Some years ago, many actually, I was a young buck full of self-confidence and ironically less affected by PC than I probably am even now, long after swallowing the red pill.
I was dating a rather fetching young woman. We had been out three times and though there was clearly sexual energy, nothing more than a couple of brief kisses had transpired between us.
We were in her kitchen getting some stuff out to make a sandwich and she was talking to me about the things that interested her in a man. She uttered some babble about liking men who were in touch with a “woman’s soul,” or some other complete inanity. It was the cosmic feminine goop-speak of the times, predating the more hostile, feminist induced, “I don’t need a man,” drivel that would become so popularized a few years later. It was bullshit, of course, but tolerable bullshit, so I didn’t bolt.
My response, however, was not quite what she was expecting at the moment.
I turned and pushed her into the refrigerator and pinned her against it. I was already hard (hey, I was 21) and pushed my erection into her thigh. I ran my hand up inside her sweater and over her breasts and I leaned in to whisper in her ear, “I know what you fucking want.”
She melted….and then proceeded to fuck my brains out for the next two days. Needless to say, for those 48 hours, I didn’t hear one word of crap about her “woman’s soul.”
Must be hard to wax esoteric and scream “OH…GOD…YES…FUCK…MEEEEEEEE!” at the same time.
It really is funny. I already knew at 21 what feminists have been trying desperately to convince the world isn’t true…women. Most all of them, want to be sexually dominated.
End of fucking story, everything else is bullshit.
Any moron with the sixth grade reading skills required for a romance novel can tell you this. I’d wager good money there is not a single one of those books that doesn’t have at least one scene with a woman saying “no” ten times, just before opening up like a spring flower and getting stuffed with enough cock to make Ron Jeremy blush.
In romance novels, that is the preamble to “happily ever after.” Being taken, with some amount of force or another, is the main draw to this genre of writing. Hell, I don’t even really call them Romance Novels. I call them “Bosom Heavers.”
Watch a woman read one and you will see why. By the time she gets halfway through one of those “no doesn’t mean jack shit,” scenes, her tits will look like they have been outfitted with low-rider hydraulics, lifting and dropping sharply with each powerful thrust she is imagining in her mind.
Even a slight peek outside the world of SlutWalks and “no means no,” drivel from the generally unfuckable inhabitants of the feminist zeitgeist reveals that no matter how much social reengineering is attempted on the masses, the ‘gina still tingles at the idea of being taken.
Time Magazine reports it, Masters and Johnson confirm it, even web sites like Healthyplace.com, which calls itself America’s Mental Health Channel, adds the voice of women to the mix with the same results.
And of course when feminists stumble on the reality of it, they are really, really offended. But there is no shock there. Feminists have been highly offended by the realities of human nature since the first time Abigail Adams asked John to tie her to the bed frame and force a cod piece up her poop chute.
But that offense is, as with most of feminism’s all too numerous offenses, just more of the obsession. Rape culture, rape advocacy, rape awareness, date rape, birth rape, marital rape, etc., etc., etc., blah, blah, blah.
Isn’t it more than just a little fascinating that underneath all this hoopla about rape is a whole lot of women who, when thinking about some guy pinning them down in a kitchen and forcing a hand up their blouse, generally tend to do so with their own hand or a vibrator between their legs?
And isn’t it also interesting that the most rape obsessive morons on the planet also happen to be some of the ugliest morons on the planet?
Consider this. If rape awareness was a religion, Andrea Dworkin was The Fucking Pope. The 300+ lb. basilisk of man-hate had a face big enough and pockmarked enough to be used to fake a lunar landing. Her body was roughly the size and shape of a small sperm whale.
And she thought of little else in her life other than rape. The subject drove almost everything she said and did.
She even claimed to have been drugged and raped in 1999 in Paris, an accusation that was never proven and which came under a great deal of scrutiny, apparently for damned good reason.
C’mon people, Dworkin’s problem wasn’t that she was raped. Her problem, and I mean all along, was that she wasn’t.
Did I say she was the Pope of Rape Awareness? Let me take that back. She wasn’t the Pope, she was the Jimmy Swaggert. Like a corrupt televangelist who only shuts up about sexual purity and morality long enough to secure the services of a five dollar hooker, Dworkin was the poster child for “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”
Or, in other words, she was obsessed with rape, even creating the illusion it happened to her, precisely because her worth on the sexual market was measured in pesos.
Dworkin wanted to be raped, which in her mind meant being sexually desired, but didn’t have the goods to make that happen so she made a career of hating both the source of her rejection, men, and the source of her competition, attractive women.
Go figure, her other pet peeve was porn.
It is much the same with the SlutWalks, those rapidly growing celebrations of stupidity and cellulite taking over the western landscape. Most of the women there may be dancing Dworkin, but money is on the idea that when not participating in the SlutWalks these girls are desperately trying to fuck their way into feeling attractive.
Attractive enough that a man would lose control of himself to have his way with them.
There are some good looking women at the SlutWalks. It is an environment where even mediocre looking women, by comparison, can look good enough to be raped. And it’s a place where really attractive women can come, half clothed, and feed their narcissistic appetite for attention on a world-wide scale.
I’m just waiting for Playboy to make a call out to do a photo spread on “Girls of the SlutWalks,” and if they do, the pretty ones will line up for their shot at being objectified.
Hear me on that one, Playboy? You can send me a check for the idea.
Now, where it concerns these good looking women, it is indeed a small number of them, but resentments between them and the fugly majority of SlutWalkers have already been witnessed and documented.
One thing’s for sure, whether a SlutWalker is really attractive, or a nauseatingly grotesque fat-body filling a tube of spandex like John the Wad filled a condom, they both get the tingle thinking about being taken.
That is why they are there. It is just the way things are. And their presence at these events is much more proof of that than evidence against it.
The real lesson here is simple. The concept of rape has a lot of utility for women. One, it feeds their narcissistic need to feel irresistible. Two, if feeds their narcissistic need to feel irresistible.
That level of irresistibility is the pinnacle of a woman’s sexual viability and worth. And for a whole lot of women, sexual worth is the only self-worth they know.
It is an unconscious reality; an unspoken truth sequestered away from self-knowledge and buried beneath a mountain of social taboo and PC.
But it is not buried so far down, or placed so far out of reach that it can’t moisten a vagina…at the mere thought of it.