Category Archives: sex

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July 11, 2017

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Movies, oppression, patriarchy, political correctness, sex, Social Justice Warriors

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The Red Pill

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I’m truly thrilled that The Red Pill, the documentary from Cassie Jaye about her “journey” from being a feminist to not being a feminist via the Men’s Rights movement, has received an 8.7 on IMDB and a 90% on Rotten Tomatoes. Honestly, I am. It means people are opening their eyes and starting to listen to something other than the mainstream, “women is so oppressed” narrative.

But let’s be honest here; unless you’re an anorexic, nerdy sissy boy, who only hung out with kinda cute, glasses wearing hipster gurlz, the ones that LOVED being your friend, but made you wonder why YOU’RE always being friend-zoned in favor of guys with a fraction of your intelligence, and THEN made you feel GUILTY for complaining about it, there is nothing particularly groundbreaking about The Red Pill. The movie treats feminism as if it’s the main problem in our society, rather than one of the many weapons used by the cultural Marxist and globalist beast to try to destroy Western civilization; in fact, the notion that it could even BE a left/right, or rather globalist/anti-globalist issue, isn’t even touched upon. I’ve never considered myself a Men’s Rights activist. Many of the figureheads in the men’s movement don’t even see it as a left/right issue. I’ve actually known many “anti-feminist” men who don’t realize that feminism IS a form of leftism, and that supporting anyone on the left IS supporting the very ideology they say they’re against. Or to put it more succinctly, A Voice for Men editor Dean Esmay’s support for Hillary Clinton over Donald Trump in the 2016 election is tantamount to a civil rights leader in the 1960s supporting George Wallace.

There is a segment that lasts all of one minute – among 120 of them – that addresses how, in the 60s, the equality warriors switched their target from capitalism to patriarchy, but it’s so dinky, that one wonders why Jaye even bothered putting it in the movie in the first place.

But if we’re going to REALLY be addressing the elephants in the room, and if above all else, film is a visual medium, where the images are intended to elicit a reaction, it’s actually kind of infuriating watching shots of the cutie Cassie Jaye, who resembles a plumper, rounder Christina Applegate – don’t worry, Cassie, I wouldn’t make you lose 15 lbs. to have a seat on MY casting couch – interviewing pathetic looking, depressing old men, as they tell their stories about losing everything to a system that’s stacked against them.  I mean, JUST THE FACT that she’s IN the frame with them getting all misty eyed, listening to them talk about how they got royally screwed, while not addressing how incredibly privileged she is in our society by being blessed with hotness, struck me as painfully disingenuous. I mean, sheeyit, lady, you may be a narcissist, but do you have to make it that obvious? But who knows? Maybe this will lead to other women joining in an anti-feminist insurrection.

In The Red Pill, Jaye interviews key figures in the Men’s Rights movement; honestly the only ones I recognized were Paul Elam, Dean Esmay and Karen Straughan; I’m too lazy to look up the rest of ’em. One of them was a 60s male feminist, but changed tracks when he realized all that “freedom” women achieved by tossing off the “shackles” of their normal, middle class lives in favor of becoming spinsters and cat ladies didn’t provide the satisfaction they once imagined it would. But basically, we learn about all of the typical men’s rights talking points; women who trick men by not taking their birth control and enslaving them to a life of child support payments; men who see their coffers depleted in custody battles only to get to see their kids a couple hours a week; female on male spousal abuse not being taken seriously; male rape not being taken seriously; lighter prison sentences for women for the same crimes men committed; men working life threatening jobs to provide for their families only to be told they’re oppressing women; the male/female wage gap myth; and of course there’s a bit of male circumcision thrown in at the end for all the mondo fans. Don’t tell the Jews, though; they may get this movie shut down in your town (psst, I’m allowed to say that because I am one)!!!

We’re also given the counterpoints to these arguments from some harpy at Ms. magazine, some gay Jewish guy and of course the loud, shrill and obnoxious Big Red, who kinda resembles my former friend Sarah.

But another thing that bothered me about the movie is that it didn’t really address how feminism negatively affects women. Maybe Cassie Jaye hasn’t learned about hypergamy yet or that the only things feminism really accomplished was making it easier for men to get laid since it made women sluttier, while boosting the sales for antidepressants and keeping pet store owners in business. At VERY least, Jaye addresses that getting catcalled and having to look pretty (aww, poor baby) don’t really seem to be that big of problems in comparison with getting crushed to death in a coal mine avalanche, getting blown to bits on a battle field or having your life savings drained. And hey, in about 20 years, once the flesh starts to sag and wrinkles start to show, she won’t even HAVE to worry about getting catcalled.

A decade ago, when I was at Grand Valley State University, I picked up a book from the women’s center called Transforming a Rape Culture. At the time, I thought it was the stupidest thing I’d ever seen, and most people balked at the suggestion that all men are rapists or predisposed to commit rape. Also, apparently it wasn’t considered “oppressive” to refer to slutty women as sluts; it was just honest. In fact, I LOVE sluts! They put out the quickest, and thanks to all that female empowerment, they’re not just damaged women with daddy issues! All of this was before Obama was even President. A lot has changed since then. Men can now put on dresses and call themselves women; women who get gang-banged by twenty dudes are considered “empowered”; men who ask women on dates can be accused of sexual assault; man, has society progressed! Thank you Cassie Jaye for setting the clock back about ten years.

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March 9, 2016

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elitism, feminism, political correctness, sex

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How I Stopped Being an Elitist

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I was a bit surprised when, in both Bernard Chapin’s video review and Matt Forney’s online review for Aaron Clarey’s latest book, The Curse of the High IQ, they mention how Clarey refers to sports entertainment as “sportsball”, a popular colloquialism that is typically used to describe sports as entertainment for the plebes.  I was under the impression a person like that would have a less cavalier attitude towards people who love sports and other popular entertainment, and that it is people on the left who judge people and call things “sportsball”; not to mention calling the people who enjoy it “dumb bros.”

Let’s get one thing straight; I may have tattoos, I may listen to weird underground music that nobody’s ever heard of, I may watch a bunch of cult films that nobody’s ever seen, but, when I go out, I would rather hang out at my local sports bar, watch sports on the TV, drink a stout, scarf down chicken wings and have said beer and wings served to me by a hot waitress, who wears black tights and a low cut tank top.  I’m over the era of my life where I want to sit in a dimly lit quasi dive populated by arty hipsters.  The fact that said bar will have a jukebox filled with the music of hip bands like Can, Captain Beefheart and the Fall DOES NOT MATTER to me AT ALL.  I literally DO NOT CARE if other people share my taste in music, and chances are these same people probably wouldn’t jam out to ZZ Top, Aerosmith, AC/DC, Ted Nugent, UFO, the Scorpions or Deep Purple, bands I like just as much as the approved “cool” bands in the post-punk, post-hardcore, kraut-rock and noisy indie rock genres.

Furthermore, I do not care if a girl I sleep with/date is a total “sportsball” loving, reality TV show watching bimbo, a military history buff who shoots guns, a tattooed metal chick with an Acid Bath patch on her denim vest or a glasses-wearing book nerd.  I’ve had all of these varieties and realized that the only things that matter to me are whether the girl is attractive and fun to be around.

So, where am I going with all of this?

I realize that, at age 31, I was smarter, cooler, funner and more accepting of people when I was in high school, than during my college years when, all of a sudden, I attempted to be an elite “cultured” person.

I was reading a negative review on Netflix of Luis Buñuel’s 1972 classic The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie and, while I believe whoever reviewed the film had the wrong idea that it was explicitly meant to diss the “bourgeoisie”, I believe that a good amount of younger people who are fans of the film believe that it is in fact supposed to be Buñuel’s “fuck you” to the rich, rather than just a charming series of surreal vignettes.

Y’see, arty hipstery people are leftists and they hate the rich, the 98%, yet, at the same time, fail to realize that the average working Joe would prefer to watch a super hero, CGI-filled Hollywood blockbuster rather than The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, and that, in effect, would make the very people leftists are allegedly trying to help the target of their ridicule; in other words, the rank ‘n’ file are all idiots who would rather watch that “sportsball”, yet we want to help them.

And, sadly, though I was never a full on leftist, I had a similar view of people who I went to college with that didn’t share my tastes; people who didn’t watch countless hours of films by Godard, Truffaut, Fellini, Tarkovsky, Passolini, Bergman, Herzog and Bresson or read thousands of pages of Faulkner, Hemmingway, Doestoevsky, Proust, Joyce, Camus or Balzac or didn’t spend thousands of hours filling their ears with the sounds of Can, Kraftwerk, Neu!, Faust, Public Image Ltd., the Fall, Devo, Miles Davis, the Birthday Party, Einstürzende Neubauten or Captain Beefheart (ya know, smart people music).

On top of that, I convinced myself that I had to date “smart”, arty hipster chicks who wore the black rim glasses, had a pixie cut and wore skinny jeans and T. Rex t-shirts.  I cannot believe how hot the girl I was dating back in 2007 was.  If I could turn back the hands of time and do it over again, I would have been waaay more grateful for what the arbiters of sex had given me; a hot, blonde, boob enhanced ex-stripper, who wore a super short, denim skirt that revealed killer, worked out legs to boot.  She had the comforting personality of a stripper, the kind where she puts her hand on your knee and leans in to talk to you, sending shivers up and down your spine even though she only means it as a friendly gesture most of the time.  And she was like the ultimate bedroom slut.  Without getting too graphic, virtually nothing was off limits.  And she was ready to bang ANY time!

But, at the time, I thought I was above dating a blonde, former stripper airhead – just so you get an idea of how much of an airhead she was, she did fill-in puzzles, crosswords puzzles where they just give you the words, in her spare time and virtually knew nothing about politics, history or what was going on in the world – so, I didn’t take it seriously, just biding my time, while secretly feeling I should be with that kinda cute, nerdy looking hipster chick.

BOY, would do that over!

And then, after I left school, I began to realize how stupid all of that was.  Well not right away; what really helped me realize that I was being an elitist mangina was when I lived with Chris in Ypsilanti.  He took being an elitist, hipster, feminist pandering mangina to whole new heights that I did not think were possible.  At an age where I decided that the Bergman and Fellini can rest alongside the John Carptenter and Wes Craven, that I can be a fan of Can and Public Image Ltd. along with Slayer and Metallica, Chris, who is several years older than me, would still make snarky comments about my musical taste and try really hard to appease some of the local feminist hipster bitches.  On top of that, he would try to make me look stupid for having a sex drive!  Once he was talking about going to a “burlesque” show, a form of entertainment that allows manginas to look at naked women with impunity, since there’s an “arty” context behind it; burlesque shows have old time-y clothes, old time-y jokes, old time-y music and the women do an old time-y strip tease, rather than the pole dancing and dick riding that goes on at Deja Vu’s.  I say to Chris, “oh cool, do we get to see Amy naked?” and he responds with, “you’re into that sorta thing, aren’t you?”  Like, aren’t you, dude?  Last time I checked you are a heterosexual?  I know this because I actually played matchmaker in one case.

But, I digress.  The point is that people like that make you realize how dumb it is to look down on people who have different tastes from you.  I actually respect people who can nerd out on sports statistics the way that I can nerd out on bands or movies.  Although I made the point in an another article that, given the law of large numbers, you should judge a book by its cover, you might be surprised by what different people can show or teach you if you have an open mind and quit judging people by their tastes in music, movies, literature, women or their love for “sportsball.”

 

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March 4, 2016

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culture war, feminism, sex

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Am I Turned on by Fat Women?

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In the globalist/leftist/elitist bid to teach women that all bodies are good by pushing “body positivity” so that men are forced to lower their standards or drop out of the mating game altogether, I have to ask myself if I’m actually attracted to thicker/bigger/fatter women.  My penis, not the media, decides what I’m attracted to, so I decided to compare my best sexual experience with my absolute worst.

My best sexual experience is also debatable.  If we’re going by quality and uniqueness, then I’d say either my ex Melissa, who cheated on me with the Gwar singer backstage at the show at Harpos in ’04 (And, because Dave “Oderus Urungus” Brockie was possibly the least classy man in the entire punk/metal/whatever scene, he had the nerve to write a song about it!  Some of my friends try to deny me the glory, but I maintain to this day that the 2nd and 3rd verses of “The Ultimate Bohab” are at least partly about me, you jealous fux!) – man, if she used her brain like she uses her ass… – or Theresa, the white trash Marilyn Manson loving goth skank, who was 34 when we slept together in a hotel room after the Mastadon/Ghost/Opeth gig four years ago; she gave me probably the best blowjob I’d ever had.  Unlike most girls who don’t understand the concept of keeping a good rhythm or think that aggressively going up and down on the penis as if their mouths are lubed up vacuum cleaner tubes equals good oral sex, she managed to have the right combination of shaft pumping and tongue massaging until I felt myself erupt like a geyser after which, she jumped back after the first couple of squirts to admire her work, as each subsequent shot of semen fired out my urethra like bullets out of an AK-47.  Theresa was thin with a bit of curvature and some over the hill stomach flab.  I could have easily gone for another round of that, but the bitch ditched me the following week after inviting me out to Detroit’s gay goth dance club, Leland City Club.

But, I digress.  If we’re going by quantity, that is a man’s animal-like drive to want to fuck merely minutes after the previous session – sorry girls, the session ends when the guy blows his load, but most of you probably already knew that – then, I’d bestow that award onto Nikki, who would easily fall into the overweight category on the BMI chart.

We met on OKCupid, set up a date for a Friday, met and she definitely had a double chin regardless of how darn cute/pretty she was.  However, this didn’t bother at all when I saw what came with the double chin.  She dressed in the slutty rock ‘n’ roll attire, wrapping her dual basketball size ass in tight black leggings, wearing spike covered high heels and, in spite wearing a t-shirt, barely concealed her football size tits.  Plus she wore glasses and had a Canadian accent, so that was kinda cute as well.

After I got us duly wasted, I drove (real smart move, man) to a hotel and, while we were a bit drunk that night and only managed to get one fuck in, that morning was a marathon session.  I awoke naked next to this adorable person, who was curled up in a ball and also waking up, and while her enormous tits were staring at me, the first thing she said was, “I love waking up next to a horny boy.”  We did it over and over again, mainly dog style because I have the black man’s taste in big booty, and still had the double bonus of admiring her boobs from the side, which made me even more horny as I fiercely pumped away.  The fact that she had a little belly fat was not an issue, and to be perfectly honest, I prefer looser, flabby stomachs over tone ones.  I totally could have gone for another round of that as well.  It also didn’t hurt that she described the time she scissored with her roommate; that one still gives me wood when I mull it over in my brain.  Unfortunately that would be our only encounter because she didn’t like the idea of my not being legally able to drive into Windsor on account of my DUI (don’t drink and drive, kids).

So, does this alone make me a fan of fat women?  Do I have some secret fetish?  Am I secretly shilling for big brother and trying to convince guys that all women are attractive?

No, no and no!  I am NOT a fan of fat women.  I’m a fan of curvy, pear shaped women, whose genetics dictate that they have narrower shoulders, wider hips and their fat accumulates in the ass and thigh area.  Usually pear shaped women have smaller breasts, but Nikki just lucked out that the gods gave her such huge boobs.  Don’t ask me why I like looser stomachs; in proportion I find them cute and, personally I find them more feminine than overly toned stomachs.  Ladies, focus on the squats; you can do crunches, but not too many.  Oh, this also reminds me of why, in most cases, I’m for breast augmentation.  That means that, in the bidding war of genetics, women were given the pear shape and a smaller chest, which is fine.  I don’t like it the other way around where a girl is super top heavy and has no ass.

But, back to the point.  To prove my point that I don’t like fat women, I’m going to now tell about my worst sexual experience.  I was friends with a hickish beast named Jessica.  I hadn’t seen her in years, but we got to talking and messaging a lot.  Her FB pictures obscured the fact that she is possibly one of the least attractive women I have ever known; when she said she was “chubby”, I thought she meant a few pounds past curvy, but oooh no; she has an apple shape body, a type that absolutely cannot afford to let even a few pounds slip.  Her entire love life is a metaphor for political correctness; whenever there’s a problem, such as the black population’s failure to leave the ghettos, the left will find every reason imaginable except for the main one.  Similarly, when Jessica asks why all the skinny guys she likes “date” her for a day and then “disappear”, I just didn’t have the heart to tell her it’s because she looks like a blob set atop two drum sticks; I usually hem and haw before defaulting to the typical, “I don’t know, guys are weird.”

And I know what you’re going to say; “are you that stupid where you didn’t realize she wanted to start a romantic relationship with you?”  Well, I’m not, I just, once again, didn’t know how to politely back away.  So, in what I consider a purely selfless act, I bang her in a motel room (noting a pattern here?).  To a man, it was the most nauseating experience I’ve ever had with a woman.  She too has huge tits… and a huge belly and a huge pregnancy induced underbelly and narrow hips and no ass to balance any of this out.  I got on top of her, we fucked, but I didn’t cum at all.  She laid back with her eyes shut, resembling a grandma falling asleep in her reading chair, except that she had those huge boobs, which were no consolation for the horror beneath.  After we were “done”, she got up and, out of sheer, morbid curiosity I peaked at what I had just done.  Needless to say that, when she came back, I got up, went to the restroom and re-calibrated my brain by thinking of attractive women while jerking off.

Unlike the other guys that pumped and dumped her, we remained friends (until she unfriended me on FB for not being a Sanders supporter) and I even came back to Grand Rapids to meet up with her and see Weedeater.  I brought my sleazy friend Ian, and thankfully he took one for the team by fucking her while I was drunkenly passed out on the bed at the motel room we stayed at after the gig. Prior to this she got angry with me that I didn’t tell her I started seeing someone as if we were ever together.  She was still mad the next day!  I don’t get it!  She had two skinny guys give her a decent-ish roll in the hay within a two week period!  What else could she possibly want?

Anyway, the point of all this is to show that all this “body positivity” nonsense is a crock.  Rather than just teach women to be healthy, eat right and exercise, while, at the same time, maybe discuss how some men prefer different sizes within an acceptable range, rags like Huffington Post encourage obesity.  Rather than point out, as many scientific and health journals do, that, for each body type (pear, apple), there are different styles of eating, dressing and exercise to remain thin and healthy, they print nauseating articles that show skinny dudes with gross ass women and claim that “everyone is beautiful.”  Well, they’re not, so live with it.