Tag Archives: kink

A Radical Feminist, Not The Fun Kind

Andrea Dworkin was almost right:

I think we need to ask ourselves the question why men love prostitution so much? The fact of the matter is despite the rhetoric of men on the right and men on the left, they love prostitution a lot. The global proportion of the trafficking of women indicates that men like to buy and sell women. And that there’s a special kick in sex when you can pay somebody and use money as a symbol of their servitude, not as an agent of their independence but a symbol of their servitude. [1]

I think that what we’re dealing with with prostitution in all of its forms is the most basic kind of power there is; it’s a core definition of power, and that is, “I want it, you do it. I want it now, you do it now. Bend over.” [2] And when someone has that kind of power, that’s the same kind of power that kings had in feudal societies. And now it’s the power of every man, over every woman, because of these systems of trafficking in women, that exist all over the world. There’s clearly a sexual pleasure in destroying human dignity. [3] There is a sexual pleasure in repeated personal invasions of a person’s body and you don’t know the name of the person and you don’t care. She’s there because she has to be. [4]

Marriage – monogamy – was a part of civilization that feminists wanted destroyed, they destroyed it, now are upset that they have lost the privileges that civilized institution afforded them.

[1] Dworkin’s describing the thrill of market exchange and it’s the same thrill that a woman gets when she pays for the labor of a man to drive her, to fix her car, to massage her feet, or to build her a house.

[2] Dworkin, a lesbian, hated men’s sexuality, or more precisely, she hated heterosexuality – she, in fact, married a homosexual man and called him her “love” and her “life partner.” I don’t know about Dworkin specifically but it’s the stuff of common lesbian fantasy to “mentor” – i.e., seduce – a younger, less “powerful” woman. The notorious Vagina Monologues, in fact, had a woman thanking the adult lesbian who “seduced” her when she was 14. So, to lesbians, what they object to is the heterosexuality, not the power difference – in fact, power exchange is a key component of lesbian sexuality (as it is all women’s sexuality in general.) It’s one of the reason that “not the fun kind” of feminism never hit the mainstream, while the “fun kind of feminism” – “sex positive feminism” – *is* mainstream.

[3] Dworkin, and all radical feminists, are very similar to religious vegans and animal rights activists who decry the exploitation of animals by mankind. Humans eat animals, wear their skins, and they don’t even bother to name the animals.

What Dworkin’s feminism really is, is the same great emotional cry that all humans give when confronted with the reality that there is no “human dignity.” Humans are just animals, and the state of nature is the law of the jungle.

The irony is that there’s nothing in men’s pornography that is any worse than The Story of O – pornography for women, written by a woman. Dworkin would probably consider Ann Rice as a “handmaiden of patriarchy” but her Sleeping Beauty Chronicles was as humiliating for her male characters as it was for her female characters. It was a woman who wrote “Belinda” the touching story of a 16 year old girl in a “voluntary” relationship with an older, 30 something man. The book held no interest to men, it was written for women, from their perspective, to justify their own fantasies and sexual desires.

[4] Dworkin would almost certainly acknowledge that this applies to capitalism generally – and as a woman-centric feminist, she of course “centers” women as the central “good” in capitalism (not at all without good reason.)

Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning a lion wakes up. It knows it must outrun the slowest gazelle or it will starve to death. It doesn’t matter whether you are a lion or a gazelle: when the sun comes up, you’d better be running.

The real irony is that Dworkin, the Jewess who said she would have been a Talmud scholar if they had let her, is literally longing for Christ. She bemoans the lack of “human dignity” and the lack of “brotherly love” (thus) that is idealized in Christianity. But the fact is, humans are incapable of “loving” each other, outside of close friends and family (and, especially, husbands and wives, which must have angered Dworkin, even though the only man she loved, she actually married, just presumably didn’t have sex with, because she was a lesbian.)

Humans, apes with bigger brains, only have 200 “empathy slots” for other human beings. You can empathize with, love, respect, and “dignify” – and remember the names of – just about 200 people. Evolutionarily, speaking, the number is a small village and extended clan (which makes perfect sense.)

There isn’t, and has never been, any inherent “dignity” for “humanity” as a whole – and Dworkin and the feminists are, of course, massive hypocrites, because women have never, throughout history, spent a single second agonizing over stepping over the bodies of “their own” dead men to find greener pastures, better food, and sexier men, on the other side of the river. Women have never afforded men any dignity, ever, but merely respected male power – and have evolved to be sexually aroused by male power. At the end of the day, what really disgusts women like Dworkin is the banality of male sexual desire. Like food, all it takes is a scent, a sight, and men start salivating. Women require a lot more indirection and need a lot more emotional play-acting, but that’s all it is – emotional play-acting. Women’s sexuality isn’t at all more “dignified” than men’s, and women are indifferent to male suffering – in fact, male suffering disgusts women.

But Dworkin – and the “not fun kind of feminists” – are completely correct about sexual power and the commodification of women. What they are objecting to is civilization and capitalism, two things they have no interest in ever giving up.

If Dworkin and the “not fun” kind of feminists ever got their wish, and civilization and capitalism were destroyed, we’d all be living in small, 200 person primitive villages, with no running water, matriarchal clan structures, parasite load, rampant STDs, and constant tribal warfare with the villages next door.

And the FIRST man who came up with something better, the FIRST man who invented a new technology that gave him a significant power advantage over his rival men – he wouldn’t NEED to “buy” any women, the women would be stepping over each other – and their own children, in fact – to get to that man, the one with the most beautiful peacock feathers.

What Dworkin is most sad about is that Jesus doesn’t love her, because there is no Jesus, and human beings – including women – have no inherent dignity. It’s all just jungle.

A Culture Free of Patriarchy

Owning, Spanking, and Tickling Women

Jim at http://blog.jim.com recently wrote an ignorant, deceitful, and completely bullshit article about 9/11. The commenters suggested that someone put him up to it. It’s likely a fair assumption he’s lying because he has to – he’s clearly not stupid enough to believe any of it.

But Jim has some things very right, especially on women. He writes constantly about spanking women, even beating women, and the nature of women and “Pauline marriage” – i.e., the Christian ideal of marriage that was commonplace until maybe 75 years ago.

I can’t help but be partial to a man who understands wife spanking as well as he does – and nothing is funnier to me than reading the comments of men shocked – SHOCKED I tell you – that a man would ever spank his wife, or otherwise dominate her in any way.



We brand cattle and otherwise mark our property, and if you won’t brand your woman, say, tattoo your name on her ass, she’s like to do something awful like cutting herself. Don’t people realize that regular maintenance spankings take care of this? If they don’t get it in real life, they will read 50 Shades of Grey and Twilight and fantasize about it, or make up pornographic Fraternity Rape fantasies like that woman that Rolling Stone wrote about.

I remember the first time a girl told me she was going to kill herself because I never fucked her. We made out a lot, but never went all the way, for various reasons. So after I stopped paying much attention to her, she called me up one night and told me she had swallowed a bunch of pills because she couldn’t live anymore. I had to call her mom, who of course rushed her to the hospital. Trust me – it was a downer.

Then there was the virgin who after a few months of rogering in the back of her daddy’s SUV, told me what she really wanted was for me to tie her up, blindfolded, and rape her. Look folks – she came from a loving family with a doting step-dad (hmm… well she had never met her biological father. Um, never mind.) She was well-adjusted. My parents loved her and wanted us to get married. She was 16 – and at 16 she was already fantasizing about handcuffs and blindfolds. Sure, I did it, but my heart wasn’t in it – I just didn’t get it.

Another girlfriend – who was literally a sex machine that wanted to do it multiple times a day – she would push and push and push until I grabbed her and held her down and raped her – which usually ended with her smiling and humming to herself as she made us dinner afterwards. I may have had all sorts of second-thoughts and complicated emotional reactions about how I treated her, but she sure as hell didn’t. That relationship ended when I stopped – I just didn’t have the energy into dominating her all the time, and so she basicall wandered off. I was pissed, but instead of dragging her by the hair back to my place, I just sort of started ignoring her and we just sort of drifted apart. The after-break-up sex lasted a few more months but the spell had been broken.

Then there was the waitress who matter of factly told me to put my hands around her throat and stop her from breathing when I was fucking her. Not a lot, just a little. She didn’t want me to kill her or anything. She just needed to be immobilized to the point where she couldn’t even breathe, and that was enough to make her orgasm.

And spanking? Good lord. That even barely counts as kinky. That’s just run of the mill routine. Hair pulling? Holding her wrists down? They show stuff like that on prime-time television, it’s so commonplace.

I – of course – was writing about this stuff since before this blog, and it was a regular feature on this blog since the beginning, and I used to get hassled by the “BDSM community” for pointing out how politically incorrect – not to mention anti-feminist – this stuff really is. It points to an impulse, one that comes from millions of years of evolution, that both hard core feminists – and fake “Christian” Male Church Ladies want to pretend doesn’t exist.

50 Shades, of course, but back ten years ago it was “Secretary” – oh, man, you should have seen the ink spilled about that movie. It was hugely popular among the Fashionable Liberal Women set who watches indie films, but it was just so “problematic” they had to write about it over, and over, and over again.

Go back even more and it’s the Story of O. The literary types were adamant it was written by a man, but of course it was written by a woman – ONLY a woman could have written the story of O.

Hitting your woman with a stick

Jim may sometimes exaggerate to make a point, but the point remains. Women aren’t men. They don’t think like men, they don’t fuck like men, they don’t react the way men do. And most men don’t understand them.

The only time I ever lost a woman was because I *didn’t* rough her up, I *didn’t* take ownership, I *didn’t* claim her as my property. Women don’t want a boyfriend or a fuck buddy, they want an owner. Sure – lots of women would rather be owned by her boss rather than her husband, but Boss and Secretary is basically their second most common sexual fantasy, just after “kidnapped by a rival gang/warrior, and enslaved in the harem of a slightly but not too exotic foreign chief, where she fucks/births her way to the top of the harem.

Jim’s also right about race, which makes his cucking over 9/11 so much more disappointing, but I guess you can’t win them all.


Don’t #Kink Shame (Choking Edition)

Just because a gal likes a bit of choking a bit doesn’t mean you can rape and murder her.


In the 2014 case, Mazzaglia, 32, was convicted of strangling Marriott with a rope in his apartment, raping her lifeless body, and disposing of it in a river. His attorneys claimed that Marriott died accidentally during a consensual sex act involving constraints. But Mazzaglia’s then-girlfriend, who witnessed the murder, testified that Mazzaglia had become angry and strangled Marriott to death because she refused his sexual advances. The defense tried to use details of Marriott’s sexual history as evidence that she may have voluntarily participated in a dangerous sex act, but a judge deemed those records inadmissible, sealed them, and sentenced Mazzaglia to life in prison without parole.

HR’s advice on breath play: don’t do it.

But if she really begs for it, do it safely.

A Rebel’s Dangerous Kink


The main lights went down all over the club, except for the spotlight on the stage. A voice over the loudspeakers blared, “Ladies and gentlemen, Showgirls is proud to present our featured dancers, the most erotic show on earth!”

Two gorgeous young women in stiletto heels strutted on stage: a tall, thin blonde the voice announced as Candy, and a voluptuous brunette called Heather. Their outfits were a welcome change from the trashy lingerie worn by the opening act, most of them skraelings, who had performed their “bump and grind” previously.

Short, tartan skirts barely covering their asses, and white shirts with the waists pulled up and tucked between their collars showing off their toned stomachs, with knee high fishnet stockings reaching to their thighs. The look was sexy schoolgirl; innocents gone bad; their nubile bodies briefly illuminated by flashes from the spotlights on stage. The mix of modesty and seduction was pure eroticism.

The audience erupted in hoots and hollers, with vulgar and vaguely threatening cat calls and chants. All except for two men seated near the back, their modest applause subdued only enough not to arouse suspicion. Their mission, deep inside System Territory, entailed far too much risk for mere titillation. The younger of the pair was stocky, bare faced, dressed in denims and a Ben Sherman button up. About mid 20s, he leaned over to his partner and whispered, “looks like our women are still the most desired of all on Midgard, hey Trevor?”

Trevor, a wiry man with lean muscles nearing 40, with a close cropped full beard, snorted, “yeah, the few that are left.” As the crowd noise subsided, a pulsing techno beat blared from the speakers, and the two girls faced each other on stage, just within touching distance, their bodies undulating in a sensuous wave in time with the music. Their nubile charms were undeniable, one sugar, one spice, an ideal blend of feminine beauty. Candy was a classic Nordic beauty, her long silky tresses the color of the sun, swinging freely around her shoulders. Her think waist balancing out her perfectly symmetrical hips and breasts. Her luminous skin and perfect legs and ass enough to evoke an aching lust in any man alive.


She was the Goddess of Love, Desire, and Lust;, Aphrodite reincarnated in the flesh, an echo of an ancient pagan fertility rite. But if Candy was Aphrodite, Heather was the Vestal Virgin, her trimmed brunette locks framing a delicate rounded face. A petite nose and deep eyes hinted at a demure modesty, her thin figure, a nubile nymph, just past puberty. Every inch of her flawless body a reminder of the passions of a first sexual awakening. Girlish innocence, eager yet fearful, a curious invitation to ravishment and initiation into womanhood.

Staring into each other’s eyes, their bodies wordlessly flirted with each other. Hands resting on each other’s hips, they gyrated suggestively, a primordial siren song to consummate a carnal lust. They traded the role of dominant and submissive, one pursing, the other retreating, then reversing the roles to the beat of the music, alternately one a hunter, the other prey, building an erotic tension like a circuit of energy. Aphrodite at first the sexual predator, her hands roaming over Heather’s back and ass, and elsewhere, lightly, as if by accident or chance, before sliding to her breasts and shoulders.

Curious fingers breaking taboos while retaining the plausible deniability of innocent exploration.

Heather played her role perfectly, the demure ingenue unsure whether to resist, or submit; tantalizing caresses forbidden to one’s own sex. Trembling like an eager but unsure schoolgirl, Candy’s escalating intimate intrusions on her anatomy provoking a flight or fight response. Hypnotized like prey in the gaze of a predator, the allure of modest innocence submitting to an immodest desire and an impudent violation of her apparent inexperience.

The young man, with far less experience than his older companion, leaned over to Trevor and asked, “do you think they are enjoying this? I mean, really turned on by another woman?”

“Eric, this is for money, these girls aren’t lesbians.”

“You’re probably right, but why are you so sure?” Eric replied.

Trevor explained, “men are voyeurs by nature. A woman’s body is erotic in itself. But a man’s jealousy is aroused by other men pursuing his woman. Two women simply doubles the erotic effect, with no challenge from a rival male. In this day and age, they likely had no inhibitions in the first place. Then there is the certainty of at least some sort of drug addiction which would have overcome any resistance anyway. I’d bet all the money I have it’s just an act.”

“I guess you’re right,” Eric agreed, then smirked. “Uh, how much money could you actually afford to risk on that, anyway?” Eric knew that Trevor donated most of the spoils of their raids into System Territory to impoverished Kinsland families. He was known to live so modestly it bordered on primitive, even by Kinsland’s wilderness standards. Unlike other KD veterans who had already captured a wife – or two or three – Trevor had never taken a break from his guerrilla activities to indulge in the pleasure of a woman’s company. Even now, Trevor’s eyes roamed the club, Eric following the lead of his older partner, glancing furtively for their assigned target.


Mostly feigning interest in the act, the pair scoped out the crowd, looking for the owner, one Harry Silverstein. Sympathizers and supporters in the area had fingered Harry Silverstein as a likely target for retribution and plunder. In addition to disaster insurance fraud, Silverstein owned a chain of strip clubs, brothels and did a lively business in internet pornography. It was well know he was connected to semi-official cocaine importation networks that reached the heights of the intelligence establishment, which likely procured the bulk of his fortune, not to mention the services of these girls. Due to the semi-legal nature of his businesses, it was certain he had fungible hard assets at the ready, likely in his home and office, off the books, hidden from the tax man, and ready to transfer across the borders should political winds change. The pair knew the dirty business of the “persuasion” that would be necessary to convince Silverstein to reveal an easily transportable stash of off the books hard assets.

Silverstein didn’t appear to have arrived for his evening’s entertainment yet, so the avenging duo settled back to wait for closing time.