One you lock the target
Two you bait the line
Three you slowly spread the net
And four you catch the man
- 'Headhunter', Front 242 (1988)
Dating a 20-year old woman, as I am, is, I imagine, rather like romancing a retard. Then again American women of all ages exhibit similar stunted levels of intelligence, emotional shallowness, and cultural ignorance. There are exceptions, of course, and I reckon their names could fit on a single 3x5 index card.
Of the five (5) women I have slept with since breaking up with my hot blonde girlfriend in early August, I still don't know a single surname. The common thread amongst these women, I have noticed, is their enthusiasm for the Fifty Shades of Grey books, which are proving enormously popular with the female population in industrialised countries. My understanding is that they are full of scenes of personal degradation, sado-masochistic practises, and brutal sex. It is inadvertent testament, I think, to the female need to submit and to be dominated, a need generally unmet due to the unrelenting decades-long pussification of Western men. The natural role of woman, after all, is one of submission. My girlfriends beg to be pinned down onto the bed, their neck choked and shoulders held firmly in place, slapped and spanked, their hair pulled hard, as I pummel their cervix with deep assaults, producing an ecstatic response that would have shocked me twenty years ago. These days, with an accurate understanding of things, I am more than happy to oblige. To say I do not enjoy this state of affairs would be a lie.
Revelations such as Fifty Shades of Grey are a gift. It is up to the perceptive man to take full advantage of the feminist ascendancy, to take what he needs and what he wants. It is too easy. Modern humans, I have found, are hopelessly vulnerable, like villagers on the exposed coast of post-modernity, ripe for pillage and destruction by Viking adventurers. If you have not yet done so, adopt the corsair mindset and proceed from there.
Modern life, as I have said before, can be a sordid thing and is not without great cost to both sides. In my own case, I can confess to you here, what passes through my heart is a wash of unfeeling, a red-raw void, a sense of dislocated love and longing for something higher, from man or from God. And still, I hear the forest refrain, and the call of the attack-ships from Eleven Threshold. It will have to do for now.
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