While we all know that most women have rape fantasies, feminists have “rape culture” fantasies, Islam promotes rape as Jihad, rape may well be an act of war or invasion, and both rape and false rape accusations exist, from men to women, women to men, men to men, and women to women, with the actual numbers being highly subject to bias, and even the definition of “rape” and “consent” being subject to bias, lately, I’ve been thinking about Oedipus, the man and the complex.
I’ve been reading up on the Oedipus Myth lately, not the least because Axel was born with horribly deformed and swollen feet and ankles, and this strikes me as an odd synchronicity. Like Oedipus, Axel was a brilliant and heroic individual with both brains and brawn made of legends.
Kissing and massaging those feet, shopping for just the right socks, and clipping those toenails were some of my great joys in life.
As described in the myth in the link above, “rape” is also subject to statutory deception, bad luck, and the intervention of ill-meaning and well-meaning parties. Cheating death is its own paradox especially when it is a rapist to have done so, temporarily.
As far as I know, Axel’s father never raped any princes, I’m positively certain Axel neither killed his father nor had sex with his mother. Axel had both of his crystal blue eyes intact.
However, Axel’s mother seemed to have no compunctions about dragging Axel under the bus for her own ambitions, and Axel had come closer to killing his own father than most people I have known, twice.
Perhaps Axel’s mother had some sort of misdirected Jocasta Complex.
Perhaps it was Axel’s paternal grandmother who had it.
Axel was practically plagued by women throwing themselves at him desiring some form of sexual or spiritual attention from him. According to Axel, as a boy, he treated females with caution and suspicion, and this caused the exact opposite behavior in them than he expected. His first sexual experience wasn’t entirely because he desired it, and might even be called rape. She was persistent and somewhat overwhelmed him. He didn’t tell anyone but was determined to have the upper hand in these sorts of exchanges thereafter.
He also successfully fought off a male sexual assailant when he was a boy—a policeman in fact.
As far as I know, the only false rape accusation ever promoted by rumor about him was for purposes of extorting money from some of the exotic dancers who worked at his club, but not for long.
There was a woman, another dancer, who would recruit dancers into the club under her aegis, and for a percentage of their proceeds, as a means of “protecting” them from Axel who she asserted required sexual favors from all dancers except for those under her “protection” (and thereby delivering Axel’s cut of their proceeds as a bundle, subject to her own representation, of course). That lie began to fall apart when dancers who rejected her agency complained that Axel wasn’t trying to obtain sexual favors from them in exchange for allowing them to dance! I mean come on! Weren’t they sexy enough? What’s a girl have to do to get strong-armed into sexual favors around here? There were tears!
“You can try making him lunch…” is what I would have suggested. This all happened before my time, but yes, that worked!
The first woman, the agent, was thereby rejected by all of her stable, took her act on the road, and must have tried to fool the wrong person, because she ended up in a dumpster.
Axel didn’t go around bullying or supplicating, when he would look at a woman, he wouldn’t disguise it but wouldn’t go into a trance either, unless he was watching porn (safer). If he happened to slap a girl on the ass, she would giggle and smile, like she had been touched by an angel—rather than say an infant who wants to nurse, wants a sammich, wants a this, wants a that…Waaaaa. When he did want a sandwich, they would fight it out between them who would have the honor of obtaining and delivering it. Other homemade treats of one kind and another were brought to work like apples for the teacher.
Other men called him the “luckiest man in the world.”
He would look at them and shake his head. It wasn’t all roses, of course. Ever try to break up a catfight?
I’ve put together this story not just from Axel’s accounts, but from my own observations, and the reminiscences of some of his friends.
It wasn’t a joke, roll play, or game, and yet the only fear Axel invoked was fear of not being sufficiently pleasing to him and thereby not being asked to serve again. Sorry. No “rape”. “Rape” wasn’t a scene he liked to enact or role play especially. So, he didn’t. Not as a game. If he were to act out some sort of entrapment it was done psychologically, with her enthusiastic consent that she was to be putty in his hands beforehand.
When it comes to challenging scenarios between adults, I do believe that enthusiastic consent is better form, which is not to say that it is “rape” without it. Rather all men are to be expected to have to go through some sort of learning curve in terms of how to make a woman want them, or to at least be a good sport about the whole thing. As for getting women to crave them, well, I think I just answered that in terms of one possible method.
Speaking of men undergoing a learning curve with regard to women. Please listen up: I’m not interested in being anyone’s “bitch” or “whore”.
Apparently some women are, or otherwise, these ploys wouldn’t be tried on me so frequently, I assume, by men of means no less.
What sort of whores and bitches are ruining these men? Is it the Jocasta complex?
A “bitch” in my view, in this context, is a dog who shakes off her teething puppies because she’s had enough! That would be withholding Jocasta. Or it could be a cougar who’s had her fill.
A “whore” in my view, in this context, pretends to enjoy hamhanded, infantile sex, for purposes of getting money. That would be compliant Jocasta. Or she might like the humiliation, and I get that, but for me that’s not accurate. I’m a lousy whore. I’m not even all that excited about things like flowers and jewelry.
As for me, I’m just trying to find a man who doesn’t expect me to be Jocasta or to submit to her.
Lately, I have been in some discussions with regard to certain rapes I managed to avoid, but decline to neutralize those defensive scenarios by promoting them here. Suffice it to say, I determine intuitively which brand of Oedipus Complex the aspiring rapist is harboring and counteract it intuitively according to my own means and opportunity. Just like sex is all in the mind and thereby doesn’t require a playbook or recipe except for the hopelessly obsessive fetishist, foiling the playbook of a rapist and thereby making it “not fun,” can cause infantile frustration and confusion. Sometimes, strangely however, my diversion from his plan results in the assailant snapping out of his trance.
It’s like fooling a cat. Careful, but, it can be done.
I wonder how many rapists were merely poorly weaned?
Since my own maternal impulses as pertains toward strangers or near-strangers are sorely lacking, this sort of thing comes naturally to me. I don’t care whether a near-rapist likes me afterward. (He ought to as I have just improved his chances at improving his own character but I won’t stick around for whatever expression of gratitude he might have in mind.)
The new thing however which surprises me lately is just how quickly men are willing to reveal to me their “tells”. To me, that’s a sign of some form of hypnosis which I am inadvertently triggering with my mere presence. I know better than to get so shit-faced as to be defenseless when certain and rare monstrous men react when it turns out they don’t get a cookie or even a pat on the head from me. Part of that learning came the hard way.
Most, however, thankfully, are “Good boys”.
Neither bad boys nor good boys do it for me.