Thursday, 15 December 2016

Friday, 9 December 2016

The Russian and the President

He is a projection. But is he ours or theirs? What he is to them: themselves as they would wish themselves to be. Rich. Uncowed by the phantasm taste. A hit with women: and if that's just because of the money, so what? We can't all look like Tom Cruise or the rest of those Hollywood faggots. If a guy makes money, why shouldn't he be allowed to grab a little pussy, huh? And these girls, they're not angels. They know what the score is, right?



Not angels. If anything, the opposite. These men are scared of women: you can smell it on them. As weak nerds devour martial arts manuals, dreaming of the perfect move that stops them feeling threatened, these sad cases immerse themselves in PUA 'culture': negging and peacocking occupy the space, for them, that flying kicks and judo suplexes do for the feebler dweebs.
Not that one can't get intersectional. A lot of these dorks are as lacking in puissance in the streets as in the sheets. He is the projection of their fantasies of power. Unafraid of other men and unafraid of women. At least on the surface. Anyone who's ever been within sniffing distance of a pussy knows that men who boast about 'just grabbing' it are tragic, try-hard little twerps, more concerned with impressing other men than sexual pleasure.



Perhaps we don't see this so clearly because the image of him doing it is so disgusting. The image of those tiny, stubby fingers wriggling into a cunt. And doing nothing once inside. A pussy isn't like a pair of balls, chump. Nothing really happens when you grab it. But then, do we really imagine those chipalatas have ever learned anything about the clit and how to flick it?



Of course they don't. One look at his suits, his alleged coiffure,  his scotch-taped tie, is enough to work out what sex with him must be like. Perfunctory, unpleasant; nasty, probably brutish, and certainly short. He heaves himself onto the bed, onto her, makes his thirty seconds' regulation squelching, twists his orange face into a coital rictus,  then dismounts. He grabs her boobs in front of dignitaries, and giggles. This is his sex life, such as it is. And it's enough for him: because for him the sex is not the action. The boast is the action: telling the guys about it later, laughing that he doesn't care if he comes first because that's 'winning'. Or silently: his trophy wife strapped to his arm like a falcon, paraded, displayed: this is mine. Mine. Only I get to have this.



Does he believe that? Do any of them think a piece of ass like her is happy with a thirty second fuck?  Of course not. There's a reason every second word out of their mouths is 'cuck'. They fear women. They distrust us. Because they're afraid we'll see them as they really are. The truth of them. The contemptible fact. That we see how much they do not measure up, and use them while we seek our joy elsewhere. She's only with him for his money. And he knows that. And it hurts.



Fearful of women, these men instead surround themselves with other men. The supposedly strong and virile men they fear that they are not. It's no surprise that he has filled his cabinet with Generals. Cowards fetishize the puissance of the military man. And he is not just a coward but a draft-dodger too. Never having served, he never had the chance to see first hand how little respect most grunts have for the top brass, never had good cause to doubt the vertu of the men he seats himself among. He'll come to doubt it, of course, and do so publicly: whatever he might say, they aren't really there to advise him. They're his personal audience: employed to laugh and slap him on the back when he regales them with tales of his pussy-grabbing exploits. They're the hard nuts he pays to crowd behind him as he tries to look tough at the podium. His gunsels need to know their place.



It's no wonder the Russian appealed to him. The Russian has spent years cultivating a butch mystique guaranteed to get him moist.  To get him on side, the Russian didn't have to convince him of their shared strategic interests. He simply had to seduce him. A dirty job, perhaps, but the Russian is an ex-KGB man, and tradecraft is tradecraft. What does it matter if the bond he will exploit was formed in a mutual jack-off session in the Kremlin? Such shared secrets bond and bind. And shared fluids are adhesive, for the body and the soul.



Of course the Russian kept some. Every warlock needs insurance, after all.  

Saturday, 3 December 2016

Ninety Grand: a poem about Jennifer Boyle




She says that she makes ninety grand a year
as if this makes her something more than flesh,
as if the woman serving her is less
by virtue of her lower hourly rate;
as if the ones who wait are willed to serve
by something more than just dumb fucking luck;
as if the force that wills the gap she claims
to shout across were anything like just.
She says that she makes ninety grand a year.
She claims to be the victim, claims to be
the target of some fantasy campaign.
She says the man she voted for has won,
so there. She says we should look at who won.
So there, she says. We should look at who won.
She says that she makes ninety grand a year.
She says the man she voted for has won,
attacks as traitors those who intervene,
rants tinnily from my computer screen,
while in another open tab I read
her previous employer say it's been
six months since she was sacked. Her social sites
name no employer currently. She says
the man she voted for has won; she claims
that she makes ninety grand a year.
By nine that night her LinkedIn site is down.