All Sex is Rape
Isn't there someone you forgot to ask?
I feel like Andrea Dworkin gets a bit of a bad rap.
And before I start this piece in earnest let’s dispel with this fiction that niggas hate on her for literally any other reason than the fact that she weighed 900 pounds and walked around in a circus tent with a physiognomy straight out of Der Stürmer.
Plenty of feminists from that era were a hell of a lot more influential than Dworkin and a million times more damaging to our interests as men, but your brain will always force you to vaguely sympathize with the likes of Gloria Steinem because as annoying as she was you also kind of want to gape her asshole (a force which ironically also served as a functional ceiling on Steinem’s own radicalism), whereas with Dworkin you’d mostly just like her to go away and stop being gross.
But don’t get it twisted—it’s not because she was extreme that Dworkin was gross; rather it’s because she was gross that her ideas grew so extreme. Everything you need to know about her is contained within this legible narrative. One intuits at a glance that she despised the patriarchy so fanatically precisely because she never got a taste of its fruits for herself in the way one imagines of Steinem et al—exactly analogous to how incels loathe hypergamy because they’ve never had a gal do vile shit on their behalf.
And the ironic thing is just empirically speaking both Dworkin and the incels are entirely right in pretty much all their observations about the opposite sex—certainly quite a lot more so than any of the mainstream figures who purport to discuss such matters “in good faith.” Yet both parties are held back by an irredeemably low status sour grapes frame that ipso facto codes their beliefs as worthy of dismissal by polite society. I’d hazard the implicit logic is that if you’re so alienated you feel the need to draw attention to all the existentially obliterative bullshit we agree to overlook just to keep society afloat then you don’t have enough skin in the game to be taken seriously as a thinker and it would be flat-out dysgenic NOT to laugh you out of the discourse.
Which isn’t to suggest that others don’t make good use of their insights—one needn’t look far to observe less walrusine feminists and higher status Redpill guys laundering Dworkinite and incel takes through basic bitch normgroid filters. It’s just instead of “all men are rapists” it becomes “those evil chuds are rapists but def not my qt3.14 bf,” whereas “women are whores” is now “women are whores and I fuck them—huzzah!”
But the whole thing is frankly starting to feel very tedious and gay. At least from the Dudeside it’s begun to resemble a resource management sim wherein each time I say something mean about incels or nice about feminists or elegantly humblebrag about having normie-coded sex I receive mana I can use to express my Male Interiority or collate a bunch of veiled complaints about the latest art hoe on Substack to hurt my feelings or force women to read about my foot fetish.
And so at this juncture I’d much rather discern some way to cut out the need for status coding altogether by establishing a shared nomenclature / conceptual schema that captures the messy interior experience of both sexes—just without disenchanting the world and setting fire to Eden by obliterating the sacred mystery of sex difference.
Because what if a true alchemical synthesis were possible?
What if there were a framework that maintains the ruthless cope-shredding clarity of both Dworkinism and Incel Thought while dropping all of the recursively neurotic baggage—specifically by leveraging a productive collision of misandry and misogyny to epistemically extricate us from the dark chthonic depths of life-denying blackpilled brutalism, not unlike Kuzco and Pacha escaping that ravine in Emperor’s New Groove?
In the analysis that follows I’ll submit that such a framework isn’t merely possible—it’s all but inevitable given the present trajectory of relations between the sexes.
But I’ll not be pulling any punches here, so if you get offended by anything fuck off.
We’ll begin by reviewing the argument behind Dworkin’s infamous apocryphal quote “All Sex is Rape,” which is laid out like a coed on GHB in her 1987 work Intercourse.
It’s worth noting that despite being perhaps the third or fourth ugliest person I’ve ever witnessed, Dworkin’s prose in Intercourse managed to arouse me quite a lot more reliably than just about any piece of erotica I’ve encountered in all my years online.
Just a few prime examples:
The normal fuck by a normal man is taken to be an act of invasion and ownership undertaken in a mode of predation. Woman have been chattels to man as wives, as prostitutes, as sexual and reproductive servants. Being owned and being fucked are or have been virtually synonymous experiences in the lives of woman. He owns you, he fucks you. The fucking conveys the quality of ownership. He owns you inside out.
Men often react to women’s words—speaking and writing—as if they were acts of violence… So we lower our voices. Women whisper. Women apologize. Women shut up. Women trivialize what we know. Women shrink. Women pull back. Most women have experienced enough dominance from men—control, violence, insult, contempt—that no threat seems empty.
It is a tragedy beyond the power of language to convey when what has been imposed on women by force becomes a standard of freedom for women: and all the women say it is so.
Any violation of a woman's body can become sex for men; this is the essential truth of pornography.
Men know everything - all of them - all the time - no matter how stupid or inexperienced or arrogant or ignorant they are.
Believe it or not I’m actually not just trying to be cute here—Dworkin very genuinely seems to have had a world-class talent for writing sadomasochistic erotica.
I suspect that deep down she was just a sensitive little Jewish girl with 99th percentile neuroticism, which in practice meant she experienced insecurity and humiliation and epistemic isolation with far greater intensity and texture than just about any other gal on the planet (and certainly any with her verbal IQ), hence why even to this day her corpus serves as unparalleled masturbation fodder for hyperverbal sadists. Unlike faggoty cringe neckbeard shit like Gor or retarded mass market bodice rippers a la Fifty Shades the venerable Mme. Dworkin reaches far under the refrigerator not simply to interrogate the most subterranean and higher order flavors of womanly pain, but to actively perform them with a swaggering theatricality not unlike my own literary style.
At certain points I felt a very real communion with her. Certainly intellectually, maybe also aesthetically… perhaps even erotically? At the very least I was certain a synthesis with my own worldview wasn’t just possible—the text practically aches for it.
See, the basic tenet of Dworkinism is that systemic asymmetries in the broad societal balance of power between men and women—she calls this “the patriarchy”, though it seems to me even earnest feminists mostly only use that phrase ironically these days unless they’re literally like hairy armpit lesbians scissoring each other or something—create a sort of perpetual ambient coercion that effectively obviates meaningful consent.
Such asymmetries include physical size and strength; reduced female legal autonomy and the historic legacy thereof; women’s markedly lower earning power (at the time); the dependence and vulnerability associated with pregnancy in the era before reliable birth control; and also a slew of phony baloney “cultural” factors that can only cohere under the straightforwardly erroneous framework of rigid environmental determinism that predominated in most twentieth century schools of feminism and dismissed virtually all temperamental differences between the sexes as socially trained.
The thing is the cultural part of Dworkin’s argument still works precisely as designed if you just swap out all of the fake and gay social construct shit for a basic knowledge of psychometric differences with an obvious foundation in evolutionary psychology—think observed gaps in mean IQ (and especially IQ variance), trait agreeableness (particularly at the tail end), and above all else the relative prevalence of Dark Triad traits.
Long story short it’s hardly uncommon for a highly agreeable and neurotic woman to end up behind closed doors with a high status Dark Triad feller who elicits a potent fawning response in her and gets her to consent to sex by all reasonable standards only for her to feel kinda sorta raped a week later. In such moments women who are legal adults basically lose their capacity for real sexual agency by their own admission.
This is something that happens literally all the time.
It’s almost certainly responsible for the vast majority of false rape accusations, as well as countless instances of infidelity. It’s likewise what Trump was talking about in that famous Pussy Tape, and probably also what went down with Paula Jones and Clinton.
The thing is the Dark Triad nigga typically isn’t all that famous, which means he’s often able to execute this maneuver with wholly unimpeachable plausible deniability—particularly in a post-#MeToo environment, where he’ll often make sure to establish a hard record of affirmative consent precisely as girly pop’s pupils begin to dilate in an uninterrogated politely suppressed terror conveniently adjacent phenomenologically to how she usually experiences deep sexual lust. Meanwhile it goes without saying that gents who actually are famous can have this sort of effect on women a lot more smoothly and reliably, while even normal asymmetries in factors like size and social class and educational attainment can palpably exacerbate the dropoff in her agency.
That said, Dworkin’s point about ambient coercion is obviously far less applicable in a world where the evidentiary standard for rape has dropped precipitously and young urban women now outearn and are better credentialed than their male peers, while also asymmetrically benefiting from an opt-in sexual ecology of hyperabundant choice and zero obligations. Taken in aggregate it’s abundantly clear the median Zoomette is far more powerful than her male equivalent—particularly given that swipe apps and the dawn of post-scarcity plus an endocrinological collapse in youth sex drives have made it tremendously low status for men to own up to any real desire for women while all but eviscerating their ability to trade on traditional masculine status markers.
But it’s obviously less of an exhaustive and linear man-woman thing and more about where the right tail of men overlaps the leftmost 60% or so of women, which is where I’d submit that the possibility for meaningful consent straightforwardly evaporates.
I’d wager that at least half the femoids reading this have been in at least one or two situations roughly approximating what I described above.
You didn’t slap him, and you certainly didn’t scream—hell, you didn’t even say no...
But perhaps you DID tell him earlier in the night that you didn’t want sex, and still he took you behind closed doors and shoved his cock inside you without any protest on your end. Or maybe he kept asking until you gave in, because while it didn’t feel like a strong yes it wasn’t a strong no either. Or maybe you didn’t want to say no because it would have been cunty in light of the various circumstances of logistics and social debt he obviously engineered well in advance. Or maybe you weren’t ready but didn’t want him to get impatient and fuck some low rent sloot instead. Or he had a certain look in his eye that didn’t quite match that softly smiling mouth hissing out sweet nothings.
Or perhaps he mostly got inside you on account of The Implication.
Whatever the case, if you were born prior to 9/11 your retrospective take on what happened is probably that the guy was being sleazy but it clearly wasn’t rape and you yourself should have been more agentic, whereas if you were born after 9/11 it likely registers to you emotionally as rape but you also know there’s zero legal case against the dude, and so you either call it rape ~ironically or brand it fluidly depending on the context and interlocutor or just try your best not to think about it especially hard.
…or perhaps you demanded an apology, or asked for restitution, or started a whisper campaign where you mb exaggerated a wee bit mb not, or even went through with the false accusation because you were that desperate for there to be some kind of justice.
But probably not, either because you don’t think he ought to be punished for it per se or because you don’t want to develop a reputation yourself—particularly given that the dudes who pull this kind of shit are the only ones you’d ever want to fuck anyway.
And it also just feels sort of histrionic and retarded to call it, like, rape rape—right?
Only it ALSO feels unfair to your own sense of dignity to call it perfectly consensual.
The issue is that in the overwhelming majority of situations like these the chickadee’s post-coital narrative will be entirely a product of how he treats her afterward. And so if he immediately claims her as his woman—or at least cuddles her a lot and buys her breakfast in the morning? Then it’s clearly not rape! In fact, the night is all but certain to go down as one of her most splendid lifetime sexual encounters.
Whereas if he doesn’t make her cum good (or at least use her in a way that proffers psychic validation), and proceeds to ghost her after? Then it probably still isn’t a false accusation… but a scary text two weeks later wouldn’t really be out of the ordinary, nor would some good old-fashioned slander in one of those Are We Dating The Same Guy groups. And she’ll for sure frame you like Ted Bundy to her girlies and next boyfriend.
To my mind this scenario is a pretty clear instance of sanitized libtard consent norms completely breaking down. It’s also not a super duper niche obscure kinkster thing—perfectly normie and vanilla people get into situations like these literally every day.
And a big reason for that has to do with Womanly Renarrativization.
So this is something the fairer sex tends to get sorta prickly about when I talk about it too much because they instinctively parse it as me calling them a bunch of lying hoes.
And don’t get me wrong—there’s absolutely SOME sense in which I’m doing just that.
But the essential caveats here are that a) men lie every bit as often, just about different shit and in a wholly different register; and b) in both cases the highly sexed mode of lying is only half-conscious and serves as a crucial psychosexual defense mechanism.
The crucial difference is that men lie about the future whereas women lie about the past.
But again—note these aren’t super conscious and mundane lies like telling your boss that you’re Hispanic and your mom is dying of Alzheimer’s.
These are Mythic Lies—lies that become contextually Trve within your own mythic dreamscape because if they weren’t Trve it would irreparably harm your self-concept, sabotage your deepest life goals, and undermine your most cherished relationships.
So what are some of the classic Man Lies directed at women?
“I’m gonna get you and me out of this shithole, babe.”
“So I’ve been working on this business, and…”
“I’m gonna destroy that little pussy all night long.”
“It’s been YEARS since a girl has made me feel this way, babe…”
“Ya know squirt, I’d love to help you out in your career. Give you advice…”
“Wow—my mom would love you!”
“Yeah I’m about 6’1…”
“Alright, we can get engaged. But let’s plan the wedding for a year from now, kay? Whatever happens I can promise you I’ll definitely be ready by then, babygirl!”
“Does there need to be a special occasion to buy my gorgeous girl flowers?”
What about classic Woman Lies directed at men?
“Oh, Derek? He’s just a friend!”
“Gosh… thanks for being such a gentleman. I’ve only been with four guys...”
“My… butt? I… guess you can try. Please be gentle! I’ve never done that before! Ow!”
“Look—I really AM sorry dude! I never wanted to give you expectations that way! I’m just a super friendly person and sometimes it comes off as flirty I guess…”
“Mmm, baby… that felt so fucking good…”
“Love ya mom! Oh… how’d I afford Italy? I actually picked up a bit of modeling work this past summer! Yeah!”
“Sorry! I’m just a little traumatized around men when they yell I guess… my ex used to yell at me and then would just rape me while I sat on the bed crying…”
“Hey babes just texting u to let u know my flight back from Nash got delayed. Thankfully the airline put us up until our flight back tmw PM, so I’ll keep ya posted! Also yes Megs had a great bach! ttys bb xoxox”
Man Lies exist to secure his sexual access by inflating his value as a romantic partner, both in terms of the real-world man embodied right now and his long term potential.
The former explains why it’s not uncommon for young and inexperienced guys to feel a certain artificial limerence towards prospective hookups precisely until he cums, at which point he’ll experience his Wise Man Time as insight into whether he ackshully likes her personality or simply was after her pussy. Meanwhile the latter accounts for why a fairly massive proportion of young men very sincerely believe they’re destined to become a millionaire one day, and on some level just about every dude is unironically convinced there’s some universe where he ends up the President.
But the thing about Man Lies is that they’re very rarely COMPLETELY false, as they mostly function as boasts with a wholly authentic basis in the best possible version of his future trajectory—propped up, obviously, by loads of wishful thinking about his agency and luck and general prospects but also noncognitive (or at least unfalsifiable) insofar as they’re almost always just brash predictions of competence or abundance (and sometimes rather less brash pronouncements of sentimentality or commitment).
Men often make such fanciful pronouncements to carve out the mythic runway to conceive of our lives with real meaning and narrative heft—this is where enchantment emerges in the masculine realm. It’s what lets us take risks, start fights, serenade the maiden, and walk around swinging our Big Fat Cock. Without out Man Lies women would almost certainly find us grotesquely lacking in ambition, swagger, and rizz.
That said girls are also constantly pricing in the possibility of men overselling themselves and kind of just expect it as a basic facet of masculine performance (which in some ecologies also includes more ambient Man Lies like performative stoicism and disinterest), but part of that also means that when she assesses his Man Lies in toto it’s seldom a matter of belief versus disbelief—hell, a lot of the time the woman is half-consciously wanting to get lied to in a manner she can safely aestheticize such that she’s not just some cringeworthy slut fucking a dumb retarded loser. But that’s not something she’d just propositionally admit to herself, either—it’s more that she wants to turn the broader situation into a silly little Lana song where she can Safely and Beautifully vibe as the girl redeeming the beautiful misunderstood man one moment and in doing so set herself up for a nice round of self-loathing catharsis later.
And so the upshot is as a guy you often enjoy loads of practical leeway to tell tall tales and whisper sweet nothings. But part of your covert contract with babygirl is she’s later free to frame you as slimy and manipulative if she wants (or a little rapey, or a groomer, or a manchild… whatever gives her that coherent autonarrative), as there’s basically no hard and persistent standard by which she’ll assess your words. For it to work there needs to be that floating fugue state of plausible deniability that offers you narrative primacy today and her the same thing tomorrow. And the more pixie dust you deploy to pry open her legs the more of a villain she’ll make you if need be.
But typically it’s nowhere near that operatic. Most of the time it’s only when a man oversells himself incredibly severely (particularly if commitment was implicitly used as currency to extract sex) that it reads as among the most dire forms of masculine betrayal, and will actually provoke severe feminine vindictiveness. That’s why most fellers are all but incapable of doing something like that intentionally—extractive masculinity is practically always a matter of low self awareness or boyish selfishness.
Directly victimizing a girl in some obvious and highly legible way leaves you far too narratively exposed as a man, which is why even most Dark Triad Niggas will generally operate entirely under the umbrella of plausible deniability.
But speaking of plausible deniability, let’s zero in a bit on what we mean by that, given that it serves as the indispensable mortar connecting together each and every Man and Woman Lie into the firm contiguous edifice of any relationship narrative.
On one level it’s just a matter of mystery and ambiguity—the elementary facets of seduction like reeling your target in and so on. But that sort of thing isn’t especially interesting or even all that sexed; basically everyone adores an elusive target. Where plausible deniability gets interesting is when there are two men after the same girl.
The reverse isn’t interesting at all, of course, because men don’t really do baroque triangulation games with their girlfriends. They’ll certainly try to make girls jealous by being sexually successful and visibly desired, and may well try to cash in on their status to get a side hoe or sneak around behind bae’s back given the opportunity… hell, they might even get involved in an emotionally intimate affair with a coworker or ex.
But men are generally FAR more grugbrained when it comes to cheating—or at least far more intentional. If you think you can bang the secretary you’ll make a pass at her. If you want to go back to your ex you’ll try to do that—or maybe try to two time her with the current bih. And let’s not distort the issue; at times men truly are virtuosos at infidelity. But those guys are always Huberman-type narcs gaming it out super overtly. There’s seldom any cognitively interesting plausible deniability in these scenarios (except when you have competing girls in a harem scheming against each other).
Just about everything changes the moment you find yourself in a Rashomon Situation wherein a woman or girl is actively triangulating between two men, which stands as perhaps the only scenario in the human condition entirely worthy of song and story. You recall all those archetypal rivalries in the western canon: Arthur and Lancelot. Don Jose and Escamillo. Hook and Pan. Menelaus and Paris. Humbert and Quilty. Some other niggas I won’t mention…
The point is Rashomon Situations are the only moments in a fellow’s lived experience wherein the eldritch opacity of feminine interiority makes itself entirely visible to you, pulling you face-first into that benighted Other Realm and forcing you to sink or swim with scarcely any middle ground between paradise and oblivion.
Now, you’ll typically need all three parties to be at least a little Dark Triad for the conflagration to escalate into something properly mythic in character, which means most normies won’t spot these situations or parse what’s happening at first glance.
But it’s important to realize this is how branch swinging basically always happens.
So what are the defining characteristics of a Rashomon Situation?
Most typically these scenarios tend to arise when a woman can’t achieve her romantic or sexual objectives in a straightforward and legible way without also damaging her own reputation or self-concept as pure, innocent, loyal, etc.
It always involves a woman spinning entirely different narratives to two separate men—either covertly carrying on an affair with one under the nose of the other or fanning the flames of sexual competition between them. If she’s talented she’ll externalize costs—material, emotional, reputational, and narrative—and ensure all significant plot beats seem like their idea, yet in practice will offer each man more than enough rope to hang himself if necessary.
If it plays out to its logical conclusion, both men involved will think she’s on their side until the last possible minute, at which point she’ll out of nowhere slam the iron maiden on the loser and attempt to renarrativize him as pathetic and weak and disgusting or even as a predator / villain. Sometimes that will involve an Amazing Amy situation where she goes public with it, but most of the time it’s just petty gossip or the story she tells her girlies and subsequent men she dates.
Crucially, the girl will genuinely believe whatever story she needs to tell herself about the loser, reframing past experiences in a manner utterly different from how she experienced (or at least externally narrated) them as they happened.
The essential thing to understand though is that for the entire time this was going on bae was basically in a sort of fugue state with both men that allowed her to make the switch seamlessly and without even thinking about it—she was just vibin; staying loose and light and free-flowing. Often she’ll tell you that overtly, curating a general posture that minimizes the consequence of her own behavior.
After she closes the iron maiden on you the well is often poisoned more or less permanently going forward, and she’ll legitimately think you schizo for believing those moments meant anything—women are brutally fast at cutting off deadwood. For that we can thank that old reliable standby of paleolithic bride capture.
The attempted epistemic and narrative erasure of the loser in these situations serves as psychosexual catharsis for the woman—a release of all that cognitive load built up from spinning multiple narratives at once. Frequently her anointing of the victor will in some sense involve the loser’s overt psychosexual humiliation.
The loser attempting to fight back with receipts and such, even if it’s against slanderous charges levied at him very specifically, will often register as a kind of existentially offensive response by other women—the dude will get branded as obsessed, creepy, a stalker, schizo, incel-coded, can’t take the L, blah blah blah. Think about that archetypal construction worker grabbing the girl’s arm and yelling “she led me on!” That’s you now, nigga—because to at least some vocal minority of women the fairer sex holds automatic and self-evident narrative hegemony over the story of literally any relationship, and Don Jose is at all times morally obliged to walk away with his tail between his legs if Carmen wills it.
Anyway spelling all that out so exhaustively puts me in dangerous proximity to the incel concentration camp, so let’s take a step back and consider the positive sides to the Rashomon Situation dynamic, of which I can think of three standout examples.
The first is that in the overwhelming majority of cases this dynamic isn’t being deployed against boyfriends by random high status narcs—it’s being deployed on behalf of boyfriends against e.g. the nigga who tickles her at work. In that sense the brutality of feminine narrative erasure hugely facilitates monogamous pair bonding.
Second, as mentioned earlier in the essay this is where all our most interesting and psychosexually compelling stories originate. There’s something deep and inescapable about what it means to be human buried within each and every Rashomon Situation.
Third—and this is going back against Point 1 but fuck it—these scenarios tend to be highly asymmetric, which means you can often exploit them to strike out of your league by leveraging unique talents to steal other niggas’ girlfriends.
Here are some fun examples of how I made Rashomon Situations work for me:
I met my ex gf and podcast alumna Alyssa all the way back in the summer of 2019, when she was 19 and I was 25. Seeking was the platform—I bought feet pics and nudes from her, then severely wanting to fly her out and fuck her senseless spent the better part of half a decade spamming her with texts from burner numbers. For years the lass kept me at arms’ length and made fun of me (as Zoomettes are wont to do), until at long last in mid 2023 she needed help with her rent and determined getting on camera with her 29yo stalker seemed a bit less hookery than OF or making a new Seeking (which she’d never actually used to meet up with anyone). Long story short we hit it off famously and start talking every day and over the next six months I slowly but surely undermine her hapless young bf, establishing myself as the preeminent fellow in her life, such that she ultimately broke up with the lad in early 2024 and I was able to fly her out for a handful of winsome erotic rendezvouses. Naturally to her boyfriend I was the older creepy piggy bank, whereas to me he was the immature guy her own age she’s progressed beyond etc. etc. etc. Anyway she was too much of a fag to marry me on the fourth date so we drifted apart but have recently started talking again and once I tear down all her fake and gay renarrativization will likely have another go at it.
Precocious little Rose also had a boyfriend when I met her in early 2023—I want to say it was some Saracen in a long distance thing with her? She was 18 and he was like early twenties, but they’d started dating when she was underage and I think the narrative we settled on was he was a groomer or some shit even though I was like six years his senior and our thing was constant ageplay? IDK he was at that point neglectful toward her so I just did the Daddy thing super aggressively over the phone and Rose was mine in two weeks. Anyway I tried to get her to marry me as well but she wanted to go do fake and gay college instead, and then I started getting addicted to AI porn and neglecting her myself, and so she branch swung her way to a decamillionaire 40yo who tried to get her pregnant and then a centimillionaire 50yo (watch her pod episode if you haven’t her story is hysterical). Now she’s with another brown her own age but if I’m entirely honest I’m kind of wanting to steal her back again because so far she hasn’t renarrativized me at all and tbh that’s insanely touching. Like all the shit she complains about is fair game but she says matter of factly I didn’t groom her which is quite moving.
I met Selene after my German bestie and potential gee eff Gretel, who I’d met on the Red Scare subreddit in 2021, randomly killed herself circa January 2023. Selene was her longtime Instagram friend, and I attempted to use Gretel’s suicide as an in to having sex with her. And to her credit Selene stayed remarkably loyal to her boyfriend until June of last year, but because I kept harassing and stalking her I was first in line as rebound dick (the framing was me paying her rent but she sent back the money after) and idk I fell too in love with her and I think getting used as a dildo is what made me close my group chat last Summer. But w/e pussy is pussy and it was splendid fun making a girl that sophisticated puke all over my cock. Anyway regarding renarrativition with Selene—she’d never frame anything we did as coercive, but not long ago she did get quite mad at me after I wrote the article linked above thinking it was too self-aggrandizing and flattened everyone into a reductive archetype. She was also mad I left out details that would make me look bad like me apparently offering her $10k to touch her feet at some point, which I’m p sure if I did do was a Man Lie and in like mid 2023 but it’s still hot as fuck she specifically remembered that. But yeah we’re not talking at the moment.
So let’s at long last circle all this back to the topics of rape and consent.
The problem as I see it is the fundamental narrative architecture of hetero courtship—particularly in high stakes branch swinging Rashomon Situations among verbally gifted artsy and intellectual types. Such romance necessarily and by design involves ambiguous intent and illegible motives, which in turn more or less requires girls to reframe shit as befits her own dignity and reputational security. But this just degrades trust among men as to her basic psychic contiguity, while also putting us all on the defensive where the topic of consent is concerned.
The issue is women seem far lower in metacognitive foresight—a trait that clearly isn’t evenly distributed thoughout the general population. But I don’t want ChatGPT to complain I’m overgeneralizing, so let me be clear about how I see this working.
Autistic Men are hyper-metacognitive, to the point of easily being drawn into recursive loops and elaborate game theoretic models of human behavior. We’re systems-level and categorical thinkers who don’t see anything as just itself—our maps are optimal, but we often can’t access the territory unless sauced or high. This makes us far better than anyone else at DESCRIBING Rashomon Situations, but outside of high volume / specialist strategies we’re often far too prone to looping and analysis paralysis to operate with real agility once ensconced in one.
Normie Men and Autistic Girls (maybe we can throw some middle aged women and Jewesses in this bucket too) are highly versatile, and are capable of both riding the vibes themselves organically and in high fidelity and of processing the world at a metacognitive or systems level. That means they can game out their own actions in complex hypotheticals and assess their own passions and appetites with a certain disinterested contempt, without being prone to looping and overanalysis.
Normie (and especially Artsy) Girls are not meaningfully capable of systems-level or game theoretic metacognition. Instead they’re stuck in the vibe—pulled around willy-nilly by their amygdala and clitoris, and trivially easy to groom via frame control and callow semiotic arbitrage games. I’m increasingly convinced it’s mechanically impossible for normie women to form sound heuristics because their Vibesmaxxed normalcy abhors generalization, which means they’re unable to either manipulate people over the long term (as opposed to in the moment, which they’re clearly great at) or defend against such frame games without suffering prohibitive levels of cognitive load.
And that, my dear reader, is the primary reason All Sex is Rape.
Your typical neurotypical man (to say nothing of Autismos / Dark Triad niggas) is far and away more metacognitive (at least at the systemic and game theoretic level) than your typical neurotypical woman, which means that if he wants to functionally obviate her sexual agency it basically comes down to maintaining a chill casual vibe while steadily pushing her down a tunnel in a parallel dimension she can scarcely begin to process—a tunnel that narratively speaking can only ever end with him inside her.
With the right level of patience, the proper resources, and a sufficient verbal IQ it’s never really something that especially feels like her decision.
It will feel that way on her end of course—assuming you’re a gentleman about it.
But literally no one’s forcing you to be a gentleman—in fact it’s rather easy to bypass such expectations by gaming very overtly around affirmative consent.
And even when you are a gentleman you’ll almost certainly be employing some degree of strategic frame control and performativity that the sheila would in fact find quite predatory and overly calculated if she actually understood the nature of it.
This, after all, is the reason sprezzatura is a prominent meme these days.
Look—when it comes down to it what I’m trying to argue here is this: the evidentiary standard is one thing, and kind of trivial / beside the point. Her feelings as to whether she was used / exploited / wanted it are a level zoomed out from that, but too volatile and context-dependent for you to overindex on. And then your own understanding of her active agentic participation in her own seduction is a level zoomed out from that.
But I’m not about to be some faggoty Reddit uncle and contend that you SHOULDN’T obviate her agency in that way, because doing so’s clearly insanely hot and I support it without qualification (provided all parties are of legal age, obviously).
It’s more that I think consent is a fake and gay foundation for sexual morality.
And I think we can do our babygirls better.
So I’d argue there are three basic ways you can override a girly pop’s sexual agency:
Forcible Rape - No real changes needed in this domain. This one is clearly quite Bad and is a pretty workable hard ceiling for male sexual aggression.
Rakishness - Basically what feminists might call coerced consent. Almost certainly responsible for more of what Zoomer girls identify as trauma than Forcible Rape, but no reasonable way to enforce the evidentiary standard, while lots of chicks actively seek out this script. Moreover lots of hookups in Rashomon Situations will amount to this and women will on numerous occasions signal they want it without giving any overt signs. Basically at this point her own “desires” are far too inchoate and illegible and messy for you to take them especially seriously. Which is why my ultimate stance on Rakishness consists of two levels: 1) you can ultimately do whatever you want because it’s not illegal and no one’s stopping you, but you need to accept that she can do the same thing after the fact, as can any niggas she triangulates into shit… basically whatever occurs is automatically justified just as a tautology; 2) among each other men should figure out ways of enforcing our own honor culture—don’t callously despoil virgins, make sure you grasp her desired script and only Take women whose scripts you can dignify; under no circumstances let her walk away resenting you if possible; if there’s an age gap and she sees you as daddy make sure you genuinely honor the attendant duties that come with that and serve as a thoughtful mentor / protector / provider.
Grooming / Frame Control - This captures that perpetual ambient coercion Dworkin talked about, except I’m framing things in terms of psychometric differences and gaps in even deeper and more architectural facets of cognition.
Long story short I’d posit that when dating a normie girl (particularly given an age gap and especially an IQ gap) you’re ultimately entitled to Conquer the lass narratively and epistemically, but that this conquest ultimately carries with it a number of vital responsibilities—keeping bae out of maladaptive dopamine traps, rehabilitating her attention span and executive functioning, preventing her from growing cognitively overburdened by totalistic Byzantine social politics, putting together a comprehensive plan to recalibrate her hedonic treadmill… the list goes on and on. In other words to be entirely clear here I don’t think there’s anything wrong with “grooming” your gf so long as she’s an adult and you set her on a virtuous long term trajectory. Like if I’m being honest most of my own age gap relationships have failed because I got super duper lazy and stopped grooming her, which bae tends to find insanely annoying in practice and worth leaving me over bc for Zoomer girls there’s no pretense that “age is just a number”… if they’re with an older guy to begin with they pretty much always WANT to be groomed. It’s an integral part of the relationship script.
Anyway it’s time to wrap this bullshit up, so I’ll end on the following.
The right way to do sexual ethics isn’t fake and gay Mother May I Legalism that has zero conceptual fidelity with the most difficult situations that emerge in this realm.
Nor is it obscurantism and performativity under increasingly baroque cathedrals of implicit status coding and narrative misdirection.
It’s starting from scratch and attempting to divine what common ground we actually share as men and women, and what mythic language might actually unite us.
And to that end I think we men might take at least some small bit of inspiration from the venerable Mme. Dworkin, who for all her obsession with rape seems a hell of a lot more caught up on the higher order horrors the act represents to her—that is to say a kind of ontological othering; epistemic debasement; and above all narrative erasure.
These are precisely the same things I myself circle back to when contemplating sexual power relations. Men and women understand the world in profoundly different ways and take radically distinct approaches to narrativizing our lives, but at the end of the day we both want to feel sane and able to tell our story in a way that makes sense to us—all Man Lies and Woman Lies both originate in that basic and eternal impulse.
So can we please stop acting like the foundation of sexual ethics can EVER be something legible and concrete when being illegible and arguably unethical is the entire point of sex to begin with? If you take the burger Gen X approach and try to make it all about “the law” then Patrick Bateman will just coerce consent every bitch he sees and then they’ll take it out on the rest of us, whereas if you try to make it about “feelings” then every last women on the planet will just start crying all the time and arbitrarily backsolve around every particular outcome they want.
It’s all a bunch of fake and gay bullshit and the only standard that isn’t amounts to epistemics and narrative fidelity—a universal respect for the purity of everyone else’s story and basic heuristics for making sense of the world. Obviously we’ll never reach alignment on either of those things, but if we can at least socialize throughout the broader public (or even our circles on Substack) precisely how these gaps break down I’d hazard it would do a lot to foster amity between the sexes and different neurotypes.
Yeah I know that’s a lame unsatisfying copout—what the hell do you want me to say?
Like, none of this is clean and no one even wants it to be. The average normie would likely feel I deserve to be tortured to death for even putting words to any of this shit.
The alchemical synthesis isn’t supposed to be some contrived way to stop hating each other. Hating each other is natural and makes sense, except to the extent it invalidates itself by conferring low status. Even still we all at least secretly kind of hate each other.
I mean, come the fuck on.
At the end of the day All’s Fair—or at least tautologically justified—in Love and War, and the closest thing to ethical is making the scripts more legible and teaching people to expect cruelty and deception. But I guess that itself will be insulting to people who need plausible deniability to actually remain plausible and in all likelihood won’t appeal one whit to any womyn more neurotypical than Aella, so fuck it scratch that.
Maybe I’ll just leave y’all with this: if you’re gonna hate women it’s very pedestrian to do so because they won’t fuck you. You should instead hate them for introducing sapience to humanity via paleolithic experiments with hallucinogenic snake venom. That was their Original Sin. Self-awareness doesn’t lead us anywhere healthy or productive, least of all when it comes to sexual matters.
On the other hand, nature offers you plenty of recompense for all that in the form of a certain metaphysical entitlement to fuck her like a Big Evil Ape (but only so long as you never think about it too hard—call it the Curse of Adam).
And I suppose that’s the only real takeaway from any of this.
Speaking of—all this talk of rape has me remarkably worked up, so I think for now I’ll leave you boys so I can at long last respond to that fantastic little cougar in my DMs.
Wishing you gents a very wonderful Independence Day.
— WB
Last night, while a bit drunk my wife and I were talking about how she tapped out and went to bed during the rape scene in Caligula while I kept watching. She said in a matter-of-fact tone "you are a man, rape is in your blood"
Excellent article. The power of story. I am an idiot who thinks the truth matters. Jokes on me, oh well, my own foolishness even amuses me.