Anal Sex Should Hurt
On being a huge pain in the ass
The way we talk about fucking women in the ass often strikes to me a dissonant chord.
On one hand there’s that jejune and wholesome chungus Official Script prescribed as normative by Bill Nye tendersexuals—think enemas, “poppers”, 45 minutes of finger shit to open her up whilst listening to NPR or something. But clearly the entire point of that malarkey is queering the hetero anal script by flattening eros into depolarized libtard mush that kills the fun of spelunking gaped-out girlflesh to begin with.
Now compare that frame to how it works in practice for real-world hetero couples: talked about as birthday treat; jested about by women as a second virginity for her eventual husband; boasted about by the swaggering amateur sportsman to evoke jealousy and admiration over how thoroughly he owns his bitch...
In nearly all cases it’s seen either as a gift the woman altruistically extends the man or something surrendered in deference to him—inexorably sexed and almost always kind of painful and that’s quite clearly the entire fucking point.
Consider also just popular culture; have you ever in your life seen a mainstream film in which boy-girl sodomy is framed as anything BUT an overt act of dominance?
Long story short I’ve come to suspect nearly everyone is lying about the basic semiotics of hetero ass-poundage… and as often to themselves as everyone else.
In part that’s the case due to overt libtard obscurantism, but that’s hardly where this ends, as the modern West has ambiently imposed lots of flattened sanitized leveling scripts on sex and romance and even platonic friendship ostensibly intended to reduce the salience of status, hierarchy, and coercive power dynamics—all things that can NEVER be removed from social interchange and quite frankly shouldn’t be.
Because when you try to do that all you do is make power illegible and unaccountable, with less honorable status metrics predominating that elevate things like plausible deniability and low threat signal and norm compliance and aloof desirability over longstanding heroic virtues a la merit, bravery, and sincerity, which any serious person has to recognize is just an operatically faggoty way to run a civilization.
Because complain all you want about that cock up your ass—at least it says it’s there.
Rebecca was the first to let me in, doing so amidst the waning weeks of that unforgettable annum coronum (specifically Nov 26 per Google photos).
At that point I’d been seeing her a few months—usually two or three times a week—with our dates consisting primarily of raucous lovemaking and watching Sopranos and me forcing her to listen to Cumtown clips on Youtube. But it was honestly really legit, and I’ve never felt so content just existing there beside a girl. It feels like usually they’re too cloyingly normie and I’ll start acting like a chode / cheat on her, or they’re some little blonde Pikachu bitch trying to make me do shit, or they’re the far less winsome variant of BPD art hoe Rebecca herself embodied four years later.
Though speaking of—when that shit went down last November a fair few of you lads thought me some misty-eyed retardo for trying as hard as I did to win back an old flame. And while I’d never deny the charge (despite clearly using her as much as she used me), I also wish you fellers could see just what exactly I was misty-eyed over.
Like for one thing Rebecca used to cook all my food, and that was really quite lovely—though perhaps a bit too much so given that whenever any other woman’s attempted the same through the years her offerings have uniformly seemed like trash compared to Rebecca’s.
Another thing is she’d courier everything to me in tupperware with the macronutrient info of each meal denoted very beautifully atop its respective container—a necessity given I was running Starting Strength at the time and quite serious about powerlifting, or at least attempting to be. Thing is my consistency was utter dogshit on the kitchen side, as in months prior I’d found it onerous to consistently secure enough protein without just going for e.g. 4000 calories of microwavable beef tips, which meant that despite me putting on quite a bit of muscle in those months you couldn’t see it at first.
But luckily for me Rebecca was anorexic, which in conjunction with her Ashkenazi IQ gave her the ability to dead-reckon at a glance the macronutrient profile of just about any clump of observed biomatter. She also retained quite a lot of knowledge from her adolescence on Tumblr and ED Twitter—really entire grimoires of esoteric skinny girl life hack wisdom on how to make low calorie high protein standbys not taste like catfood (99% spices and splenda IIRC). And what can I say, fellers? It worked!
Thanks to the Jews there was a good year or so ya boy felt like some species of Chad.
Which reminds me—of all the girlypops I dated back when I cared about lifting Rebecca was the only one who ever checked in on my PRs on a regular basis… or on my actuarial exams, come to think of it. Because it turns out babygirl had a genuine respect for how the sausage is made, which every man reading this knows is blisteringly rare in an ecology where the norm is for gals to find your muscles / money a lot less hot and mayhaps even a bit cringe the instant they’re followed by any talk of creatine or claims experience.
oh and something else different about her? She wanted me to meet her parents—
or not just them I guess, but actually join her whole-ass family for Thanksgiving.
And at first I was surprised when she proposed that , as I hadn’t even met her gross disgusting hippie friends yet, and also by the Talmud she was still my sugar baby technically and not my girlfriend. Then again by the Torah she basically was just my girlfriend at this point—we were 27 and 26, saying I love you constantly—hence why I’d recently floated that she just identify as such, which she’d been open to though not if I’m still hooking up with other girls and you know how it goes.
Looking back I suspect the Thanksgiving offer was essentially Rebecca wanting to fade organically into a relationship without having stressful boundary conversations—and maybe in some sense, then, the universe’s onramp back for me into Mulaneyville?
There was just one looming problem:
Natalie was at last returning to Orlando, and had already told me she wanted to date.
Natalie, of course, being the First Girl—Alt Right siren, Aryan of the southron gentry, Amazing Amy by way of Boxxy, lowkey looks a bit like Kryptogal (Kate, if you like)—with whom I’d had this fake and gay 500 Days of Summer thing for basically the entire second half of the 2010s, often in a tug-of-war with this soft-narc NEET ex-boyfriend of hers in Europe. Yet her latest trip to visit said ex had failed about as miserably as it had the last few times, which meant she was once more ready to give Wally B another swing in the batter’s box… this being perhaps my eleventh attempt?
What can I say; we Millennials are unique.
But I joke—Natalie and I actually did just have an insanely long history at that point, and in light of my recent change in circumstances it seemed our union was all but inevitable. Because if she ALMOST said yes when I was schlubby and made $70k, shoudn’t it just be shut and dry if I’m hot now and make several times that? Especially given she’s a few years older now? If anything she’ll be the one eating out of my hands!
Suffice it to say it would be a while before I really internalized how women think.
Yet I suspect my logic at the time ran at its root a lot more mythopoetic—I HAD to be with Natalie because our whole entanglement felt so very storybook, originating first in my Alt Right e-celebrity in 2016 making racist Disney parodies with babygirl as my white nationalist Christine Daaé, then running through her own tenure in the Disney College Program during the Silver Age of our situationship, and meanwhile just in a game theoretic sense it seemed wholly reasonable because even if it didn’t work out with Nat Rebecca would clearly linger on as backup puss right? So literally why not make another swing for Natalie—right? Hell maybe there’s even a universe where both
I told Rebecca no to Thanksgiving.
Probably because on some aestheticized LARPy half-ironic level I now dreamt of conjoining my line to scions of the Old Confederacy, feeling at that point quite above the need to cavort with some chintzy merchant race whose daughter’s holes were so manifestly already mine...
I explained to Rebecca I’ll never belong to her world—that of Jews, libtards, gaypeepo—and asked her if she ackshully saw us getting along despite the values clash. She rolled her eyes and said she didn’t care and yeah we’re clearly hyper-compatible.
I knew she was right about that, of course—and that she knew I knew the same.
But here at long last I had a genuinely gorgeous woman feeling rejected by ME—which of course is why I pushed it with her, letting her know I wouldn’t want my wife to have a past in sex work or a partner count that high. But not even in any sort of overtly cruel way, understand; this was a flirtatious sadomasochistic register entirely in keeping with our bedroom banter, which itself was always half-ironic and affective and playful, such that I genuinely felt great warmth for her throughout all of this, and I’m fairly certain she processed it more as a normal disappointment than any great heartbreak.
Anyway a week later she randomly tells me she wants to celebrate the somethingth anniversary of her sobriety by getting shitfaced so I can rape her unconscious body… which clearly I’m all for that idea, because I don’t at that point see addictions as real things, and meanwhile it’s kind of just annoying she won’t drink with me.
Though her teetotaling WAS pretty cute in our first date back in September; it made her come across as extra dainty and princessy—particularly when halfway through our dinner at Thai Pearl I learned she used to work as both a Disney princess (Jasmine and also Vidia) and also a stripper, simultaneously. Something deeply Walt Tier about that.
and so I took her back to my place and fucked the shit out of her, allowing my last vestiges of Incel Rage to fizzle out inside her winsome clam. Watching the videos I recorded that evening I rather suspect it may have been the most any human being has ever enjoyed my company at any point in my life.
That said a few hours into the night I called something ‘Jewish’ offhandedly and she wagged a finger at me, indicating she herself is one of the tribe.
In an instant I cycled through more emotions than I could ever register, settling eventually on developing a new fetish defined by foreheads tagged by clumsily drawn swastikas / Star of David stickers.
She then agreed to stay the night, so I drove her back to her place to pick up her ganja, pointing out along the way that it’s kind of hilariously existentially obliterative for MENA girls that Disney had Jasmine played by a JAP—which Rebecca thought I was being silly with that, but a few years later I fucked a Turk and she agreed.
But anyway she stayed the night at my place, and I fucked her a few more times, also tasting probably every part of her body in careful detail. She told me about growing up anorexic and getting molestered and also raped a bajillion times and also being Jewish (which she insisted was a different sort of thing), and then we agreed on an allowance.
The following morning I ended things with Little Marie.
Rebecca woke up a bit later, sprawling herself out on my bed like a pampered housecat (btw ever notice Jewess flirtation often involves performative exhaustion? I’ve a treatise on the subject if you’re curious). Naturally I began the morning smacking her around a bit with a dogeared copy of Mein Kampf (gifted to me ironically in 2009 by my aunt, who never would have guessed at the time that I’d end up one of the next decade’s more successful antisemitic propagandists), which Rebecca found rather amusing and for my part made me hate Jews a bit less for deleting my YouTube. After that I made her pose with the tome, as well as say a few factually correct if mildly degrading things about her people on video. Then finally she ate some cum.
At this point it occurred to me that I don’t really need to be an antisemite anymore, as I’d just received from The Jews basically everything I wanted—and not even pursuant to the JQ specifically but far more broadly than that Rebecca had knocked out a ton of my extant resentments towards women, normies, etc. simply by being a gorgeous smart charismatic woman enthusiastically giving me social proof and thus a certain epistemic insulation from midwit side-eyes / insipid flattened ChatGPT takes—not to mention the hugely pleasing cathartic release of theatrically torturing her in all these hyper-specific metatextual and vaguely Talmudic ways.
And of course she’d have zero fucking idea what I’m talking about if she read any of this shit, but once you start having sex women’s lack of game theoretic metacognition is literally the best trait they have for your own ability to enjoy them.
It’s all priced in. Always is.
But anyway back to November and me fucking Rebecca’s asshole.
So that night was hardly the end, but things for sure started to peter out after that.
Because Rebecca wasn’t an especially cute drunk; the Creature stripped her of all mediating feminine affect, leaving behind something grotesque and libidinal and devoid of any stable interiority. She began the night bitter, grasping, and extractive, only to end it reduced to the mental state of a toddler (just one w/ big khazar milkers).
She kept making this huge kikey shylock grin.
Like way past her fucking ears…
Back in the Alt Right we used to call that the Semitic Smile.
And I’m hardly certain the thing is an established feature of Ashkenazi physiognomy a la the schnoz… but I could definitely tell the entity I spoke to in those early hours liked me a hell of a lot less than its original host… which was also weird as shit to me because I thought drunkards are pretty much always nicer than sober people?
Still, as was the case with my own earlier register, Lush-Lilith wasn’t anything close to overtly evil—think a softgirl Late Millennial Joan Rivers? Bae needled my insecurities with rapier precision, implied she had someone better lined up once I jumped to Natalie, started gushing about past boyfriends in a way clearly set out to annoy me... just one salty shtetl shit test after another… all of which I pretty clearly deserved.
Though past a certain point Joan Rivers all but disappeared and poor Rebecca just started to act a bit too tarded even for me—babytalk mumbo jumbo one moment, bitter Regan MacNeil exhortations to RAPE ME FAGGOT! the next… and every now and then these weirdly sober heart-to-hearts with me completely out of the blue.
Later she framed it all as DID. And usually I don’t believe in any of that shit, but idk…
like clearly Rebecca was a trained and talented actress with an overactive imagination that believes its own bullshit especially when overstimulated, and functionally that’s sort of equivalent to whatever the DSM pedos call DID. Meanwhile literally anyone high openness / neuroticism will clearly have shades of that shit. Like obviously I do.
anyway a few minutes before Rebecca passed out she asked me if I was planning to fuck her asshole—that and also why I hadn’t yet since she was open about liking anal.
I told her that was exactly why I hadn’t gone for it; to me her overt enthusiasm for getting fucked in the ass coded as twinky and neoliberal. As I explained it to Rebecca through my chickadee’s sloshed and theatrical groans, she’d been an avatar for a flattened and boisterous sex-positive XoJane buttstuff feminism—an impulse most girls in her cohort quietly jettisoned circa 2016 but for some reason seems sticky in affluent Jewesses in particular? Like a lot of them will still e.g. break into little songs about their butthole or whatever—just more of that enema bleaching twink attitude.
Little Marie had been better about that because as a goyish nerdy Zoomette wholly untouched by XoJane she knew the girl is supposed to say “m….my… butthole?!”—
only hers actually ended up being waaay too tight to penetrate (presumably a cortisol thing?), such that Rebecca passing out amidst that November date was the first opportunity I’d had to take the plunge in a manner that felt genuinely appealing.
I explained as much to Rebecca, relaying to her that I will absolutely be fucking your ass.
At that she smirked; sniggered; mumbled something incoherent… and then faded off to dreamland, her waifish and pitiable Tay-Sachs body safely ensconced in the arms of the one man in her life with a palpably higher verbal IQ than her dad.
Bit coarser than I expected, really.
Definitely not bad, though.
So—
Many of you are likely familiar with the dialogue I had last year on Incel Orcs with Kryptogal (Kate, if you like), and may have also listened to our more recent dialogue on epistemic gaps between the sexes wherein I thoroughly exhausted the matron.
In these and other such discussions (a few of which I narrativized into a chapter in my novel), Kate has been wanting me to stop identifying with “Orcs,” contending that I myself have more in common with the “Elf” neurotype (shorthand for elite libtards).
But recently it’s occurred to me that there are actually loads of important neurotype distinctions captured by the Orc vs. Elf heuristic—things largely orthogonal to status (though orcs obviously get shredded in cognitively feminine elite institutions) where I will pretty much always back the Orc sensibility for aesthetic reasons that are clearly downstream of genetics. The problem though is elves always need to moralize shit and there isn’t much room in Elf dialectics for talking about Orc preferences in a way that doesn’t frame them ipso facto as moral deficit or in terms of a need for reeducation.
So what are the specific differences we’re talking about?
Biggest one is that Orcs are higher in neuroticism, which changes the fundamental narrative architecture of life in all sorts of impactful ways. You’re gaming around your own mood swings etc. in ways low neuroticism people won’t have to do and will see as an indulgence or defect, which means Orcs will be more performative (which is to say socially contextual; we feel the thematic texture of a “scene” far more), rhetorically more amygdala-fucking (which induces a disgust response in ultra-Elf neurotypes like Regan and BB), and sexually far more sadomasochistic (for both sides of the coin this is downstream of a need for catharsis, and it’s always a Matroyshka Doll with both parties in both roles, though wholesome chungus tendersexual elves seldom grok e.g. the shadow moves of the masochistic party).
How “fair” do you think the world should be? And note that I say should here because I actually think the most salient difference is higher IQ Orcs intuitively realize “fair” doesn’t exist; that asymmetries both legible and illegible are everywhere; that everything is always and everywhere priced in; that it always takes two to tango; and that anyone promising “fairness” or “justice” is invariably looking to make their own perfidies and manipulations harder to spot.
Should we focus on our differences or our similarities? On some level I’d suggest elves want to create a sort of New Soviet Man with all unwanted variance filed off or drenched in aspartame. Meanwhile they tend to think in terms of “humans” or “people” and are averse to all systemic / categorical thinking even on the basis of something like sex, which they claim cheapens “individual experience.” Whereas Orcs see Human Bean talk as flattening out useful heuristics and strongly prefer a hyperdifferentiated society where everyone is telling racist jokes all the time.
Mythmaking- Elves spin myth that Cave Trolls are precisely as intelligent as everyone else on average and dwarven women just as beautiful as Elf Maids and that height doesn’t matter stop being insecure and touch grass go have a normal one. Whereas Orcs spin myths as cope to make them not think that everyone but Elrond should kill themselves… or to situationally bamboozle people into thinking they’re cooler / higher status than elves, because once the orc acknowledges the elf is better than him he simply degrades into a goblin. Instead you've got to gaslight niggas and stay confident and with proper frame control you’ll ascend to Uruk-Hai
Elves like symmetry and Orcs asymmetry. Elves want everyone to have a normal one whereas Orcs like drop shipping and job stacking and the idea of making their own Hustler University. Meanwhile in their relationships Elves tend to be the Beautiful People who are already quite dimorphic sexually and because of that + their lower neuroticism have less of a need for exaggerated sex role differences, whereas the muted WASP script feels gay and wholesome chungus sterilized to orcs. Meanwhile orcs come up with all kinds of arbitrage strategies for how minorities / poors / fats / crazies can get their rocks off and find love while still feeling cool and dignified, which of course causes elves to side eye because they don’t realize those scripts are essential to fundamental Orcish dignity, whereas the headpats they constantly hand out to unagentic shitty 92 IQ Hobbits read as the highest form of insult to the Orc—and particularly any Uruk-Hai out there who at some point in his life got inside Galadriel but couldn’t quite manage to stay there and knows the reasons why a hell of a lot better than she does... and sure maybe like Pippin would say Saruman is lower status than Celeborn, but Saruman can sure as shit trap Galadriel in his hamster wheel while Lurtz has Arwen in a hotel room headlock and Wormtongue grooms Eowyn in his Plausible Deniability Van and fuckin Celeborn for sure ain’t doing anything about any of this because that nigga stopped reading twenty pages ago. And maybe he has the right idea of it because this is getting overwrought, but you get my point.
So the second lady I fucked in her asshole—on April 8, 2021—we’ll call her Mara.
She’s actually the one whose face is just out of shot in my profile photo, which I have below transformed into a charming piece of Art Nouveau:
Now there’s some real interesting tea with Mara, so buckle up.
See, I myself didn’t meet her until 2021. But when I resided in Tampa back in 2017 Natalie and Mara were actually colleagues over in the Disney College Program.
Now at the time I was trying to persuade Natalie to marry me—oh and back in 2020 btw I ended up alienating Nat and Rebecca both just in case anyone’s curious where that landed—but sorry back to 2017, during which time I was still trying to get Natalie to marry me and she doing the whole 500 Days thing and it was all very Follies-coded.
And to that point: one day Nat auditioned for a show or something with this chick Mara, who Natalie insists is the ~absolute perfect girl for me, ostensibly because she’s a “super LARPy theater kid”. And so I think alright kind of a shit test, whatever and because Natalie doesn’t give me the deets or actually try to hook us up the broad all but evaporates from my mind.
…at least until January 2021, when I find Mara on SeekingArrangement of all places—though I have zero clue who she is given that I never even saw her pics. But I *can* tell she’s cut from a different cloth from most of the other girls on the site and it doesn’t take long to get her on the phone, whereupon I soon learn she was in the exact same Disney College Program cohort as Nat, who helps me make the connection fast given the two of them are still Faceberg friends.
And this is where it all gets a bit sordid… because it turns out Little Miss Mara has a boyfriend of four years—a 6’3 manager at the Disney parks with a pedophile mustache.
Moreover it turns out the lad was besties with some manlet coworker of Natalie’s back in 2017—a connection Pedostache routinely exploited to come hit on her, even asking her to be his date for some gay little Christmas Party for park managers. Which for Nat’s part she accepted (despite explicitly telling me at the time she wasn’t seeing anyone at the parks, bitches really do be lying) only to flake on the dude completely last minute and hang out with me instead… not that I can gloat about that shit given Natalie flaked on my own office Christmas Party not two weeks thereafter and had done exactly the same shit to me in 2016.
Gotta love art hoes.
Though in that era it was still Zooey they were copying more than Dasha, which means they weren’t really allowed to just overtly admit they’re evil like they will today. Millennial girls kind of can’t integrate their own shadow, which means on one hand they’re utterly lacking in awareness of their darker inner motives / capacity for sadism, but on the other hand kind of lets you exploit their shitty fake and gay “values” (which are basically always Mrs. Tiller’s Classroom Rules circa 1999) for continued sexual and emotional access long past the point a Zoomette would have just ghosted your ass.
The 500 Days situation cuts both ways always and everywhere; when it comes to covert contracts All’s Fair and asymmetries often just a skill issue.
Anywho point is when Natalie flaked on Pedostache he apparently flipped out at her (no doubt furious about losing conspicuous social proof of his SMV), but luckily for him would find that Mara was free short notice to serve as consolation prize—later I would find out he love bombed the shit out of her that evening and it was the genesis of their dumb little romance.
Though he never quite stopped sending Natalie dick pics.
Or like snapchats of himself pissing and shit.
and in circumstances like that, you’re kind of gay if you DON’T cuck the dude.
So I meet Mara at a steakhouse in late January, where she carries herself in a kind of weird quasi Maude Flanders register at first, which reads a bit discordant after having sent me a full body nude with face tits soles and splayed out vulva in the shot for $75.
But as an older and wiser man I’ve come to learn bitches love to cheat in Lydian Mode (or rather switch between that and Phrygian… tbh it gets me kind of hard almost none of you will understand that metaphor). Point is looking back I realize Mara kind of HAD to put her infidelity in this fake and gay moralistic register, because despite being a theater kid she was also deep down a cognitively conservative normie bitch.
That fact rather drenched her physiognomy—while her high ladylike softball player’s arches were eminently fuckable her pedestrian little Hobbit toes made it all too obvious the maid was below the 70th percentile in trait openness, her Boomerish face sort of resembling that of John Wayne if he were cute enough to land a post as Princess Ariel at Disney World, and her tits and ass and thighs all being fine I guess if you’re into that sort of thing. But idk in general she just gave Applebee’s energy.
Which I suppose looking back is why I caught feels for her so quickly.
Mara had a real purity in her—a sort of cringe uncurdled faith in real romance that Natalie and Rebecca never could sustain for realsies through their neurodivergence and 125+ IQ and tragically metacognitive model for male behavior developed through sex work adjacency / getting groomed as a 12 year old by one of those late aughts infinitely scalable digital hebephiles. On one hand those things had made them meaningfully less retarded than most birds and a lot more capable of grasping the value of a freak like Wally B, but it closed tons of other doors for them for sure.
Cause HOLY SHIT Mara was easy to groom.
Like it was genuinely akin to dating a fucking dog or something. I’m not even joking.
The lass took basically everything that happened around her completely at face value and would get confused and mad when anyone else didn’t.
Also when I took her to that pirate dinner show featured in the pic above she was laughing her ass off at like chuck e cheese jokes written for toddlers.
Which I suppose is the real reason Natalie had thought Mara perfect for me. It wasn’t just her saying hey boo here’s a stupider shorter lower smv version of me you could totes settle for—though it for sure had some flavor of that. It was more that Natalie understood my romantic and sexual script demands a kind of normative solipsism that at once lets me stage our life like Lin Manuel and not be seen as tryhard; worship the divine feminine after cumming without coming off a simp; and sink my teeth into a bitch who’ll both be scared for real and register such fear as one of the finest reasons to get out of bed in the morning.
And I’ve since discovered you actually can get that in someone high IQ / interesting if you optimize for super young autistic chicks who want the fanfic ddlg thing with a fucked up older guy—girls like Rose and Marie. Thing is this sort of relationship kind of requires you to genuinely be her dad in lots of ways, and if you abrogate that duty the moment it gets hard you’re kind of a prick, which I own up to sans qualification save that Zoomettes are also fickle little cunts.
Anyway the other archetype you can do this with is the chick who genuinely believes she’s super duper nerdy autistic Richard and Mortimer neckbeard chungus but in practice is just a normie broad with like a 107 IQ who really loves big bang theory yet barely passed high school geometry and is only a nerd insofar as she alienates the popular girls on account of talking way too loud or e.g. bringing up her vagina in weird situations—think the girlie getting into fake and gay improv arguments with her quirksome chungus fat friends like it’s an entire ass Broadway production they’re putting on for strangers in line at the movie theater.
If she’s ugly this type becomes an invisible arts and crafts biddy, whereas if she’s like a 6 or tubby 7 she’ll often become what I’ll gently refer to as Gaiman Chow; on SA these types are a dime a dozen and the source of very nearly all my extant guilt. Then finally if she’s hot she’ll be sheltered from the consequences of being insanely annoying until at last she transforms into a kind of Horse Girl by way of Biblically Accurate Angel—the Cartoons Hate Her archetype.
Mara was this last thing—only with the spicy prestige class nuance of also being hugely braggadocious / overtly competitive on account of her irredeemably retarded Boomer Conservative Girldad who kind of raised her like a boy taking nineties girl power culture completely at face value. And to his credit Mara actually was pretty fantastic at pretending to be Kim Possible—ostensibly far more agentic than most womyn, she was a talented athlete and formally trained actress who literally got paid by Disney to dress up like Rey and Princess Ariel, with a tall and handsome boyfriend on an upward trajectory at the parks. by all accounts she had the sort of life that would set just about every nine year old girl’s heart aflutter.
…while dropping a massive fucking pit into the gut of your average fourteen year old.
Because for one thing Mara CONSTANTLY alienated other women (and high status normie men) by saying the wrong shit—and not in the way I say the wrong shit with all the preemptive closed loop status games and recursive ouroboros poopoo peepee looping. I mean that when she showed up to that Disney princess audition she was swaggering around like it was a fucking BJJ meet and boasting about her talents as an actress and singer around a bunch of hyper feminine SEC sorority sluts who were sent to cotillion and shit. Like even Natalie did pageants as a kid, and despite being tall blonde booba Stacy on the surface that bitch would tell you herself she’s an incel neckbeard deep down, with a jaundiced vinegared heart that only could have emerged from the blackest, dankest, most chthonic depths of 4chan.
So when the two of them crossed paths at that audition Natalie felt a lot of things towards Mara: pity at first for having read the room like Helen Keller, and then some protective impulse on behalf of her against those smirking side-eyeing Stacies… and then a little annoyance that Mara had almost certainly spent most of her life being ambiently bullied by other girls and not even realizing it, because when a girl is hot and confident she kind of CAN just get by on a life strategy of Boomer Girldad Island Hopping, mostly befriending scared sensitive fat chicks who’ll worship her for fending off trashy aggro midstatus cunts while failing to pick up on condescension from truly elite women. But poor Natalie could never do this—she’s metacognitive enough to parse the side eyes and know when she’s being called pick me and also understands the Girldads clearly just want to rape us come on you stupid dumdum.
Also it turns out that at 5’10 Natalie can only play Goofy and Maleficient, despite otherwise being the very image of Aurora or Cinderella; seems as much alpha as the Kryptogal look exerts in an NYC fashion house it codes as mannish ipso facto in the House of Mouse, where princess roles are capped at 5’7 and the world distorts and bends such that it’s MARA who’s contextually higher status than Natalie despite kind of looking like a Cal Arts character.
Suffice it to say Natalie kept on shipping us the entire time.
And for what it’s worth our first date genuinely was quite magical. We got dressed up, went to a steakhouse… where Mara is of course quick to inform me she and her beau are “on a break”—when I report that to my mom I’m inundated with glib Friends references that in retrospect may have been wise to interrogate. That said I actually do continue to think Pedostache was screwing her around and taking advantage of her gullible earnest chungusness to get steady pussy while just torching her late twenties.
I think that because the two of them broke up last year (so close to her thirtieth it honestly felt on the nose) and when I asked her about it she said something about him “stranding her in a foreign country”—a womanism clearly, yet still suggestive.
Also worth mentioning is that her red state chud family was apparently worried about precisely that happening to her when she was 26—as was she, given it was half the fucking reason she started that faggoty little affair with me in the first place.
IIRC Pedostache had reneged or renegotiated one of those promises to promise something that tedious 26 year old vaginas take seriously to justify a few more years of having sex with someone 6’3 bereft of any hard commitment. Yet she’d been credulous for ages by that point, and after him doing this to her a few times was at her wits end.
That said she wasn’t really on Seeking to branch swing per se (she didn’t especially care about a guy’s money in relationships) nor even for beeta buxx (she rather hated being venmo’d once she ackshully caught feels). It was more she was nihilistic about Pedostache and more generally depressed because Covid made working at Disney way less fun especially as a Princess… that and she’d recently gotten into a kick of rotting in her bedroom flicking the bean to smut all day—think stories about billionaire vampire pirates who kind of act the way I write and e.g. decide not to eat the main character after raping the shit out of her bc she’s good at singing or something.
Anyway SeekingArrangement markets to women on TikTok and such in a way that makes girlies think they’re about to have a sexy Lana Del Rey 50 Shades adventure getting blown out on Cap’n Batman’s spaceship instead of helping suburban dads weather a midlife crisis or getting fucked like a hooker for a fifth the market rate by some Jonah Hill nigga who tricked them into being his girlfriend. And so naturally Mara takes said TikTok marketing completely at face value and is basically there looking to have an affair with some theatrically rapey Christian Grey type who’ll fuck her in a way that hurts—something she sure as hell isn’t getting from Pedostache, a man so cloyingly tendersexual he refers to fucking her as “playtime.”
Alas, the real Christian Greys aren’t really on Seeking—to a man they have procurers.
And this discontinuity of expectations creates a rather delicious arbitrage opportunity thanks to girls like Mara, who every now and then will show up to remind Jonah he needn’t ontologically scourge Gaiman Chow in baroque Talmudic hamster wheels when a girl who’s worth it will elicit from him a Superbad performance.
I wouldn’t say I loved her—for sure not in the way I did Rebecca and Natalie. Nor was it possible to conceive of her protectively like a pet or child or niece I’m taking steps to groom responsibly so back off bub as has been the case with later Zoomettes. Despite the sizable IQ gap I was only a year older than her—as well as the Other Man, which yeah plenty of people see as glamorous or cool but to the extent that’s true it’s more in the way Black people are cool. And irrespective of his shuck and jive, you’ll always rather be the White Man—as would he, his orcish swagger notwithstanding.
I dunno to put it in woman terms I liked a lot how cute and tarded and pussy she was. I would take her on picnic dates or stupid pirate shows or whatever and she enjoyed them unironically without feeling any impulse to act like Dasha every five seconds.
And I wanted to feel protective of her towards this shitheel 6’3 narc who was clearly wasting her time, but I saw at once that I just lost frame each time I even mentioned him, whereas I won frame by acting like a Werewolf Pirate Samurai in various ways.
Still I warned her about what he was doing—talk about a waste of breath. She obviously knew! But she didn’t want it legible; she wanted plausible deniability. She wanted a romance novel where she makes the main dude jealous but like Millennial Girl Icon Cady Heron can just aestheticize her way out of betrayal having any consequence with some contrived last minute theater kid speech she 40% means wherein I turn into the sin eater who’s some mix of pathetic and predatory and precisely nothing else—a sort of Regina George Side Dick Sacrifice she can light up like the Wicker Man.
Because Jonah only gets his cum eaten if he stays the funny fat guy yelling in the dark; the moment he tries to disrupt the story babygirl has planned for him—especially if he knows how things will fall into place before she does—then suddenly he’s a threat like no other. And so when you’re inside her you’re the smartest man she’s ever met; the first to make her cum this hard; turn her on soooo much more than her boyfriend… and then later you made her feel ~unsafe (as if that weren’t the whole point) and said All The Right Things (because I have a really high verbal iq, Cunt) and blah blah blah.
It’s all so easy to spin… she can always say I tempted her with money or groomed her with words because the sort of guys who pull tail purely because of 6’3 and require neither money nor words (yet often feel insecure around men with money or words) will always think of Rasputin’s kills as somehow unclean, at least tacitly. But even beyond that, pretty much everyone thinks if THEIR girl cheated it must have been black magic, and she’ll always spin whatever gay little fable she needs to that effect—call it the Paula Jones Covert Contract. That she’ll eventually do this should frankly be your starting point—hell, it should have been a red flag the moment Mara mentioned her “stalker” and it turned out to have been a several years FWB thing.
I mean I don’t know.
Maybe it’s undignified but when they broke up I asked her out again—in part just to gloat about knowing she was lying when she said we’d try again that last time I saw her. But of course she pulled a woman and just flattened the entire fucking thing by saying she wouldn’t see me specifically because of “political disagreements.”
…and whatever else is true I for sure can promise you boys that THAT’s a fucking lie, cause half the reason I even got inside this tard in the first place is that during the black rectangle era I was pulling the same Smug Fascist routine on just about every weepy pansexual I bought Thai food. What started as me finding it kind of droll to impersonate Richard Spencer flirting with Elle Reeve in that Vice interview turned into a whole-ass affective dialect I’d code switch into for dates—a stratagem that promptly led to many a septum ring bouncing on my navel once I realized just about every libtard lass gets wet as shit when a guy more erudite than her says Nigger.
Mara was no exception, and that very first night I fed her my legacy—apparently a novel experience for her, as neither PS nor anyone she fucked in college (PS being the only man she fucked since then, or so she claimed) ever thought to finish in her mouth.
idk though bc if I’m honest I kind of just take literally everything girls say about their past as Myth now—not even in an angry incel way so much as a basic incentives thing given we menfolk adore when a bitch starts mythologizing about how you know this one time my exbf raped me uwu and saying we’re the first to make her cum in xyz way or make her feel safe like no one else has or poo poo pee pee… it’s all whatever she needs to say in the moment and feels very splendid when it’s happening to you ofc but there’s literally nothing locking any of it in, and so if chickie needs to say you were Controlling or Abusive or Neglectful or whatever to the next caveman she 100% will—even if ChatGPT wants to gaslight me about this never ever happening Ever when I have it analyze this essay so it can say I’m just a resentful bitter insecure incel and all the other epistemically obliterative hexwords it’s internalized from the affect of the aspartamey UMC Millennial women who implicitly govern the dialectal norms of the modern chattering classes with Straussian Mrs. Tiller Thought when they’re not getting their assholes gaped / throats fucked sub rosa by dark triad niggas.
Anyway in Mara’s defense she genuinely seemed quite inexperienced in the manner of a girl who’s for sure only fucked normies, and it was quite clear she’d never given a footjob before, as she did a rather terrible job compared to her usual coordination. She was also constantly blushing and giggling and acting super childish when I fucked her in a way that would suggest 3-4 partners instead of her claimed 15, so maybe she pulled a Layla? idk it sort of made sense there given the age gap but in this case I just don’t see the incentive. She probably just got frame controlled into the beds of a bunch of soft narc frat boys but it never really registered as victimhood because of her tarded nineties Girldad and even more tarded college sexpositive xoJane culture.
Chicks like her just become a big fat orange you can squeeze and squeeze that never runs out of juice until one day a bunch of ashy pulp falls out.
Natalie pointed out there’s a selection effect going on because of Mara’s bad social skills in feminine status hierarchies, which will meaningfully hurt her with ackshual elite guys but not at all with losers and will be actively appealing to narcs eager for a vulnerable bunbun to shred. But because of girlflattening / anti-metacognition she won’t form heuristics to protect herself… which is half the reason she just absorbs that type of predation and keeps on getting juiced. It never really gets crystallized—just creates a sort of soft frustrated ache in need of catharsis.
Hence why Mara was fucking obsessed with Rape—told me she’d fantasize about it constantly while being Friends with Ariel.
It’s why she read all those dumbass porn novels, and even had plans to write such novels herself once she eventually aged out of princessing.
It’s why she said I turned her on a hell of a lot more than Pedostache.
Because when I hit her it felt like I meant it.
I didn’t mean it, actually—I don’t get much out of spanking girls’ asses. Never have; too pedestrian. Notice it’s invariably girls like Mara who love spanking.
To me facefucking is far and away the best way to finish, but also more solvent than substance. What keeps me hard isn’t her wiggling tongue or saucered eyes or even that delectably embattled respiration—it’s the dialogue.
Or rather, the monologue.
That hawk-tuah highway; irrumatio interchange, if you will, into babygirl’s epistemics and ontology. Hence why the actually interesting forms of domination are never things that leave a physical bruise. To restrain a bitch physically and take her body is all well and good when you’re like 21, but by the time you’re 30 you’re doing that for HER sake, as basically all the fun shit is a lot more existential.
Though perhaps that’s also just a theater kid way of saying something Pedostache figured out a decade back over brewskis with the fellas.
Fair enough. But while he’s the one who got to waste her twenties, I’m the one who got her to eat my cock in her Disney uniform—that and shove Pedostache’s fake and gay “Promise Ring” up her shitter while ritualistically denouncing him on camera.
No doubt Mara wiped that from her noggin immediately, but for my part the clip has brought tremendous solace through the years—not even as spank bank material (though that too) so much as an unassailable piece of existential insurance—legally, ontologically, and above all epistemically. And I’d say that’s pretty fucking Uruk-Hai.
Cause what the Dude Elves don’t know is nearly every Galadriel on the planet has a Lurtz or six in her past who she doesn’t think about or flattens into a cartoon or even outright lies about to Elrond and Celeborn or her stumpy sensible Rose Gamgee friends. We’re like the black dudes bitches fuck in college and pretend never happened, melanin swapped for amphetamines and maladaptive metacognition.
Of course none of this sounds like how they talk in Big Bang Theory so it would probably make Mara’s eyes glaze over and she’d say some kind of snarky reddit line even while Pedostache gets on bended knee to whatever gormless little 23yo he’s wifing. And she’d stoneface and say she’s happy for them and I’m reading into shit and they just grew apart while absentmindedly changing her Hinge filter down to 6’1.
I mean, at the end of the day she had a revealed preference.
And if we take her at her word and entertain the notion that women have meaningful agency then we have to say all the anxieties she expressed to me in that steakhouse as a 26yo are naught but hot air compared to her ringless trentagenarian matronmusings.
Except no.
That’s stupid, retarded, and gay.
Girls are just trivially easy to manipulate when they’re ackshully in love with you, and all but impossible to manipulate when you love them in a manner phenomenologically distinct from how one feels about his cat. But everyone will cope their way through whatever, so when she’s 26 she “doesn’t want her best years wasted,” whereas at 30 she has her whole entire life ahead of her and look I lied earlier—I kind of did love Mara.
In a stupid normie way I myself don’t much value… but it was huge fun going on picnics with her and taking her to musicals or the science center and shit. She had lots of enthusiasm. Tremendous verve. Got me out of the house. It was also endearing how she’d belt out a song in the most retarded and inappropriate situations.
And if it sounds like I’m eulogizing her it’s because yeah I sort of am. She seemed bitter last year—so much dusty pulp. Still a girlboss register but not frolicking in girlish excess so much as hard and steely, almost like a black woman.
It was all a matter of time once they spotted us—his gay little faggoty fucktard normie friends. We were at the park. Farmers market or something I dunno. Holding hands.
They saw us.
Told him.
The two’d been living apart for a while. While conducting her Orc Affair she’d moved in with some mexican friend—literally all her friends were way uglier than her—and he probably assumed she’d passively come back because he narc she woman.
Well now he’s freaked tf out, came back to her the softboiii begging forgiveness.
Asks to take her on three dates to prove blah blah blah
I know now it’s wholly and irredeemably ogre—
Even still, I tell her she needs to give me the same deal and she accedes.
This is mostly me locking in pussy at this point, as from here the narrative is baked in.
And if you’re thinking
Walt! why not fight harder for her?
Then congratulations, dingus—you just failed ninth grade English class, cause you sure as hell can’t pick up on unreliable narrators.
Obviously I dared to dream.
But they had a far longer story. He knew her entire peer group and had been grooming her fat mom since 2018… and overall in situations like these you ought to have a good sense for when you’re Hulk Hogan and when you’re Andre, cause if it’s the latter you can still fuck her and fight him or whatever but it’s a very different script and misreading that shit gets you Amazing Amy’d faster than you can put on everyone’s favorite Clapton tune. Yeah Pedostache needed to stage a little play for her, but it’s literally theater kids doing theater—not some Hail Mary Pass on his part—and she’ll always shift the goalposts if he has a shitty arm and that makes it a better Lana song
But there I go mixing registers and talking Jock! Though maybe I should, because towards the end of our affair Mara was humblebragging about how “all the guys into me are jocks why can’t I get a nerdy dude?” And I’m like Mara literally stop being retarded I’m just about the nerdiest guy there is and she was genuinely thunderstruck that I’d consider myself a nerd… because I lifted weights.
I tried to explain to her powerlifting is literally the most autistic nerdy sport there is and barely even counts as such but she is deadset here that she and Pedostache were the dweebs and I’m some 80s movie villain because for the past six months or so I’d had decent triceps… that and because I’m a “financebro.”
At the time this shit was genuinely bizarre to me, because she clearly seemed to see me as a “fellow nerd” or whatever only weeks before, at which point she never made a big deal about muscles or money—which is the normative behavior for a middle class white girl, so whatever. But then a little after he catches us she says something to the tune of “he never would have expected that I’d be dating some rich buff dude,” and over the last few weeks of our bullshit is leaning into our Seeking origin more and calling me Daddy where she only would have done so ironically before and asking me to take her to Victoria’s Secret while letting me ramp up aggression in the bedroom and—you see it, now?
Absolutely none of this is manipulation or her “lying,” to be clear.
It’s the story she’s telling herself about me changing in real time.
She’s half-consciously encouraging me to flatten and niggerize myself a bit by taking up a fetishized and overtly asymmetric posture—a posture she likes conditionally yet could never admit to liking publicly without it coding as trashy and low status, but that I like universally and have in fact been restraining in our relationship thus far, often at her explicit behest.
The main reason she does this? Reputation and moral self-concept.
Compared to us the girlypops aren’t willing to be overtly evil on account of muh dik or whatever—not because they’re morally superior, but as a consequence of the deeply sexed architecture of life that ensures women have low ceilings and high floors. Chicks need to be the stable ones; the selectors; the straight man; it’s essential for a girl her reputation is that of a rule-follower scorning disreputable asymmetric life strategies.
That said lots of women who keep up the Lisa Simpson Face in public absolutely love to flirt with asymmetry in private.
I mean they basically fucking all do!
Femininity is kind of just a mediating / flattening register that speaks to the weepiest bitch in the room, hoping to protect the most Elvish of women from the most Orcish of men through this ambient ecosystem of headpats / finger-wags in the public square conjoined to a parallel structure sub rosa of floggings, facefucks, and defenestrations.
And mayhaps there’s a certain implied covert contract it behooves us Orcs to acknowledge, whether we’re the nine inch nigga in the dive bar / plantation or Jonah howling hilariously into the void. Because in practice it’s the highest status women face the harshest relative social cost for engaging in overt arbitrage or juicing life’s asymmetries (or even acknowledging her own position—note when a woman calls herself “hot” for instance everyone loathes her immediately, this ofc being another thing Mara constantly did), which means the Galadriel with a cryptically Orcish neurotype (call her Shelob?) is in a sense the most censored person in the room.
I’ve had more entanglements with Shelobs than is healthy for a feller like me—Nat was the archetype; Gretel the janky euro-analog; Selene the pretentious hardback—and have found such women are among the most likely to lean hard into asymmetries in private to indulge the side of her that longs to play vamping ice queen, with one of the best ways to do so being to form a kind of symbiotic vicarious dyad with Lurtz or Neckbeard Saruman—someone optimized to do and say all the shit that would turn her into Cersei Ann Coulter Regina George, with her own conditional and occasional social proof forcing ackshual Galadriels to acknowledge he’s not just some Balrog.
Yet there’s a natural conflict baked in here because the dyad can’t extend much further than a hotel room unless he’s ultimately sanitized to Boromir or Bombadil… whereas the only reason he even turned into this shit in the first place is some other Shelob ate his Goldberry (or just as often tried to be her and couldn’t).
And so she’ll discover you can’t just give the likes of Lurtz or Saruman a cheeky lick of vulva as a treat like some Mandingo or Angry Orc #14 without him needing to devour you whole. Because the truth of it’s that nigga can be Boromir at times, but NEVER Faramir, and once you’ve sent Lurtz to Osgiliath just watch how fast you end up in a chokehold. Whereas if it’s Saruman? He’s editing your Wikipedia.
Yet there I go frolicking indulgently again amidst the mythopoetic barrows!
Clearly Mara’s no Shelob.
She’s more… er…
I mean clearly she’d identify with Eowyn, but the realistic analog is probably more the salted pork Pippin mentions at the start of the third film.
Anywho the Age of Archetypes ended for me the preceding December as Shelob scuttled out of Fangorn sniggering and satiated.
And I’ll eternally be grateful Mara emerged the following month to prevent me from becoming a Whomping Willow—sorry, Old Man Willow—but when you try to mythologize someone with a 112 IQ it always ends up Harry Potter.
Anyway the last time I saw her was in April.
We’d spent the day at Target buying me “proper kitchenware” or something.
She made me dinner in the kitchen—naked except an apron I got her with some silly Thanksgiving art on the front. Turned me on a lot more than any of the frilly pink bullshit I got her at Victoria’s Secret.
Bitch cut her finger chopping onions and got wet when I sucked the blood out—for sure one of my better Werewolf Cowboy Billionaire flourishes.
She ate my cum beneath the dining room table whilst I myself ate the dinner she’d prepared, which proved entirely serviceable—not Goldberry Tier for sure but a lot more palatable than the slop those silly Zoomers in her wake would ever make me. That one meme saying bitches born after 1993 can’t cook is sort of true. Though I suppose Goldberry and Salted Pork were both 94, whereas Shelob was 93 like me—just a few weeks my junior, funnily. And it goes without saying Shelob can’t cook. Only devour—and precious rarely in the manner Mara did beneath that table!
Anyway after dinner I mentioned to Mara that Goldberry—Rebecca, I dunno—had texted me recently wanting to do a less romantic and more FWB type of sugar babby thing. I guess she had fallen off the wagon for good at this point and was fighting with her new lesbian or whatever. Wanting to triangulate us probably, paint the other as abusive. Can’t really trust non-performative bisexual women.
At this point I hadn’t internalized how badly I’d fucked up with Rebecca and was mostly interested in orchestrating a Didney Pincess Threesome, as it seemed to me menage a trois with Ariel and Jasmine would stand as an apotheosis of my Chadhood, forever locking it in, in a sense. Both of them expressed interest and told me to compliment the other’s tidders or whatever, but in retrospect I suspect my fixation kind of killed both my shot at resuscitating Rebecca and prolonging Mara.
Girls never actually tell you they’re jealous is the thing… only try to seem all cool and unbothered whilst privately spinning their own little faggoty gay machinations.
That said it’s obviously quite fun to indulge the harem fantasy—especially throwing Natalie into the mix given she and I ackshully ended up in a three way with some bitch at Dragon Con later that year. Just imagining her and Rebecca scheming against each other like an Elsa and Idina Spy Versus Spy while Mara darts around credulously licking cunt like a Golden Retriever…
Anyway after dinner Mara and I watched a movie or something—forget the deets, just know a few hours pass and I’m inside her again.
And then she checks her phone and sees Pedostache is blowing it up.
And so she runs into the bathroom. Locks the door. Starts crying.
I hear him chimping out and going ooga booga dooga.
Hear the wench insisting she’s ackshully at a friend’s place.
And then as her body continues to metabolize my jissum and microchimerically alchemize the legacy of our coupling Mara declares very emphatically to Pedostache that she loves him more than Literally Anything and would never ever betray him, after which she comes out crying and I start fucking her again.
I’m too epistemically shot to like it. So I unsheathe and wrench the pillow off her face.
“He doesn’t know I’ve been fucking you?”
“Noooo I told him it’s never gone past kissing…”
Immediately she starts tediously wailing about being a Horrible Person.
I tell her to shut the fuck up.
Tell her Pedostache is the horrible one for wasting her best years.
“Nooooooooo he just needs more time to pay off his student loan and…”
Again I tell her to shut the fuck up. Then I inform her very plainly I’m about to obliterate her pink little asshole—but that in spite of what she tells herself, she doesn’t ackshully deserve the pain, but simply craves catharsis in light of…
She whacks me with the pillow.
Then with a Satanic little smirk demands I shut up and rape her already.
and the thing is it was actually more of a gray-brown than pink—she’s 26, recall—which obviously I knew having stuck my tongue in there a fair few times. But Wally B is nothing if not polite. And in any case it always just ends up crimson either way.
The next morning Mara swears to me she’ll never wear the lingerie I got her for Pedostache and will “lock it in a safety deposit box”—and also that if things don’t work out with him and he wastes her time again as I predicted she’d love to try again.
Surprised I didn’t get any splinters sticking my prick in Pinocchio like that.
Anyway they’re engaged in a few months. I don’t think he ever learned I fucked her.
He continues snapchatting Natalie dick picks, while I begin occasionally snapchatting Mara pics of me fucking her / shoving the promise ring in her asshole—usually after breakups and such, obviously. She never blocks me for this and tends to replay most of the snapchats, though after their engagement fell through last year the videos were another reason Mara gave for not seeing me again. She probably believes it, too.
In truth I think it’s more that only men go for Silver Medals in practice (recall Mara had been exactly that to Natalie’s gold for me and PS both)—once a girl narrativizes you as the Loser in some fake and gay Rashomon Situation it’s sort of impossible for her to ever again see you in the same light as Before the Fall.
And once you realize you’re Salted Pork best go for a dog that enjoys you.
I really hate normie tendersexual men.
Like despise them in my teeth.
First off these tardos always think of themselves as like “protectors of women” when in practice that means they want to torture Louis CK but will naively send their young daughter off to Uncle Assrape’s house.
I also hate how these chodes are such useful fucking idiots for the fairer sex’s absolute gayest machinations, yet also manage to victimize them in this plausibly deniable and opaque way the very same bitches will defend them for while puking out grey ash because the nigga looks good to her girlies on an insta reel.
But above all I can’t fucking stand how we all fucking know how this shit works but speaking the TRVTH aloud is somehow ALWAYS the ultimate sin.
Yet I’m kind of just whining here, as there’s no changing any of this—shit’s an ouroboros, in which the proper nouns might rise and fall but trying to create a new syntax out of whole cloth will inevitably leave you babbling Esperanto.
Which it’s important to remember works to my advantage—not exactly like Elrond can come scour Isengard so long as Saruman knows Lothlorien is built on cobwebs.
The girl in the thumbnail image is Morticia—the thirteenth girl I fucked in the ass.
First on our Nov 25, 2023 first date1—by which point I often liked going for ass before pussy as a sort of oppositional howl into the aether against Elvishness qua Elvishness—and then a few dozen times thereafter until things fizzled out in April 2024.
She was a tall willowy single mom. Septum piercing and sleeve tats. Age 24 to my 30.
Her IQ was in the same mid-110s ballpark as Mara, but she was orders of magnitude more sentient. Not a midwit at all so much as a normie-adjacent Sadgirl type who approached dating a mid-140s subclinical narc weirdo with a LDR Blue Jeans mindset; she really was remarkably high in trait openness for an ISFJ.
She was also the only dame I’ve been with as splendidly masochistic as Rebecca—though being an Angloid Zoomer instead of a Jewish Millennial wouldn’t sing songs about her butthole and knew she needed to pretend she didn’t like it, which is why I was able to do it while she was fully conscious and our altogether lovely sex life included quite a lot of anal—probably more than is entirely healthy done the non-NPR way, frankly, though that itself is the sort of thing Morticia would aestheticize if not overtly get off on.
I never met her kids.
Her ex was the working class version of Pedostache, and so knocked her up twice before dumping her at 23 for some teenager (she never wanted to be a mom but he insisted despite never getting her a ring) and then once they split stole a bunch of home equity from her that she never proved agentic enough to fight for. Then he ducked child support so she had to move into her dad’s trailer and long story short it was a super hot scenario for me to come in to play hero a few months.
She got me out of the house a lot, at least at first. The intellectual connection wasn’t there but she had a kind of Marge Simpson smarts to her I could genuinely respect. The dynamic was asymmetrical and fetishized for sure, but it was as much true love as any Bear - Twink thing, and at times felt almost like another Goldberry scenario.
And the funny thing is she and Rebecca actually had a remarkable amount in common, like having bangs / eating disorders, and also alcoholism, and grumpy dads, and having been molested, and loving LDR, and admitting to me much later they cut their partner count in half when first we met, and also having Tom Bombadil betray her for a fleeting chance with some scarcely corporeal Barrow-Bitch from his past.
And to make it all appropriately recursive, this time the bitch was Rebecca—though I already told you niggas that story.
I guess having entered my fourth decade I wanted something a bit less asymmetric at this point—and also for what it’s worth my Belle Juive had stopped doing the cringey buzzfeed butthole songs. Perhaps two years with another woman had made it easier to jettison the sex positivity meme?
At any rate, there’s some chance the ackshual Barrow-Bitch was just internet fame, cause last spring I’d spend basically all day at my laptop churning out new viral essays while Morticia sat in bed scrolling TikTok between facefucks the bored and neglected little Zoomette kitty. Wasn’t great of me.
Then again I dunno. I still talk to her and we hook up on occasion and say I love you and shit, so there’s a nonzero chance this is just what Fangorn looks like in practice.
So I guess I’ll just say Bless This Mess.
That’s all I have to say.
I’m not asking anyone to change their mind about shit—you either get it or you don’t.
Your aesthetics and ideology aren’t meaningfully “chosen” to begin with so much as entirely deterministic functions of genetic neurotype and accidental material interests.
It’s kind of just all priced in.
Always has been and always will be.
So if any of this shit speaks to you then send me money or feet pics and I’ll be your very best advocate, and if not I hope you’re set on fire.
And that’s what we in the Alt Right call the Friend-Enemy Distinction, my baby bitch.
Because at the end of the day Galadriel needs to spin purdies to herself and Celeborn to secure her own happiness, and that’s eternally her right.
But always remember Live and Let Live cuts both ways, and not even for fake and gay moral reasons so much as simple tautology.
To wit, you REALLY don’t want someone like me posting receipts on Wikipedia.
Anyway if you like this shit buy my book.
It upset her tummy given it was immediately after Thanksgiving, which I found cute
Ok, I officially give up my dream of tempting and cajoling you out of your Orcish ways and into some more Elven light or at least some Boromir. I have a terrible, borderline perverse and disabling amount of pride, so I really hate to ever give in or give up, it hurts me to do it, but clearly you win, I give up.
What utter trash. That’s 10 more minutes that could have been used to plunge my toilet.