Even if there was no mention of us in novels written by men, who are only able to imagine women they want to fuck. When I was unemployed, I didn’t feel shame at being excluded, all I felt was rage. It’s the same when it comes to being a woman: I don’t feel remotely ashamed at not being some super-hot babe. What I do feel, on the other hand, is fucking furious that as a woman that men don’t really find attractive, I’m constantly made to feel that I shouldn’t even exist.

It’s as a prole of the feminine underclass that I speak, that I spoke yesterday, that I carry on speaking today. Obviously, I wouldn’t write what I write if I was beautiful, beautiful enough to turn the head of every man I meet. It just so happens that I’m not one of them. Honestly, I’m really happy for all those women who’re resigned to the way the world works. Awesome that there are women who are very gentle, others who are comfortable in their skin, young women, pretty women, women who are kittenish and radiant. I think it’s amazing that there are also women out there who love to seduce, who know how to turn someone on, women determined to get hitched, women who smell of sex and others who smell of cakes freshly baked for their kids’ after-school snacks. I wouldn’t swap places with anyone because being Virginie Despentes seems to me a more interesting gig than anything else out there. And if I’m starting here it’s because I want to be crystal clear: I’m not here to make excuses, I’m not here to bitch. I write from the realms of the ugly, for the ugly, the old, the bull dykes, the frigid, the unfucked, the unfuckable, the hysterics, the freaks, all those excluded from the great meat market of female flesh.

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