Originally posted 2020-11-19 18:45:17.
The 19th of November being International Men’s Day — which you probably did not know — I thought I’d do a humorous little piece about freedom. Escaping the gynocracy and its would-be closed sex market, that is.
An essential part of the gynocracy’s closed sex market is that women must be the only permissible sex providers. But the fact is that men are not so fussy. In the dark, well, then — one cul is much like another, n’est-ce pas? So why can’t we have a free sex market? Why do women have to control it, especially in cultures where they have effectively given up motherhood?
Women have always tried to make male sex with other males taboo, in order to control men. After all, it would not do if a man refused his wife’s demands because he was getting his knob polished by that cute batang bakla from next door, you know. Women have to maintain power over men somehow. And shaming them for the way they have sex, well, that’s an easy one. It’s the go-to weapon and always has been.
Despite this, across the planet, especially where cis girls are strictly verboten, men pursue sex with other males, who look like girls and can be fucked.
In the West, the bluestocking feminists have raised the volume of their shrieking about such arrangements such that one can hardly hear oneself think (although, one notes with curiosity, they never mention the Muslim taste for pederasty.) But why? These Gorgons don’t care about boys! They’d eradicate boys, or turn them gay — and note: the gynocracy insists it’s all right for a boy to grow up to be a ‘gay man’ but never a girl. It’s a territorial thing.
Why protest about someone doing the job for them, though? Boys, after all, turn into men, and that is unacceptable to a Gorgon. But boys who become girls break the closed sex market that the Gorgons have been trying to establish — and they very nearly succeeded. Boys-become-girls take power away from women, by being able to provide sex to men. So access to them must be closed off. The same applies to prostitutes; the harridans don’t care a fiddle for the well-being of the women involved, they just want them to stop selling sex and so rupturing the closed market. If men can just buy sex, women’s power over them evaporates. Western harpies do their utmost to suppress all free sex markets, but they are everywhere.
This is the reality. What does it matter, to a man, whether he is fucking a cis woman, a trans woman or a cute boy? What difference does it make? He’s still fucking.
It makes no difference at all. Any soft, yielding flesh, any scented breath, any sweet, moist lips…who the hell cares? Men don’t. Cis-woman, ladyboy, bakla — they’re all the same to us. But women do care, because it demolishes their monopoly on the provision of sex. That is why they do everything they can to shame men who reject their ghastly attitudes, their prescriptive sex, their constantly escalating demands, their arrogance as gatekeepers — Oh, you fuck ladyboys? You must be gay! Off with his cock! Banish him! Sisters, shun this monster!
Well, no indeed madame, we cheery fuckers are not gay in any way, though those whom we fuck might be catamites. The Romans were right and USica was wrong, what about that?
Walking Street, the pedestrianised area of Fields Avenue in Angeles City, is a delight to visit. There are many like it, from the original in Pattaya, to others across the planet. These are areas where the closed sex market does not apply and instead, a free sex market is in place and one, this time, that includes women.
Women go there to have sex and make money; men go there to spend money and have sex. Some just like to watch, all of life really being a fair in places like this, and alcohol lubricates the system.
I remember my aunt, perhaps thirty years ago now, taking a package holiday to Phuket in Thailand with my late uncle (poor man). She told me, on her return, her nostrils flaring with ire, ‘That whole country is based on the sale of bodies!’ She almost spat her teeth out in rage as she said ‘bodies’, which made me laugh; it did not help her sulphurous ire. As a woman who had denied my uncle sex most of their married life, of course, she would recognise the threat that a free sex market presented to her.
Yet what Walking Street and its equivalents epitomise is the true nature of human life, at least in cities. This is how Uruk was, how Babylon was, how Pompeii was; it was the glory of Rome, lest we forget, and not just a street here or there, whole cities. This same thing is what caused Johnson to say ‘When a man is tired of London, he is tired of Life.’ And what is that thing? The free sex market. Briffault’s paradigm could no more function there than in a fishpond. Who cares what one’s wife’s most recent demand is, when, for the price of a decent meal, one can taste almost any pleasure of the flesh that one could think of? (And likely a few more besides.) That very same pleasure that your wife has withheld, because you forgot to mow the lawn? And, lest we forget, likely with younger, more beautiful and more sexually talented flesh at that?
A New Zealander in a free sex market
Once, I encountered a New Zealander, sitting alone in a bar, around nine in the evening, in one of these free sex market zones. It was as if he were shell-shocked, dazed. I asked if he was all right and he explained that this was his first visit to the country. ‘Do you know, I’ve had sex five times today, with five different people. And it only cost me thirty dollars each.’ (To be honest, he was robbed; but I didn’t want to burst his balloon.)
It was so far out of his ken that it was almost not real, not even possible to assimilate. I could see him, reliving the moments, the softness of skin, the perfumes, the lips, the darting tongues, the sweet entrances he had explored. So much sex. Such great sex. For so little. Perhaps he was also reckoning the cost of his socially legitimised sex with his wife, if he had one; that is a most painful account for men to tally. ‘My God, you mean I could have had sex like that every day for the last fifteen years and it would only have cost me $163,000 dollars? Are you kidding me? That’s only like, eleven grand a year!’
I’ve seen many men make that calculation, think it through and realise they’ve been right royally had. The realisation, that a culture run by women for the benefit of women, and in which women have the sheer effrontery to pretend to be hard-done-by, had conned them completely, had robbed them of the best years of their lives, is a bitter pill indeed to swallow. And the irony is, it wouldn’t have cost our Kiwi even that much, because this conversation took place in a known tourist resort where prices are inflated.
It gets worse — if you’re a Western feminist. The standard remuneration for a live-in yaya (housemaid) with full sexual services included is around $250 USD a month, not more; so the global cost of those fifteen years would have only been $45,000 at today’s rates. $3,000 a year. Sure, you probably treat her and make her feel nice with presents and that sort of thing; but, you know, it’s a lot easier to give a woman a gift when she hasn’t been bleeding you dry for years while, at the same time, arrogantly assuming she can cut off the supply of sex any time she likes. Having a gun permanently pointed at your head gets tedious. In a paid arrangement, if she does that, you can just fire her pretty ass back to the bar and hire another yaya. Much better. The power relationship is as it should be: the buyer is in control of the transaction.
I shared a drink with the Kiwi and left; I thought he might be minded towards a moist, musky nightcap and I would only cramp his style.
I’ve lost count of the men whom I’ve seen like this, stunned, not believing that what they had just lived was real; but it was, of course it was. It’s the watershed for so many. Oh I know, most will go back to their miserable sex-rationed lives, where, if they’re lucky and they time it exactly right, their wives might briefly open their legs at, say, seven in the morning on the first Sunday of the month; but in their minds, they are cruising the streets of Patong and in reality they are saving every penny they can for their next visit to Paradise.
Where, in most modern cultures, especially since the advent of the curse of feminism, Briffault’s paradigm serves to stifle life, to suffocate it, to imprison and enslave men, in a free sex market it has the opposite effect; it stimulates, rejuvenates, reinvigorates. Sex and money become the natural partners they really are. Women want money, so they fuck. If you have money, you get to fuck them. Money is honey; no money, no honey. Sex is the currency through which a woman buys tangible benefit; money is the tangible benefit needed to buy sex. It’s honest.
Sex is a transaction
Are you shocked? You might be. But consider: why should sex not be a transaction? Why do we need to deny the idea that sex is a commodity, a service like any other and so can be purchased? Isn’t it far better and more fair to set out the terms of the contract before any commitment? ‘Look, you give me a BJ every morning and bounce on my cock every night, and I’ll give you X amount of money every month.’ What’s wrong with that? Why is sex different to, say, a massage, or for that matter a car wash, or a haircut, or any other service?
What makes the insertion of penis so special? What makes women so special? The instant they gave up on having babies, didn’t they lose all their privileges? The social contract was that men protect women and put up with their sex-rationing BS, for the benefit of their children; without those children, the game is a double bogey. Men do everything better than women, except making babies; so with that gone, what do they have? Answer: an assumed monopoly on the provision of sex. But this is a completely illusory monopoly; it depends on men allowing themselves to be duped into thinking that cis women are the only potential providers of sex..
Western feminists constantly harp on about the special nature of sex — but how is lying on your back in a nice comfy hotel bed, with your legs in the air, somehow worse than lying on your back in the filthy, sweaty hell of a coal mine, getting pneumoconiosis? It’s easy work and it’s fun — so what’s the big deal?
The Big Deal
The big deal, of course, is power; and that is all women really care about. They are obsessed by it and the more they get, the more they want. Don’t imagine that cavilling to the Hydra of feminism will get you any special treatment: they’ll be back for more, you watch.
Only those who fear the competition would deny that sex is a negotiable commodity. A girl needs thirty bucks? One BJ and a good pussy workout will deliver it. A man needs to be despunkified like a prince? Why, the price of a steak dinner will cover it — and this is a sure thing, by the way; if she doesn’t deliver, you don’t pay. There is no fear of consequences, of a gold-digger attempting to claim rape after you lavished hundreds of dollars on her.
The problem today arises because Western women have decided to reject motherhood. Their media is full of anti-natalist claptrap like The Handmaid’s Tale and other nonsense that deliberately sets out to propagandise the horrible idea that motherhood is a form of slavery that women should avoid. As a result, reproductive rates are plummeting, not just in the West but everywhere these ideas are allowed to fester. This is, ultimately, going to eradicate the species, which appears to be the intention.
Without making babies, why should women get any privileges at all? After all, a trans woman can do anything a cis woman can, except make babies, so if cis women no longer want to make babies, what do they have that makes them preferable? Their pussies? Well, I have news for you, sisters, that can easily be fixed; modern surgery is a true marvel. And in any case, most men are quite content to go in the back door. So why entertain them? Why put up with their bullshit, their ‘MeToo’ nonsense, their constant attempts to assert total control over every part of society, while at the same time proclaiming their entirely false victim status?
Women are the gatekeepers to sex; this is patent. If that were not the case, then men would simply take women for pleasure, whether they wanted it or not. They would do as the Romans did to the Sabine Women. Men are bigger, stronger and more aggressive; it would be easy. But there is no ‘rape culture’, in fact it’s the very opposite. Instead, we brutally punish rape, far above and beyond the punishments we mete out to other crimes of similar levels of violence. Men’s lives are ruined on the merest accusation of ‘sexual impropriety’, while women who make false accusations of it remain anonymous and pay no cost at all. If women are no longer in the business of making babies, then why should men allow them this differential?
Alternatively, why don’t men just buy sex robots and have done with it? At least a robot will never refuse and she won’t be asking for a new faux-fur coat before she gives you a blowjob. Or just masturbate; there’s enough porn around, after all. The Internet is awash with it. Any man who’s spent years in the spare room before finally coming to his senses will tell you that masturbation, if there is a woman who should be available in the house, is miserable, but if there’s no such woman, it’s not at all bad, frankly. You might be surprised how long a healthy, sexually motivated man can survive, just tossing himself off every night.
Escaping the Gynocracy
The fact is that there are two ways to escape the gynocracy’s rules and actually have live-action sex. The first is only ever to buy it. Off the shelf, cut and dried, neat. Fuck her, pay her and never see her again. Even the yaya deal is fraught, because there’s a danger you might fall in love with her — and that will be you, right back on that miserable treadmill.
The other, paradoxically perhaps, is to set up with a sweet, good natured ladyboy, aka an HSTS trans woman — because they see sex the way you do.
And why is this? It’s because trans women, wherever they come from and whatever they call themselves, are not female. They are feminised males. That is why, paradox upon paradox, they make such great women. What about that — men do everything better than women, including being women! Yahoo! Who knew?
Never forget, a trans woman is the perfect woman — from a man’s point of view.