Forget Le Guin’s Left Hand of Darkness and its icy androgynes — if you want the true metaphor for humanity, look to the sea floor. Flatworms duel with their penises, fencing to decide who inseminates and who gets saddled with motherhood. It’s penetration politics in its purest form: every thrust a power play, every victory a rape in miniature, every loss a womb conscripted. Beauvoir’s “becoming a woman” was never more literal. Humanity, it turns out, is just flatworms in suits, dick-waving its way through history.