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.
This is the type of establishment that litters that part of town.
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...
My reaction now looking back...
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...
At this point, I was awake, but he did not know that, because I continued to feign sleep while I tried to improvise my next decision sequence. This was not a situation I had anticipated to confront in a bed covered by Spiderman sheets. I had told him that all I wanted to do was sleep—I wasn't so far gone that I had only said it in my head. By my estimation, less than two hours had transpired since I had lost consciousness in this stranger's house, and the smothering blanket of inebriation, now transposed into exhaustion, left me barely conscious and confused. Something needed to change in order to alter the status quo, so I "woke up" and removed my hand from his genitals. Immediately, he saw that I was awake.
"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.
End Part 3
Sheena, you have a special way with words. <3