“If the internet is our cultural ego, then the darknet is its id. Within its parameters lies the purest anonymity and, with this divestiture of identity, the divestiture of social responsibility.”
- from my review of Eileen Ormsby’s new book.
So much going on at the moment – articles to be published, book-related news, etc. – but no time to report. Until then, just some of the coverage for #1 Amazon motherhood bestseller on its release Mama: Love, Motherhood and Revolution – not that I’m suggesting you buy a copy for all the mothers in your life for Mother’s Day or anything, although it would, along with a hologram of Lord Byron and a month at Claridge’s, make a SMASHING gift. Mama: Love, Motherhood and Revolution is available on Amazon or bookdepository.com x
My review of Don Winslow’s new blockbuster can be found here.
Other that Guns and Penises, The Force was the only possible title, really, because tough guys need to surround themselves with things that make them feel tough. Titles like Ideological Dinosaurs Still Roam The Earth or My Knob, My Rules or American Fuckwit just didn’t have the same commercial punch. Some quotes from this new classic of modern literature?
What passes for a compliment:
How the hero expresses his anger towards a woman:
Malone gets up, goes for her. “You fucking cunt!”
Because real men don’t need to explain their anger in a respectful way – they just get abusive.
What passes for love:
“It was her voice, low and soft, even more than her looks, that first drew him to her. A voice full of promises and reassurance. You’ll find comfort here. And pleasure. In my arms, in my mouth, in my pussy.”
Mouth, pussy and arms/arse: these are the most important attributes of any woman. Listen to Don, children. He’s old and wise. The man knows what he’s talking about!
What passes for humour:
“‘… then he wets his dick in thousand-dollar pussy, comes out and says, ‘Don’t tell Amy’!’ They all crack up again.”
Because ninety dollar pussy is for losers, and because it’s really, really funny to feel bad about fucking a woman other than your partner. It is, in fact, it is so funny that all the male characters “crack up”. As if a real man would be honest, faithful or respectful with a woman! D’oh!
How women talk to the men they love:
“You smell like pussy, you motherfucker. White pussy, some ratchet?”
I have yet to finish calculating the value of white pussy in relation to black pussy – taking ratchet and non-ratchet variables into account, of course … over to you, Don!
Observations on the younger generation:
“So much young pussy around these days and they give it away for an iTunes download.”
Did anyone say “blonde moment”? These girls need to enroll in the legendary business course “Bang for Your Buck: Valuing Pussy 101″ pronto! Subjects covered include:
- Explore how to make pussy appraisal decisions and valuation!
- Examine the workings and efficiency of pussy markets!
- Master the principles of cock structure!
- Perform valuations of pussies using real-world cases!
- Learn how to put a value on any pussy in a global context!
Base your future decisions on the knowledge of pussy markets, cost of lingerie, cash flow modelling, liquidity, intellectual governance, cross-gender transactions, optimal aesthetic value and analysis of oral technique. A baccalaureate in pornography is, of course, is essential.
What real men do on a Saturday night:
“You don’t go bowling. That’s just a cover to pig out, get drunk and fuck cheap whores.”
As if! Our hero only fucks expensive whores.
What passes for romance:
“You were never ‘some whore I fucked.’”
Golly. Is it hot in here, or have I just been staring at Don Winslow’s jacket photograph?
Why all women should be euthanised at the age of thirty:
“… the smell of old garbage and stale urine, sweet, sour, sickly and corrupt as an old whore’s perfume.”
Yes, “old” (prob over 28) whores smell like “old garbage and stale urine”, but old johns are very different. Old johns are what EVERY piece of thousand-dollar pussy wants – and the older, the better. What kind of freakish young woman would want a gentle, respectful, beautiful guy her own age? Gimme sumdat sugarstick, Methuselah! Sixtysomething men, in fact, offer a pleasure so intense that, like Precambrian poster-boy Hugh Hefner, they require multiple young partners simultaneously. Yes, ladies, they are SEXUAL STEAM ENGINES. Don’t believe me?
“Harry was sixtysomething, I dunno,” Russo says, “but fucking like he’s nineteen. Two girls at a time, three, he’s a steam engine. Girls are tag-teaming, he’s wearing them out … So this one night … there’s Harry, in the sack, hookers standing around him weeping like he’s Jesus or something.”
As it happens, Don is 63. (I’m still trying to work out what that means in relation to the quote.)
What passes for an evening out:
“… usually just an excuse to get drunk with your buddies or bang some whore, or both.”
Yes, that’s right, children: “some whore” – a thing, an object, three holes and an invoice.
And people ask why I married a much younger man.
So much going on at the moment – articles to be published, book-related news, etc. – but no time to report. Until then, just some of the coverage for #1 Amazon motherhood bestseller on its release Mama: Love, Motherhood and Revolution – not that I’m suggesting you buy a copy for all the mothers in your life for Mother’s Day or anything, although it would, along with a hologram of Billy Howle and a month at Claridge’s, make a SMASHING gift. Mama: Love, Motherhood and Revolution is available on Amazon or bookdepository.com x
Almost every woman I know has fallen in love with Tormund Giantsbane. The Khal Drogo fetish was straightforward – physical male beauty at its apex – but Tormund is a different matter altogether. Intelligent women are swooning over him on social media, demanding a storyline that puts him and the hulking, spiritually magnificent warrior Brienne of Tarth together.
This made me think about men and women and the fatal differences in our culture’s gender marker behaviours. Old school males believe in the perpetual canvassing of the female population for sexual partners. Their gameplay is tried and tested and, with apex predators, perpetually refined. The same lines, the same looks, the same tricks are used on all their targets because the entire process is hollow and depersonalised, triggered by their need for validation rather than genuine feeling. Humour and substances (alcohol, drugs) are the most popular techniques employed, because they act as disinhibitors with their targets.
Their canvassing can either be overt (clubs, pubs, bars) or covert (preferred by men in relationships), in which sex sites and social media are used to approach scores of women. Outrageous sexual suggestions are followed by jokes or exhortations to drink. The goal? Pan-global masturbation or hotel room hookups. Basically, living porn. Their capacity for love is so stunted that they cannot conceive of dedicating themselves emotionally, mentally and sexually to a single woman, with everything that such devotion entails. Renouncing porn? The idea of such limitation is hilarious to them because sexual entitlement is part of the gender identity package. Devotion, they think, would make them less of a man. So they lie, manipulate, hide. The disconnection between sex and love cannot be bridged. Emotionally, they’re deformed.
“What is wrong with men?” I hear this over and over and over again.
Which brings us to Tormund. He not only falls spectacularly hard for Brienne, but his love is exclusive from the beginning, infused with appetite and wonder, joyous. He loves the way human beings should love, with intimacy and tenderness and discrimination. The spontaneity and intensity of his feeling has women stamping their feet with desire. As one meme says, “On a scale of one to Tormund Giantsbane, how much are you into your current crush?”
I know people who mocked Indian call centre workers by suggesting that they bleach their skin. They were “in tears” laughing at this hilarious joke – so much so that they actually recorded it on Twitter. This was in addition to mocking Indian men to their faces with Peter Sellers Indian accents and then giving them the finger. I cannot begin to imagine the humiliation and self-loathing the call centre workers and other men experienced as a result of this hateful behaviour.
One of the people involved is a public relations consultant in London who prides herself on her egalitarian politics.
In the early 1960s, Australian men spat at my beautiful, delicate Italian grandmother when they heard her accent. As English is my second language, my early schooling was marred by racism; I stopped eating and developed near-unmanageable asthma. Subjected to years of racist taunts, the Eastern European father of a friend, a man who had endured unimaginable horrors in his war-ravaged homeland, cracked and shot his wife. The Danish father of another friend also took the racism to which he was regularly subjected out on his wife and children, punching them in the face. The children of these and other victims of racism pay the price with depression, suicide, self-loathing. The incidence of psychosis is significantly higher in people subjected to racism.
If you find this kind of thing funny, get the fuck off this site.
And this is sex in the 21st century. Devaluation, depersonalisation, depression. I pity adolescents most of all. Imagine evolving sexually without curiosity, without discovery. Utilitarian orgasms. Love without poetry. I would forfeit my life before forfeiting this:
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
- John Keats