Sodomy

I enjoyⁱ hurting women. Conveniently enough it also happens to be the case that female fulfillmentⁱⁱ is built precisely out of yielding to being thusly hurt, making indeed this world the best possible world out of all the other worlds similarly possible but not nearly as good. Which, in the end, is the great (meaning, the only) political divide : those who enjoy this world, also known as the sane, forever separated from those who don't, the deplorable insufficients universally preferring to call themselves "progressive" because to their (broken) ear it sounds better than "inadequate".

Sodomyⁱⁱⁱ is most expedient an application of that general principle, and so we (meaning, me and my fucktoys, these living, breathing, talking, thinking objects wilfuly dedicated to my enjoyment of the world through their intermediary offices) partake in some abundance and with some regularity.

For instance, yesterday we watched Maitresse^iv, a pretty terrible 70s pre-enaction of some events that happened maybe a decade ago^v. The way this worked out in practice was that I laid out in bed, quite cozy & comfortable, while a nude beauty (really, she had some flimsy thing on originally, you should see this thing sometime, it's something else) laid herself on top, her bounteous bottom right over my knees, her tiny clitty just between them. It's the perfect distance to play with her ass, and to rub one off her, or maybe not, maybe just tease her to death, or maybe rub ten off, or maybe just torture her to (near)death with her own orgasms. It can be done, you know. (What also can be done is having another stick her finger in her asshole, so she can't go anywhere, writhe as she may).

So in this manner we watched Maitresse, and it was still a shitty film. It makes no sense in any sense, just a crashed delivery van of (terribly filmed^vi, by the way) cvasi-erotic almost-bdsm. Everything I do is way the fuck better, and it was kinda funny to watch the nooblets deeply, thirstily enjoy this experience -- after the never-yielding rain of "you're terrible, the reason your shit dun work out is that you're not very good and you don't try very hard what the fuck were you thinking bla bla bla bla", that sudden illumination of "well heck! might be I'm terrible, but I'm nowhere near as terrible as these dumb fucks, what the shit is this!". It's true, while I hold my slaves to very high standards^vii, everyone else doesn't even have slaves (let alone standards).

After which I fucked one in the poophole. After which I took it out and put it in... another poophole. Yeah, that's right, just like that, directly. It's called a fecal transplant, it's a medical procedure, look it up.

I didn't last enough to sample a third hole, and actually... doesn't look like I'm gonna last enough to finish this article -- I'm going to have my cock sucked instead.

Bye.

1. Note if you will that I didn't say "love". I said enjoy. This isn't coincidental, but rather the unavoidable mark of the other thing I enjoy besides hurting women : fostering thoughts.

   Fostering thoughts most commonly assumes the perceptible shape of hurting idiots. For all intents and purposes, insofar as an idiot's perspective's concerned, there's no distinguishing the two. Nevertheless, on one hand the idiots don't enter into it, at all (notwithstanding that they'd really really want to, for the obvious reason, and therefore pretend they do -- still, inescapably, they don't enter into this like they don't ever enter into anything) and on the other, vastly more important hand, thoughts being abstracts they've no direct relation to phenomena. This is precisely the problem, too : fostering thoughts necessarily, inescapably and uniquely requires a peculiar situation of the self against phenomenology -- a situation such as the verb, not a situation such as the noun. The payoff is hard to overstate : once so situated, everything around becomes a weapontool towards whatever direction. Like for instance if you feel like making yet again the point of feminine inferiority you can just reference the situation-situation duality to underscore it for the yet againth time. And if you're not particularly interested in females, being a faggot as the vast majority of you absolutely are (it's a fact, and we all know it, there's really no need to keep pretending), you can also use it that way : isn't poor old Nicky C's intrinsic vulnerability made quite manifest by the quaint slip of the mind whereby he doesn't realise that there's no substantial difference between weapons and tools, and therefore making cannons into tractors is no kind of programme ?

   And so, while the consensus is to run about, blithe as only imbecility permits, "i love this, i love that", trying pointlessly to put together the greatest rave ever seen -- I enjoy hurting women (and fostering thoughts). These two ultimately indistinct activities should, "in fairness", lead to great aloneness & aloneitude, but in practice it doesn't work out that way. Which is, ultimately, the great benefit of fostering thoughts : they dominate phenomena, if indistinctly and indirectly, yet reliably.

   And the rod dominates the hole. [↩]

2. A woman's fulfillment qua womanhood is different from her fulfillment qua manhood, which in common parlance is called something like "a career" or whatever, "personhood" what have you. The two aren't exactly independent, but they're absolutely not mutually exclusive, which makes the position of the scared girly particularly ridiculous : so petrified is she of attaining womanhood, "what it might mean" -- da fuck it'll mean, seriously now -- and "what it might do to her!!!1" and so on that she "focuses on" "her career" "for now" (in the instances where she doesn't misfocus on her wedding instead). [↩]
3. Do you suppose, incidentally, that there's any thirteen year old virgin anal queens walking about ? Because the world could certainly take an increase of that count. Pretty much everything else is oversupplied so scandalously it attaints notation, there's certainly no further need of more lines of code, "software packages" and other splooge-crumbed socks, comforters and body pillows. The world needs no further "entrepreneurs" made of overcooked pasta, there's entirely no need of more "self-help" and self-improvement" and self-jacking it. But a coupla hundred million more tweens perfectly capable of enjoying the discomfort of sitting on large rods and rather quite inclined to do so three to twenty-five times a week... now that'd be something progressive.

   So... get to it ? [↩]

4. 1976, by Barbet Schroeder, with Gerard Depardieu, Bulle Ogier. [↩]
5. Remember the news junklets, some dominatrix/hairdresser Russian chick was prosecuted for assault by the would-be thief who broke into her place and ended up for whatever reasons unable to leave a while. [↩]
6. The blocking in this thing should really be repurposed as training material for would-be starlets, "this is what not to do". [↩]
7. To get an idea, anal can and often enough does consist of ten seconds preparatory ministration, consisting of a helping of vaseline. After which it's ride the queenie all the way home, and they don't even get it dirty. Because the rectum is normally empty in healtyh sluts & slavegirls, what. Who the fuck even has the patience (and who the fuck can deal with the digestive ill effects) of irigations etc ? No, a competent anal queen bends over when ordered to, spreads her butt for the goop, rides that cock like she was made for it (which...) and then it comes out of her as white as it came in.

   Ten seconds, no red, no brown. That's the standard. [↩]