The woman that's never been beaten shares with the woman that's never been fuckedi the same shortcoming. Until she has felt the man's meat stick making room for itself out of the flesh between her legs, and his wooden stick on her buttocks and his leather snake curling about her thighs and enflaming her whole body and her whole being, she's incomplete.
This isn't to say unwelcome, wrong beating doesn't exist. It's called battery. Unwelcome, wrong fucking also exists - it's called rape. They go together.
Beatings are regarded with trepidation by the adult woman and with apprehension by the filly. They are a delight for women ; yet women don't come into the world as such - they mature out of the bodies and minds of children. Much like wrong fucking can forever lock the unfortunate victim in a horrible, torturous hell of fear and psychological amputation known as "being a lesbian"ii, wrong beating can idem lock the unfortunate victim in a horrible, torturous hell of etcetera known as "being normal" (if one's notions of normalcy are derived from cruddy mags and mass entertainment). Either's a truly sad outcome, for which reason it is always best to refrain if in doubt - from either fucking or beating. Were it right there's always tomorrow, and were it not the interloping night will save you both.iii
Aside pathology, intimacy is not Baron Munchausen, to pull itself over to the Moon by its own solipsistic breeches - not that some don't try, to uniformly regrettable results ; nor is it Buridan's assiv, to live entirely off the dry, thin hay of verbiage - not that some don't try, but mark that for all the merits of communication, it is exactly like flatware : you can set and unset the table fifty times, unless you also at some point do put some food atop those plates you still can't call the activity "having a meal". People can, and often have eaten straight off the floor, if not to their delight surely to their satisfaction. No one so far managed to put himself at ease eating with spoon and fork the empty air coming to rest upon his plate, and so "communication" lone and hollow will give you painfully, slowly falling amorous entanglements and nothing more.
Intimacy is built on the twin pillars of fucking and beating. Their exact disposition will depend on the people involved, of course, but what people like to say or pretend to believe on the topic has little bearing. Universally it is the fashion today for women to agree among themselves (in this language) that a purely Platonic coupling, ie mating without the sex, is naught but "friendship" and no proper subject of sexual intimacy ; universally it is the fashion today for women to similarily agree that Stoic coupling, ie mating without beating, is an absolute and inescapable requirement, and the only proper subject of sexual intimacy - the obvious alternative being "abuse" and ick! This agreement isn't worth the winds it's made out of, the correct helpings of Platonism and Stoicism to be decided at the time of the meal, rather than abstractly and for the benefit of all through the Official Cookbook of Proper by Mz. Boring.
All this, of course, has rather little bearing on you, dear reader. Let be the theory, and bend over for the rod today, whichever kind it may turn out to be.———
- There's a difference between "I've been fucked" and "He asked me if it's ok to come over and then asked me if it's ok to take my blouse off and then asked me if he may play with my boobies and then blabla ... and then bleeblee... and then asked me if I'm ready and then more blabla." should be obvious. Not that frottage with spineless, mentally underage twats is verboten. It's just not what being fucked means, is all. [↩]
- In the absurdist "I don't fuck men" sense of that word as commonly used among the lost ; not in the common-sense "Of course I eat out the other girls in the harem. It's only natural." sense of universal female bisexuality. Yes, yes, I'm aware it's oft repressed. That dun do nuttin'. [↩]
- This is the fundamental reason why seduction, which is to say all interplay between the genders afore the consummation of natural passion, does not consist of a monotonous crescendo (as naught but pimply boys would like it to) but always rises and then falls only to rise some more : the interloping night may very well save you both, and anyhow what's the rush ? [↩]
- Buridan's ass is a famous, abstract equus africanus, whose life miraculously was supported on nothing but words until such a time that he be able to choose among exactly equal but distinct alternatives. Abstractions being what they are (which is to say, not carnal), he still lives to this day - if only in the minds of they interested and in no practical sense beyond that. [↩]