Leftist Rape Camp

I am so fed up with Leftist, Liberal, and “What about my Legacy?” Republican whining that I have decided to confess. With enough torture I can be persuaded to spill my guts all over their parade and, what’s worse, irregardless of further whining to the contrary, this idea of mine is one that they’re going to like.

Peace shall reign.

First of all, let us identify the problem. (Inspired by David Cole’s, Black Cop, Drunk Jew, White City):

One of the many sociologically damaging effects of smoking bans is that places where people tend to talk—live—with each other, such as cafes, diners, and bars, now function as portable offices, get-them-in-get-them out affairs, and fermentation tanks. Back before smoking bans, a cop could show up at a cafe, diner, or bar, drink some coffee or soft drinks, smoke, and chit-chat with the owner, employees, and patrons such as to find out about new developments in the precinct and perhaps thereby prevent crimes of greater sociological significance than smoking infractions.

—Excerpted from my Disqus comment.

Is it possible, that the recent smoking ban in New Orleans has set off a powder keg?

In California, youth-obsessed but perpetually parched, desert-dwelling, and well-divorced women effectively run the politics of the state. I’ll venture that perhaps tobacco smoke is not compatible with the lungs of fat-free vegetarians and therefore, perhaps, a tad more offensive to same than paranoia-inducing marijuana.

A more serious issue however that applies to every state in the U.S. is that there is a severe man shortage!

My recommendation to solving these problems is that lovely spa-like Non-Profit, Sliding Scale Bordello/Mental Health centers be built in California or, better yet, perhaps some of its prisons can be revitalized and re-purposed with green spaces, gardens, and meditation centers.

Men can be encouraged to volunteer to perform community service at these Life Enhancement Centers by first submitting to “Line Ups” and then allow the well-moneyed to bid on them or even virtuously donate them to their less endowed sisters, for a well-supervised, politically-correct, hour long “session”.

Women could pay for luxury accommodations therein and pay into funds for purposes of accommodating their less fortunate sisters.

Hospitality lobbies of all sorts could also be encouraged to donate, as well as solicit donations from their patrons.

Of course, these Feminine Massage Centers would be smoke free, provide healthy snacks, and safe sex materials.

Meanwhile, the rest of the nation can be free to lift all smoking bans.

A “Real” Anti-Feminist

“Please respond, only if you’re real.”

The above is the tagline to be found in men’s online dating profiles to include the BDSM world with such regularity as to be hilarious. What is “real” when it comes to irrational romantic and sexual fantasy? Standards vary coast-to-coast as well as era-to-era, and that’s just in the United States.

I hate online dating by the way. I got married to the wrong man thanks to the rise of online dating, which confounded and intimidated me. More.

Nowadays I’m wholly jaded and entirely disabused of the validity of online dating. Hell is an online dating site. Church however is a polite catfight. Pass. Yeccccch.

I’d rather marry my martini shaker.

In terms of my “real” Dominant man? I suspect that the last shining example of such a creature died just over a year ago. That’s right. I’m almost 55, attractive enough for men on the street to approach me, but, as an “Alpha Widow” my hopes are so shot in terms of finding romance again, that I might as well be honest, right here, in my blog, in terms of the truth of Feminism, Statism, Healthism, and Churchism.

It’s all I’ve got.

It’s a lousy seduction strategy.

I am inspired to write this piece today in response to the latest from Roosh V. However, my response is not going to be an overwhelming love fest. Honesty from a woman is like that. I suspect that some men never receive honesty from a woman in their lives.

In his latest, Roosh issues a challenge in terms of how to flush out a “real” anti-feminist among women. Unfortunately, it is not without bias. However, on balance, I think he makes some good points, particularly given the examples he has used. I’m on board with his examples as such that I agree that these particular women are not anti-feminist for the reasons he’s outlined.

In defense of somewhat hypocritical anti-feminist women, I’ll say that most of them are interested in either building a brand and thereby making money, and/or finding a husband. I regret that these objectives are somewhat in conflict. Such is the way of the world. One day, perhaps, I’ll make up some up-to-date slick videos myself for those objectives. However, I haven’t done so. Does that mean that I’m a dried up old hag? Or does it mean that I’m tired of being physically attacked by both men and women who’ve decided that I’m some sort of she-devil because I don’t have the same damage that they do? Misery loves company. How could I not be a miserable man-hating shrew or so completely cynical that I drink myself to death? It must be because I am the enemy. Been there!

There is also the matter of the paradox between attention-whoring and modesty. If an anti-feminist woman never speaks up, how do you know whether or not she exists?

For the moment, I am blessed such that I do not have to solicit donations or otherwise curry favor with interests who may not have the same philosophical bent that I do. That situation may well change, and soon! Meanwhile, if you would like to donate to my survival, let’s get together and meet over a cigar or drink or something because you deserve to know who I am and what I will or won’t do for just a tad more security than I have now.

No I will not peg you. No you may not eat my pussy. No I will not find deep fulfillment by means of mechanical orgasms.

An intimate connection takes time! Have you got time? If not, please move on.

For a pick-up artist turned masculinist, is it definitive that Roosh is an anti-feminist? Or is that merely expedient for his age transition, in terms of his target demographic?

Does he spurn feminist or fake-anti-feminist pussy? Hmmm. I sense a conflict of interest.

That conflict of interest does not however make Roosh a rapist!

Roosh provides a list of questions with which one can determine whether a woman is a “real” anti-feminist or not. Here they are, with my answers:

  1. “Are you against homosexual marriage?” I’m against homosexuals raising or farming children. Sterilization ought to be paid by taxpayers, plus throw in a big screen TV or something, plus provide some sort of civic or do-it-yourself retirement/geriatric care package that does not require guilting one’s progeny into wiping one’s ass. It would be cheaper in the long run. Besides, homosexuals perform a service. What’s wrong with Domestic Partnerships? I think they are terrific vehicles. Now that homosexual marriage is here, however, good luck putting it back in the box, Roosh. Therefore this argument is facile.
  2. “Do you believe its [sic] ideal for a woman to remain a virgin until she gets married?” Depends on the environment. In some places, yes. In other places, no. It would depend largely on whether men have some sort of sex-training so that they can get good at it. If not (such as today or under the influence of the fairy tale of “peer romance”) then she is expected to teach him. Facile again. Not a real world hypothetical. I think that The Oneidas had the right idea in terms of teaching both parties how to enjoy sex; however, I won’t elaborate here given the current climate that has everyone up in arms even while disagreeing on terms. By the way, I’ve been the privileged guest at a number of similar alternative lifestyle communities. They’re not all bad.
  3. “Do you believe that its [sic] best for children to be raised by a stay-at-home mother?” Yes.
  4. “Do you believe a woman’s choices should be constrained by her husband, tribe, or church with the intention of doing what’s best for her?” Yes. Even me. Would love to be so constrained. Sigh. At least I have my memories.
  5. “Do you believe it’s wrong for a young girl to find herself by traveling around the world and trying new experiences?” Certainly not ideal. Effectively orphaned young girls however, do whatever they have to do to survive and get ahead, to include slutting it up with whoever will pay her for whatever value she may be able to supply.

Now here’s my challenge for male anti-feminists to determine whether they are “real” anti-feminists:

Please justify Monogamy for me and supply me some civic purpose for the women left behind in a “monogamous marriage is the only marriage” environment, after wars devastate the male population, and those remaining men beat the gay out of their boys.

The convent? Hah. How many ex-Catholic schoolboys are now Atheist SJW’s thanks to abuse from nuns? The whorehouse? Better. Lifetime employment within government bureaucracy? That’s how we got into this mess. Fail.

Please feel free to make an argument I haven’t heard already with regard to Monogamy that shows that you are capable of adding, subtracting, dividing, and multiplying numbers, that doesn’t sound all whiny with regard to “assholes” who get all the women. Those assholes are going to get all the women anyway, one way or another, if you guys insist on romancing women in a pussy-whipped manner.

Go for it. Show me how “real” you are.

The Pleasure of Foolishness

While it would seem that just about every woman I meet, but especially around my age, knows everything about everything, the pleasure of being a fool is underrated.

While the young attractive woman, newly in love may be foolishly optimistic, there is an argument for euthanasia when the foolishness wears off. Perhaps senile dementia can help?

Wholly putting responsibility into the hands of a beloved man while swearing obedience is one of those “foolish” feminine things now out of fashion. Women who resist fashion are either fools or eccentrics, with the latter implying some sort of financial means. I suppose that I’m a little of both.

However, being an eccentric ought not to mean, in my view, license to demand positive affirmation from others. However, if positive affirmation is what amounts to much of today’s courting behavior from men, then my revulsion for it just tars me as weird and damaged.

I have to thank Edwin Oslan, a commenter to my recent piece on my lack of “femaleness” for helping me to clarify my feelings on the subject.

For me, the most romantic pet names and adjectives to describe me are considered by the Feminist hive mind to be demeaning. Only a fool would melt romantically in response to such patronizing endearments. Forgive me for being coy on the specifics except the most benign, that is, “kitchen slut,” an inadvertent reference to the etymology of the term, “slut,”  that is a servant woman confined to the kitchen.

So much of catfighting is about class. Being forbidden from entry to the kitchen is an honor, for some. For me, it is a dubious one, although, of course, I enjoy being taken out to dinner as much as the next girl. As a way of life, only relying on others for kitchen duty would mean a loss of agency and pride for me.

I remember how I once asked Axel if he wanted to help me with the dishes after a particularly elaborate meal that I had prepared, and received a stern rebuke. I deserved it. While Axel used his considerable skills to do far more dirty and dangerous work to include the handling of toxic chemicals, crawling in crawl spaces, and even the filthy end of plumbing, at home he was King. I might be a little tired after an involved recipe but he knew as well as I did that I would perk up for sex or BDSM. I therefore learned to put myself in the proper mindset for all such drudgery as it would serve to create an environment that would inspire him romantically. A sink full of dirty dishes would not.

It was particularly difficult for me however to prepare for him a meal, and watch as he cleaned up and dressed to go out, with another woman afterwards. Most modern women would call me a fool for agreeing to that dynamic. However, I always knew that whenever he approached me it was not merely out of physical need but that he wanted me to be the one to satisfy him. For that reason not once was sex between us dull or “routine”. It was always a main event.

I was responsible for the clean up afterwards there as well.

Occasionally, Axel would check up on me, to make sure that I was happy and otherwise satisfied with our relationship. Axel wasn’t in the least complacent about our relationship which in turn helped me to feel treasured by him. He also expressed his appreciation for all that I did for him, and I for all that he did for me. Personally, I find it foolish for women to expect labor and gifts from men as some sort of tribute and doubt that women are actually happy with that arrangement for its own sake, but are rather merely imitating what they see on television and advertising.

Men who are happy with that state of affairs are also fools. However, in my view, a relationship only needs one fool and I’m happy to be it.

 

 

 

 

 

Not Female Enough

Men who have learned all their feminism and chivalry lessons from women and who have succeeded in garnering the favors of same tend to look at me as a puzzle. Considering themselves successful in their understanding of women, then either I must be a freak or in need of educating. It is only men who have been seriously burned by women, in my experience, who are the least bit open to the idea that most women do not know what they want but rather are either wholly victimized by propaganda, or cynically use such propaganda to their own ends. I’ve often been the target of outright hostility from “white knights” who consider me an enemy of all the good, empowered, and/or victimized women of their experience, or at least worthy of conversion. If the typical Leftist considers himself to be more intelligent and educated than the typical Conservative, then any challenges to one’s reality need to be dealt with aggressively.

Similarly, those men who have achieved some degree of sexual satisfaction with women despite a tendency to over-emote or otherwise display the “sensitivity” and “vulnerability” that supposedly feminists desire might similarly emote as a means of attempting to educate an anti-feminist woman such as myself to get into line.

As for men who have come to believe that women are the enemy or cannot be trusted then I am a threat to that wordview as well, especially if I cause a crack in it.

It would seem that most men who I encounter in my daily life these days are at somewhat of a loss with me such that there is some insistence that I take on a more aggressive role in the relationship even if I cannot seem to muster up the enthusiasm.

For one, as a woman, I’m supposed to know what I want. In a lot of ways, that’s true, but I don’t think it can be taught. Therefore, I prefer to keep my own counsel which I suppose makes me even more of a puzzle. If it is any help, I prefer to meet a man on his own turf rather than to introduce him to mine. I learn more about a man who introduces me to a part of his world than I would by randomly introducing him to my new environment, which I haven’t even fully adapted to myself. This also allows me to see whether I can adapt to his.

One of the realms of womanhood that is elusive to me is the notion of “domesticity”. As much as I like to cook, and don’t mind housework, modern home decor and accoutrements are foreign elements to me. I’m therefore not in the least put off by workshops, garages, farms, and other places where the action that occurs within them is more important than the decor. Whereas the modern suburban living room seems “foreign” to me, the kitchen less so as it is a place where creations are manufactured. Similarly, the outdoors is more beautiful to me than a museum and I prefer disarray over anal-retentive order.

I don’t particularly enjoy shopping. although some food stores, for instance, are so well-equipped that it is a pleasure. Shopping at a farm however provides far more appeal.

Another area of femininity which I lack is social inquisitiveness. I don’t tend to ask people a lot of questions about themselves. I like to think that I’m a good listener but I expect the speaker to say what he or she wants to say rather than converse just for the sake of it. For this reason I’ll often miss out on details that are important to other people such as where they grew up, how many siblings they have, whether their parents are living, and so on. I readily admit to not having a lot of interest in these mundane details. Rather, I’m far more interested in what a person thinks about current events, issues, politics, religion, and sex, than whether they learned how to ride a pony when they were six. I might even forget to ask what a person does for a living.

I’m not likely to achieve a major transformation away from these personality tics without the aid of serious hypnosis. Simply attempting to shame me for my lack of femininity is useless. Why would any man find that to be a reasonable approach?

 

Infidelity Does Not Justify Violence

The more I contemplate the Monogamy Math Problem, the less sympathy I have for “victims” of a roving spouse. It isn’t something I can relate to what with the dysfunction of my upbringing. If such a victim counters infidelity with violence than my sympathy is further reduced, unless such “violence” is of the form which is arousal inducing, that is, negotiated BDSM between effective as well as actual adults.

The cure for alienation of arousal is not punishment!

If a couple are truly sexually incompatible, surely this is a justification for break up or divorce. It would seem to me that it ought to be written right into the bonding vow, of whatever form that might take, that it is the obligation of both parties to be both sexually pleasing and attractive, such that failure to perform on either scale is grounds for divorce.

Such pleasing behavior does not necessarily mean that one’s partner won’t find other parties to be similarly attractive. However, sexual desire does not need to decrease with use, but rather, usually, the opposite. Therefore, given my preference for masculine men, a man with a roving eye is what I would call a healthy specimen! It is therefore my job and inspiration to maintain myself both physically and spiritually as attractive and thereby inspiring of both his loving attentions as well as his lustful ones.

Similarly, if I am being neglected, then I would just assume walk away myself rather than “cheat”; however, I understand that when financial entanglements such as children hinder that possibility then some people are forced to compromise.

What this all means in practical terms is that if I feel I am being sexually neglected in favor of another, then acting out whether by tantrum or violence is counterproductive. If there is no “other” then I’m going to wonder whether there is a health issue or if I am simply no longer appealing. If it is the former, then it is time for some sort of negotiation, in my view, in that “vows of fidelity” are meaningful only to various Statists and Churchians when it comes to forced celibacy. Whereas this was the case in the majority of years of my marriage, given that my husband never really loved anything about me other than the superficial, I was not seriously tempted to cheat given that my own personal integrity generally outweighs my sexual desire. When I did finally leave or rather escape him however our “vows” ceased to have any meaning such that I was delighted to jump into the arms of Axel, who I met almost immediately afterwards.

I knew from the onset that Axel was accustomed to “servicing” a variety of aspiring submissives and that any attempts to curtail this practice were bound to be destructive. Therefore, the only parts of this randy equation that concerned me were financial and personal. With regard to the first, I vowed to trust Axel to see to our own financial interests. Without that trust, just how valuable is the gift of “submission” anyway? With regard to the second, I extracted a promise from Axel that all personal questions about me from his lovers were to be answered by the following phrase: “Buy the book.”

In the same vein I trusted Axel to ensure that he would not be a father to any future progeny, which would be both a financial and personal liability. Since he had already been tricked into fatherhood once, he knew better than to trust a mere lover in that regard and thereby took the pains of disposing of his own condoms off site. In my view, unwilling parenthood is also an act of violence.

Up until the height of his illness, Axel continued to sexually satisfy me, one way or another, and my own material needs given my lack of interest in competing with women on that level are minimal. I’d rather have male sexual attention than baubles. Why is that considered strange? I think it speaks toward the Statist and Churchian objectives in manufacturing an unending stream of bitter and damaged women for purposes of self-perpetuation and inflating sphere of influence. One’s feelings of rejection or possessiveness are manageable issues when one is getting plenty of loving and lusting as one’s reward. Therefore the actions and propaganda purveyed by the various megalomaniac utopianists would thwart those exercises.

 

 

 

Ego Clusterfuck

I am perversely flattered with the sheer number of players obsessed with my writings—on my blogs, in private correspondence—and even my private phone calls.

There has even been a made-for-Netflix movie about me which is uncanny in its eye for detail while getting the story completely mismatched wrong.

Given that I have apparently survived three men—a missing international con artist, Axel’s father, and Axel—then it would stand to reason that there are currently a host of interests who have made it their business to intercept and analyse my life, often to my great inconvenience and expense.

These players and groups of players apparently operate by various codes and rules, which are frequently bent. I wonder how often they step on each other.

When a man’s paradigm of women of my demographic is as an extractable resource, much like a mine, from which resources such as money, caregiving, and pussy juice flow, then why are so many of them so surprised and even angry that the mine is already depleted? (OK. Not completely but not worth all the sturm und drang either.)

I’m just a writer. Don’t date a writer.

Surely, I must be overflowing with missing and dead men’s money or at the least engaging with them as a sorceress bewitching the dead and undead. Surely I must be desirous of a toilet slave who shall lick all of my orifices clean whether that pleases me or not. Surely I must be desirous of wiping old people’s asses for fun and profit.

Surely!

Since these suppositions are not true, the various aspirant miners sometimes get angry that I am not what they expect or that I am not afraid of them. This also makes other types of aspirant miners a wee bid trepidatious. Everyone is all offended that I exist. Well, SorrRREEee.

Online relationships suck however nothing sucks quite as bad as a jilted state trooper. My advice to those who desire to date a state trouper are as follows:

  • Choose a state trooper from a prosperous conservative community, such as say Punta Gorda, Florida, rather than one with way too many ways to waste taxpayer money than to pay their troopers enough to attract pussy on their own merits.
  • Choose a state trooper who admits to being a state trooper rather than one who pretends to be a successful investor now slumming in a college town as a means of attracting lonely widows/aspirant gold diggers and then hitting them up for money while pretending to suffer from acid reflux.

In addition to these lessons I impart herewith, now learned the hard way, I would also like to herewith eliminate all persons from consideration who believe the following:

  • The internet is a private medium incapable of being intercepted and thereby a perfect medium in which to have electronic sexual or BDSM relationships as if such relationships are at all private.
  • Only criminals are subject to illegal wiretaps.

 

 

Drag Queen Envy

A Disqus poster who, I’m going to guess would not personally prefer attribution here (if I’m wrong you know where to find me) inspires me to write about my admiration and envy for drag queens. I represent that this population is distinct from the less than flamboyant transgendered, transvestites, homosexuals, and bisexuals, according to the generally accepted norms of my own lifetime and era of acceptance of vast ranges of sexual experimentation not comparable to my current status, which is mostly celibate.

During that long ago period of my sexual prime in the U.S., largely in coastal urban population centers but with significant exposure to urban and rural environments and populations in or from northern, central, and southern populations, I believe I developed enough familiarity with the various sexual outlaw types to be of sufficient authority on the matter such as to write about it herein.

My sexual prime took place in an era not nearly as poisoned by Leftist political correctness as today, in that most people who were interested in having sex, no matter how strange one’s preferences to that effect may have been, were more interested in honesty than non-offensiveness given that all persons were considered entitled to exclusivity even if, as always, less attractive, less intelligent, and less wealthy people probably necessarily were inclined to broaden their reach more than those with more of those attributes.

I’ve long envied drag queens, even if that envy is obviously misplaced. Whereas I had complete freedom to indulge myself given a lack of parental restriction or protectiveness, drag queens of my experience confined themselves to small, protective, exclusive realms such as entertainment venues, bars, clubs, and neighborhoods, complete with bodyguards whether they be professional or ad hoc, and often such of the latter possessing the same sorts of physiques and psychological make-up of men of my desired target demographics. In short, while Feminism was telling women that they could do anything and go anywhere, drag queens knew that they were not just vulnerable but inflammatory toward certain populations, and therefore took the appropriate measures to protect themselves whenever possible to include removing all appearances of “drag” in favor of a more masculine albeit usually meek appearance; notwithstanding that there were many bodybuilder and weight training drag queens who sacrificed their convincing shapeshifter qualities for self-protection and protection of other vulnerable persons.

However, in such protective “drag queen friendly” environments, costumerey and artifice were celebrated. As a theatre person of sorts myself (not to any great degree personally but I associated with such types and have performed in front of small and medium-sized audiences in various capacities) but without the deep abiding need for crowd approval or fame in terms of theatre alone, it was a given that my dedication to theatre was less than propelling. However, playing dress up and getting attention is awfully fun. I used to have far more interest in masquerades and costumery myself prior to such pursuits being poisoned by the current prevailing Leftist infantilism. Nowadays I use something like costumery just to fit in when necessary as studious naturalistic unconventional looks stand out in certain crowds, paradoxically.

When so-inspired I can effect a drag queen persona with the best of them such that some people might even wonder whether I have a penis. I don’t. Never did.

So which bathroom does a male-to-femme drag queen use? That would depend on the venue. If it is a drag queen friendly environment, then, the choice is nuanced, and largely depends on how the individual prefers to urinate and whether an erection or inability to manage or have one might steer that choice.

However, a drag queen who steps out into the world in drag is engaging in risky behavior and as such every bathroom break is an exercise in risk assessment. Laws or lack thereof will not assist in that risk assessment. Circumspection and respect for the traditionally gendered aids in risk aversion. In short, every drag queen must learn one way or another just how convincing she is as a female and whether wearing a dress in public is in poor taste or not. However, with enough girdles, breast and/or butt prostheses, rubber skin, make-up, wigs, and costumery, even the most burly football player can be made to appear female, even if such a person need not be as concerned with being beaten up by persons who resent the charade.

Expecting strangers to trust drag queens in the presence of young people, both boys and girls, is a travesty. Codifying such trust in law or in propaganda as “tolerance” is an even greater travesty. If a person is convincing or trusted then these issues never need be raised; otherwise, a wise drag queen not entirely convincing is wise to always carry a man’s hat that can be swapped for the wig, to wear men’s shorts under an easily removable skirt, wear unisex shoes, and a unisex handbag such as a messenger bag which is not easily gendered such as to be able to safely use the men’s room especially when among populations who may be especially sensitive to perceived sexual threats. Not all excursions need be attention-seeking!

Some drag queens are “intact” and have fully functioning penises used for sex with the preferred partner and some only have sex as the receiving partner with the penis either removed, placed in a chastity device, or otherwise subsumed. These poles (ahem) of sexuality are on a spectrum rather than absolutes in given populations. However, the major difference between drag queens and transvestites or transsexuals is that the costumery is “the thing” irrespective of actual sexuality. That is, the “true” motivation of a drag queen is to charm and entertain, i.e., the last bastion of the glorification of nonsexual feminine strengths not available to “the empowered woman” within earshot of her “sisters”.

Rather than a narcissistic celebration of “self”, drag queens are supplicants and servers even if ostensibly being served by their sponsors and bodyguards. They are eye candy and ear candy whether the attraction is pleasurable or toying with the audience’s revulsion. The best drag queens I’ve known can charm a tip right from an Evangelist’s or Republican politician’s wallet, and that’s all the relationship need be given that adults are expected to manage their own behavior and risk, regardless of the seductiveness of a drag queen’s charms.

Not everyone is an adult in terms of behavior. Some have poor impulse control. Forcing men upon girls in their vulnerable state of undress and bodily functions is an example of poor impulse control by The Left, regardless of whether such a man is wearing a dress!

Nowadays, however, given that beauty-consumerist-narcissism has poisoned the field, I generally prefer to conduct myself sans costumery and low key below the din of me-first Femme-centricism. However, I suppose that in the right protective atmosphere, I could be persuaded to fling a boa and mince for the right appreciative small audience. Do I have to put on the press-on nails and stumble about in the skyscraper heels? You cruel brute! I’ll need a good cry first. Boo Hoo Hoo! Is there a gentleman with a hankie anywhere? Why, most certainly a bandana will do. Might I lean on your shoulder while I dab? Thank you, kindly, Sir.

 

 

Trust and Faith

If you have been following this blog for any duration you have likely learned that there is no ideology or institution that I trust, that I have no tribe, and that even my own family is suspect. If it weren’t for my memories of deep connections with some wonderful men, who, it so happens, were similarly outliers, I wouldn’t have much reason to live.

Lately it would seem that God and my convictions are my solace. God has been kind enough not to require an ideology or religion with which to reach him or Is, as Axel referred to the concept of God.

There are also some friends who, mostly, are connected to me through men who have died.

We are not always able to see things eye-to-eye.

I pray for a connection with another such male outlier, and not purely of the physical. However, Feminism has seen to it that every such connection is either a version of a tawdry “hook-up” or comes under the auspices of some religion or other that I don’t wholly take seriously.

I find that my own desire for sex, with another person, is significantly diminished given my investment in various world events. And yet I have taken some pains to restore myself to a reasonable physical condition, even though there was a period there, just before Axel died, where I had let myself go. I think that I am like a sea sponge such that when my world is toxic, I swell.

My world is still toxic but at least with a minimal social life there is not usually any reason for me to eat unless I want to, and so usually I don’t.

I have to assume that it is a gift from God that something that would appear to be a female rapist decided to make me into her project. I consider it a gift because the connection was purely virtual, that is, through the internet, and I have complete confidence in my own security.

I also have complete confidence that this particular creature is one that I am capable of killing, with either an implement, weapon, or even my bare hands.

Would such a capability make me ineligible for heterosexual love with a man who still holds a “sacred” for the concept of “femininity?” I don’t know.

It is funny because recently I was rejected for what the man had interpreted as some sort of “innocence” in me. That’s funny. Most men with the wisdom to fully observe me learn quickly that I have nothing in the way of innocence. My ability to trust and put myself in the hands of a man I love and God has nothing to do with innocence. Any man incapable of telling the difference is himself “the innocent”. I can’t afford at this time to take on a protege, regardless of his protestations of sophistication.

Meanwhile with no man to trust, and certainly no woman, I’ll keep my concentration on God. If God wants me to find or be with a man, he’ll make that a reality.

If instead I am to become a different sort of instrument, he’ll see to that too.

 

 

 

Fender Bender

I was recently in a fender bender that wasn’t my fault. The other car backed into me. It occurred during a date in which I was asked out to dinner but my date insisted that I do the driving. I didn’t object although this is not the sort of dynamic that tends to put me into a playful mood. If I am placed in the driver’s seat—whether literally or figuratively—I’m all business.

It is a metaphor for the population reductive nature of Feminism.

The distance to drive for this date was not great and there was no incident on the way to the restaurant. Besides, we were going out for steak, and I love steak, and so I was willing to see how things went even with an inauspicious start.

The accident occurred in the restaurant parking lot and I obtained the other driver’s apology and insurance information. Since then, I have had my car inspected such as to learn just how much repairing this unsightly gash is going to cost somebody. I have therefore already paid two hours of my time, gas, and even a bridge toll in order to find this out for an accident that I didn’t cause. I had pulled alongside the other car which had been parked, but then the driver of that car decided to suddenly back out at an angle into the adjoining space, where I was, rather than pulling straight back, or looking first.

I suppose I laughed a little inside to see that it was an Asian man and his American-of-European-extraction wife, of about my age. I had calculated that demographic math myself, back when I married The Han. There were not enough American men to go around, even when branching out to minorities, for women my age, thanks to The Vietnam War among other pressures adversely affecting the marriageable population of men. Dipping into the one-child-policy China seemed like a no-brainer, particularly given the high IQ of Chinese American immigrants.

Even with my exceedingly poor experiences, I would not eliminate the possibility of such a pairing today. In any case, such would be a fair improvement over selecting from the pool of White men who insist that White women who have not reproduced are damaged goods by default, even while single mothers are also damaged goods by default. If you guys don’t like women my age whether childbearing or childless, perhaps your mothers are to blame? I’m not her, but thanks for saving me the aggravation by making your bias clear.

The fender bender wasn’t particularly noteworthy otherwise even though as my date and I entered the restaurant, I noticed that my heart was pounding heavily. When the maitre d’ showed us to a table in the center of the restaurant crowded by other diners I objected. A booth not only feels safer and more comfortable but is more conducive to conversation.

My date, perhaps out of nervousness, then proceeded to subject me to a series of jokes in the restaurant, which I interpret as sort of a flirtatious defensiveness. Although he knew that I was not a Feminist he thought it would be funny to pretend to stick me with the check, because that’s a joke he likes to play on Feminists. It was only a momentary prank.

However, the combined shock of the fender bender plus being made the butt of several jokes for the benefit of a stranger, the waitress, caused in me an indigestion such that the delicious steak resulted in two days of intestinal upset, a vulnerability that I picked up as a result of my one-and-only-marriage from Hell to aforementioned Han.

I hadn’t had a date since Valentine’s Day wherein my (different) date had made a strangely hostile remark to the waiter, in the busy upscale restaurant, on one of the busier nights of the year. I did not find the remark amusing and was embarrassed for it, and so neither my date nor I got lucky for Valentine’s Day.

What is the point of taking a gal out to dinner if it is only to embarrass her at the least or induce emotional reactions incompatible with digestion or sex?

I had already cooked a fine meal for the latter gentleman, as a reward for his making the drive across the state the day before, stocked my place with groceries and beverages, and have thereby not made any sort of profit from that date. There was also the matter of laundry as it turns out I had made up the guest bed for him, and it was a fortunate thing that I had done so.

I understand that lots of men may be hurting and I am sorry that they are hurting however I do not believe that this obligates me to either cater to them sexually or be the butt of their jokes, in addition to my willingness to provide room, board, and chauffeuring services.

For what it’s worth, both of these men gushed over my attractiveness, which, is a dubious compliment if it inspires such rude behavior.

Some time back, through this blog, a man offered to come visit me, but he did not give me enough notice, and I had a scheduling conflict, and so I was unable to make the meeting. Since then, I’ve been given various semi-public warnings of his displeasure, which, of course, makes me feel lucky that I had had a scheduling conflict (even though that other event was cancelled after all, but it wasn’t my doing). I do not need to be made the frustration punching bag of an intemperate man apparently in need of male admiration and approval for the dubious achievement of engaging me, failing to provide adequate notice before meeting me, and then compounding that error by making false assumptions about me in a semi-public manner.

Surely this man could not be at a loss for more masochistic female attention than what I could have summoned? I suspect that his real prize however was to be the admiration of other men for overcoming my defenses. Gay?

Mr. Steak has told me that he has cancer and is dying and so surely that would entitle him to a kiss and hug from me at least? Interesting approach. My guts continue to rebel at the notion. I’m sorry he’s dying. We’re all dying. He’s twenty years older than I am. Demographically he is in the driver’s seat as the women well outnumber the men therein. However, for some reason, he chose me as someone with whom to spend his diminishing returns. Can I go on like I’m going on for twenty more years? No. Something has got to give.

Meanwhile, my own overtures toward men of my own interest have been similarly ham-handed and probably justifiably rebuffed.

Or maybe they are simply dealing with their own baggage which has nothing to do with me.

I am only a bargain for the sort of man willing to deal with the various psychological phenomena remaining as souvenirs of malevolent hypnosis and PTSD which have effectively enslaved me for many years. Axel was able to actually beat most of it back and he was happy with me besides. Under him we both saw improvement in my condition. However, Axel easily could have been the last of his kind, that is, a benevolent Svengali to me, the otherwise rudderless vessel, with the exception being my dedication to this blog.

Another man who I had met and was prepared to meet again started to get weird with me through emails, that is, pretending to have power over me that he had not yet demonstrated that he was able to summon in person. I guess this was sort of a seduction tactic on his part which backfired. I think that it was also sort of a method of motivating his own interest. The unfortunate effect of long distance relationships is that I don’t accept electronic communication as a substitute for actually meeting, face-to-face, and am therefore uncomfortable with it already. It wasn’t really his fault for hitting the wrong note, that is magnifying the pressure, however a wrong note hit that early for me destroys my own motivation.

How was I to drive the considerable distance to meet him under that level of emotional pressure?

I do not know how to go about shopping for a body shop to repair my fender bender. It has been over twenty years since I even had to deal with such a situation which also was not my fault. I hope for a handsome and engaging body shop employee, who, like Axel, insists on doing the driving, has no present urge to reproduce children who would not have any hope in their own futures, and possesses an attention span.

 

 

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

The problem with dating men on The Right, and this is new to me, I admit, is that they tend to have more rigid paradigms in terms of behavior expected from women. Thus far, I have failed to make much in the way of inroads given that my behavior, thoughts, and beliefs are not what they expect.

It is too late to attempt to shelter me from any form of reality, and I’m neither accustomed to nor comfortable with much in the way of chivalry beyond, say, picking up the check. However, such an action is not an invitation to ridicule me, or the waitstaff, in my opinion. Rather it is a matter of compensating me for my rapidly diminishing sexual market value, time, and consideration, while I decide whether it would be in my interest to a) continue the relationship; b) intensify it; c) convert it to something else like friends, with-or-without benefits; or d) discard it outright. Contributing to my comfort in any way at least makes that process pleasurable. However, if it is counteracted by contributing to my discomfort except for what is hopefully an escalating erotic tension I would just assume pay for my own drinks and meals, thanks, and amuse myself.

As for any equalists who may have inadvertently stumbled on my blog, I’ll include the advisement that I have already picked up the check, housing, wardrobe, and even startup business expenses in more than my share of romantic relationships already and am currently all tapped out. Neither can I, say, produce any fruit of my loins for purposes of exploitation. I like to think I possess some skills of entertainment such as to make a relationship with me worthwhile, with such skills including life enhancement skills of one sort and another to escalate commensurate with the pace of the relationship.

I even, for the moment that is, have a suitable place to entertain.

I understand that my deep and extensive knowledge of nutrition is not generally appreciated given that conservative men nowadays generally either heed their doctor’s advice or get their nutritional philosophy from professionals. I understand that my knowledge of feminism, and all of the pathology it both stems from and creates is not particularly erotic or romantic fodder. My past relationships are about the only topic most people are interested in anyway, whether credulously or incredulously; however, surely they are more than a little intimidating.

The question I cannot answer however is just how these two men managed to persuade me to surrender my will so completely, particularly given the evident strength of said will.

A man has either got it or doesn’t. I suppose I could train but that wouldn’t likely end up benefiting yours truly. Surely, I cannot be expected to just give away a lifetime of knowledge for the price of a drink, or even for free in a Skype session. A short attention span on his part means that all exchanges are doomed. However, such is what our smartphone culture has made an essential characteristic. Without the ability to filter, how does one navigate the constant assault on one’s attentiveness? For some, it would appear to be by the act of holding forth on his particular field of knowledge as if I am an eager student.

Do I truly look that sheltered or innocent? Apparently so. That’s my youth dew. It’s a mixed blessing.

Once the extent of my damage becomes apparent then it is going to take a lot of persuading to show that I am neither a danger to him or myself or that my “triggers” are not commonplace. Therefore, there is no need to be overly solicitous, just please, there’s no reason to constantly challenge me, as if I were a man or a feminist.

Honestly, I would love to be able to just head right to the sex part, if there’s chemistry, but surely my reticence to just dive in is understandable. Right? Again, I am not a man nor am I a feminist. That doesn’t mean that I’m a prude. We can even talk about sex if he can handle the pressure. Perhaps I can help with that.

Or perhaps the game ought to be who ends up begging for it first. Hint: It had better be me.