As an advocate of unmitigated expression, I have posted no so-called “trigger warnings” as introductions to pieces on this website.
This is a first.
ALERT! — If you are in the slightest way vulnerable to offense and upset, if you suffer a case of the vapors when you are made to feel uneasy, please do not read the essay that follows. Enjoy a cup of tea, nibble on a few cookies, stroke your cat, be patient and wait for the next piece, coming in several weeks. If you ignore my counsel, and dive into what follows, and find yourself disgusted and dismayed, don’t send a comment detailing your distress. You were warned, you chose to be triggered.
Melissa sends me a message, and in it she mentions her favorite porn site.
She relays the aggregator’s title — it includes the name of a crustacean — and offers it up with a recommendation, indicating the site helps fill her lonely nights. She is a talented, working theater director, so she no doubt experiences a number of such nights, given that the ministration of a career-driven actor or actress under her tutelage would come loaded with subtext — including, but not limited to, aspirations and emotional needs — and such a companion could work few wonders once any strenuous physical activity ceased, and the sweat began to dry. Fun over, time to go home; no automatic job, you still have to audition. Better the Internet than the trouble.
Her description of the site, and its name, interest me enough that I mouse my way to the digital lowlands for a look-see, a trek on familiar turf.
I am not disappointed. Melissa is on point when she praises the site’s features — an expansive menu, fertile ground for anyone seeking stimulation to pique their manual labors. I investigate the options.
Where once I might have found my labors ignited, I am now aged beyond that, so I simply gather evidence, and ponder its meaning.
At each click and viewing, I wonder: what did the folks in this video have for breakfast, and what brand of shower gel do they use? Do they ever kick back on the recliner with a Hungry Man dinner, a couple of canned cocktails, parakeet on shoulder, and binge-watch The Bachelorette? What kinds of lives do these people live? Are there a lot of mirrors in the house? Does he sleep on a waterbed? What types of antibiotics are stowed in the medicine chest? Did she earn her GED?
I wander the sitescape and find myself confronted by a pervasive fascination with anal intercourse, so I also wonder how much, and what kind of hygienic work precedes these acts? Key body parts involved in video rectal escapades are usually clean as a whistle following culmination of the act (now and then a prolapsed, yet clean whistle); very rarely do I light upon a scene in which the rear door action occurs in concert with the ready-for-deposit remains of yesterday’s quarter pounder with cheese and large order of fries. I’m sure there are “leftovers” sites at the darker edges of the web since it is easy to find all manner of Japanese scat films there. Aside from an occasional science-motivated expedition to said frontiers, however, my interests do not move me in this direction, but the next time I make the trip I’ll check for Big Mac debris videos.
The proliferation of depictions of anal sexual activity interests me, not because I’m gripped by an urge to occupy a command position on the rear deck, rather because I’m interested in the meaning of the maneuver, its psychological and social import. What is it with this widespread focus on the asshole, the trash can, the Hershey Highway, the tail pipe, the undercarriage, the devil’s doorway? (I put together this list without recourse to a dictionary of synonyms and antonyms.)
In particular, what does the obsession signify at this point in the history of a society growing increasingly decadent, trending fascist, and in decline?
Try this theory on for size: the video manifestation is a palliative produced by, and enjoyed by, males as they confront the undoing of a sexist/racist social and economic system that has provided them comfort, self-confidence, and numerous other undeserved advantages.
That’s butt fucking for you, in a nutshell, though I caution against the use of nutshells when engaging in anal intercourse.
Not all butt fucking, however. Some guys like things put up their asses; the prostate is not far along the freeway once you get past the onramp, and the gland’s stimulation can be pleasurable. Repressed males would acknowledge this if they’d let loose their Bibles, remove their facsimile NFL jerseys, follow their instincts, and engage in a bit of experimentation — if only during a solitary interlude, the trembling adventurer alone in a locked room illuminated by perfumed candles, a Sinatra tune playing softly in the background, a probe slipping past a puckered portal.
Anal penetration is a genuinely intimate act for many guys who are, indeed, making love this way, as well as shooting a load which, gay or straight, is the primary sexual goal of any male in his right mind. An occasional touch of discomfort upon entry, a nudging of the gland, a mess, a tissue, some Bactine, if necessary, a whole lotta love. It’s all there. For an honest, primarily hetero male, this could be a desirable sexual option, just as it is for a gay man. Any port in a storm. Clear your minds “straight” guys, and get real: your urges conform to no strict model until a domineering daddy, minister, or strident gym teacher convinces you to adopt one. There are no rules, until adults reach an agreement.
But, women? Anal sex involving a woman was seldom featured in classic porn — erotica produced back in the day when western civilization was brimming with strength, avaricious and colonialist, its helm gripped by confident, caucasian males. Now, butt play is a dominant player in the porn scene. Why?
I suggest the phenomenon is a lens through which we can examine a key element in an ongoing cultural upheaval. I say this because I am given to grand and unsupported assertions.
The idea that there are a lot of women who like objects — in particular the body-temp meat stick — shoved up their asses? Not a chance. As a result, this is a glaring example of narcissism and male brutality, an expression of unfettered anger — a sign of the callousness and corruption that fester at the core of our eroding paternalistic system.
I’m not one for political correctness; I don’t pretend to be without serious faults, or above criticism. With my many failures and weaknesses in mind, I don’t scout out offenses and troll offenders on the Internet. I don’t demand censorship of ideas and images that trouble me, as do so many self-righteous, and/or naïve members of the progressive legion. I am not captive of the snowflake cause du jour, but the asshole attack on women troubles me — this trend designed and enjoyed by insecure males who are intimidated by a female boss, who got dumped by yet another wife and/or girlfriend, and are afraid to admit they might like to fuck another guy. These clowns are frequently also raving racists who seamlessly blend that blend of hatred and fear with their misogyny, but this discussion will have to wait for an examination of the “wife/girlfriend demolished by ghetto bulls” porn category.
Back to the caboose.
So, I don’t buy the claim that a lot of women welcome a rectal interlude; like me, women don’t have a prostate. I lost mine to a cancer surgeon, women are not equipped with one. In either case, there’s nothing up there to tantalize.
I imagine there are a few women who savor a back-door break-in — a craving given a jumpstart by Uncle Danny during interludes in the crawl space, the desire now and then rising like a bubble of foul gas from the sump of the unconscious — just as there are probably a few folks for whom carnal union with a Shetland Pony is a deeply spiritual act. A very few. You will have a difficult time convincing me most women relish having a trouser snake slither up the poop chute.
After perusing many videos in the Anal category, and watching quite a few DP vids (DP is shorthand for double penetration, a situation in which a hapless gal is simultaneously skewered astern by two Cialis-saturated, bellowing studs), I am convinced that the majority of women who endure this offense are forced to do so — by males whose dicks and exaggerated testosterone levels are the best they can offer the world. The guy who makes and enjoys these videos cannot reckon with the fact he detests and fears women, or that his dick rightly belongs in another man. He is also not likely to engage in a spirited debate about the art historical significance of Les Nabis, or to organize a Tony Awards party.
Unless you’re invited in earnest to do so, putting your dick up a woman’s ass is an act of domination, subjugation, and humiliation. True, humiliation is a welcome stimulant for a few folks, but Internet anal invasions suggest little genuine cooperation; nearly all involve unvarnished aggression, at the victims’ expense. Tune in a typical male-on-female anal video, check the tight-knit brow on the recipient, her ragged inhalations, the flashes of pain that distort her face, her screams, the pleas, her repetitive mention of Jesus and God. Plus. Think about her brutalized sphincter. That’s something that speaks of “love and affection” for a very long time, don’t you agree?
Here are some revealing anal video titles I gathered from this new site. Use them as a medical examiner uses a microscope.
She loves his white cum on her mouth after anal
Hot ass exploded by monster
Divorcee breaks in a new neighbor with her asshole
Asian MILF flight attendant rammed in ass
Anal beads and big boy for short hair photo shoot
Doghouse bisexual anal threesome with blonde
Punky lesbians try anal
Great body teen girl gets anal penetration
And, my favorite: 82 yr old German hausfrau assfucked by delivery boy
It’s reasonable to assume the authors of these video titles are neither familiar with Strunk and White, nor acquainted with Kant’s Categorical Imperative.
The “homemade” anal sex videos double down on the pathos; virtue is on permanent leave at the hacienda.
A man sends a clear message if he videos himself invading the anus of his less-than-willing wife or girlfriend, her screams drawing the dog to the bedroom. She yells and weeps, begs for mercy, wonders how she got to this from an innocent kiss during lunch hour in the 11th grade. The guy with the hairy back and massive slab of abdominal fat grunts and yodels until he collapses on her prone form, the Peekapoo pacing the perimeter of the hide-a-bed, whining and barking.
The husband or boyfriend titles his stationary camera masterpiece
“Wife Enjoys Fun First Anal.” He uploads it to the Internet, like a hunter who guns down an endangered rhino and has himself videoed astride the dead beast, its horn in his hand, the killer’s dull eyes and stupid grin barely visible below the rim of his pith helmet, the blood flowing from the animal’s wounds pooling on the ground beneath its cooling carcass.
These are frightened men: in hubby’s case, he’s afraid of women, probably earns less than his wife. He’s also likely intimidated by people of color, by anyone who speaks more than one language, by anyone who reads. He’s worried about losing a superior social station that, in truth, he’s never occupied.
I watch several of these homemade anal videos two or more times. Remember: I’m a scientist. My conclusion? I am correct. Time to move on.
I forge ahead to study the so-called “amateur” category on the new site, and find its contents as revealing as the online records of cornhole calamities. This category accommodates all manner of “homemade” exercises —fart box excursions but one of them. And, again, there is a message to be received, and assessed.
To get to the essence of the category, first eliminate a great number of entries, since the “amateurs” involved are hardly that. Porn actors and actresses posing as amateurs don’t count. Nor do pimps and members of their posse, prostitutes, or dancers from “gentlemen’s clubs” eager to make a few bucks by peddling a parcel of poon.
Pretenders pushed aside, true amateurs await; Melissa’s site provides me with plenty of material to examine.
The type of “amateur” video that quickly captures my scholar’s attention is the crass drama staged in a cluttered bedroom or family room, often with the television on, cheap prints hung off square on the faux-paneled walls, notes stuck to a distant refrigerator door with magnets in the shape of piglets and faeries. One such note I find poignant, the large, handwritten missive reading, “Welcome Home, Barney. We love you.”
The homegrown amateur epic is one of the saddest things born of the information revolution — it sits a click or two down the scale from the male/female anal epic, yet another indication that life as we know it will soon end.
The in-house phenomenon began some time back with the invention of, first, the Polaroid camera and, second, VHS technology. It evolved from there — not in quality, but in quantity and reach.
Thirty years ago, a pot-bellied bald guy used his video camera to shoot a badly-lit coupling featuring him and his chain-smoking third wife, the two love birds wallowing on a battered Serta, the cassette destined to remain in the credenza, removed only for special occasions. That guy now sends his masterpiece to the world. Ernie bought a PC, and everyone can witness the glory! Ernie is online, available to all, any time.
Ernie has company. With the advent and subsequent rapid proliferation of social media, the notion that personal revelation is not just acceptable, but necessary, has taken hold on a broad front. Social media encourage the idea that all opinions and expressions are equally valid, including those regarding trivial matters such as ethics and science. Fact and reason become fabrications designed to give intellectuals and scientists an unfair advantage. As a result, we live in a world nearly absent experts or gatekeepers. Even as regards pornography.
A world of Ernies.
The Ernies are swept along by the fact- and shame-free social media current, dead leaves in an algorithm charged stream. Confessional blather, unrestrained by learning, morality or modesty, floods the digisphere: Twitter and Tumblr relay personal trivia in small doses, Facebook and Instagram photos provide documentation of things mundane, the selfie reigns supreme. The new standard is “intimacy” without context, acquaintance absent duration and substance, fragmentary interactions that flicker on a screen, then evaporate.
Homemade porn is a form of selfie: maximum exposure, a triumph of exhibitionism played out in a corporate/political scheme that encourages hedonistic self-absorption so that practitioners are blinded to social injustices, starvation, climate change, war, the deceptions and daily thefts engineered by the privileged class, as well as the consequences of their own stupidity. The unreflective self-indulgence that was once the habit of syphilitic members of the nobility blind to their impending trips to the guillotine, or their appointments with assassins lurking in dark basements, is now the practice of common folk, and we witness, if we wish, innumerable, publicly disseminated tragicomedies, all lacking manners.
A prime example: the homemade porn video, released like a diseased pigeon from a coop on a tenement roof. No matter how many scars crisscross the abdomen, regardless of how much adipose tissue jiggles about the midsection, in spite of the cellulose dimpling outer hips and thighs, notwithstanding the set of spectacular man tits … you can be at center stage, the headliner! And no one can tell you what to do, damn it! You’re just as good as anyone else! Yours is a shout from the heartland, an assertion of identity, and worth!
For the amateur porn practitioner, there is nowhere to fall; they start at the bottom. Worth is a cheap purchase.
You live with the gal you married in 1976, at the Church of Christ in Edmund, Oklahoma. Since the event takes place at the Church of Christ, the ceremony resembles a sentencing hearing in District Court, a beginning that foreshadows what will follow.
For decades, your life together resembles a flat-line readout on an EKG monitor. Five kids into the ordeal, your mate has undergone several caesarians, and suffers from a case of hemorrhoids the likes of which haven’t been seen since Oscar Wilde examined his boyfriend one night at a cheap hotel in Dublin.
Dixie is her name, and she is bored, like you, though she hasn’t the nerve to tell you, or to identify you as the primary source of her ennui.
You take control, as a man who spends time each day watching internet porn ought to do, and you set out to invigorate your relationship: you browbeat Dixie until she agrees to participate in a sexual interlude with two large, young men you meet at the Tipsy Tiger out on Highway 76, where you stop most evenings after work to throw back two or three boilermakers. One of the fellows, Raydell, was recently released on parole from the pen after serving seven years for first-degree assault on an elderly Salvation Army bell ringer. He is wearing his ankle monitor but, typical of most devices employed in the increasingly privatized penal system, its batteries are dead.
Raydell and his friend, Don, are heavily tattooed but seem affable and eager, so you invite them home. You set your iPhone to video, and scurry around the perimeter of the dilapidated queen-size mattress — phone in one paw, boner clutched in the other — capturing the event for posterity as the lads invade several openings in Dixie’s body with cocks bigger than anything you imagined possible. Dixie wears the garter belt, sheer black stockings, and Pleasure Delight 1018 6-inch heels you ordered from Amazon; she moans, she screams, she yells out names you do not recognize. You video it all, every last drippy, shiny, frantic bit of it. It goes on for more than an hour, and after the guys towel off, put on their clothes, and depart with the fifty bucks you pay them, Dixie remains on the bed, one shoe on, one shoe off, her upper chest and throat mottled, her breathing ragged, her pacemaker at the brink of failure.
You watch the video again and again, for weeks. At first, you jack off happily, and often; later, things, many things, begin to trouble you, but you can’t quite bring them into focus, so you double up on the masturbation. You wear the skin from the side of your penis.
Dixie soon seems distant, detached; the two of you quarrel, incoherent rage flowing unimpeded from deep sources. Not long after, you and Dixie stop speaking to one another, and you sleep on the couch. She stops warming leftovers and gas station treats in the microwave just before you get home from work and the Tipsy Tiger, and the kids get into trouble at the middle school: Dwight Jr. is caught hiding in the girls’ locker room, his underwear a gelatinous mess; Chip begins to act out, and bullies a fifth-grader with spina bifida. Things at home base unravel completely and, then, it’s Splitsville. Dixie gets the doublewide in the divorce settlement, as well as custody of the kids (except for every other weekend, which she spends with Raydell and Don in Room 117 at the Sleepmaster 6). She takes the shoes, half your pay from your job as assistant manager at the Dollar Store (your boss is a woman, “the bitch”), and she gets title to the Escort.
You still have the video, so what do you do?
You upload it, for everyone to enjoy.
This is Amurka, after all, where retaliation is a tradition, the only thing that sweetens many a soured pot.
Time to move on.
As I continue to scan the two-hundred-plus categories on the new site, I come across another that illuminates the shallow emotional and social soil in which a noxious weed takes root — another category that speaks to the need of many males to humiliate and damage women. Another sign of male culture’s precipitous and necessary decline: the “Gangbang.”
There are surely a few exceptions, but how many women eagerly anticipate being penetrated simultaneously by three barely literate males, and similarly by fifteen to twenty strangers over the course of an hour or so, each of the goofs spasming and yelping as he splashes body fluids on her chest, across her face, and into her mouth? The recipient’s experience is tantamount to consuming the contents of a huge pack of ground beef purchased at a discount supermarket, a blend of the flesh of a hundred carelessly dispatched beasts, perhaps one of them a Hereford slaughtered at a packing plant in Grand Island, Nebraska, the bearer of a nasty viral gift — a death sentence nestled in a smidge of spinal cord, a lethal hitchhiker seeking a new host in which it can finalize its evolution.
How many women really want to drink a goblet full of spermatozoa in suspension as a mob of naked men bray, exchange brusque comments in Russian, and laugh while fondling themselves? How many women are this desperate for attention?
And, dare we call it romance?
Of those fellows who make and fancy these videos I ask: What did your mom and/or sisters, and/or female cousins do to you when you were young? Further: what happened on prom night? Tell me, I care; your undisguised disdain intrigues me, and similar disdain seems to color the behavior of far too many men as they sense themselves set adrift, their cherished values and imagined status disintegrating.
Check out these gangbang video titles to sample the contemptuous flavor of the genre:
Busty tattooed babe in violent gangbang
Blue haired pierced hottie loves to drink semen
Flexi girl in extreme anal gangbang
Belgium hardcore bare gangbang with slut Dutch
Straight hairy bear gangbang
Bobbi Starr in toilet with Team Fist
Bleeding Brit Milf gangbang cumaganza 1
Ten guys bang a slut granny
Granny? A slut? The kindly old gal who bakes cookies, and gives out the best treats on Halloween? She gets banged by a crowd? Of Russians?
This directs me to another relatively new phenomenon, a sub genre of the gangbang, and another sign doom looms: bukkake. The new site provides me plenty of examples of this insult, and the pathetic mindset that prompts it.
Bukkake is an amplification of an earlier practice, one that came into vogue about the same time men began to pressure women to shave pubic hair in order to resemble adolescent girls. I call this exercise “the cum dose.” As porn became widely available, so did the idea that intercourse should end with a cum dose — a man ejaculating on a woman’s face, working his damndest to get most of his load in her mouth, despite her revulsion. If he misses his mark, the neck area and upper chest will suffice. You seldom see this move in old porn; as best as I can tell, it flowered about the same time Reagan Republicans began to dominate the legislative process as well as the stall action in men’s rooms at airports. The association with trickle down economics is almost too obvious to note.
The term bukkake is the noun form of the Japanese word bukkakeru, meaning to dash or sprinkle, to splash or to splash heavily. The term describes numerous culinary moves made in Japanese izakayas. In contemporary porn, it describes a turbo-charged cum dose.
In the porn world, bukkake involves a group of men ejaculating on the face, into the hair, on the torso, and into the mouth of a woman, as opposed to the “creampie” which requires the deposit of a load of semen into either vagina or asshole, or both, and the extrusion of the gooey fluid by the depositee. It seems there are plenty of guys who yearn to see their issue reappear, flowing from an orifice after their magic wand is withdrawn — a look-at-what-I’ve-done confirmation of their manhood. “I may be a delivery man at Domino’s, but marvel at the glop that comes out of my dick! Here it comes. Everybody, look!”
As with gangbang, and All Things Anal, how many females out there actually enjoy this — a tsunami of splooge, delivered by a gaggle of masturbating guys with no last names? Isn’t this more evidence that the porn van transports anxious, angry, and damaged male cargo?
I doubt women want this. Perhaps one or two low-IQ Bavarians, (Ilsa and Agnes come to mind), the bruised valkyries pushed to the edge of sanity by tyrannical Lutheran parents, and a rapacious handyman eventually sentenced to three consecutive life terms — but not many more women than that.
As with so much female participation in the porn world, this is coerced behavior. In some cases, the featured femme is insane, her eyes glassy and swimming lazily in the wake of a hefty cocktail comprising disembodied voices, unfocused self hate, vodka, and narcotics. For the others, a fistful of cash, or the promise of a fistful of fist, are the likeliest enticements, since only dire financial circumstances or a desire for self-preservation would lead most women to participate in this slimy and belittling spectacle.
Speaking of belittled, let’s consider the kind of guy who enjoys watching this type of video.
Bill and Maxine finish their dinner: fast-food fried chicken, canned green beans, and instant mashed potatoes with brownish gravy.
I’m going to the home office, honey, announces Bill. I need to check the bank account, and read the day’s financial news; I think our investments are doing really well, so we should be able to travel to Tennessee next year, and see the replica of Noah’s Ark. I can’t wait to see Jesus riding a dinosaur.
OK, sweetheart, says Maxine. I’ll finish doing the dishes (discarding the dirty paper plates and paper napkins), and I’ll tidy up, and get the Bible ready. Don’t forget, it’s couples’ study night, and we need to review Deuteronomy. Pastor Jimmy is leading the discussion group this Thursday at the Happy Church, and there’s going to be an extra-special service later in the evening. The praise band has a new bass player; he’s a negro, so things should be hoppin’.
Can’t wait, says Bill, unbuttoning his Christmas-themed sweater vest. Back in a few minutes, honey bun.
Bill hikes up his Dockers, and hustles downstairs. He locks the door to the den, lights up the PC, and clicks to his favorite provider: Porntubebukkakeviewerextracumgalore.com. Bingo: he has his pick of sperm-spattered damsels, the shopworn nymphets glistening under powerful lights. He prefers Asian women.
As Bill watches load after load splash on the tired features of the Thai deb-of-the-moment, does he think of Maxine — she who fucks him rarely, without passion or sound, and only when the lights are switched off? He hears her scurrying around upstairs, scooting across the living room floor in her Disney World slippers, making her way to the podium where they keep The Book (NIV Zondervan Study Bible). Does he see Maxine in his mind’s eye as he polishes his pud, her fleshy legs and arms held down by hirsute Bulgarian men, her twitching body awash in what seems to be gallons of sperm, her mani-pedi and perm in danger of disrepair? Does he believe that all women should, at least in theory, submit and make themselves targets of massive volumes of ejaculate? Does he click, oh-so-briefly, from the bukkake site to a gay porn site to scout for his favorite twink, Barry, he of the slim, nearly hairless torso, the delicate toes, the long, slender cock?
I bet he does.
What does Bill think later that evening as he and Maxine hold hands and read aloud from Deuteronomy, smiling as they recite passages that reinforce their prejudices? Bill suggests a detour to Leviticus, and a review of the laws dealing with treatment of impudent wives and children, and the consumption of shellfish and birds of prey. Scripture is one of two safe harbors for Bill.
I continue to visit categories and view videos, and I reinforce my hypothesis: the online porn universe provides a safe harbor for a very large group of frightened men. A false safe harbor, since there is a tidal wave on the horizon, rushing forward, unstoppable.
I peel back the veneer of thrashing bodies and splashing fluids on screen to unveil a growing welter of anxiety, frustration, confusion, and anger — flotsam washing from the deck of a transport that is rapidly taking on water, and will soon sink, a once dominant socio/economic system whose time is nearly spent. The confusion, anger and dread fermenting at the core of the internet porn phenomenon are born of the same stock as the forces that now drive much of our political process; that enable the growth of an oligarchy, with its accompanying grotesque economic gaps and income inequality, a trend stumbling in the shadow of the fact that, historically, societies experience the greatest accumulation of wealth and power by an elite at their end; that encourage childish divisions among people through the widespread distribution of lies, ad hominem attacks, and red herrings designed to create false targets and encourage the puppets who buy into the charade to misidentify the real agents of their undoing and, thus, render themselves impotent and their overlords omnipotent.
My study of Internet porn serves up clear intimations of the darkness falling on our culture and, now, there is no motherlode of new insights waiting, should I play the vein further. Also, I have no therapeutic skin in the game: I am an old man and any vestige of sexual vigor or need of release departed years ago with my prostate. I suffer from cancer that is making its slow, but sure way to bone or brain. I can’t remember names or numbers, and I occasionally piss myself if I cough unexpectedly. I drink a lot of gin, and I’m tired. I’ve learned what I need to know in Pornland.
Time to move on.
I need to direct my attention and waning energies elsewhere; there is little time left for the mixing of metaphors.
So, I will abandon the porn quest.
But for one exception: regular visits to a couple of ripping good Australian lesbian sites (“filmed by women, for women”) that provide fresh porn goggles through which to examine humanity, as it might be, and likely will be.
These Aussies are a vigorous, joyful lot: unshaven descendents of miscreants, possessed of hybrid vigor, young and daring, sassy, full of piss and vinegar, oblivious to the pathetic thrashings of males whose only roles are as sperm donors, if the need to reproduce should arise. These female harbingers of a new age will be my guides from here to my end; I will attempt to emulate them as long as I can — in attitude, not action.
Not all is dark… not down under. A new sun rises over the distant Tasman Sea as a weak red giant sets here at home.
My plan as I watch my culture collapse: I’ll drink gin from a water glass, take a hit or two off the vape, and wave to the Aussies as they glide past on their Hello Kitty party craft, kissing, cuddling, and giggling, offering glimpses of a bright female future — one that I will not be here to enjoy.