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Many of us have seen examples of this — the silent suffering of the married castrati — in our social circles. Via reader Dan.
No doubt the husband happily acquiesced to this fun game with his wife, only dimly aware of its dark intimations of his sacklessness. But this is what happens in most marriages — a slow snuffing out of the husband’s penile prerogative to his wife’s enveloping vaginal jurisdiction over everything that truly matters to him. When women achieve their nuptial dreams and all incentives to please are stripped from their lives, supine beta provider hubbies are reduced to begging for pussy scraps. No self-abnegation is too low, nor any promise of indentured servitude too exorbitant, for the beta hubby caught in the marital trap of his own making.
And yet, time and again we have all seen and known of married men who assume the rump-raised position with an eagerness that defies good sense. Why do so many men willfully, even joyfully, put their balls in the vice? Why do they make a spectacle of their emasculation for the hoots and hollers of the entertained public? Why do they revel in their genital dispossession, like some psychologically cleaved Stockholm Syndrome sufferer?
Certainly, some of these men are very high value alpha males for whom a little self-deprecation helps to right the marital ship of love. Men with options beyond the wife to whom they’re shackled find much benefit to assuaging their wive’s anxieties. Poking fun at themselves helps in this regard to keep their days free of drama and jealous blow-ups.
But the majority of the married castrati are not in their sorry roles by choice. They are there by necessity. They beg because the nourishment of life — a woman’s sex — is not freely given them. They then try to spin their woeful conditions into a dignified valence with pretensions of joint accommodation.
Worse, is the father who thinks his obeisance to mommy leaves his children with some sort of righteous life lesson, as if the self-demoralization with a smile teaches his sons how better to navigate future romantic shoals or his daughters how to act when the time comes like a loving, supportive wife. No, the lesson imparted will be quite the opposite, and the family lineage will disintegrate in time as a consequence.
There are men who can handle the peculiar demands of marriage without sacrificing their balls to the cutter, but those men seem by the year to number fewer still. The tragedy is that it doesn’t have to be this way for the silent castrati. A little knowledge of game, or even an elementary grasp of female sexual psychology, and the marital script can be quite easily flipped, even in the face of a malevolent divorce court juggernaut that loves giving the screws to hapless beta males.
A little game, and gone will be the days of cleaning up baby’s puke for a week to “earn” a blowjob from a bitch who’d be perfectly happy never giving her husband another hummer for the rest of his life. Gone, to be replaced by happy and heady days of wonder, when the wife not only stops making her sex a quid pro quo, but begs to please her husband as the ancient religious texts the world over so command of her.
First things first. Tear down that sticker chart.