There is absolutely nothing wrong with physical attraction. Nor is there anything wrong with sex… or sexual desire. Quite the contrary, I would dare say, as I fail to see how the human race would have managed without it.
Contrary, perhaps, to all sanity and reason, I have yet to become a misanthrope. There is too much beauty and kindness in the human race still for that to happen, though the mass-media pundits would tell you otherwise. Might be a case of naivety on my part. No doubt, I am a grumpy and cynical bastard… but at the very least I still cling to a tiny floating burrito filled with hope. This keeps me from becoming completely and utterly black-pilled.
For the time being, at least, the good tend to outweigh the bad. One just need to look beyond the rage-inducing headlines and constant calls for outrage. It makes more sense to focus on the bad. It stands to reason that the bad is something one would wish to change, whereas the good don’t need to change. Even if the bad often is amplified far beyond how bad it really and truly is. And the following outrage doubly so.
Whenever I experience one of my frequent bouts with insomnia, I tend to wake up in the wee hours of the morning… or the middle of the night, completely incapable of going back to sleep. Physical pain, stress, emotional turmoil, constant pondering, racing thoughts… whatever the reason, I have to get up. And in those moments, I tend to watch dog-rescue videos on YouTube. As corny as that sounds. It restores my faith in the world in no small way. And is one of the few things that bring tears to my eyes, soppy romantic fool that I am. Dogs are way too good for us. At times, I think that we don’t deserve them.
There is so much enmity, so much hostility, so much rage and wrath and ruin everywhere one looks. Everything has to be analysed, broken down and labelled this or that. When that happens, it is left open to attack from those that would say that this is better than that. Or that is better than this.
Nowhere, to my bleeding eyes and foggy winter-mind, is this more evident than in the eternal gender-war. The eternal gender-war, I think, is a manufactured war meant to carry on in perpetuity. It is not meant to end. Its sole purpose lies in creating a great rift between the sexes, manufacturing mutual hostility and distrust where there really ought to be mutual co-operation and trust. Where we ought to fulfil one another, we now do nothing but try and outdo one another. As stated time and again; how we fulfil one another – that is – who does what – should not matter to anyone but those directly or intimately involved. Making the personal political and the political personal is a horrendous thing. Barring abuse, none but the people involved in the personal should have a say in their personal day-to-day lives. Do not meddle in the affairs of other people. Respect the privacy of other people. This should not be all that difficult a concept to grasp, yet it is. Apparently. No-one but those involved should care about who cooks dinner, who does the dishes, and so forth and so on. It is not unreasonable to “allow” people to decide for themselves who does which of the many chores and responsibilities that necessarily come along with an adult relationship. What is unreasonable is for other people to poke and prod and complain and bitch and moan if the chores are split in a manner not suitable to their political or personal sensibilities. And here I am not speaking only on feminism. This goes for whichever preconceived set of ideas about who ought to do what one ascribes to.
My tribe is better than your tribe, here’s ten reasons why. Bog-standard clickbait titles. Men this, women that. One celebrated at the same time that one is scorned by popular voter’s fraud.
People tend to be trend-hoppers. This is not something new. The in-group dominates, the out-group does not.
If one man writes an article about women the way many a feminist woman would write an article about men, the powers that be will truly shake, tremble and come down on it with all the rage, wrath and ruin that could be mustered. Even if nothing but the sex spoken about in the article has changed. The wording may be exactly the same. But substitute “man” for “woman”, and the whole world cries out in pain and in anguish. Try it sometime. Read any feminist article, and replace every instance of “men” with “women”. Does not look that reasonable then. For added emphasis, replace “men” with “Negroes”. Or “Jews”. Or “The Irish”… whatever you wish, really. It works.
Nothing negative may ever be spoken about women. And nothing but negative may ever be spoken about men.
At the end of the day, it seems to me that it all boils down to something as petty as revenge. Nothing more and nothing less. And something that petty ought not to be a proper reason, ought not to be an accepted reason.
Even if one accept the feminist revisionist history, revenge should not be an accepted reason for anything of such magnitude and societal impact as feminism. It is small-minded and petty. Which is what the gender-war is, in my humble and barbaric opinion – small-minded and petty, filled with tiny grievances and vengeance-fuelled tingling feminist-senses… lovingly, inclusively and compassionately informing us that men being broke, destitute and in lack of higher education is a problem for women wanting to marry. And that women have always been the primary victims of war. Because their husbands, fathers and sons die.
In other news; Meteor hits earth, Women most affected.
One of my biggest personal peeves with the gender-war, with the feminist-laced koolaid that has been forced down our gullible throats like so much old vine cyanide, is the constant assault on what men in general find sexually attractive. Men tend to be more immediately attracted to visual appearance; to tits and legs and butt and what have you. This should not be something negative. Yet it is presented as such; presented as superficiality and what-not. Odd I think, as the main reason for this, as far as I have understood it, is healthy mate-selection.
Signifiers of youth, good health and fertility are not negative traits to be attracted to. Quite the contrary, one should think. Yet here we are, lost in this nonsensical poop-flinging. Men in general are not attracted to fat chicks, as obesity is not exactly a signifier of good health. This only goes to show that men are far too superficial of course, never delving beneath the outer appearance to see the beauty hidden within the flabby folds of fat. Here, men must alter their sexual and romantic preference to include fat chicks. Otherwise, they are fat-shaming misogynistic bastards, subscribing to a societal brainwashing about what is and what is not attractive.
…For wanting ones partner to be fit and healthy is a bad thing, a superficial thing. An obese woman losing weight instead of a man altering his sexual and romantic preference is too much work, man. Women need not do anything to fix themselves. It is presented, as it always is presented, as if men are in the wrong. As such, men need to change and alter what they find attractive. For not being attracted to obesity; for not being attracted to poor health and all which that entails of future struggles down the long and winding road to nowhere.
Would the same women that scream about fat-acceptance accept a morbidly obese partner themselves? This is a question I think is very interesting. I have no idea, in all honesty. Still, I have to say that every one of these fat-acceptance comics I have seen depicts an obese woman with a decently built man. This is solely anecdotal, however. And I have not delved deep into that grime and muck, patriarchal misogynistic bastard unable to show empathy and understanding for the plight of (insert supposedly marginalized group) that I undoubtedly am.
Still, and for what it is worth, I would dare say that I absolutely do think men tend to not be critical enough about where they stick their willy. As long as the willy gets wet at a semi-regular basis, it is all worth it in the end. No matter what happens, how it happens or what she does. Or how she does it. There is a reason why there is such a saying as “don’t stick your dick in crazy”, after all.
Contrary to what the current cultural climate would have one believe, this saying is more of a slight against men than it is a slight against women. That is how I hear it, any ways – a cautionary tale in six wondrously crafted words, urging men to think with their big heads and not their willy when it comes to the subject of willy-wetting. There are more important things in the world than fucking. Yet, men are thirsty creatures. To our own demise. And crazy women exist. Just as crazy men exist. The difference lies in what women are told in regards to crazy by society at large, and what men are told. The expectations are not the same, nor is the message delivered. There are few limits to what men are supposed to put up with. Whereas women don’t even need to put up with a lack of attraction from men for reasons of poor health and obesity. Or poor health on account of obesity.
It is still his fault and as such need mending. On his part. His biology must be re-written, his outlook altered and his brain beat into tune so that he plays the fat-acceptance accordion with a painted-on smile and glazed-over eyes, singing along with the ballad of the big beautiful women. These are women who are healthy at any size… and diabetes, infertility, cardiovascular disease and higher risk of certain cancers, etc. etc. be damned. Those diseases are all patriarchal constructs; designed to force a societal ideal of beauty that is as unnatural as it is unobtainable. Being fat is exactly how things should be.
For is it not written that the flab is as the flab does, and any who oppose the fat, the flab or the fold are not of the true roll? Hail to the flab, for it marks the coming of the fold and of the fat and of the roll. From now until the end of time, amen, hallelujah, praise Mickie D’s, all hail the King of the Burgers, and so forth and so on.
I used to be fat. I have lost a little over 30 KG. This was done solely by changing what I ate, what I drank and how much I walked. No strenuous exercise, even… nothing more difficult than self-discipline and adding about 30 minutes of walking to my daily routine. Granted, changing what one eats and drinks is changing habits. And changing habits is fairly difficult. But it is far from the most difficult thing in the world. It is absolutely doable. People do it all the time. It is well worth it.
I must say that losing weight did wonders for my mental health as well as some pretty severe lower back pain I struggled with for quite some time. Not having to carry around 30-something kilos of flab alleviated pain. Who’d have thunk it? It fixed quite a lot of other things of small or big significance, which I do not wish to get into here. Of course, this was before I got hit with this bloody illness of mine which causes me chronic pain and fatigue along with a whole host of other health-issues of varying severity… Bloody genetics, man. This was likely destined to happen. Which would, were I still fat, be even harder on me than it currently is. The only thing you lose when losing weight is weight. But I am getting off track… again.
…It is so strange to see how men are not “allowed” their own romantic or sexual preferences. They are to be shamed for it. Don’t want to fuck a pre-transition transexual lady with a penis? You are as transphobic as the day is bright, sir! How dare you not want your woman to have a penis? Lady-penises are beautiful, I’ll have you know, sir! For added shaming, add the slur “homophobic” and something-something “heteronormative”…
The sexuality of men tend to be viewed as something dangerous, something primitive, something based solely on primal lust with not a smidgeon of emotional connection anywhere to be found. I would dare say that most men quite enjoy there to be an emotional connection as well as a purely physical attraction. At the very least regarding long term relationships. But what the hell do I know – I have only been a man for thirty-some years… it is not as though I have studied intersectional feminism and stalwart gender-studies, after all. As such, I really have no idea about life as a man. That knowledge is reserved for female gender-studies graduates with type 2 diabetes poking its head out of their throats, floating on their radical and righteous acid reflux.
It is such a horrendously arrogant thing.
Feminism knows all about life as a man. And men can not know anything about it, nor can they know anything about life as a woman. If you want to know what life is like as a man, you have to study gender in universities. It is not enough to live your life as a man. This means nothing. Only women have lived experiences. Men need not apply. Particularly women of the gender-studies bent experience lived experiences, with the mark of feminism tattooed on their heads… branded, as it were, by the mark of the beast. To be clear: I do not believe that every man lives the same life and has the same experiences. Nor do I believe this about women.
One-night-stands are another beast altogether where attraction and sex is concerned… but in that regard, there are two people playing on prime-rib primal lust, not only one. With the man labelled an arsehole for leaving the next day, and potentially a rapist were the woman intoxicated. Whether or not he was intoxicated as well plays little part and no matter. He is the instigator and the fornicator, and she is not. An awful gender-traditional view, one would probably be inclined to believe. Yet apparently not.
It is clearly liberating to the extreme; an intoxicated woman is completely incapable of acting on her own accord, whereas an intoxicated man is very much capable of acting on both his own and her accord. Apparently, women turn into children when intoxicated. And men are some horrible paternalistic rape-figure, entrenched in cum-dreams and driven by primeval lust. Both when they are sober and when they have been drinking. For that is the plight of man, mischievous bastards that we are.
One-night-stands may be as they may; I fail to see why anyone should care what people do with their genitalia. I do have my own opinions on the matter, but I see no reason to flaunt that opinion here as some sort of bloody moralizing stupidity. Consenting adults can do whatever the hell consenting adults want to do.
The main problem with sexual liberation is that it also carries with it an immense amount of responsibility, not least of which is to take personal responsibility for drunken one-night-stands. Which also includes regretting it the next day, when the lust has passed and a throbbing urge and desire to scream, roar, and hide beneath the covers in shame overcomes one.
Accepting and then living with that regret is part of the game. Falsely crying “rape” – as have happened more than once – for regretting an in-the-heat-of-sudden-passion one-night-stand is not accepting ones own folly and taking responsibility for it. It is pushing responsibilities for ones own actions away, giving one party sole responsibility for something where it really and truly does take two to tango.
I have no doubt, of course, that rape happens. Nor do I have any doubt that both men and women are capable of rape. And of being raped. But claiming rape of the woman every time a drunken hookup happens between a man and a woman is much akin to saying that men are capable of making their own choices and taking responsibilities for their actions when drunk, and women are not. Which does sound awfully patronizing… seems like infantilising women are in vogue at the moment. I happen to believe women are far stronger and much less frail and weak than feminism wants us to believe that they are.
You see; if women can not consent to sex when drunk, whereas men can, what view would you say the ones claiming this have of women? And of men? And of female sexuality? And male sexuality?
It sounds neither equal, nor healthy, nor sane from my point of view. Either both parties are raped and both parties are rapists, or they are both grown-ass adults, capable of making their own decisions. Even when intoxicated. This removal of liability, of personal responsibility from drunk women is removing all manner of personal agency from women and placing it all on men.
Though certainly a push from feminism claiming to speak on behalf of all women. Consent can be revoked at any point. Even long after the affair. Which is interesting, obviously, as this necessarily must mean that one can not trust in a woman that gives willing and eager consent, as it may be removed seventeen years later and brand one a rapist. I have no idea how this is supposed to work. Men need to get consent. OK, that is fair enough – do women have to get consent? Or does it not work like that? Did you not think of it in that way? Oh, well, no matter. Consent is gotten. And then it can be removed at any point, even after the damned willy-wetting. How can one possibly trust in the consent given then?
Men are hunters, and women are prey. That is what the sexual tango boils down to through this line of thought… as such, any sexual act is an act perpetrated by the man upon the woman. Sex is something men do to women, which women begrudgingly let men do to them. Giving way to such splendid stupidity as “all heterosexual sex is rape” from many a radical feminist, which is, of course, not real feminism. Because such a thing does not exist. Even when it does for reasons of feminism not being a monolith. Sigh and harumph.
I’ll just retreat into the shadows, twirl my moustaches menacingly and laugh in grim-faced patriarchy.
It is almost as if feminism is created to be confusing, giving neither a yes or a no, but perpetually existing in a state of uncertain flux so as to be invoked at any moment as either this or that, depending on the state of current affairs. We have always been at war with Oceania. Or was it Eurasia? It is so easy to get lost in it. Better to just go with the frantic flow of things. Nod, smile, and pretend to understand.
The cat and mouse game is nothing new. One can hear it in songs as old as time, in tales as old as time. Most elegantly in the quaint and very romantic “Baby, it’s cold outside”… It is such a quaint, cute and romantic song that I can not help but love it. Soppy romantic fool that I am. This ballad really blew up around Christmas of 2017 or 2018 – I can’t really remember… with it being referred to as a date-rape anthem and other such stupidity from people who seem to be frightfully unaware of how human beings interact and all the social games we tend to play which, ultimately, are nothing but a set of invisible rules and borders which we all must exist within and work together within, whether we want to or not.
I really do believe there is something to the cat and mouse game… Women are the gatekeepers of sex. And men must “catch them” by proving themselves worthy in some way or other… must convince them that they are worthy of a good and solid fucking, a chance of procreation, a relationship, and so and such. Him protect, him provide, through this, that or the other. There is nothing wrong with this, as such. If people were willing to at the very least be god-damned honest about it, instead of muddying it and hiding it and pretending it is something other than what it is. For it is a dance, a constant back and forth, older than sin.
When considering that men are the ones who are expected – by and large – to make the first move in any relationship, it becomes even more apparent. At the very least it does so to me. Yet, the rules have changed somewhat… the social contract having been rewritten with mainly women in mind, keeping the rules the same for men in no small way and loosening the rules for women in no small way give rise to a certain sense of confusion. There are still plenty of traditional expectations expected from men, even in regards to simple one-night-stands. These are rules and expectations which women seem to cling too, all the while expecting to be released from these rules and expectations themselves. Rules and expectations is something that happen to other people, after all.
She has been “hunted” all night until she finally relented and gave in, willingly gave consent through many an “Oh, God, Yes!!!” and then removed the consent the following morning for regretting it. Which just beggars the question yet again: how can one possibly trust in this consent, if the consent can be given, the act done and the consent then removed the following morning?
One can not trust in it. And it does not make any sense – the rules are nonsensical.
That is a major problem of this current year. If all responsibility for drunken hook-ups lie squarely on the shoulders of men, never-minding any responsibility from a drunken woman who also was very much into it, up to and including willing and eager consent, there is a problem. With great power comes great responsibility. Great sexual freedom is great power. And one has to take responsibility for ones own actions when enjoying that freedom.
Obviously, this is something that goes for both men and women who enjoy this kind of thing. Yet the blame and the responsibility keep falling primarily in the lap of men. And only men, if the winds keep blowing as they do. Only men have agency in this regard, then. That is the view of things. And the feminist hive-mind host slut-walks to protest the shame they claim women who seek nefarious carnal knowledge of someone else’s flesh are met with on a regular basis, forgetting for sake of convenience, that everyone – be they man or woman – are judged on what they do and how they behave.
I do not believe that this is something every woman does. The power to do so is still there, though. And this society of ours keep telling women that 1+1 equals 5, 6, 7 or even 8. That if she feels wronged, she has been wronged – and to hell with all the facts of the matter, up to and including willing consent given in the moment… or at every subsequent step from the moment.
I could have gone on for ages with this… but I’ll take a break here, considering the length of my ramblings being too lengthy more often than not. …And my mind not being at its best behaviour on account of a particularly rough battle with illness the past few months. Also, the construction work going on outside is distracting, making it even more difficult to think and write. Join me next week for some more cruel and unusual rambling on what is, essentially and apparently, not real feminism. Even when it is. Despite such a thing not existing, except when it does.
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- Moiret Allegiere, 02.11.2019
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