Tuesday, August 3, 2010


I wrote a story today, inspired by Dworkin. Be kind, it was just a spur of the moment thing.

Love at first sight

At the time I met her I was empty and alone. Drained and desperate. It was what passes as night in the city. The natural order of the passage of time disturbed by a continual hustle and bustle and brightly lit roads and store fronts. I caught my first glimpse of her when rounding a corner. Her most noticable feature was her hair. It drew my longing eyes like pollen draws the bee. Her hair was long, I don't know about the colour, because it glistened and shimmered in the artificial light. Dozens of different colours all at once, a rainbow trailing behind her, and after that first time I never paid much heed to her hair again. That beautiful luxurious hair lied to me, it said you can bury your face in me and I will envelop you and protect you. It promised freedom in it's tangled tresses, freedom it couldn't deliver, except fleetingly.

Later in her apartment, in her, I found my cocoon, I found a womb to shelter in, reveling in its warmth. For the first time since the endless day began I shut my eyes, resting, satisfied with the fruits of the search. When I thought about it later, and was really honest with myself. I tentatively admitted I had thought by filling her that I could also fill myself. This realisation however occurred past any possibility of usefulness. I was in fact stroking a gun, just as she had stroked me to throbbing fullness, when this thought swam into my consciousness. As the tears soaked my face, I thought perhaps the ejaculation of man was merely grief expressed. Perhaps the male climax is poetry and art and overwhelming anguish.

On that night, that garishly lit up night in the shadow thrown by her shades I had thought myself saved, but the redemption found in the feminine folds of her body was hollow and brief. As soon as I convinced myself that she was salvation incarnate, I moved my things into her apartment, although I had no personal belongings to my name. There for months we laid in each others urgent embrace and told delicious lies to each other, as maggots infested discarded plates of food. Our hearts thrumming together in the throes of abandon, both reckless and needed. We whispered of love and mutual need and satisfaction. We spoke of the world, our world, here in the shadows.

I became a man possessed, when I needed her, which was all the time, I had to have her without hesitation. A slight hesitation on her part would give birth to doubts of the absolute truth of our love. It came to the point where in the after glow of our love making I would reach for her again. Plunge into her depths, into her, and out of myself. My disgust at being alone in my rotting flesh was too much for me to bear so I spent more and more time in her, frenzied in my need, unmindful to hers. It came to past that one night my frenzy reached the crescendo where I was no longer aware of her at all, except as a means of escape.

She rolled over to sleep after an extended love making session and I became enraged, denied my freedom, denied my pleasure. I reached for her as I had many times before, rough though, this time. I pushed her facedown on the mattress and slid into her, burying my face in that gorgeous hair. No matter my stroke, slow, fast, gentle, forceful, I couldn't find the peace I craved. Her struggles were meaningless and her cries of pain like bird calls on the wind. I thrust harder, winding my hand in the tangle of her hair. If I can just get deeper, I told myself, I will find nirvana once more. After trying until the sweat poured down my back with no success, I pushed her away from me. My shame hanging limply between my legs.

It was never the same after that, we stayed together, but instead of burning for my touch as I burnt for hers she would cower and tremble like a beaten puppy when I reached for her. Her once fiery eyes that burnt with an inexpressible passion were dull and dead, only sparking to life when fear ignited them. It was the never the same to my manhood either, it hung lifeless beneath my belt, and no amount of coaxing would summon it to towering heights again. I felt robbed, she had rejected my maleness, she had rejected me and as a result my masculinity was cowed.

Now, unable to possess her as god and nature ordained, unable to achieve fullness as a man, I turned to other means. I was plagued by feelings of inadequacy and my inability to take what was rightfully mine. I became more forceful, instead of pressing against her to feel her heart beat with love against my chest. I took to pressing against her to feel her heart increase its cadence in fear. Where once she quivered in passion and need she now quivered in terror, I became unable to tell the two apart, I didn't want to. Being the cause of a reaction, any reaction in her body was enough for me. Her looks of love became glances of terror trying to gauge my mood.

Rather then please me, rather than assure me that I still had control, it was merely a reminder of the power I had once had. I had once commanded her body, brought her to shuddering orgasm as the captain steers his ship over the swelling wave. Now all I could do was intimadate her into submission to me, my manhood gone with her desire. I was barely conscious of the atrocities I was committing, losing myself in my helplessness and impotence and only later noticing the bruising forming on her thighs, belly, breasts and face. The more abuse she endured from me to prove her love and devotion, the more I wanted to torment her quaking body, as mine was tormented by withdrawals.

One day I arrived home from work and found her in our bed, lifeless as she had been for a long time, but dead as well. Her staring eyes, searching for something else, something better, as mine once had. There wasn't a mark on her body that I hadn't caused. She was beautiful in death just as she had been in life. I leaned over her body and pressed my lips to hers, tasting only cold and death and my own salty tears. I left the apartment and the bed that had been my sanctuary for a time and never returned. I resumed my restless pacing around the city, looking once more for that long hair I could lose myself in.

Every woman I glimpsed in my outings however, was a reminder of damnation rather then a potential salvation. I came to know that she had been my only safe haven, my angel, my jesus, sent here to suffer for my sins. Just as the jews had tortured and killed their saviour so had I tortured and killed mine. That is how it came to be that I was sitting in my car parked at the very corner where I had first seen her radiance. A gun in my lap, next to my lifeless member. Lips dripping blood where I tore them in distress mixing with tears of knowledge realised too late. Nothing left to do now, I put the gun in my mouth and my finger on the trigger.


  1. That was really depressing. Geez. Lighten up! Get off your Dworkin bandwagon. Life is too short. I'm not a victim unless I choose to be. And as far as I'm concerned this blog has gone from interesting and thought-provoking to wallowing in your supposed victimhood. Get a life.

  2. I posted this obviously insulting comment for the purpose of ripping it apart, I thought it may start off debate.

    I am not on a Dworkin bandwagon, I like her yes (I am a feminist remember) but I do disagree with a lot of her premises.

    Have you read Dworkin, because she doesn't promote the "victim mentality" you are accusing her (and me) of.

    Do you disagree that rape is a hate crime?

    Have you read anything at all about rape?

  3. To continue...The victim in this story is actually the man.

    Final question...Is it also no longer "thought provoking" because you have encountered something you disagree with?

    To be completely honest here, I am used to people insulting me on this blog. Calling me a cunt, a sexist, a waste of space. I just don't care, people who say those things and the kind of things you say like "get a life" just have nothing intelligent to say and are just looking to vent their own frustrations on me.

    Please come back when you have something interesting to add.

  4. To add one more thing not directed at you as much as a lot of the people who frequent my blog (of which you are an example of). The anger you send my way is misdirected. Why feel so threatened by my opinions?

    Take a deep breath and think rationally (men are supposed to be good at that) and lets debate in a more appropriate manner. Heaping misplaced anger and insults on me is a waste of your time and mine.

    Thank you.

  5. First of all, I'm not a man. Second, I don't disagree with you. I was sexually molested for years as a child. I know what rape is. I know how damaging it is so don't assume things about people just because they don't like what you wrote.
    I get that you have a blog and you can write what you want. You allow people to post comments but you don't have to post them. I don't disagree with you said at all! I just don't LIKE it. I've worked very hard to build a good life for myself despite the trauma I went through. I refuse to be a victim and blame men or the patriarchy or whatever. That is counter-productive for me and my quest to live a good life.
    Buy hey, that's just me. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. I apologize for the "get a life" I wrote that comment after I'd read that utterly depressing story and I was annoyed that I wasted time reading that blog post.
    I probably won't be back in future because I don't enjoy your blog anymore so you won't have to read any more of my hate and misdirected anger.

  6. I thought your story was beautiful...and it was not meant to feel sorry for the woman...I felt very sorry for the misguided man, you see there was NO attachment to the woman what-so-ever, no character development, no emotional ties..much like real life with ANY woman who has been "used". Feminism is not about hating men, it's about hating the way men and women are raised. Feminism is about hating how everyone in the world is forced into a certain mold of what feminine and masculine is and the resulting chaos of a societal creation of identity crisis that results of not fitting in said mold.
    Imagine if you will, if there was no boy who got made fun of for playing with "girly" toys, no girl who got made fun of for being more aggressive in sports, nobody told that they are homosexual based on their interests, attitude, or overall behavior...
    I've seen young girls who have picked out boy shoes, and their parents say, "that's not what girls wear"..this is the beginning of the fitting of the mold I am talking about...their parents unknowingly fill this child with hatred or fear or misunderstanding of girls and boys who have gotten to express their choices freely...do we see how the cycle starts? The projection that we use as adults is developed at such an early age that it just seems natural to impose these ideas of femininity and masculinity on everyone we come in contact with in the future. The poor children who didn't conform are forced into an identity crisis unless they are strong in their convictions, have a good support system, and take pride in their individuality...unfortunately, the thinking has to change before the actions or else everyone will be in a proverbial shit hole.

  7. Amy It is irrelevant to be what gender you are, also irrelevant to me any abuse you have gone through. To the extent that it applies to what you have stated on my blog. Of course I am very sorry that you or anyone else goes through such suffering.

    Well I am not trying to be nasty here jut express my opinion. While people like you put yourself in your happy cloud of delusion other people still suffer.

    I don't care if you don't like what I wrote. You can say it, it won't upset me.

    A good life to me involves helping others not just myself.

    I do wish I could do what you do and hide my head in the sand and pretend this isn't happening, but it just isn't the way I function or deal with my own issues either.

  8. Thanks marriedfem for understanding it a little :D