellow officer of the court! Miss K. is a respectable young woman, as entitled as any to seek companionship and affection. Who among us would deny her that basic human right? Ought we not rather hail her as a model for all women – one who insists upon equality even in the most intimate encounters, demanding that her will be respected? Who in this enlightened age would dare behave with the unrestrained abandon of beasts – of cats, dogs, and swine? Let us speak plainly: the men in the dock are a disgrace to Homo sapiens. They have, with brute force, overridden the clearly expressed refusal of an honourable woman. Their conduct is no better than that of animals. This trial, My Lord, must set a precedent – ensuring that such specimens never again presume to trample upon a woman’s rights!“
A murmur of approval ripples through the courtroom. The defence counsel, a gaunt but agile figure, now rises in agitation. Bowing to the judge, he continues in a voice soft yet razor-sharp.
„The learned prosecutor delights in parading his favourite owls to Athens. Who among us still dwells in the Dark Ages, when a woman’s rights could be trampled with impunity? Does he not grasp that this case presents an entirely novel predicament? Here, it is the rights of my clients – the rights of men – that have been egregiously violated. The true victim is not the woman, but those men in the dock! Yet the state’s representative wilfully shuts his eyes to this. To him, Miss K. is a reincarnated Joan of Arc, come not to save France, but to shield womankind from the brutish male. Here we witness #MeToo in its most perverted form – for Miss K. deliberately lured these men into a trap, exposing them as fools and predators. She has declared war, not merely on these defendants, but on all men!“
„Pray, restrain your mutterings,“ he rebukes the murmuring crowd. „The court cannot have failed to notice that this woman regards men – all men, without exception – not merely with distaste, but with contempt and thinly veiled vindictiveness. My learned friend, in his philosophical abstractions, overlooks the ‚petty details‘ of her scheme. But let us, with due discretion, examine the details of the matter – however unsavoury they may be, and however unfit for tender ears.“
„This detail, so prudently omitted by my philosophising colleague – doubtless beneath his lofty standards – is the tattoo inscribed upon the plaintiff’s abdomen, mere inches above that orifice which, in certain circles, is poetically dubbed the ‚gate of joy‘ or ‚heaven’s portal.‘ Tattoos, as we know, have become a rampant fashion, a kind of aesthetic mildew creeping across the human form. Our beaches in summer are now a ghastly spectacle, disfigured by these inked monstrosities as thoroughly as lots of our most ugly cities have blighted the landscape. Rare indeed is the tasteful design amidst this sea of vulgar kitsch – most are but grotesque testaments to modern man’s self-loathing, transforming what was once the image of God into a caricature of the devil.“
Here, the judge interjects.“ I must urge my learned friend to confine himself to the matter at hand. The court fails to see what his personal views on body art contribute to these proceedings.“
„Quite so, My Lord,“ the counsel concedes. „But may I pose the question: ought a woman be permitted to become a living snare for unsuspecting men – a walking mosquito trap, as it were, wherein men are lured to their ruin, only to be dragged innocently before the bench?“
„Let us, at last, examine the decisive detail – the incriminating photograph, lest any ambiguity remain. As the court is aware, it has long circulated on social media, published by Miss Gesine K. herself, presumably to rally like-minded women to her cause. Ah, excellent, there it is – projected for all to see.“
The image, of course, is familiar to most present – indeed, it lies at the heart of the scandal. Now, in this hallowed chamber, it assumes the status of official evidence. The sight of a near-naked female form in a court of law is in itself a moral affront, undermining the dignity of these proceedings. Predictably, the church had already condemned it, as have the media – though the latter, ordinarily unencumbered by scruples, have suddenly discovered moral outrage now that it serves their narrative. The public was, of course, scandalised when this image first surfaced online. Ecclesiastical circles decried it as a relapse into late Roman decadence.
What, then, does this photograph – previously glimpsed on Facebook, now displayed in court – reveal to an audience torn between prurient curiosity and professional sensationalism? It shows precisely what those young men beheld in Gesine K.’s secluded attic flat before stumbling into her trap.
Ah, but there is one small, yet telling, difference: the bikini she dons for legal propriety’s sake is so scant as to be almost immaterial – covering only the barest essentials. Her body, undeniably comely and appetising, is displayed in near-total nudity. The effect is immediate. As the image flashes upon the screen behind the judge, a hushed, almost sacred silence descends. I fancy – though I may be mistaken – that I even heard an admiring gasp from the back benches. I suspect few men in that room, each labouring under the ceaseless reproductive urge, could honestly claim immunity to such allure.
How else to interpret that collective intake of breath, that furtive swallowing, that strange reverence? The sight, for one fleeting moment, transforms Homo sapiens – that paragon of reason—into Homo concupiscens: a creature enslaved by base desire. Not utterly enslaved though—the men in attendance stifle their impulses, preserving outward decorum. But the women, more perceptive by far, sense the turmoil beleaguering their male neighbors. A chorus of indignant chatter erupts—an instinctive recoil from the fascination a rival exerts. The judge, amid the feminine clamour, is forced to call for order.
For my part, I confess to occasional shame on behalf of my sex. Are there not a thousand nobler pursuits to engage a man’s intellect, elevating him far above the crude plane of instinct? Dogs and cats, we know, are helpless before their urges—but we, the crown of creation, have devised mathematics, philosophy, the very rule of law making them most honourable occupations. Even the humble baker, the dutiful postman, the conscientious policeman – all inhabit a higher plane of existence, far removed from primal drives.
And let us not forget the scientifically established truth: our relentless procreative urge now threatens the very planet. The masculine zeal for propagation has swollen our numbers to an unsustainable eight billion. In this light, that reverent silence before Miss K.’s near-naked form seems not merely pitiable, but perilous. Ought we not, then, to question whether the sexual instinct is not merely archaic, but obsolete?
Alas, this vital question went unexamined in court. Instead, the defence and prosecution bickered over the tattoo above Miss K.’s „entrance“ – and the message it bore. For it was, as everybody know, no mere image, but a five-word warning.
Some – including the prosecutor, for obvious reasons – argue that this tattoo, positioned so provocatively, was a deliberate act of malice. I am inclined to agree. The court evidently thought so too – and it is here that my initial sympathy for Miss K. curdled into distaste.
But these are merely my private musings. The public outcry has reached a fever pitch. The far right clamours for her imprisonment – nay, a life sentence – for daring to thwart the „natural order“ of male desire. She has, they declare, „insulted the white race.“ Unsurprisingly, Miss K. now lives under police protection, harassed by mobs. Rumour has it she seeks facial surgery, hoping to vanish under a new identity. But what of the infamous tattoo? Even the so-called quality press now enters the scene. They solemnly debate whether one might surgically alter an entire abdomen.
Originally emblazoned upon merely on a singular woman’s apricot-soft skin, the slogan has taken wing. The left, seizing upon it, now inscribes it above schools, party offices, and charities – though in sanitised form. The once-salacious phrase, „Entry permitted only with written authorisation,“ now adorns neon signs in activist hubs. To the uninitiated, it reads as bland bureaucracy – a mere ticketing advice. Only the cognoscenti recall its origins: a warning etched above the „gate of joy,“ ignored by men too inflamed to heed it.
Was the defence not right to argue that the tattoo’s rainbow hues – azure, crimson, gold – rendered it less a deterrent than a lure? Miss K., he declared, was the archetypal man-trap.
What, then, is a humble chronicler to make of this? The case leaves me baffled. Is the defence correct in his closing plea – that our era must at last recognise the sexual urge as a vestige of our animal past, to be discarded? Would this spare men from victimhood and women from becoming traps? Our American cousins, ever ahead of us, already drown every transaction in legalese. Ought we not, then, regulate the greatest transaction of all – the union of the sexes – with even greater fastidiousness?
Here, the counsel paused – a calculated silence – before turning to the prosecutor with rare approval.
„At this juncture, I must concede – my learned friend has glimpsed the bright light of future in that tattoo. Its essence is permission – preferably in writing. Once this truth is universally grasped, there shall be no more innocent victims, no more guilty predators. #MeToo shall fade into oblivion. From their schooldays, enlightened youths will carry notepads, seeking written consent for every glance, every touch and, of course, every kiss. Only then shall we be free.“