Forty years later, I maintain erratic contact with my first, serious, junior high school crush, who has become for me a sobering demonstration that you should be careful what you wish for. Recently he sent me a rambling email which began with grief over his mother's death, detoured briefly into concern for his son, and trailed off with an incoherent paragraph that began, "O Desire, I can smell your musky perfume" and included the words "sex addict" and "blackmail." To piggyback on the wonderfully alliterative idiom, "drunk dialing," I suspect there was some toping while typing.
So I wrote back and asked him what was all that about,and he replied, "That was mostly about dangerous women I have known."
Oh fer gawd's sake. This was my response:
"Doubtless this will annoy you, but most "dangerous" women are the freely chosen pastimes of vain and foolish men (unless she's an actual serial killer, but there aren't too many of them). We're both at far greater risk of dangerous men, and they are everywhere, from the streets, to our kitchens and bedrooms, to the boardrooms and halls of government."
Dangerous women, my ass. We live in a country where the number one cause of death in pregnant women is violent partners, where one in three or four women will, at some point in their lives, endure beatings and/or rape, etc. — and where we all, women and men, get routinely shafted by a powerful few, who are overwhelmingly... men (or employed in institutions designed by them).
My favorite portrayal of a dangerous woman is in the 1981 movie Body Heat, when Kathleen Turner says to William Hurt, "You're not too bright, are you? I like that in a man."
She gave him fair warning, yet he still chose to delegate his agency to his nethers.