Aphrodite Incarnate—The Birth of a Whore
These articles by Sheena Rheed originally appeared in seriem on EroticaSinica.com on August 1st, 2023, February 9th, 2024, March 22nd, 2024, and May 2nd, 2024 respectively. The following is a monolingual English compilation of those serials.
Exordium
The passing of August marks a special time, because at the time of this writing, I have been formally doing sex work for over a year. My writing has not exactly been prolific—at least not in the context of what is publicly available at present—however, my desire to ensure that I have something cogent to which I am willing to affix my reputation has tempered my eagerness to rapidly produce more writing. The feedback that I received, and continue to receive, from my first two articles has been both overwhelmingly and surprisingly positive, so I believe that making sure that I actually have something to say before publicizing further commentary is a prudent and appropriate position to take given the circumstances.
Overall, I have very good things to say about my experiences in the prostitution industry thus far. In addition to the significant numbers of compliments I’ve received about my writing, my experiences with my clients, the vast majority of the time, have also been legitimately enjoyable. Granted, there have been a select few individuals I’ve encountered in my work who can only be described as despicable; however, my interactions with them are typically extremely brief, and I am thankful to say that those individuals definitely occupy a minority percentage of my clientele.
Given this backdrop, and the fact that I now have a somewhat extensive archive of experiential data upon which I can draw, I think it best to take the time to establish in greater clarity what exactly is going on here. When I first received the offer to join the Erotica Sinica project, I initially harbored some skepticism because, at the time, it was not fully clear to me what the tangible benefits were going to be, or what the general purpose exactly was. However, the passing of time, I am happy to say, has demonstrated that my reticence was for naught. The levels of personal and professional development from which I have—and continue to—receive benefits as a direct result of my signing onto the project is a subject about which I could easily fill several articles. That being said, in the context of this writing, I want to focus on one such benefit in particular—and that’s the opportunity to contribute significantly to this blog.
Due to my status as an “early adopter”—so to speak—I am in a unique position to guide what this platform is trying to accomplish. To wit, it is my hope and intention to utilize these written contributions as an elucidative exercise to help myself—and thereby, hopefully, others as well—adequately articulate my own history and the ideas that have led me to the point where I now voluntarily sell my body as a commodity to fulfill the needs of others’ (usually men’s) sexual satisfaction, and do so in such a way that consistently provides enormously authentic pleasure and gratification to me personally. In my observation, people typically find this type of commentary bizarre, but I believe there is much to say here.
This may come as a shock to some in my audience, but the writings and lectures of Dr. Jordan Peterson are works that I greatly respect and admire. In multiple locations, he explains that human understanding is not limited by what we can explain in words, and in my casual observations, I find that, when presented in such terms, people are often quite amenable to this idea, because the inability to clearly explain ourselves, particularly with regards to behavior and decision making, appears to be a common human experience. Dr. Peterson himself often references artists (both in the so-called “fine arts” and “performing arts”) and the seemingly paradoxical juxtaposition between their ability to navigate their respective mediums of creativity and inability to explain clearly just how they do so to illustrate this point. Indeed, it appears to be the exclusive province of an artistic master to elucidate, in decisive words, the exact nature of his craftsmanship. Coherently pulling unspoken knowledge into eloquent spoken language is a skill that Anglophones appear to pervasively disregard, because I believe that our English speaking milieu fails to concretely appreciate just how difficult that task truly is. It is easy to assume that talking is just talking; but the truth is: words are more powerful than that. This is exactly what makes Dr. Peterson’s work so inspirational. One need only watch his lectures on the Book of Genesis to witness the level of intellectual prowess required to effectively articulate the unarticulated. This here is a fundamental cornerstone to understand what I hope to accomplish within the context of his platform. I want to use these writings as my own exercise to coherently articulate what I intuitively understand to be true, to follow the example that intellectual giants like Dr. Peterson call us to emulate, regardless of how circumscribed our initial efforts may have to be. As Dr. Peterson himself so eloquently puts in his book 12 Rules for Life: compare yourself with who you were yesterday, not who someone else is today (Rule 4).
There exists an enormous amount of information that one must cover in order to understand how I fit into Erotica Sinica and the broader sexual marketplace as a prostitute, and predictably, explicating that material comprehensively will require far more than just a few cursory blog posts. However, I hope that the more you get to know me, the more accessible the valuable information I seek to capture will become, and judging by the positive reactions I have received from two gadarene brothel guides, I believe that my hope possesses a certain degree of incontestable merit.
A Brief Review of the Current Zeitgeist
I want to establish a simple yet blunt proposition: the amount of extravagant nonsense regarding the mechanics of female sexual desire is both extensive and pervasive. This fatuity accumulates like inexplicably scrub-immune calcium deposits on the channels of Instagram “influencers” and YouTube, shall we say, “personalities” masquerading as life coach gurus, which itself is a mere reflection of the erroneous notions that civilians often maintain due to a lack of assiduous consideration. To be sure, stereotypes do frequently arise from certain underlying patterns that are partially true, and as such, it would be rash to immediately dispose of stereotypes as a categorical knee-jerk reaction. However, many, if not most ideas are partially true, including the most destructive ones that are responsible for causing so much pain and suffering in the 20th century alone. Given that, pulling chaos into articulated knowledge requires us to achieve a certain degree of nuance so that we can simultaneously acknowledge statistical proclivities while also understanding the deeper meta truths that enable statistical variation to arise, which is exactly how great thinkers construct comprehensive models of reality. Any given phenomenon is no less real or authentic simply because it is unusual. In fact, for much of human history, it has always been the outliers and the so-called “weirdos” who guide civilization into the next stage of development; though, truth be told, we seldom acknowledge, let alone reward, their often silent labors. On this point, I take enormous inspiration from Dr. Camille Paglia—a true scholar and intellectual of the female mind and spirit, whose work I hope to later expound upon.
In light of all this, let’s be very specific about just one example of something that particularly irritates me; and that’s the contamination that results from mixing an accurate model of female sexual desire with a weaponized notion of “male fantasy.” By virtue of its myriad remix versions, I’m sure that my meme-savvy audience is already well acquainted with the infamous clip of Claudia Restrepo talking about why she “...fucking hates video games [because] They appeal to the male fantasy”1 as she plays through the strip club portion of Grand Theft Auto (the fact that Buzzfeed had the audacity to call that original video “Feminists Play Grand Theft Auto For The First Time”—as if actual feminists with authentic agency would never experience anything other than Bacchic euphoria in a strip club—is an affront to what the word “feminist” ought to mean; however, the stench of Gloria Steinham’s man-hating legacy on the feminist movement is a subject that I will need to address more thoroughly in separate articles). The not-so-subliminal implication behind Miss Restrepo’s now endlessly lampooned comment is that female sexual desire is appropriately incongruent with men’s sexual fantasies—a sentiment to which I can only say...speak for yourself, lady! Why ought this idea, so insouciently declared, be so pervasive among the general population? What’s more, this idea of women, by nature, being fundamentally disinterested in the animalistic licentiousness that stereotypically governs male sexual fantasies even pervades cultural thinking beyond the Western World.
To illustrate this point, I reference Naked Ambition 3D—a campy 2014 Hong Kong sex comedy movie directed by Lee Kung-lok.
The story itself is a semi-incoherent narrative about a struggling erotic romance writer named Wyman Chan as he erratically establishes a career for himself as a male porn star in the Japanese Adult Video industry through a series of whimsically haphazard events, with the absurdist plot line principally justified by extensive nudity and sex scenes on the part of bona fide Japanese porn stars whom Lee Kung-lok was able to get to play themselves in the film. Regardless, most pertinent to this discussion is the climax at the end of the movie where Wyman, while in the middle of filming a reverse gang bang (i.e. one man fornicating with multiple women), begins to romantically reminisce about the previous sexual encounters he individually had with each one of the girls. Time slows; the music swells; Wyman, instead of penetrating the girls, begins massaging them, and as they all float through the clouds, he delivers the following line:
“The real key to conquer women is actually romance and care, and the real G-spot is a woman’s heart; and not down there!”
Now, obviously, I was not in the writer’s room when this scene was cobbled together, so I can only surmise what was going through the movie makers’ minds. However, in keeping with my earlier point, this idea that “romance” and “emotional connection” is the actual and authentic objective of the female sexual impulse is clearly prevalent in Asian culture as well. Now, do not be mistaken: intimacy and close connection are indeed fundamental human psychological needs, but they are exactly that—human psychological needs. This notion that a desire for intimacy is somehow uniquely the province of women is absurd. Men are not immune to loneliness, but for some misguided reason, societal expectation seems to assume that they are; and they suffer because of it. Moreover, their suffering further compounds because the implication that follows from this line of thinking is that women, for all intents and purposes, are feigning their interest in sexual intercourse for the unexpressed purpose of experiencing romantic closeness, because, apparently, a woman’s G-spot is actually in “her heart.” This creates a situation in which men are taught by elders and peers that they are pathological tyrants for placing their licentious desires upon women. Indeed, this is what makes pornography so powerful: it’s a visually authentic reflection of what men intuitively want; but even then, men are taught that these women on screen are simply conforming to male ideas of sex (or, perhaps the more appropriate term here would actually be “fucking”), because, of course, women would somehow “never do these things on their own accord.”
Again, I am not trying to truncate the importance of intimacy and its expression; however, these are needs that can and do operate independently. Imagine how asinine it would be if we, as a society and a culture, tried to say that women value food more than sleep, but that men value sleep more than food. These things are not mutually exclusive! Now, granted, I am not a clinical psychologist, nor is clinical psychology my chosen field of study, so proper epistemic humility requires me to refrain from presenting this assertion as academic fact; however, casual observation does seem to indicate that the inability to separate sexual needs from intimacy needs suggests that something is amiss (usually trauma of some kind). It is only when one can separate these two things as independently functioning systems that one can recombine them together without fostering pathology. Do our parallel systems have the capacity to compensate for each other? Certainly, but preserving end-result function within a narrow scope does not ameliorate the seriousness of a problem. We find this mechanic easy to understand when it manifests in the physical realm. For example, we all know that it is possible for our knees to compensate for fallen arches, and we may properly thank providence that this is the case, for malformed feet and ankles need not immediately rob us of our ability to walk or run. However, the inevitable need for knee replacement surgery proves that one’s well-being would be far better served if the foot system and the knee system could independently operate as they are supposed to, so that their tandem operations can coordinate in a way that is both sustainable and healthy.
Although I cannot yet fully explain why this is the case, there is something deeply archetypal about men using women’s bodies—and often vigorously so—as reductive objects of gratification. The very notion that authentic physical pleasure can be had by the women participating in this process flies in the face of both modern feminism as well as Eastern notions of female sexuality. This has some pretty serious implications, because it means that, given the correct circumstances, it is absolutely possible for women to enjoy—even to the point of orgasm—being used for men’s pleasure.
To illustrate this point, I point to the opening gang bang sequence in Asa Akira’s 2010 award-winning Insatiable, which is easily one of my favorite scenes ever filmed in American pornographic cinema.
In this scene, Asa Akira, dressed in little more than an overcoat, walks into a dingy 1970s-style “porno theater” filled with several strapping male patrons. After disrobing, revealing her supplely voluptuous Asian body, the sex to which the 6+ team of men subject her is vicious, carnal, and—most arousingly—unrelenting. The highlight of the gang bang culminates towards the end as the men begin to take turns ejaculating on her face, in her mouth, and all over he body as she lies supine on a leather chair with her legs spread-eagle so that the men can pump her orifices with raw skin-on-skin contact before unloading upon her. At this point in the scene, Asa’s moans of pleasure have become feral screams of trembling ecstasy, and as she writhes on the chair, she wails:
In this scene, Asa Akira, dressed in little more than an overcoat, walks into a dingy 1970s-style “porno theater” filled with several strapping male patrons. After disrobing, revealing her supplely voluptuous Asian body, the sex to which the 6+ team of men subject her is vicious, carnal, and—most arousingly—unrelenting. The highlight of the gang bang culminates towards the end as the men begin to take turns ejaculating on her face, in her mouth, and all over he body as she lies supine on a leather chair with her legs spread-eagle so that the men can pump her orifices with raw skin-on-skin contact before unloading upon her. At this point in the scene, Asa’s moans of pleasure have become feral screams of trembling ecstasy, and as she writhes on the chair, she wails:
“Fuck me ‘till you cum; feed it to me, please; I can’t get enough cum...I need more!”
Of course, I do not know Asa Akira personally, nor have I ever had the chance to speak with her in any capacity as of this writing, and I do not doubt that there was a certain degree of role-play acting, particularly regarding situational setup. However, I wish to draw attention to the way in which she supplicates the men to ravage her, particularly with the words “...please; I can’t get enough...” When I watch how vigorously those men fucked her, particularly towards the latter half of the scene, I have little reason to believe that she was “faking” her pleasure. After an entire year of professional prostitution and observing other women in this line of work, I am well acquainted (unfortunately) with what performative sexual pleasure looks like, and that’s not it. I reference this specific moment in an already stellar porn scene because it is an embodied example of a woman’s capacity to derive authentic pleasure from, yes, being used. Any woman watching this scene, provided she is able to drive a wedge between sexual needs and romantic needs, looks on with a degree of envy because, at some deep level, a female onlooker wishes it was herself in that chair experiencing that level of wanton abandon instead of Asa Akira, and that is absolutely a category in which I include myself. This level and capacity for carnal desire sits at the core of the feminine archetype, and we delude ourselves if we honestly believe that a woman in heat is the product of male whimsical fantasy. The forces at play here are far deeper than that, and we are behooved to give the power of nature, the well-spring of all life, far more credit.
When I arrived at the end of my previous article, I became acutely aware of the all-too-familiar sensation that, perhaps, I had bitten off more than I could chew, metaphorically speaking. However, after some reflection, I believe that this sensation need not be necessarily problematic. It simply means that there is more work to do than I initially anticipated—more “chaos to order,” if I allow myself to quote Dr. Jordan Peterson. Much of this sentiment arose because, after writing nearly three thousand words in the previous post, I realized that I had barely even begun to scratch the surface of unfolding the details of my own story; and yet, spending that word count to establish that framework was necessary, I believe, for it is only within the context of a meta framework that the anecdotes of my personal experience could ever possess the meaningful weight that they ought to carry. In that regard, I am reminded of the opening sequence of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig, when the narrator uses the word “chautauqua” to describe the methodology by which he sets out to encapsulate the labyrinth of ideas that he carries around with him, desperately begging for articulated release.
Pirsig is not the only one I’ve observed to reference this type of expository method, and I’ve had the good fortune to witness men I regard to be of great prescience and understanding allude to the hubris of the Western mind (Pirsig would probably call it the “Church of Reason”) to expect deep truth to exist in an organized state by default.
“That itself is a poisonous twentieth-century attitude. When you want to hurry something, that means you no longer care about it and want to get on to other things. I just want to get at it slowly, but carefully and thoroughly...”
There exists a verb in Chinese, pronounced as “pūdiàn” (铺垫), which is very appropriate to use here. The semantic meaning simply describes the act of laying out a mat, presumably to either sit on or lay on, but the practical meaning describes the often laborious process of providing necessary background information. All of this is simply to say that patience is key, because the task of proper self-introduction is more than simply regurgitating an autobiography ad hoc from my résumé. Pirsig has a very similar problem when his narrator tries to introduce the enigmatic character of Phaedrus to his audience.
“...but to get at Phaedrus, this oblique route is the only one to take. To describe his physical appearance or the statistics of his life would be to dwell on misleading superficialities. And to come at him directly would be to invite disaster.”
A principal question of particular interest to many in my audience has hitherto remained largely unaddressed: just why exactly did I so willingly become a whore? In my previous article, I established the authenticity of wanton female sexual pleasure, which in turn has very predictable implications regarding the question of libido, because the raging presence of the latter would seem to suggest the potential to attain the former. And while, yes, it is indeed true that, to put it bluntly, I am functionally in a continuous state of arousal, understanding how I’ve come to sell my body so willingly requires us to go deeper. Now, to be sure, there is an indelibly lesbian component to this story; however, for the sake of keeping the conceptual landscape that we must navigate clear and free from unnecessary pollution, I will focus on a more male-oriented context for the time being and return to the lesbian component in a later article as we meander our way through my own attempt at a chautauqua of sorts.
Let us begin with a basic premise: being an excellent sex partner does not automatically qualify an individual to be an excellent romantic companion. Bluntly declaring this outright appears so painfully obvious that it almost seems absurd to state out loud. However, to be fair, much of what common parlance now refers to as the “red pill” movement—advanced by such infamous online personae as Rollo Tomassi and even the Tate brothers—has served to push this idea into much of our contemporary zeitgeist, albeit in what I would argue to be a narrowly truncated form with unilateral emphasis on female hypergamy, which I by no means suggest or imply does not exist. The sheer volume of academic literature on this subject—particularly regarding evolutionary pressure on human development as a result of female sexual hypergamy in contrast with our other primate cousins, like the bonobos and the chimpanzees—precludes me from taking such a position. However, I believe it temporarily enough to suggest that establishing sexual pleasure and sexual compatibility as a sufficient condition for romantic partnership, particularly in the context of a monogamous relationship, is a predictable recipe for disaster, regardless of whether one is male or female—though my more thorough criticism of default “red pill” formulations, particularly those suggesting that men are somehow immune or inoculated from relational disaster resulting from deifying sexual compatibility über alles, will need to wait for a later time. Establishing this principle to be true beyond the strict confines of female sexual hypergamy only requires a brief moment of consideration. Even normal men (i.e. not “Chad” from 4chan) will only tolerate so much heinous and toxic behavior from a sexually accommodating woman before the strain and tax on quality of life is simply not worth the sexual access anymore. This sexual-gratification:asinine-behavior ratio much more effectively explains the situation in which I found myself during my mid-twenties, rather than the Tomassi-esque “Alpha fucks, Beta bucks” catchphrase (viz. Women actively use two independent standards—that do not cooperate in any way—to determine who to sleep with for genetic fitness and who to marry, and eventually cuck, for material stability).
Within this context, understanding the position in which I found myself after graduating from university should be easy to understand: I was no longer willing to compromise on my principles for the sake of access to sex. Specifically speaking, I could no longer overlook problematic behavior in the people I was bedding and simply pretend that it was not a big deal and simply “be casual” about pathology. Dr. Jordan Peterson often instructs his audience to “speak the truth into existence,” and that confronting the terrifying power of unspoken Chaos with truthful speech is one of the most significant acts of courage that an individual can take, because it is predicated upon the faith that whatever happens as a result of speaking the truth—no matter how scary—is ultimately good in the long run. However, Dr. Peterson also talks about how people generally dislike getting “poked in the axioms” (which is one of my favorite one-liners from him); and to wit, I have personally observed many instances when individuals, after fucking them for a period of time, get irritated and defensive and ultimately drift away when I try to confront them on their persistent decision patterns that consistently neglect their best options; or, in other words, failing to treat themselves “...like someone [they] are responsible for helping.”
Now, initially, after a brief moment of consideration, these descriptions might sound somewhat odd, because, as everyone knows, women are the gatekeepers to sexual access, and particularly so in the context of casual “hookups” outside of monogamous expectations. Even Dr. Peterson explains in one of his lectures that we speak of “Mother Nature” as being “female” because “Nature” is fundamentally “that which selects” (and the fact that we speak of “Father Time” as being “male” is also extremely telling, but that’s commentary I definitely need to save for a separate article). Ergo, the “game theory” incentives of my situation would seem to suggest that, at the point when the person I’m fucking begins reacting acrimoniously to truthful speech, all I need to do is proverbially “show some leg” and there will immediately appear an entire queue of very attractive and sexually appealing men who would be more than happy to satiate my sexual hunger; and, to be sure, that is indeed technically correct. However, this type of strategy, I would eventually come to realize, had its own concomitant costs and risk profiles that I needed to navigate.
Because I am a woman—and a very small woman, at that—casual encounters with strangers or distant acquaintances, especially under the explicit pretext for animalistic sex that might indeed become quite rough, simply pose dangers to me that most men do not need to consider. Thankfully, as a citizen of the 21st century, I am largely spared the looming dread of STDs and unwanted pregnancy that lowered over the heads of women who lived prior to the mass availability of factory produced condoms; however, the fact of the matter is that I am no match for a man motivated to physically harm me, especially when we’re naked and alone (which makes the current controversy surrounding the presence of “trans-women” in women’s sports all the more ludicrous to me). Men and deluded city girls have a tendency to forget what a scary place the world is for women. Men, as it stands, go into the world facing a wide variety of dangers, but at least they go forth metaphorically armed (and sometimes even literally) against the monsters who prowl in the shadows. Men have a tendency to forget that it is very common for girls to get antsy about carrying weapons and self-defense equipment, because we often ask ourselves: is it probable that a man would be able to overpower me and use this device against me before I could effectively deploy it?
Dr. Camille Paglia, in an interview with Bill Maher, had the following to say (the parts particularly relevant to this discussion I have indicated in italicized bold):
“As I have repeatedly argued throughout my career, sex is a physical interaction, animated by primitive energies and instincts that cannot be reduced to verbal formulas. Neither party in any sexual encounter is totally operating in the rational realm, which is why the Greek god Dionysus was the patron of ecstasy, a hallucinatory state of pleasure-pain. ‘Yes means Yes’ laws are drearily puritanical and literalistic as well as hopelessly totalitarian. Their increasing popularity simply demonstrates how boring and meaningless sex has become—and why Hollywood movies haven’t produced a scintilla of sexiness since Sharon Stone uncrossed her legs in Basic Instinct. Sex is always a dangerous gamble—as gay men have known and accepted for thousands of years. Nothing in the world will ever be totally safe, even the plushy pads of an infant’s crib, to which feminist ideologues would evidently wish to reduce us all.”
To borrow from some of Dr. Paglia’s terminology, I too alluded to the power of “primitive energies and instincts” in my comment about giving Nature her due in reference to Asa Akira’s impeccable work. Something similar can be said here, too. Forcing the act of fucking—a word I’m very purposefully using here to harness the fierce implications of sex outside the parameters of monogamous romance—to be a strict byproduct of articulated reason is to utterly castrate it and pillage the sexual experience of any and all hedonistic value (which is a problem I experienced first hand and, as a consequence, was left utterly disappointed and unsatisfied—more on that story in a later article). If I tried to attain “safety” by concocting methods of robbing men of their sexual aggression, that would fundamentally be an error, because such a strategy would be completely divorced from the profundity of the forces at play. In this situation, I too needed to give the power of Nature her due. Indeed, the entire point in all of this is that I, as the woman in the equation, am the very recipient of that sexual aggression. When a rugged man multiple times my own strength pins me to the bed—with my arms above my head and my legs pried open—relentlessly thrusting his girth into my holes, Dr. Paglia is absolutely correct to say that he is indeed animated by something beyond the rational realm as he drags us both into—as Dr. Paglia again very aptly puts—a “...hallucinatory state of pleasure-pain.”
What I needed at the time was a set of strategic rules and parameters that would, metaphorically speaking, enable me to contend with Dionysus without committing Icarus’ mistake and thereby invoke my own perdition, so I looked to the anonymous gay sex scene (i.e. “cruising” in gay-culture parlance) because homosexual men were the only ones in my observation who were embodying an intuitive understanding of what was at stake and what needed to be navigated. Of course, there was the security issue that I already mentioned, but also, when finding a person with immense sexual compatibility, it is extremely tempting to continue returning to that person’s bed, which can be painful once the arrangement needs to end, and that’s assuming that the individual in question is not a psychotic who will attempt to spin some web of manipulation and/or blackmail. Unfortunately, my understanding of these metaphysics at the time was not as comprehensive as it is now—and even now, I do not claim that my understanding of these archetypes is complete, which ultimately is more of a commentary on how much I was fumbling through these decision principles at the time. To make matters worse, my gay friends were unable to offer me any kind of actionable guidance because their own understanding was not articulated, and I myself did not know how to ask the proper questions.
I was able to eventually cobble together a general set of guidelines, like meeting a man in a public place before going back to his residence, never bringing strangers home, avoiding getting drunk, etc. However, I found that if I waited too long to have sex, my sexual hunger would make these rules become more and more difficult to follow, and that is where I would make mistakes; and when you start making mistakes—like a roulette wheel spinning against you—it’s only a matter of time before the penalties eventually catch up to you; and catch up to me they eventually did...
I want to resume where I left off by continuing to pursue the implications of female sexual desire. Female disinterest in non-romantic sexual encounters is a stereotype whose origins I will need to address in a later article, because certain logical ramifications become inescapable when female hypergamy enters these already somewhat muddied waters. For now, I believe it sufficient to establish that problems begin to occur when one tries to pretend that predictable issues do not require forthrightly addressing. Granted, it is entirely possible that my experiences of struggling with a hyperactive sex drive may be statistically unrepresentative of women in general (though I believe there to be much deeper nuance to that story); however, depriving myself of sexual activity, as I said in my previous article, increased the temptation to disregard strategies that would’ve kept me away from precarious situations.
Case in point, one such incident occurred in the summer of 2019 when I was traveling in Bulgaria by myself. This was an extended trip away from home, and when one is away from one’s home environment, the willingness to engage in behavior from which one would typically abstain begins to exponentially grow, because the costs typically associated with social stigmatization are, in a sense, no longer “real.” Particularly from a woman’s perspective, she is far more willing to behave sexually in ways that would besmirch her social reputation if she was in a position to simply get on a plane and “leave it all behind” at a predetermined date. We can see this logic in infamous marketing slogans like “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas;” and that’s just directed to Americans traveling to a different city; imagine the amplification of leniency on sexual permissiveness in the context of overseas travel (which has massive implications on Asian sexual mores, particularly regarding stereotypes typically held by Western observers, but that will be a topic for a separate article).
Needless to say, it was my final weekend in Bulgaria, and I was open to entertaining male sexual interests. My venue selection that evening was a karaoke bar—a popular type of nightlight establishment in Sunny Beach. From the outside, you could see large windows that gave sidewalk observers a clear view at the Karaoke screen placed center stage in the establishment, and when you walked through the front doors, there were people acting goofy and laughing, as is par for the course in these sorts of places. Thankfully, it was not very crowded on that particular evening. The bar itself was situated in such a way that ran the length of the wall directly across from the front door, and it was about 10 pm when I arrived on the scene.
It was not long before another one of patrons at the bar took the initiative to strike up conversation with me. He was extremely tall—somewhere around 6’5, by my recollection—with the lean and lanky build of a hiker and a well-overgrown blond crew cut that was obviously in need of some maintenance, and a wide smile that eerily reminded me of the Cheshire Cat—goofy and nonthreatening. By my reckoning, was probably around 50 years old. Through the course of our dialogue, he revealed to me that he was a Swedish national visiting Sunny Beach, which technically made him a “foreigner” just like myself, providing us with very prosaic common ground. From the outset, he insisted on buying me drinks, to which I acquiesced, but the quantity of alcohol, given my slight stature, was unwise. This led to a chain reaction of sorts.
First, he continued to buy shots for me after telling him that I did not want anymore; I could feel that my body was approaching an intoxication threshold beyond which i would become unable to remain attentively observant to my surroundings. Second, before I had initiated any signals that I was interested in sexual activity, he was already getting “handsy;” and I found that presumption to be irritating. During this time, I noticed a Bulgarian local who was also at the bar watching the unfolding events. He was much younger than the Swede, probably somewhere around 25 years old. He had an extremely welcoming countenance—with noticeably small facial features—well groomed, attentive to self-care in terms of obviously lean physical fitness, and around my own size in terms of height. When the Swede got up to go to the bathroom, that was when I made my move.
“Hi there” I said to him, “look, this guy is making me really uncomfortable; could you please pretend to be my friend and that you’re meeting me here?”
Luckily, he greeted the situation I extemporaneously thrust upon him with an accommodating chuckle, and my little improvised scheme achieved its objective, and I was spared having to deal with unwanted behavior, because I was able to migrate to a different karaoke bar nearby with my newly found “old acquaintance.” But it was here, emerging from the relief of escaping an annoying guy, that my first error would occur and reverberate through the rest of the evening.
My young Bulgarian associate offered me a beer, and I accepted, which sent me well over the liquor threshold that I could handle. Things became very sloppy very quickly. The night devolved into an intoxicated haze of bellowing into a karaoke machine in tandem and gallivanting in circles with gyrations that masqueraded as dance moves.
The hours waned on, but the liquor induced stupor did not appear to ameliorate its grip. Holy Moses, had my drink been spiked or roofied? Was I about to descend into a Kmart version of the opening sequence from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas with none of the upside? Any more of this, and I was going to lose my ability to stand just from sheer exhaustion. According to the parameters set by my own guidelines, it was imperative that nobody discover the location of the family friend’s apartment in which I was staying. Consequently, I mustered my faculties to take stock of my situation, and the solution I decided upon was to...go home with the guy...
Now, this young Bulgarian local was a sailor, so he had a very small house on the shores of Staria Grad—a tiny bridge-connected islet off the coast of Nessebar. It’s the kind of place where the roads are all stone, leftover from the Middle Ages, with architecture obviously designed well before the advent of any kind of modern automobile transit. When we hopped into the cab, it was clear to me that my faculties were not operating at 100% capacity. While we were riding in the taxi on the way to his place, I told him that I was too tired to do anything sexually.
“I really just want to sleep,” I managed to speak through the haze, “is that okay with you?”
He was quick to verbally reassure me, and when we stepped out of the taxi, I could see [the railing separating us from the ocean waves lapping up against the rampart. The house itself appeared to be an ancient structure, hewn out of what looked like solid rock, with a wooden door like something one would expect to see in a World of Warcraft tavern. When we finally made our way through his front door, there was a narrow hallway with stone floors, with a small bathroom on the left. At the end of the hallway, I could see his messy bedroom with a desk and a small mattress just tossed directly on the floor—the quintessential bachelor pad. Entering into his sleeping quarters, I took comfort in the fact that his frameless mattress was covered in Spiderman bed sheets, of all things. Surely someone this juvenile wouldn’t have the capacity to do me legitimate harm.
Providence seemed intent on emphasizing that point, because he tried to serenade me with a poorly played rendition of Nothing Else Matters by Metallica—a ritual that, thankfully, did not persist for very long; and in relatively short order, I crawled into his bed and immediately passed out, which is quite significant, because, under normal circumstances, it often takes me a little while to settle into my ultimate sleeping posture before I can eventually succumb to slumber; but here, I immediately lost consciousness the moment my head touched his Spiderman pillow, which is a testament to how compromised my faculties were, given how uncharacteristic such a swift sleeping patter is for me.
The next thing I became aware of through the seemingly unshakable haze was the sensation of something stiff and warm pressing up against my palm...
...he was jacking off with my limp hand...
“Kaan yoo tuch it?“ he said in his heavily accented English.
“I’m really tired; I want to sleep...” I reminded him, for maybe it was only a reminder that was necessary to reestablish the space upon which I could reground my footing...
It wasn’t.
He continued to press the issue, so I acquiesced in order to avoid the risk of angering him, and thereby escalate avoidable danger any further. So there I was, literally providing hands-on masturbation services to a man who, though previously assuring me that only sleep was on the agenda, ultimately decided to play alarm-clock with his genitals on Spiderman sheets, of all things; and all without the slightest hope of even a tip. Fortunately, his bladder parceled out some reprieve, because after a few minutes of this circus act, he arose from the floor-mattress to go relieve himself in the latrine; and thus came my opportunity to act. I quickly grabbed my belongings and donned my shoes, waiting for my onanistic host to emerge. Eventually he did, and I insisted that he call me a cab, which I was reliant upon him to do since I do not speak a word of Bulgarian. He seemed somewhat puzzled, but ultimately, he obliged my request, which concluded that evening’s misadventures.
I recount this story to illustrate a few key points:
First, this is a classic example of how my libido led me to a situation that could have been far more disastrous than what actually transpired. For starters, I was not fully forthright with myself that evening about what exactly I wanted. Had I been fully honest with myself that, yes, I want to get laid tonight, that would have immediately opened up the subsidiary questions of how best to accomplish that objective.
How would I make my selection?
Where does it need to happen?
What time do I want to be on my way?
etc.
These natural follow-up questions regarding basic logistics would have generated procedures that could minimize unnecessary risk profiles. But no, like most injudicious girls in their early twenties, I wanted to enjoy my vacation extemporaneously and just “play it by ear” and “see how things go”—which is tantamount to a failure to plan (and therefore, by extension, as the hackneyed adage goes, “planning to fail”). Consequently, I allowed myself to waltz into a situation that I ultimately did not want to be in, which brings me directly to my second point.
Although I will most certainly need to return to this subject more comprehensively in a later article—simply due to the stakes of the implications involved and the fastidiousness that material demands—I must utilize this slight detour to unambiguously establish that this is not a story of sexual assault, and I am certainly not a rape victim here. I take this emphatic position now because, for a—thankfully somewhat brief—period of time, this conclusion was not always clear to me.
Case in point, in 2017, Dr. Camille Paglia gave a CBC News interview with Wendy Mesley in which she had the following to say (emphasis added):
Paglia: My philosophy of street-smart Amazon feminism is about putting personal responsibility onto women. Every single moment of every day, you have a responsibility to project to men and to other women what you will tolerate and what you will not. Stop looking to daddy figures and mommy figures on grievance committees or the government to get you out of jams. Life is difficult, so step up to the plate.
Mesley: You don’t think there’s a problem with sexual assault? A lot of women are coming forward now…
Paglia: No. Cases of real rape of course should be prosecuted. Of course, real rape is a crime. But this is not real rape! We’ve been arguing about dating encounters with miscommunications now for decades. It’s absolutely infantilizing to women; it must stop!
Mesley: But you know a lot of women are afraid of sexual assault, have been sexually assaulted. Should they not be able to go drink and play beer pong and get drunk like the guys do? They live in fear!
Paglia: If you go to fraternity house party with chaos going on in the living room area, and a young man says to you: would you like to go up to my room? I’m sorry, you are consenting to sex! He is right to think you have consented…It’s not right, of course, for anyone to impose themselves sexually on another person, naturally! But women must realize that they are now free—the sexual revolution has been won! It’s up to them to decide what do they want; and again, I say, act like a gay man does. Many gay men have horrible experiences, but they want sexual adventure. Why are we coddling young women to say “go on being children, because mommy and daddy be there to pick up the pieces for you afterward.”
Mesley: I guess the argument is made that—shouldn’t men be afraid of the consequences of not getting consent?
Paglia: We have laws on the books against rape, okay?
Mesley: But everybody in that world will tell you it’s almost impossible for women to have the strength to come forward to make the case and so on…
Paglia: Oh Lord…are we going to go on like this, making endless excuses for middle class girls, confused, unsure of what they want. Perhaps the sexual revolution should be reversed, because what we’re showing is that perhaps coeducation is a bad idea. Maybe today’s young women are not prepared for coeducation.
Mesley: You think that’s where this’s leading?
Paglia: Yes it is! We’ve reverted to the 1950s with this, for Heaven’s sake! My code of Amazonism says: every woman is responsible for her own self, for her own sexuality. You are responsible. Stop thinking there’s going to be parent figures to get you out of jams afterward. You decide what you want; [if] something happens to you, you learn from it, and you move on.
I am extremely grateful for public intellectuals like Dr. Paglia, because this is exactly the kind of material that helped knock some sense into me about circumstances such as the one upon which I just expounded. The unapologetic realism that she levels against Wendy Mesley is quite sobering. I literally crawled into the bed of a young, virile man while we were both drunk: what did I honestly expect was going to happen? Choosing to take responsibility for one’s own actions—which often involves telling oneself, “it is my own fault that I’m in this situation”—is an indispensable tool for women to prevent themselves from collapsing into a puddle of victimization. Furthermore, Dr. Paglia’s exhortation to women to learn from unpleasant experiences and adjust accordingly is absolutely correct. Even in the context of my own incident, forthright reflection about my failure to be sufficiently forthright with myself spared me further trouble a mere seven days later when I found myself getting hit on by a handsome Serbian man while outside a café watching a street performer in Berlin. Again, I had not done the necessary prep work of accounting for logistics that would provide me a solid gladitorial fuck while still accounting for sufficient risk control, so I gracefully declined his advances, and went on my own way. The consequences of ossifying female irresponsibility in the trappings of “feminism” fighting against “rape culture” are dire. What’s more, I’ve personally encountered the results of pandering to the infantilization of grown women that Dr. Paglia has been warning us about, and it leads to nowhere good; but that will most certainly have to be a story for a later time.
I am extremely grateful for public intellectuals like Dr. Paglia, because this is exactly the kind of material that helped knock some sense into me about circumstances such as the one upon which I just expounded. The unapologetic realism that she levels against Wendy Mesley is quite sobering. I literally crawled into the bed of a young, virile man while we were both drunk: what did I honestly expect was going to happen? Choosing to take responsibility for one’s own actions—which often involves telling oneself, “it is my own fault that I’m in this situation”—is an indispensable tool for women to prevent themselves from collapsing into a puddle of victimization. Furthermore, Dr. Paglia’s exhortation to women to learn from unpleasant experiences and adjust accordingly is absolutely correct. Even in the context of my own incident, forthright reflection about my failure to be sufficiently forthright with myself spared me further trouble a mere seven days later when I found myself getting hit on by a handsome Serbian man while outside a café watching a street performer in Berlin. Again, I had not done the necessary prep work of accounting for logistics that would provide me a solid gladitorial fuck while still accounting for sufficient risk control, so I gracefully declined his advances, and went on my own way. The consequences of ossifying female irresponsibility in the trappings of “feminism” fighting against “rape culture” are dire. What’s more, I’ve personally encountered the results of pandering to the infantilization of grown women that Dr. Paglia has been warning us about, and it leads to nowhere good; but that will most certainly have to be a story for a later time.
When I penned the final portions of Part 3 of this meandering chautauqua of mine, my mind recalled an innocuous passage that Stephen King wrote in his introduction to The Gunslinger in which he described the intimidating nature of authorship. He has a very vivid description about how the Dark Tower series grew far beyond the parameters of anything he could have initially imagined when he embarked upon the project, and how the enormity of the Dark Tower series only became apparent to him when he was already deep into the writing process.
My sentiment here is very similar to Mr. King, because I can already foresee the shrill cacophony arising from the congress of shrieking banshees who profess themselves to be the vanguard of so-called "women's issues." I would greatly prefer a world in which these figures did not command such a stranglehold upon our current zeitgeist, for it would spare me the labor of having to account for their intellectual pathology, but alas, that is not the moment in history that I occupy. Specifically, the excoriating censure from these so-called "feminists" will attempt to deride my position as inhumanely unsympathetic.
Case in point, just look at what Wendy Mesley said directly to Dr. Paglia's face in the interview that I quoted in my previous article:
"But everybody in that world will tell you it's almost impossible for women to have the strength to come forward to make the case and so on..."
What exactly is the logic behind this statement? Bluntly speaking, it is the idea that expecting women to fend for themselves is improper; and that would be the civil rendering of this position. If I was a betting woman, I would probably guess that the actual vitriol from the aforementioned banshees would more likely render as: "your expectations of women are cruel," or, "you have never actually endured real sexual danger or harm!"
I am not an analytic philosopher, but even if I was, drafting a syllogistic argument demonstrating the disconnect between individual experience and the independent veracity of an argument would not be appropriate here. I have witnessed many individuals—usually men—get sucked into that vortex, to which I say: Heaven bless their valiant efforts to save us all from the self-referentially incoherent. However, internally consistent syllogisms is not the issue at stake here, because the criticism that I reference is not founded upon—nor takes interest in—positions constructed from first principles. Rather, far more relevant to this context would be the demonstration that, in actuality, I do speak from very pertinent experience that—contrary to what some may find tempting to believe—my uncompromising position on female sexual responsibility arose in light of—not divorced from—fundamentally disturbing encounters involving sex.
The advent of Tinder and its ubiquitous proliferation across our contemporary cultural zeitgeist took place when I was already approaching university graduation. It was very shortly after this time, when Tinder was still in a sort of "golden age"—that sweet spot when it had a sufficiently widespread user base to reliably provide favorable matches while still being niche enough to be novel—that I found myself alone at home very late one springtime evening. I had already spent several hours on my living room couch, swiping through men on my phone as a random playlist of YouTube videos muttered incomprehensibly in the background.
For months, I had been slaving away at my first formal full-time job as a recent university graduate. The stakes were high. I had moved to a brand new city 300 miles away from home for this position—a "big, scary, dangerous place" for a small-town girl to be on her own without any immediate support from family or community. As a recent entrant into the labor force at the time, living a life in which the full weight of my basic living expenses fell squarely upon my shoulders and my shoulders alone was both unforgiving and unrelenting, and my employer was able to capitalize on the precariousness of that position. I was up at 6:15 every morning to ensure that I had enough time to eat, shower, and—worst of all—commute to work to arrive before 7:45. I was consistently required to work overtime hours by taking my desk work home with me. It seemed as if the only sensation I was capable of feeling was exhaustion. Every facet of existence, day in and day out, was bound together by the omnipresent fetters of fatigue; and I was in no position to establish boundaries with my employer, because I desperately needed the paycheck every fortnight. At the end of each workday after clocking out, I would walk out to the parking lot as if in a daze and collapse in my car in what I can only directly describe as a sort of "forced slumber." On Saturdays, I would remain largely catatonic in my apartment, with Sundays providing just barely enough physical reprieve to muster the strength to do it all over again on Monday morning. This created a situation in which I was largely isolated and alone by mere virtue of the fact that I had no energy to invest in any kind of recreational activity on the weekends. Actuated over a sufficiently extended period, this meant that I had also been celibate for a while, too.
In circumstances like these, I will frequently turn to increasingly harder and more aggressive forms of pornography—but this, of course, is the apotheosis of the proverbial "band-aid solution," which predictably becomes increasingly worthless over time. These were the circumstances in which I found myself when suddenly, a man with black hair and blue eyes—indeed a rare combination—appeared on my Tinder user interface.
"Lance..."
Clearly, there was no way this was his actual name, but the proverbial "douche-baggery" that it implied would only grow more pertinent—I would soon unfortunately discover—as the evening progressed. I clicked open his profile to examine his other pictures. I could see that he was a lanky young man with the body of a malnourished musician—the kind of figure you would expect from a guy who spent every waking hour indoors noodling on his guitar.
"Seems promising," I muttered to myself as I swiped right.
The match was instantaneous.
Within moments, an initially innocuous chat lot filled my Tinder inbox, just as it had so many times prior:
Lance: Hey there!
Sheena: Hey 🙂
Lance: You’re up kind of late, aren’t you?
Sheena: Yeah, I’m having trouble sleeping.
Lance: Anything I can do to help with that? Lol
Sheena: It’s very possible ~_^
Lance: Would it be ok if I came over to your place?
Sheena: When were you thinking?
Lance: How about now?
I froze.
Quickly, I snatched a glance at the time indicator hovering in the corner of my iPhone screen.
11:15pm
Shit. It was already late.
No more than thirty minutes prior, I had just been watching John Leslie's Don't Make Me Beg—a 2009 compilation porno by Evil Angel studios that captures one of my favorite performances by Sasha Grey, the one in which she wore black and yellow stockings while getting penetrated into submission.
Already, I could feel myself getting wet at the prospect of that type of fornication. However, at this hour, there was no time to counter-offer with a suggestion to first meet at a public location, whereby I could establish a minimum threshold for judge of character. I could turn him down, perhaps request a different time; but my previous sexual encounter was already beginning to slip into long-term memory. I thought back to Sasha Grey's screams of euphoric agony, and my own licentious cacoëthes swallowed me whole, making my decision for me.
Sheena: Sure; here’s my address…
The message exchange that followed from this was predictably straightforward. He, of course, was absolutely chuffed at the promise of freehanded fornication. We joked briefly back and forth about rough sex, and with my head filled with Sasha Grey's unrestrained example, I grew increasingly coquettish in my responses, becoming more explicit in my desire for animalistic sex. But just then, his final message caught my eye.
Lance: Just please be nice to me. I’m a little worried that you might not be nice to me, because other girls have hurt me in the past…
What an odd comment to make right before accepting an explicit offer for casual sex...
Well, no matter now; I had already given him my address by this point, and there was no turning back now. By the time he walked through my apartment door, the time was already well past midnight. His pictures were an accurate representation of his in-person good looks, and, much to my relief, his smile and affability were quick to reassure me when we formally made each other's acquaintance in my living room. From there, we lost no time—my own hand proactively reaching out for his—and moving straight to the edge of my bed where we sat and osculated one another while Lance simultaneously undressed us both. He was vigorous with his kisses. The way he shoved his tongue down my throat as he slowly, but decisively, pulled back the base of my hair bore intimations of a BDSM kink, but given how starved for sex I was at the time—with Sasha Grey still being fresh in my memory—the only reaction I remember having was a substantial rush of physical arousal, greatly assisted by the fact that his erection was also visibly impressive. In a matter of minutes, I was on my back, my legs spread apart, with his thrusts into me gradually becoming stronger and stronger...
But this is where the trouble began...
As a tangential aside, there seems to exist an enormous amount of confusion in our current zeitgeist surrounding the question of penis sizes—a subject about which, after having, by now, very intimately interacted with literally hundreds of different dicks, I could easily fill several dedicated articles; and in all probability, I most likely will. However, in the context of this chatauqua, I must be able to grant that "bigger" by no means automatically equates to increased pleasure, though my commentary on the frequently overlooked nuance behind the overly simplistic "bigger is better" aphorism will need to wait for a later time. It will suffice for now to grant that a large penis—particularly by the standards of "huge cocks" that we often see in Western pornography—is very frequently an instrument of pain as opposed to pleasure. This point here is fundamentally germane to this preposterously cautionary tale.
Although Lance was not the size of, for example, Lex the Impaler, he was large enough to require a certain degree of conscientious courtesy in the boudoir. The problem: he wasn't. The strength of his thrusts became deep enough to stab my cervix, which would cause me to wince in pain. The discomfort quickly became sufficiently severe that I had to verbally say "ouch." At first, he would apologize, and temporarily reduce his vigor, but soon after, the same problem would recur once again. That was when it became clear to me that a proverbial "switch" of sorts had been flipped somewhere in his psyche, much akin to a type of animus possession. I could see it in his eyes and facial expression that he was deriving increasing amounts of pleasure from my outward demonstrations of discomfort. His sexual arousal was tied to inflicting pain on me; and that's the moment when the full weight of what was happening finally hit me...
He was a sadist.
At this point, all of the physical pleasure drained from my body, and my mind began to frantically race, haphazardly improvising a series of highly inefficient decisions—a natural result of trying to simultaneously subdue my panic given the circumstances. I was naked and alone in my own home with a man who had morphed into a demon right before my eyes, so I adopted a submissive strategy to avoid agitating him any further. I feared that if I attempted to openly struggle, his sexual excitement would burgeon into a diabolical frenzy. By this point in my life, I was already developing a fairly mature familiarity with Japanese pornography, and so I drew upon the "damsel in sexual distress" archetype that characterized the performances of Sora Aoi and Maria Ozawa for much of their careers in an attempt to get Lance to cum as quickly as possible. At one point in this circus from Hell, he had thrown me from the bed and onto the floor. The way he grabbed and penetrated my body was inordinately violent, and even at one point, he looked at me dead in the eyes and said, "I'm going to punch you in the face!"
The experience was extremely torturous, but thankfully, it eventually ceased when he blew his load (fortuitously, he had agreed to wear a condom at the start) and fell asleep in my bed. Needless to say, I did not get much sleep that night. The next morning, when Lance got up to leave, he behaved as if nothing out of the ordinary happened the previous night. Even the way he spoke seemed to suggest that our memories of what transpired were incongruous. The affable Dr. Jekyll I met on Tinder and invited into my home had returned—wholly disconnected from the Mr. Hyde who had just sexually brutalized me on the floor of my own bedroom.
I recount this story in order to highlight, and perhaps also further elaborate upon the points that I was using Dr. Paglia's commentary to elucidate upon in my previous article. Like she says, there of course exist true victims of rape—women and, most sickeningly, young children who, by no fault of their own, are beset upon by predators who overpower them regardless of how much they fight back, leaving little choice but to succumb and disassociate until the brutality is over in an attempt to at least escape with one's life and hopefully without debilitating injury. The key metric here is, and must be, personal choice. Measured thusly, my previous article sought to demonstrate the logic of how inappropriate it would be for me to claim the status of "rape victim" in light of the fact that my confrontation with sexual terror was the result of my own idiotically rash decision-making.
In Western society, everybody seems to unquestioningly accept the proposition that stolen valor is abhorrent on the grounds that it is inexorably demeaning to those uniformed soldiers who actually endured the horrors of war. Yet, for the past decade or more, post-modernist deluded "feminists" and other so-called "women's rights activists" have pugnaciously raised the unholy banner of "anti-victim blaming" over our society's sexual landscape, enabling myopic girls who toy with sexual forces they do not truly understand to retroactively decide that they are discontent with the consequences of their own self-inflicted sexual misadventures, adopting the self-proclaimed lamentations of "rape victim"—which has launched a veritable witch hunt against men who are guilty of nothing more than miscommunication at most—and all while completely overlooking the fact that they are promulgating an abominable "boy who cried wolf" situation, which in turn exponentially increases the difficulty of sexual violence cases receiving necessary attention from either the police or community members.
Now, I can predict that there might be those who may attempt to suggest that, given Lance's very clear sadistic tendencies, I should have used a rape accusation to raise social awareness around his vicious proclivities, lest he move on to victimize somebody else. My nausea induced by the Machiavellian arrogance that this type of thinking requires notwithstanding, committing to such a position engenders a labyrinth of moral issues surrounding Minority Report style "precognition" and the assigning of guilt for a crime that has yet to occur. It is easy to envision how citizens of East Asian societies might applaud such practices in the name of preserving "social stability," but that pathology, unfortunately, is a subject to which I must return in a separate article.
However, at this juncture, I want to reemphasize the point about personal responsibility that I mentioned in my previous article—namely: what did I honestly expect was going to happen? I extemporaneously invited a complete stranger into my home after making explicit references to hardcore pornography, and about how I wanted to be on the receiving end of unyielding sexual aggression; and lo and behold, my failure to lucidly articulate to myself the precise parameters of what I was and was not willing to accept lead me to a situation in which I was, as the aphorism goes, "in over my head." The aforementioned "feminists" always transform into feral banshees whenever they hear the phrase "she was asking for it;" however, a conscientiously forthright review of the facts unequivocally demonstrates that such a phrase is a perfectly appropriate description of my behavior that night. I was willfully engaging in behavior that was monumentally increasing the probability of getting raped (and raped in a way that could've ended far more tragically than what actually happened); ergo, getting sexually brutalized that night was absolutely the result of my own voluntary invitation; and in that respect, the responsibility of that evening's outcome falls squarely on my shoulders.
There do exist more stories in my personal history that are sufficiently similar in both nature and scope, and it is very possible that I will even share those stories in future writings. However, this wandering examination of my experiences and the reflections born out of them should be enough to demystify at least a small subset of the reasons why I formally entered the retail business of spreading my legs. Officially whoring myself is the most honest method, both to myself and others, by which I can, at least partially, satiate my thirst for consistent sexual variety and adventure, which is a point upon which I deeply resonate and sympathize with men.
In this respect, I cannot help but think—given my own history—that non-professionally promiscuous women, beyond a certain threshold, are living with a certain degree of self-deception and—by virtue of that—irresponsibility as well (for it is one thing to enjoy an occasional one night stand a couple of times per annum, and quite another to cycle through multiple sex partners every week). In the advent of the mass proliferation of OnlyFans content, there are indeed many women who have donned the outward trappings of a licentious tramp, but for compensatory reasons that are either only tangentially related to desire, or are, at best, inauthentic to their own characters.
Regardless, just as Dr. Paglia says: the sexual revolution has been won.
My generation…arrived in college in 1964, and we were kept in all-girl dorms, [and] locked [in] at eleven o’clock at night. We had to sign in. My generation [is] the one that broke through that in America and said, “No more rules!” We said to the colleges, “Get out of our sex lives! Let us have the freedom to risk danger, to risk rape (emphasis added). Get out, okay?” Now today, feminism is so stupid, it wants authority figures back into sex!