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The Self-Made Beta

This post is also available in: German

Leaning against a pole as the train lurched forward, I noticed an older man, late 40s and clearly marked with the curse of the herb, standing with his young daughter by his side. He was talking with a curvaceous, big bosomed woman in her early 20s who looked like pre-meltdown Britney Spears. She was quite stimulating to the eyes and crotch. The man and Britney were having an energetic and friendly conversation which, when my ears were tuned to the words coming out of her mouth, was about the man’s daughter’s soccer team. Britney’s wide, C-shaped smile indicated she was enjoying this harmless herb’s company, while the herb’s studiously affected flat facial expression and stiff nodding movements suggested a swell of discomfort with his arousal that was threatening to lumber awkwardly through the polite veneer of their phony interaction.

I observed them for a few minutes, until the train reached my stop. A wave of bilious disgust curled my lips. I thought to myself that I never want to be that man who is so inoffensive — that man who has relinquished the last faint hope of his masculinity — that hot co-eds feel perfectly at ease shoving their bountiful breasts and plump, juicy flesh in my face to prattle on about the daily trifles of their lives or to chatter cloyingly about my kid’s soccer practice, taunting by their estrogenic proximity the ape-shaped contours of my cockcentric desire as the beast rattles the bars of its ganglial imprisonment, begging for release.

Only men know men. Women have no conception of the mind of man and what it is thinking at any given time. I know what was going through that family herb’s head. He was hearing her words but inside he was pawing her ass cheeks, his tongue flicking up the length of her vulnerable neck, his pudgy sausage fingers squeezing her tits then prying apart her legs to stroke the folds of her labia, his cock dribbling the pre-cum of urgency as it poised itself before the entrance to her womb. Straining against the silent symphony of his horniness and the feelings of uselessness and shame for the void with which the young women around him now perceived his once dangerously virile sack, he would shuffle home, shoulders sunk, to masturbate despondently in the bathroom. I imagined the wife he would go home to is the typical American fat, nagging sow. No doubt this brief platonic conversation with the cute young woman standing before him was the sad highlight of the last fifteen years of his life.

Did Britney know this was on his mind? Such a capacity for self-delusion women possess!

Here is my call to arms. I believe it is every man’s duty to impolitely flirt and pass sexual judgement on each attractive woman who crosses his path. I believe it is every man’s right, no matter what his age, to refuse to apologize for his natural desires, to make no excuses for his deviant wants, and to grab any opportunity to hit on women in his field of view. I believe it is every man’s mission statement at birth to disturb a woman’s banal self-satisfied sanctuary — her cultivated immunity from unsettling intrusions of the psychologically erectile form — whenever she cavalierly insults his primal urges with naive overtures toward tepid, desexualized friendliness. I believe in all this because a man is happiest when he is demonstrating by his actions a proper respect for his masculine prerogative. I want there to be no mental safe haven for sexually enticing women in public places where men are present. I want them forced to confront what men are truly feeling and visualizing underneath their threadbare civility, and to understand there is no walling off the ever-encroaching predatory chaos of the jungle. I want them to be psychologically groped, everywhere there are men like me at ease with our voracious sexuality.

If I were that herbly father figure, as soon as she attempted to box me in with bland, asexual chit chat I would have negged her.

“Hey you look like Britney Spears. Later years Britney.”

This would have made her go quiet, if it did not shake her into a tremor of attraction, and by the lascivious smirk on my face she would grow suddenly uncomfortable with the realization that I was seeing her as a sexual creature to be plundered. She would then gaze downward at the ugly carpeting, and scurry through the sliding doors when her stop arrived, reminded as she was of the crude fuckworthy animal object she ultimately is to this one man at least.

And I would walk out proudly, head held high, dignity intact. A victory for my balls. A defeat for polite society.

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