The Dragon Con - Chapter III
Kind of Aggressive
First a brief housekeeping item: I’d like you all to check out this genuinely fantastic article from my homie , which serves as a sort of rejoinder / companion piece to my own recent The Girl Who Cried Incel. To my mind Theon’s approach here moves the broader conversation forward in precisely the right direction, and I’d really like more eyeballs on it.
Thanks for your time—now onto the story.
Fall 2021
DAY ONE
Amanda pulls up to my high rise seven minutes after the ETA she’d texted earlier.
This endears me to her greatly, as I was expecting her to be at least twice that late—you’ll never stay sane messing around with art hoes unless you can accept that they sort of operate on colored people time. Flakiness is often just the price of pixie dust.
As she rolls down the window of her ashen-hued Toyota and the two of us lock eyes it occurs to me how insanely freeing it is that I’ve been with enough girls at this point to experience zero disgust response toward Amanda’s boogerish septum piercing or the National Geographic studs in her lip—truly my fried oxytocin receptors are a small price to pay in exchange for the ability to properly appreciate a broad this splendid.
Normgroid conservatives and even most of the Alt Right would no doubt be appalled by Amanda’s piercings and sleeve tats, and three years ago I’d have been right there with them. But these days I feel a bit like George Costanza when everyone judged him for eating an eclair he found in the trash—it was sitting on a newspaper, who cares?
“Hey… Sorry I’m late. I sort of got into it with this Asian dude at Starbucks.”
I saunter over to her vehicle. “Over what—the last boba tea?” That was pretty solid.
“Good one. No, he just told me I was being—and I quote—‘kind of aggressive’ because of the way I parked my car or something. I mean, seriously, what kind of fucked up retrograde bullshit is that?”
“Super fucking retrograde.” I pop my head in her window and devour her lips.
“Oh… JESUS, dude, you’re such a fucking creep!” Amanda cuts me a dark little grin as she bats an errant lock of hair off her cheek. “That’s what I get for fucking an incel...”
My grip on her window frame tightens and I feel my brow furrow up like Ben Shapiro. “Do you hear what you’re saying—like, at all? How can I be an incel when you yourself literally had sex with me like three days ago?”
“OMIGOD THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT AN INCEL WOULD SAY!” Amanda begins to cackle uncontrollably, aggressively smacking her steering wheel multiple times until she accidentally honks the horn. “Ooh! My bad…”
“Christ, you’re a fucking retard.” I notice the melanin-drenched boomer in the pickup behind us is sticking his head out the window rather impetuously, so I stare him down as I lazily circumnavigate her vehicle’s sternside. This route is probably twice as long as the path round its bowside, but it’s crucial to assert dominance over black people in situations like these to get back at them for how slowly they cross the street.
When I open the passenger seat door the expression on Amanda’s face hits me like a freight train. “No I’m not. That’s such a mean fucking thing for you to say to me.”
“Wait—what’s a mean thing to say?”
“YOU LITERALLY JUST SAID IT! You called me retarded!”
I feel my penis growing hugely engorged.
“I’m pretty sure I called you a retard. That’s different from calling you retarded.”
“Now you’re doing that thing where guys say you were only ACTING like a bitch.”
The wizened black man honks his horn. It barely registers to either of us.
“Really? ‘Cause I’d say I’m sort of doing the exact opposite of that. Anyway girls hate the bitch thing more because it makes you seem weak and gay and unsure of yourself. Whereas if you just call her a bitch it’s kind of like, who cares?”
Amanda rolls her eyes rather theatrically, but I can tell she’s considering my words. “Why does everything need to have some super deep hidden meaning with you? Sometimes you’re just being an asshole and hurt someone’s feelings for no reason.”
“You mean like when you called me an incel?”
“OMIGOD, I was literally just fucking teasing you! That’s just what normal people do! Haven’t you ever heard of, I don’t know, FLIRTING?! God, you’re such a fucking nerd! Clearly I don’t think you’re, like, a LITERAL incel—that was the entire fucking point of my joke! Though honestly you do just fucking constantly ACT like one… and you also believe some really fucked up things—ESPECIALLY about women.”
“I believe fucked up things about women?! Bitch, on our literal first date you were trying to convince me a full third of you die in childbirth.”
HONK! HONK!
The blackamoor bristles with rage as the honkey he’s honking at glares back at him contemptuously. Meanwhile the white bitch in the driver’s seat has already forgotten he exists—one of Amanda’s very finest character traits is her tendency to completely tune out the exterior world while surfing an especially powerful emotional current. That’s probably what makes her such an effective artist.
“That’s NOT what I was saying! Also you’re changing the point—you always do this! The point is that I was just fucking around with you… but when you called me a retard it was, like, genuinely hateful and mean. It’s like you wanted me to feel less than.”
I fucking hate that expression. What’s wrong with ‘inferior?’
Her voice softens “Have I ever told you that in high school I had a perfect GPA?”
“Several times. On every occasion we’ve hung out, actually.”
She bats another lock of hair from her face. “I think my memory got ruined by drugs...”
“So you’ve said.” I begin to absentmindedly play with one of her long skinny fingers—you can always tell a girl will have nice feet if she also has nice hands. “I guess you’re lucky those drugs didn’t make you any less gorgeous—and that the world will always be full of creepy incels falling over themselves to pay your rent.”
“You really think I’m gorgeous?” Amanda’s eyes sparkle back at me—che belle stelle!
“You are.”
She is. For such a broke and broken bitch Amanda’s face is downright aristocratic—really almost equine in character, and I mean that in the very best of ways. You can tell at a glance that her forebears came to America from the civilized regions of Italy with an average IQ of 103 instead of from the poopy cousin-fucking brown bits like mine. God painted her visage in entrancing sfumato; her soul with invigorating chiaroscuro. When I gaze into those bedazzling brown eyes all of her retarded alt girl fashion choices fade away in an instant and she dons the garb of a Florentine noblewoman.
Not because she would have been born into that life, mind you. Instead she’d be the mistress of a choleric young blue-blood (think a Mercutio type, or even a Tybalt) who fraternizes primarily among the lower orders because he’s trying to escape the Rubys and Jeffs of his epoch. Either that or he’s watched a few too many Romeos drink poison over some snooty little cunt who’d very obviously never stab herself for him. Meanwhile Amanda herself would be the child of some unprosperous tradesman or merchant married to a broad he clearly doesn’t deserve, with Amanda as the inevitable result of that union—think a Dragonseed scenario. Honestly most of the higher IQ white trash girls you’ll meet on SeekingArrangement sort of give unacknowledged noble bastard vibes, but with Amanda that energy is very genuinely off the charts.
She’s probably tied with Rebecca for my most beautiful lay overall. And it’s actually interesting to compare the two, because by most traditional standards they’d both be considered exotic beauties, with Rebecca’s Ashkenazi features more or less treading the Hajnal Line and Amanda’s Lombard physiognomy standing one click inside it.
I tend to find that Italian girls have a very similar appeal to Jewesses, with the primary difference being that Italian femininity runs spicy instead of sour. Not nearly to the degree that, say, a Latina will be spicy (let alone a secularized Arab bih, God help you), but much like the mamasitas the signorinas will typically prefer being slapped by a dude over being Ben Shapiro’d. Generally speaking Jew broads are the only ones you can sort of reason with—or failing that, haggle with—in the manner you would a man. But you need to be incredibly careful with that, because they’ll also hold you to your words a million times more aggressively than basically any shiksa.
Anyway Jewish and Italian women are at their core remarkably similar—both in that they ballast their primary flavor against umami rather than saccharine-sweetness, and in that if you navigate the relationship correctly every solitary fight will ultimately conclude with you fucking her—sort of the opposite of how it is with WASP girls.
My tongue is excavating Amanda’s piehole like an incel-adjacent sandworm when Donkey Kong at last decides to rapid fire horn honks at us. Immediately I’m cross with the Ethiop for sullying my very beautiful love moment and sort of fly off the handle.
“Jesus FUCKING Christ—will that retarded fucking nigger just drive around us?!”
Amanda makes an entirely ridiculous sound and looks at me in the same way I might look at someone if I just realized I shit my pants. “The window’s open...”
She slams on the gas and immediately veers into an alley that deposits onto my street. Technically this alley is only meant to accommodate traffic going the other direction, but I’d be something of a hypocrite to kvetch about Amanda transgressing that boundary given the line I took on our first date.
She spots another vehicle approaching in the distance and quickly scans the path in front of her for exit routes. When none avail themselves she slams on the breaks and puts the car in reverse, smoothly backing into an access tunnel to my parking garage.
As some middle aged brown bitch slowly drives past us and meets Amanda’s pleading little wave with a rather bovine NPC glare it occurs to me how much pussy my gal pal would be getting had she been born a dude. It’s no wonder she’s still a feminist.
Amanda punches my arm. “What the fuck, Jer?”
“Please can we not make this a thing? I need to catch a plane and we’re already late.”
“That was REALLY fucked up. I know you think it’s, like, funny to act like a Nazi or whatever, but you told me you don’t actually hate anyone…”
“I don’t. I mean—I obviously sort of hate that dude individually. But first of all he probably didn’t even hear what I said, and second, who cares if he did? It’s not about black people as a group. I get along great with black Uber drivers like all the time.”
“OMIGOD, why do you always bring up Uber drivers?! You don’t even have any fucking black friends you can mention!”
“And if I did you’d just bitch about me accessorizing or tokening them or some shit. But actually the security guards in my building sort of count. They fucking love me.”
“You mean Sabrina and Brittni?”
It’s so cute she learned their names! So did Rebecca, actually. Like my belle juive Amanda insists on calling both women by their names all the time—to an extent that honestly feels a bit forced. I’m still not sure if that’s some kind of power play or just intended to prevent my building staff from assuming she’s a hooker, but either way I sort of like it.
“Yeah. And you know, both of them are always complaining about hoodrats and shit… honestly lots of black people are kind of just on our side. Hell, Brittni knows about my sugaring and is always asking when I’m gonna give her an allowance. If I were into black girls I could get inside her in like five minutes. She’s team house slave.”
“You’re fucking disgusting. She’s probably just making fun of you.”
I scratch my nose. “I think she was at first, yeah. But it’s weird… after you started talking to her, it honestly started to seem like she was… fishing or something.”
“Because of me?” As Amanda’s eyes drift away she starts to twirl her hair, and soon her face breaks into a mischievous grin. “You think she was, like, jealous?”
“Who knows? I told you, babe, I’m way too fucking autistic to understand woman behavior like this. Maybe though. I guess that would make sense.”
Obviously this is all complete horseshit, but I really need to get to the airport soon.
And in fairness it actually *is* sort of based on a true story. But the reality of the situation is that Brittni changed her tune many months before I even met Amanda—namely, when Rebecca started flirting with her. My little Jewess had been hugely confident that she could land us a threesome, but the prospect only excited me in the context of very overt raceplay, and Rebecca had immediately put the kibosh on that. For some reason it was kosher to smack her around with Mein Kampf and call her a kike whore and draw swasties all over her body, but wanting to call a black girl nigger is Not Cool because apparently they’re all just fragile little china dolls all of a sudden.
So fucking dumb.
Amanda’s twirling her hair at light speed, her eyes sparkling like polished obsidian. “You know, you actually SHOULD take care of Brittni. Not to fuck her or something—don’t be gross or racist about it. You don’t even need to spend a lot of money I think. Just, like, buy her a massage or a pedi or something. She actually really deserves it for keeping all you racist evil rich dudes safe from gangbangers and shit.”
“Yeah, I kind of agree. Christmas is coming up in a few months. I’ll take care of her.”
This time I’m actually telling the truth.
“Awwwww… so the fucked up evil Nazi actually does have a heart!”
“Why do you judge literally everything in terms of black people? Also, can we just get going now?” I scratch my nose. “Please?”
“Oh! The airport, right. Yeah I’m sorry...” Amanda darts back out of the parking garage and in half a heartbeat has us cruising down the highway.
Usually I never let girls turn on their shitty music during car trips, but I figure I’d best let the moment breathe after that fucked up situation with Donkey Kong. Still, when Amanda opens Spotify I imagine she’ll put on some weird Euroshit, or perhaps as a compromise Lana (obviously I adore Born To Die, but if I’m being honest I can’t click with her more recent oeuvre). Immediately I discover I’d given her too much credit.
“ME AND YOUR GIRLFRIEND PLAYIN’ DRESS UP IN MAH HOUSE!”
No…
”I GAVE YOUR GIRLFRIEND CUNNILINGUS ON MAH COUCH!”
Not this…
”SHE’S CUTE! KAWAII! HENTAI BOOBIES…”
I turn down the volume and interrupt Amanda’s jam session, hoping to distract her with feminist indignation. “So what did you do to that Asian fella at Starbucks?”
She turns to me looking hurt and confused. “I didn’t do anything! I just, like… pulled into the parking lot when he was coming in from the other way. But he didn’t see me at first even though I had the right of way, so he slammed on his breaks last minute. And then he looked at me like it was my fault! So I gestured for him to go, and he told me to go back… and then I parked so we wouldn’t sit there all day. That’s literally it.”
“Sounds kind of boring. How’d that make you late?”
“Well after I got inside the Starbucks I tried to avoid him at first but he just kept looking at me… and I was honestly sort of creeped out at first, but now I actually think he might have been gay. Anyway it was tolerable when we were just in line… but then we were waiting for our order…”
“What did you get?”
“Why does it… an iced brown sugar oatmilk shaken espresso. Anyway we were…”
“And what about him?”
Her eyes drift over mischievously. “IT WAS ACTUALLY BOBA!”
Once more Amanda begins cackling like a woods witch and pimp slapping her steering wheel, retaining remarkably steady control over her Toyota in the process. Were our sexes reversed I’d no doubt be astonishingly wet right now.
I slide my hand up her thigh and under her skirt, resting two fingers atop her panties.
Her eyes bug out at me. “What the fuck are you—oh…”
“Focus on the road. How does our story end?” I run a finger up and down her mound, noting its palpable warmth even through the fabric. How very Italian…
“Erm… Well, I wanted the dude to fuck off and… you know, leave me alone, and so I kept making kind of… bitchy faces and like flicking… my eyes over, but he wouldn’t get the hint… And so I, like, asked him what his… problem was and the dude told me I was being… ‘kind of aggressive’ on my way into the parking lot and… OH, FUCK, DUDE…”
My creepy hairy incel fingers have twisted their way past Amanda’s granny panties and lodged themselves knuckle-deep inside her. Her juices flow like Trevi Fountain—honestly it feels a bit like sticking my hand inside a beehive, just without the bees.
I attempt to do that come hither g spot thing while working her clit with my thumb, but clearly miss the mark somewhat—after a few seconds her left hand jolts down to my wrist and begins to covertly direct my movements with a grip that still connotes Frightened Molested Girl. I’m impressed by the subtlety of her performance until she starts making all the standard hentai rape squeaks. How pedestrian. Come on, ‘Mand!
After about five minutes of this she comes or pretends to and gives me a little pout. “Do I get paid more for that?”
“I mean… it’s not like I orgasmed. I figured you’d enjoy it!”
She shrugs her shoulders. “It wasn’t bad or anything. Just figured I might as well try…”
Then she closes her knees. “But you have to get out of me, nerd. We’re almost at the airport—do you want everyone to see and get us both on one of those pedophile lists?”
I withdraw my fingers and try to stick them in her mouth, but Amanda just giggles and smacks my hand away, prompting me to wipe them off on her thigh instead.
She scoffs at me and rolls her eyes. “Wow. That’s really sexy.”
“You’re starting to grow a little bush…”
Amanda’s cheeks pinken. “That’s none of your business.”
“It actually kind of is if you think about it.”
“It’s for a guy, okay. Just stop.”
My eyebrows go Ben Shapiro again. “Another sugar daddy?”
“I told you I got off the site! After those people in the hotel room I’m fucking done with it. I’m only selling feet stuff to guys on Insta now. No more real life sex work.”
“Am I real life sex work?”
“Well… yeah, of course. But we already met. And you’re cool. Most of the time...”
Suddenly my ass buzzes and I pull out my ‘droid.
Natalie: You made sure to get a room with two beds right.
Cunt.
Me: yes will you stop being retarded
Natalie: I wanted to make sure because last time we went to Didney you got a king
Whore.
I turn to my bellissima signorina—Christ, Amanda is *significantly* hotter than Natalie. What the fuck am I even doing here?
“So who’s the lucky bushmaster? I figured it was a sugar daddy because liking pubes codes as kind of Boomer to me. That or, like… European.”
She bats several locks of hair out of her face. “He is European. Or… his parents are. Also, why would a sugar daddy have to be a Boomer?! You think you’re, like, literally the ONLY young guy on the site? I had a crypto millionaire MY age trying to fuck me.”
I shift around in my seat. My lower back hurts. “Was he in Miami or something?”
“No—here in Orlando.”
“Did he, like, show you his portfolio?”
“No. I’m not a fucking incel so I don’t care about any of that shit.”
BUZZ!
Natalie: don’t u remember?
fuckin bitch you deserve to get raped leave me alone
Me: Ruining things already?
I jostle around trying to crack my back. “Look, babe, the dude was clearly lying to you. Guys who are, like, rich rich usually don’t get their kept women from SA. They’ll get them at a coke party and everything will remain plausibly deniable… or they’ll have, like, a procurer… or they’ll just sit around on a boat waiting for girls to show up.”
“I’ve had friends who did the boat thing…”
“Yeah. If… once I become a legit millionaire you’re never gonna catch me on Seeking. Don’t get me wrong, there are tons of perfectly great girls there… but you also have to filter through a lot of trash to find them. Just mountains of hookers and scammers.”
“True, yeah. It’s the same on the other side, too—tons of rapey salt daddies and shit. Also I sort of made up that crypto guy ‘cause I was angry you seemed to think I couldn’t get another young guy. Sorry, dude…” She cuts me a shit-eating grin.
BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!
Natalie: I’m sorry
Natalie: :(
Natalie: thank you
I roll my eyes and shove my phone back inside my buttcheek pocket.
“I kind of figured. But that’s sort of the entire point—doesn’t it actually mean something that I’m the only dude from the site you actually let fuck you?”
“I don’t know, maybe? Can you just stop talking like an incel?” Amanda turns her head and waves very prettily at some fat dopey crossing guard giving her doe eyes.
“So this European guy—European parents guy—where in Europe, by the way?”
“Bulgaria. Got some funny racist shit to say about them?”
“Nothing you’d understand without me making it unfunny.”
“Fair.” She takes a drag of her vape as we slowly approach the departures loading dock. “So where do I drop ya?”
BUZZZZZZZ! BUZZZZZZZ!
Natalie: btw did you get the deluxe suite?
Natalie: it’s okay if you didn’t
Amanda waves her hand in front of me.
“Helloooooo… Earth to Jeremy…”
Me: I’m boarding my flight now. We’ll talk when I land.
I turn off all notifications and mute the device.
Then I put a bit of bass in my voice.
“Keep on driving. Bring us into the garage.”
“Either that or he’s watched a few too many Romeos drink poison over some snooty little cunt who’d very obviously never stab herself for him.” I’m dying here!
Another adventure with the Walt.