Believe all women. Three words conjure a long history of women's not being believed, a collective resentment held over from the years of hysteria diagnoses and actual witch hunts. As a revolutionary chant, or scrawled on a t-shirt, "believe women" gets the point across. But—as is often the case with revolutionary ideas made real—believing all, absent due process, invites only chaos.

That matters not to some feminists, though. Take, for example, Rebecca Traister. She doesn’t endorse “believing all women” in practice, preferring to drop the "all" as is now the norm, but the fighting spirit behind the slogan is her principal subject. Don’t worry, revolutionary rage is always a little terrifying at first, she seems to say in her new book, Good and Mad: The Revolutionary Power of Women’s Anger. Anger worked for her at the New Republic, she recalls, when she let loose on the patriarchy in a column that she refused to worry would read as particularly shrill. Indeed, not worrying how she’d come off was the subject of the piece, and soon its headline, kicker and quoted refrain—“I don’t f*cking care if you like it”—was widely memed.

That reflexive drive to tear ’em down defines the Trump-era feminism Traister’s book describes. “I don’t f*cking care if you like it,” reads like a suitably sinister subtitle for the revolution. And while it’s not a new phenomenon, the fact that believe all women persists—despite such measurable progress toward (and sometimes past) actual equality—is a potent proof there’s a subversion already, unstoppably underway.

Traister writes of replacing bad men with qualified women who’d been waiting in the wings as “not just imaginatively attractive; it was happening.” Christiane Amanpour taking over Charlie Rose’s show, where she interviewed Eric Schneiderman's replacement as attorney general of New York, Barbara Underwood, about a suit she’d filed against the Trump Foundation just goes to show—per one Traister reflection—that woman were already inheriting the earth. Her account of feminist history credits collective righteous anger for every right women have won, and apotheosizes in Trump and #MeToo.

The very title Good and Mad looks enough like the words “God and Man” to suggest a new order to the formerly white male universe—where, now, furious women reign over heaven and earth instead. She describes her writing process, in the aftermath of Hillary Clinton’s ragemaking loss, as though she were a channeling something sacred: What she calls “my ability to loose my ire” was “a gift.”

But what, in this new order formed of our loosed ire, becomes of the men?

#MeToo moved into “the gray areas” sometime after’s anonymously sourced embarrassment of Aziz Ansari established the low bar for a takedown and before progressive journalist Jack Smith was canned for having earned a reputation, per Jezebel, as an arrogant and uncaring boyfriend. Like Ansari, Smith is said to have pressured women to have sex with him by acting as though they should want to.

A new manifesto by Donna Freitas, Consent on Campus, explores this phenomenon on college campuses. Amid #MeToo, its insights surpass the ongoing campus sexaul assault debate. From her interviews with students, Freitas finds that aloofness, arrogance, and avoidance of attachment are key to the consummation of an unserious, purely sexual relationship. Neither party wants to be more desirous of sex than the other. To be mutually aloof and still go along with it, both have to sublimate their actual feelings and go through the motions, students told her.

Establishing consent within this uncaring calculus seems next to impossible, without a contract. These would-be gray areas, as Jezebel’s takedown of Smith determined, are now the new frontlines. (The article that details his misdeeds was titled, “The Next Step for #MeToo Is Into the Gray Areas.”) And what with believe women being the revolutionary rule, casual sex poses a terrifyingly destructive risk to men everywhere.

Considering the consequences of the revolution with any degree of academic distance isn’t really possible while it’s still unfolding around us. But when trying to conceive of how far we’ve come, I often think of a scene in the 1973 documentary, The Year of the Woman In the film, which I first read about in a Traister article and which Traister also praises in Good and Mad, Sandra Hochman—poet, activist, and mother of another angry woman writer—captured Gloria Steinem, Florynce Kennedy, Shirley Chisholm and their fellow feminist insurgents at the Democratic National Convention in Miami, where they tried and mostly failed to secure the attention of powerful men. The one interviewee who indulged Hochman directly on the subject of all men’s being overdue for a radical reeducation was Art Buchwald, then the humor columnist for the Washington Post. While he and Hochman played pool, he played along.

The idea in the early 1970s was to subvert men’s and women’s roles and, by way of an enlightening “re-education,” give the men a taste of the inferiority women felt. But the “re-education” their conversation describes feels far less silly now than Buchwald’s answers to Hochman made it seem.

This idea that we should believe as a way of settling the score serves similar ends. We could worry about the indiscriminate destruction borne of belief in every women's allegation, evidence be damned. But, really, it’s too late: That revolutionary wave of destruction has already landed, and we’ve seen how it ends.