The phrase “power of the pussy” used to mean something, used to hold weight (and we’re not just talking the weight of all the cum unloaded into it on a regular basis). Maybe as far up to 2013, “men” still feared the threat of losing the chance for a semi-regular, bona fide boner release–a movement innovated by Greek honorary goddess Lysistrata. In the eponymous play by Aristophanes, the clever, yet simple plot to end the Peloponnesian War is this: don’t fuck any “men,” whether you’re in a relationship or not. Withhold the place where life begins, get life to start anew and for the better. In 2015, Spike Lee would also use this revamped plotline for his interpretation of how best to end violence in South Side Chicago, Chi-Raq.
White “men” in Williamsburg (and most of North Brooklyn), however, are fairly immune to the no pussy protest. They have their video games, their cush apartment setup and, occasionally, if things get really dire and they actually need to address the existence of their carnal nature, PornHub + their hand. The recent Women’s March was perhaps a more effective rebellion at this point in time than bothering with the blackmail of no sex. For you see, “men” have become so sexless–veritable characters in Barbarella wanting nothing more than the consumption of a pill rather than physical contact to get off–that for them, the power of the pussy at this moment is simply its ability to emanate an odor.
At this point in time, the intake of any and every available drug for the purposes of numbing is rather understandable. What is not, however, is when “men” pussy (a derogatory term that should really be amended based on what we’ve seen highlighted at the Women’s March) out as they always do in the twenty-first century. Rather than go all or nothing, microdosing is the “functional” way to reap the benefits of drugs, usually and specifically LSD. Though, of course, weed is another favored object of microdosing–and even more absurd as its effects are best felt when on full blast.
One supposes the larger issue of dicklessness at hand with the concept is that it espouses a level of lily-liveredness that “men” of the twentieth century, particularly the brethren of the 1960s, did not showcase. It doesn’t seem likely that Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band would have come to be on a microdose of acid. The point being, if you’re going to fucking do a drug, don’t do it to “function.” At least do it for your fucking so-called art, which probably hasn’t evolved since you moved to Williamsburg circa 2005 and you felt it still had the edge required to challenge your creativity pre-rezoning law.
There aren’t that many varying degrees of waifs. Generally speaking, they all, of course, look like twigs, say very little to the contrary and occasionally indicate just how much their father fucked them up as a child. But a very specific kind melds the worst shrewish elements of Ayn Rand and Nicole Kidman into her persona, idolizing both women in different and unwitting ways.
For those unfamiliar with the philosophy of Rand, the gist is: pursue your own happiness, fuck everyone else. And don’t feel guilty about anything that might happen to the “looters” or “moochers” weighing you down from your own success. It’s called objectivism, and a lot of waifs dig it. It’s why they get so far ahead in life–the self-discipline of not eating. But in addition to an objectivist philosophy, the nightmare composite waif must also be glib, mirroring Kidman’s Trump-driven comment of late, “I’m always reticent to start commenting politically; I’ve never done it in terms of America or Australia. I’m issue-based. So I just say, he’s now elected, and we as a country need to support whoever is the president because that’s what the country’s based on.”
What’s the common denominator (the only good math metaphor in existence, by the way) between these two women? Extreme callousness, paleness and overarching insensitivity. The “man” that fetishizes a waif that likes to embody both is, therefore, hoping she’s some sort of bedroom Houdini–where else is she going to channel all that hidden warmth?–or a true “intellect” of his caliber (though this also entails that she’ll only speak when spoken to). Either that, or he secretly enjoys the masochistic feel of being coldly regarded. It’s the sort of self-hatred that comes from missing a dick.
Enough hours have passed since the start of January 21st’s historic protests throughout the nation, and one has seen the gamut of social media depictions of the Women’s March in both New York City and D.C. at this point. That being said, of all the many candids showcased, there are two instances of dick missing that can be easily parsed out. The first, of course, is the “men” in the crowd with leering and lascivious looks on their faces indicating either 1) they’ve been hired by some Trump juggernaut to kill the opposition or 2) they’re on the hunt for impassioned women whose passion they hope translates in bed.
The second type of “man” sans dique at the Women’s March is the one who isn’t really there, but instead simply posts found pictures from other people’s experience and passes it off as his own. Or worse, actually pops in to the Women’s March for a hot second to prove he cares, then dips out just as quickly as he came (this is also a nod to the likely fact that he’s a premature ejaculator). This is the sociopath-type “male,” the one who wants to appear empathetic enough on the surface to still secure some pussy in the future, even though the intelligent woman protesting can see through his veneer just as quickly as he saw with X-ray like vision through her clothes.
Believe it or not, sobriety is now more than ever a necessity. The natural inclination on this most horrendously momentous of inauguration days is to turn on, tune in and drop out by any means necessary. And yet, how can one have the clarity of mind needed to mastermind the thwarting of power when he’s three to six sheets to the wind?
While women often function better on substances (birth control [RIP], marijuana, alcohol, etc.), “men” do not. These fuckers barely function sober, and should therefore not be using Trump’s ascension to a purchased throne as a reason to justify their acceptance of fuckery. Because, yes, while getting blotto is often the most affordable and accessible form of therapy, it is also the quickest admission of defeat. Now excuse me while I go to the bar.
One supposes every “man” has their fetish or “thing” in the bedroom, but, ultimately, rough trade or ass penetration seems relatively bearable in comparison to dealing with the “man” who gets off most effectively by splooging on your face. Not only insulting (though, yes, at least it’s supposed to be rejuvenating to the skin), it’s also extremely PTSD-inducing. Like you’re literally expecting a cannonball to shoot you in the face every time you wait for him to cum.
As with many “men,” it all plays into the psychology of how they view women. Generally speaking, the “man” who wants to spray a woman in the mug to both demean her and mark his territory probably hates his mother somewhere deep down. To be sure, most sexual fetishes trace back to something a “man’s” mother did in his youth. It’s all very foul–almost as foul as toweling off your face from the presence of a sack of semen. If we wanted a facial, we’d go to the fucking med spa.
It’s true, most “men” of the North Brooklyn variety are either jobless or living on daddy’s dime and must accordingly take advantage of specials on services they don’t really need whenever they can. Even so, the “man” who capitalizes on the Friday the 13th tattoo smacks of a particularly cheap and inky odor. It’s bad enough that they’re probably already the type to have color tattoos. Compounded with a lust for needle dragging that costs $30 from the sort of rinky dink shittaytay that would offer such a price point, the “man” sporting a Friday the 13th tattoo in color is to be neither feared nor revered.
While some shops have improved the menu of designs offered, it’s more or less always going to be a skull, the number 13, a devil’s head or some other unwanted depiction with blood on it. And a girl must ask herself: do I really want to let a “man” with a one-day only relevant tattoo to enter my body?