Post-Incel
The Other Path
A few years back I put some cum in the intestines of this shitfaced Velma Dinkley bitch I’d picked up approximately 10-15 minutes prior to sodomizing her.
And it was actually kind of a Meet Cute all considered: two spiky late bloomers at the end of an esoteric basement beerline each uncovered plumbing signless subterranean halls a bit too liminal even for me amidst the chthonic inner furnaces of Dragon Con, which for those of you who don’t masturbate to anime btw is kind of like IRL reddit—think a citysized cavalcade of trannies / autismos / cosplay sluts who each annum on Labor Day weekend flock like hajjis to Downtown Atlanta and clog the arteries of its palatial all-indoor hotel network in brylcreemed globs of kinksheet chungus heartfat, forging in essence a hyperreal and normatively solipsistic dopamine ghetto attendees experience almost like a parallel dimension where for a few days at least it’s Safe to dress like Naruto / talk about magic the gathering / get date raped.
Though this was 2021—so pre-Vibe Shift and still Covid Era outside FL—and at least ostensibly I was there with the old flame / veteran con-girl I’d hitherto spent all of the event with: my perennial muse and long-lost first gee eff and on-and-off idk Natalie, who just a few days prior on the very first day of the con had spontaneously sent me a whimsical zooeytext asking me to fly out that evening and attend with her which I ofc jumped on immediately in yet another post-ironic quixotic jihad to get my bih back.
Just know it didn’t elude me I was tilting with windmills; by that point Nat and I were well past 500 Days territory and irretrievably ensconced in purgatorial thousandsplace Lou Salome shit, and I’d long come to terms with the fact that whatever our pair bond and however she needed to narrate shit there would eternally be some sense in which she kind of just wants me to pay for the hotel even if I’m not ackshully in the running for hubs no more. Which I was overall quite sanguine about given it ballasted a robust position in Nat’s retarded little sperg rotation and thus assured me intermittent sexual and romantic access to an attractive and interesting blonde from a good family many years past our 2018 breakup on account of me being her only ex-bf with a decently remunerative grownup job more prestigious than like teacher at a community college where you don’t learn how to make video games / Scottish NEET. But it also meant Nat would as a rule kind of just pop in and out of my life completely at random for like a rebound hookup today and mini-vacation six months from now and who even knows after that, all the while inhabiting a register more akin to that of a sugar baby in a long term intimate unstructured thing than to anything normgroids might parse as a conventional ex-gf or FWB script, and thanks to our history / age proximity could also keep that up more or less indefinitely without ever herself feeling like a hooker, since I’d never really rinsed off those post-incel wife goggles and when it’s the chick who broke you in even like venmoing bae for closeups of her shitter tends to register in practice as remarkably Trad-adjacent on both sides of the equation.
Which all makes perfect sense, frankly, because I’ve NEVER stopped simping for Nat, and even after anchoring in five score and sixteen ports besides hers still can’t for the life of me imagine a world in which I would, irrespective of how rakish I might run at times with girlypops writ large. Hell, if anything I’ve only grown more gentle with her through the years, learning to when she’s around muzzle that wolfishness all others of her sex reward so strongly it feels like the hard essential grammar of all man-woman interchange and a crucial font of masculine dignity despite with Nat oft ending up as more the moral and affective leverage she uses against me later which tbh isn’t even her fault because while yes it turns out other molested girls actually don’t act like that most the time as I’d in younger years assumed it’s also true that Nat’s abuse was a lot higher order; more structural; almost metadiscursive—sort of a Wheel Of Grooming?
That’s the reason I was so Respectful of her Boundaries that weekend and took such pains not to make her Uncomfortable. And like yeah she was as weird about Sex-Sex as ever, but I didn’t much mind that—just glazed her soles like fritters on the first night, then deployed her as bait on the second to nab this sweaty punky cosplay chick a few years our senior for a pretty awk threesome none of us loved in the moment but has all the same congealed into a brilliant splendid beam of sexual nostalgia I’ll always hang my foreskin on when I need to put some swag in my step.
Hence me suggesting a reprise of the maneuver on our third and last day at the con, which elicited from Nat an in retrospect wholly understandable Molested Meltdown that impelled me to spend the rest of that day hanging out entirely in good faith with her insufferable coterie of libtarded normie friends, the leader of whom quite clearly despised me for eschewing a cuck mask and transparently wanted to fuck Natalie
Which happily she thought he was a faggot so there wasn’t much risk of them hooking up or whatever but it was nonetheless quite grating hanging out with his platoon since one of them was unironically like 5 feet tall and had the Andy Milonakis thing where despite being my age he looked and sounded precisely like a 12 year old boy, which wouldn’t have irked me ordinarily but was really uncanny in this situation because my dude was CONSTANTLY checking his Tinder and seemed super dead-set on scoring some convention puss before festivities wrapped up—so much so that the other lads started giving him all this hyper specific profile optimization advice that would have felt pedantic and timewasty even if girls did want to fuck Bobby Hill but anywho we got a little tipsy upstairs and then headed down into the basement to procure some LARPy cartoon network beer the fellas wanted to try, and that’s where I met Lainey.
Lainey approached us first, actually—the girl was just insanely bubbly.
She was a few years my junior; brunette; shortstack; hot enough I never could have landed her on Hinge, but not quite so hot I wouldn’t get a freebie on Seeking.
She started yapping about some puerile woman panel she’d just come from—think it was Kink And Witchcraft or something to that effect? idk usually back then I’d just like sneer at that shit and make a Ron DeSantis face but the Angry Orchard in my veins lowkey saved the day here by rerouting that imperious autismo interiority into something a lot more visceral and embodied, which is probs why roughly ten minutes into our dialogue I was able to extricate Lainey from the beerline and then escort the daffy tart up to our room, wherein I immediately removed chickie’s dumb retarded steampunk costume and then proceeded very gently to blow out her asshole.
Eventually I cum; vacate her digestive system; order her to clean me off.
She giggles; does.
…and then pukes volcanically all over Natalie’s bed, which is where I’d been fucking her mostly to avoid getting any errant santorum on mine own comforter.
Seems babygirl is quite a lot drunker than I’d realized.
And so I walk her to the bathroom; pull back her hair; help her wash off; cuddle her; sing her some super gay songs from the Cinderella musical bc she’s a huge theater kid. Text Nat asking her to bring us some gatorade and snacks. She does—and then jiggles Lainey’s huge colossal booba. They both giggle; call the other sooooo hoooot.
Natalie leaves.
and then suddenly Lainey’s phone rings.
She asks me who it is.
It’s her sister. Elizabeth.
17 missed messages.
Lainey buries her face in her palms; groans theatrically.
And then she asks for the phone.
I pause, very briefly weighing the game theoretics of hurling the device through the open balcony door into 300 feet of open air and fuckin the shit out of Lainey again.
Instead I hand her the phone.
Then a girlboss soprano on the other side, of course.
Lainey whines like a 5 year old;
tells her sissy she hooked up with a guy but is Completely Fine.
“LAINEY, YOU DON’T SOUND GOOD! Where’s his room?! We’re coming for you.”
Lainey sighs and asks me for the room number. At first I consider scrambling it to buy myself some time, but quickly realize that’s sort of retarded and just tell her.
She relays the number to her sister; sighs; almost immediately nods off.
And that’s when I freak the fuck out.
Because this is all going down at the height of MeToo, recall—and knowing all too well by now how bitches be I’m quite concerned Big Sister is about to groom Lainey into spinning some fake and gay kangaroo court narrative where I guess I’m fucking Bill Cosby now because when we met she was one or two drinks ahead of me.
And so snarling at creation I dart around the room chugging a bit of vodka here and a shot or three of tequila there and even the rest of darling Natalie’s Long Island, which in retrospect I actually really regret tbh as Nat was genuinely dismayed later to not have that drink she’d been really looking forward to whilst working up a sweat on the dance floor with Milonakis and friends to various trance-inspired remixes of the Zelda theme I’d reckon. But I won’t be too hard on myself either because in that particular moment it was kind of just an intractable Schmittian bind and I really fucking needed to get absolutely fucking plastered like right fucking now so by the time her faggoty Lisa Simpson sister shows up I’m puking my guts out so bad that Buttigieg morality would automatically oblige her to take me to the hospital for alcohol poisoning.
I can’t even get tipsy.
Seems Mr. Booze isn’t even in a weight class with adrenaline.
The minutes feel like hours as I sit on the bed sucking my teeth and gaming out increasingly Dostoyevskyian nightmare scenarios—and then a knock.
It’s delicate.
Dainty.
I’d found Queen Elizabeth on faceberg minutes after the call and was pretty irritated to discover she was quite a lot hotter than her sister. She didn’t have Lainey’s milkers, of course, but didn’t really need to with that eating disorder and 11yo girl face, and if anything tits would have been a liability in her own ecology given rich guys are mostly all huge pedos. Still I’m sure she affects insecurity over being flat chested to like seize moral leverage whenever Lainey pretends to feel fat so she can humblebrag about her tits and also mitigate whatever latent sororal envy might be causing that behavior.
I answer the door—
turns out it’s ackshully Elizabeth’s manlet brownoid boyf was knocking.
He’s really nice.
And so is Elizabeth, frankly—but I’m also not dumb enough to take girls at face value anymore and so attempt a bit halfheartedly to perform bemused inebriation for her, which immediately feels like I’m coming across as like too surly / tired though she doesn’t really seem to care either way. Meanwhile for her part Lainey can barely put her clothes on, which elicits some marmish hectoring from Elizabeth who I can now tell at a glance supported her namesake Warren in the 2020 primary. And so Lainey groans again and starts to act a bit bratty now, teasing her sis as she slips back into her atrocious ugly cuphead uniform until Elizabeth barks What if Winston finds out?!
Lainey’s eyes bulge out like a black dude watching a magic trick; now she’s not saying much of anything, just crying or murmuring ~I just wanna go home… which it seems provokes a lot of pathos in the brownie but not Queen Elizabeth who remains if I’m honest quite fetchingly goal-oriented. And then they depart and thank me for my help and I’m like yeah right you Cunt and then sit on the bed Dostoyevkyshly considering the game theoretics of potentially taking an uber out of state and then just fucking shredding everything but after that mostly just sit there internalizing the fact that Lainey 100% just cheated with me on Winston who I’m guessing is Jamaican? Either way that’s a pretty fucking fantastic incentive for her to eviscerate my life.
Wanting to kvetch I call Nat, who’s still with her faggoty libtard reddit friends so I tell her to come back and her frens suggest I instead come over to drink with them so I do.
They tell me I’ve nothing to worry about; note they themselves saw Lainey departing the beerline with me giggling and horny and in palpably full control of her faculties.
Natalie then goads me into showing off the footage I recorded of our lovemaking sesh, which in light of Lainey’s birdbrained pornvoice therein seems pretty strong evidence of enthusiastic consent by any reasonable standard. And suddenly I feel a bit better.
…especially after the squad’s hitherto silent baldman suggests that Lainey may well have thrown up primarily on account of tasting her shit on my cock—which I suppose is kind of a weird thing to have a girl do when you don’t really know enough about her more unique / esoteric amygdalic vacillations to model her behavior in high stakes situations with any real predictive fidelity—which may in turn have exacerbated a more typical kind of inebriated nausea that ordinarily would have stayed dormant.
The logic tracks.
So feeling relieved overall I speak to my one remaining concern—Queen Elizabeth— who I still don’t completely trust not to spin the situation into something it’s not given she’s A) from New York and B) just really fuckin seemed like a feminist type.
For a moment the room is silent.
Then Andy Milonakis sighs and shakes his head.
And then he turns to me and tells me that I sound like an incel.