THE HANDMAID'S TALE is a kinky romance novel

...and a wish fulfillment fantasy for its "feminist" readers

The Handmaid’s Tale, a futuristic dystopian novel written by Canadian author Margaret Atwood, which was made into a feature film in 1990, and adapted into a TV series in 2017, is a cultural phenomenon something like Star Wars or Star Trek, with its base of enthusiastic fans and their conspicuous fondness for cosplay.

The difference, of course, is that while most sci-fi/fantasy cosplayers wear costumes related to the lore of their source material for fun, those who don the “handmaid” getup (something like a cross between a pilgrim lady, a nun, and Little Red Riding Hood, consisting of gaudy vermillion-colored full-body robes complete with a snow-white cowl) don’t do so for “play,” but for the purpose of engaging in earnest and passionate, quite often strident and shrill, protest. (Perhaps they should be called cos-activists.)

“Handmaid’s Tale” cosplay activists in Washington DC

It is something of an irony that the cause most often inspiring Handmaid’s Tale-style cos-activism is that of preserving and defending legalized abortion, given that the book is set in a future where an environmental disaster has resulted in a radical reduction in women’s fertility. In fact, though modern-day feminists gravitate to Atwood’s novel for its ostensible "topicality,” and what they take to be its presentation of an “all-too likely” future, The Handmaid’s Tale is nothing if not luridly fantastical in most of its particulars.

This is not to say that it’s a bad book. In fact, the novel is a genuine page-turner, complete with a feisty and resourceful heroine, memorably sinister baddies, a swoon-worthy love interest, plot twists galore, and a thrilling cliffhanger conclusion. Though it carries the supposed gravitas of an “important” work, The Handmaid’s Tale in fact presents the sort of entertainingly prurient fare that seems designed to appeal to a certain type of reader. It is, essentially, a kinky romance novel gussied up as an edgy and radical political thriller.

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The “typical” enthusiast of The Handmaid’s Tale will perhaps blanch at such a characterization of the book, but it nevertheless fits its template perfectly. Most adventure-themed romance novels feature a heroine who is “relatable” to the (nearly always female) reader: she is plucky and independent-minded, beautiful and spirited; over the course of the novel, she is thrust into danger and exposed to trying, even degrading situations, but she eventually meets and falls in love with a hunky, stoic, sensitive, masculine, yet also quietly mysterious hero who helps her out of her situation, and— possessing abundant pluck, grit, and determination— she prevails over the deluge of troubles that assail her.

In The Handmaid’s Tale, the heroine, Offred, possesses a unique gift: she is one of the few women able to bear children in a world where female fertility has been decimated, due to some murkily-described ecological catastrophe. Thus her “relatability” is enhanced: the reader feels bonded to her for the “special” power she wields, the power to conceive life.

The social instability caused by the sudden drop in fertility rates has touched off a revolution, and the new ruling elite is a theocratic patriarchy which rounds up all of the women capable of giving birth (the “handmaids” of the title), dresses them in red gowns, and assigns each of them to a couple where the man holds a prominent position in the new regime. Our heroine is given to a man known as The Commander and his wife Serena Joy. The Commander’s first name is “Fred,” hence the heroine obtains the official moniker “Offred,” meaning “of (or belonging to) Fred.”

During the days of her cycle when she is deemed to most likely be ovulating, Offred is subjected to an ordeal known as “the ceremony.” During “ceremonies,” Offred’s arms are held back by Serina Joy while the Commander penetrates her and ejaculates into her vagina.

It is a grotesque and humiliating ordeal, yet for the reader, it again underscores the heroine’s specialness; indeed, she has been rendered fit for the ministrations of a high-status man, much to the silent and impotent fury of his wife. Offred has in effect reverse-cuckolded Serena Joy, who is as campily bitchy of a “mean girl” as might show up in any Lifetime movie. (She is anything but serene, and far from joyful.)

What’s more, the Commander likes Offred so much, he takes her to a secret tryst palace, where they copulate in a more conventional manner. These relations are all coerced, of course, yet for the reader, they highlight the fact of her desirability, and the Commander, if not exactly sexy, is again, an important man in the new dispensation. To be desired by one who is ascendant in the social hierarchy is undeniably appealing to those of the female persuasion.

When it is suspected that the Commander is sterile himself, Serina Joy arranges for Offred to sleep with Nick, a strapping young security agent who is secretly in league with the resistance. Nick, it turns out, is great in the sack; Offred enjoys his company immensely; what is more, he successfully impregnates her. The two fall in love, and stage a daring plan to escape.

I needn’t belabor the point here, but let me simply enumerate the ways in which Offred’s tale serves as a wish-fulfillment fantasy for The Handmaid’s Tale’s predominantly female readership:

1. Offred is smart, resourceful, young, and pretty, i.e. relatable.

2. Offred is special, in that she is able to bear children whereas most women in the world of the book are barren. Most readers (not just women) like to entertain the notion that they are special; thus, this attribute enhances Offred’s relatability.

3. Offred is desired by The Commander, a high-status man, which drives the detestable Serina Joy mad with jealousy. Three-way sex is a mandatory “ceremony.” The reader is meant to view these “ceremonies” as perverse and horrific, yet it is not difficult to see that a certain “kink” on the reader’s part is indulged in these scenes. In any case, being desired by an important man and cuckolding his mean, spiteful wife are appealing outcomes for the reader.

4. Finally, Offred falls in love with Nick, an attractive and desirable man, with whom she is allowed to enjoy copulation in order to fulfill her “duty” to bear a child. Nick then risks his life to help Offred to get away. The wish-fulfillment factor here is obvious.

Finally, there is one additional kink: Offred, in her previous life, was married to a man named Luke, who is probably still alive. This is a cause of guilt for her, particularly when she engages in consensual, non-coerced sex with Nick. Yet, as with “Outlander,” a series about a woman cuckolding her husband which caters to a primarily female demographic, the very transgressive nature of the act seems to be part of its perverse appeal.

Andy Nowicki is the author of several books, most recently The Insurrectionist, Muze, and Love and Hidden Agendas, as well as the just-published The Rule of Wrath. Visit his YouTube channel.