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AC_Wright 58F
83 posts
7/23/2014 4:34 pm
Stupid things men do horribly wrong on alt: Part 2 of many: Bullshit.


Some time ago, I posted an entry saying that if enough people bought and reviewed my stories on Amazon, I would write a booklet on what men did wrong on alt when it came to approaches to women. Thanks to everyone who complied. My stories are on Amazon. Amanda Caroline Wright. Black Tickets: The Memoir of his Slave. Keep it coming.

Here’s your second installment.

My owner (yes, "owner") has tried to teach me to play chess. I get it. I know how the pieces move. I have understand the rudiments of strategy. I don't love the game and I never will, but playing it has made one big thing about logic apparent: Some people think that bullshit is a great substitute for truth and basic reasoning when it comes to approaching women.

I'm not talking about seeing a sixty-year-old who hasn't moved from her lounge chair since before 9/11 and saying, "you're so beautiful."

Depending on why you're saying it, that might be an act of chivalry or charity. No. I'm talking about the big lies that they expect to will lead to contact and hot sweaty sex with me—the ones that stick out like Godzilla in a tutu.

This is from my profile:

"Four things you should know before contacting me:
1. I am claimed and taken.
2. I am not shared.
3. I cannot be pried away.

A corollary to all of the above: I submit completely to one person and one person only.

Now, the gist of this is, "abandon all hope" because nothing that you are, can say, or do or have will make any difference. i love and trust one person and let him run parts of my life exactly as if I were his lawful property: I do anything he wants and nothing that he doesn't.

Despite all this, I find myself with the occassional suitor.

Have a look at this from Redacted1:

Hi there, I'm ***. Just came across your profile had to say hello. I'd love to get to know you..

Redacted1's version of "Getting to know me" involved his sending me a generic, two-sentence note that he would never have sent had he actually read my profile. Oh, and the picture of his cock that he threw in as a sweetener (which you can see in the previous note)? Well, that made all the difference.

Whoever tattooed me with, "twenty short words and a dick-pic and I'm yours" is going to hear from a guy with a mallet if I ever find him.

Now. Look at Redacted2's note and my response.

Redacted2's actual profile picture is a shot of his penis which is a brilliant time-saver for those times when you need rejection *right now*.

His entire communication:

"So what is it you are looking for...?"

My response:

1. An audience for my fiction as I write it.
2. The appreciation of my fiction.
3. The absence in my life of people who combine failing to read my profile and notice that I am in a happy, monogamous relationship that gives me everything I want with thinking that, even were I *not* very happily provided for, that a picture of a diseased-looking male member of average size would do anything for me but make me want to vomit.

Honestly, do yourself a favor. Change your approach: at thirty, you are no longer an adolescent, and thinking that leading with your plunger is a good idea is something you should have outgrown sometime around the first time you became eligible to vote.

I've blocked you, but I wish you luck.

Then there's this object:

Hello, Dominant Gentleman seen lots of rope & restraints in your photos!!! Very good with knots,also enjoy long sensual,pussy teasing,eating, stretching!!! Try almost anything once!! Bet I can Rock your Richter Scale!!

This one is a divorced, middle-aged man sitting around in his living room wearing a white T-shirt, with long greasy hair falling out from under a shapeless brimmed hat.

He looked at the pictures on my profile. He read my profile and made references to what I said in it—quoting me in fact—but somehow he managed to miss or misunderstand the signifigance of those lines that say, "I am claimed and taken."

All in all, he seemed like an education-free, badly-aging adolescent, hallucinating a life in an eighties movie where he is one of the cool and all he has to do to "get" any girl he wants, especially the ones who say "no," is to stand around flexing and bragging about his sexual prowess—the power that made some lucky woman divorce him.

Then there was Mister Hipnosis: the man who sent me a note that was basically "wham! You're hypnotized! It's the ultimate in domination!"

He made me think, "God, a company that made pepper-spray and stun-guns could put this man on a billboard and make millions!"

The last two reminded me of David Bowie at his most creative. I could actually hear it in my head:

"Scary monsters...super-creeps. Keep me runnin'...ruuuunin' scared!"

At this point, you may think, "Well, what's wrong with a short oppening note? What's wrong with sending an eight-word ice-breaker. The first two would have been just fine if they'd left out the penis pics."

What's wrong with both of the above is that they prove conclusively that the person who is trying to get into my sweet, sweet pants has not read my profile or he wouldn't have sent me a note in the first place.

The last two are different—just the human equivalent of why no one goes barefoot in a dogrun.

Still don't see it? Look at it this way: Prostitutes get more respect than any of those notes offered. Becuase, if you walked up to a drug-dependent street-walker and said, "nothing you have to say matters," a woman who will do anything with anyone for money will refuse to take yours and do anything with you.

All I'm asking for is the same implied level of respect that men afford anonymous, junky whores.

And herein lies the lesson. Here's the long-awaited, long-suffering point: when you contact a woman, fuck yourself. That is, treat contact with her the way you wish everyone treated you.

Comment on what she actually says. Say something other than, "I want to bounce up and down on you," about her body. Ask about her interests outside of sex. Don't resort to bullshit. Never, ever resort to bullshit—not in real life and especially not here.

When you talk to a woman on the street, you do it hoping you'll get to the flirting stage. Here, you're beginning a process that might lead to the kind of sex that gets into the newspapers when it goes wrong and if you think the best way to convince a woman that you're not a serial killer is to start out with lies a five-year-old could see through are a good idea, you're very, very much mistaken.

And for all of you who sent me messages that said they wished they could get to know me better and did it right, in ways that respected my intelligence and my choices, here's the response that i wrote to one person that I think all of you deserve.

Me
Dear X—,

I am writing this to thank you for writing one of the only polite and thoughtful responses I've gotten here. I think you deserve a response even if it isn't one you wanted.

If truth be told, I'm neither in a position to answer you beyond this note, nor am I inclined to. This has nothing to do with anything you said—which I find both flattering and positive—nor with your person: you seem fine. You seem sincere and charming.

However, I have a man in my life. He is jealous and controlling but his being so with *me* is something that works for *us* and I choose to accommodate him in this because my doing so is an integral part of what allows us to find happiness in one another. Years and years ago, I decided to surrender some of my ability to choose in some areas of my life to him and my responding to you beyond this answer—which I believe you deserve—would be to work against an arrangement that I find congenial and spiritually nourishing.

I loved your response to me and I thank you again for it but I can't hunt you up and have conversations with you. I hope you'll understand and respect that.

Best wishes.

ACW
.

Schrille Schlampen aller Länder, vereinigt euch! Ihr habt nichts zu verlieren als euren Kontakt mit Versagern!


AC_Wright 58F
323 posts
7/24/2014 4:16 pm

@vladvampirelord.

Let us take stock for a moment.

Yesterday, I wrote a long blog entry on what men do wrong when contacting women on alt and gave examples. Your response to this was to post a comment within which you wrote a scenario within which you penetrate me in the woods while I grasp an old tree trunk, "offering up my erotic treasures to you in the darkness."

After that, you follow up with further miscellaneous verbiage in which you delve further into epic fantasy by imagining that after I block you forever, you will somehow live on in my dreams, where you, a vampire fantasist loser, will be known to me because you are standing around (presumeably surrounded by pointing, staring teenagers in a sweaty-smelling goth club) as a bloated, middle-aged creep dressed cap a pe in black plether, with "blood" by which I can only assume you mean cornsyrup with red food coloring in it on his lips.

Now, I know sexual assault when I see it. You've read my blog posts. You know I am in a happy, monogamous relationship and that I am not looking for anyone and, even if I were, I would certainly not look for you and yet you send me a description of what you want to do to me. Now, since God would have to come down from heaven and rearrange ALL OF REALITY AT THE ATOMIC LEVEL before I could ever want to do anything WITH you, your message is the equivalent of an obscene phone call—heavy breathing, descriptions that amount to threats, etc.—the pathetic assumption on the speaker's part that the r*pe he describes will turn into blissful acquiescence as his manly magnetism takes over. Blah, blah, blah. In the movies, the guy who thinks the way you appear to usually ends up shoved off of a building by the heroine at the end.

Sexual assault is never a question of love or lust but one of power. You want to have power over me, by making me imagine your imagery and being terribly upset about it. You want me to do the equivalent of screaming and writhing from your ill-punctuated paragraphs. Sorry, Vladdy-Laddy. I'm not a teenaged girl. I've seen old men with odd-stares and filthy, buttonless raincoats before.

This is how upset I was after I read your response last night.

Mister Singh...

I took a cab home. It was driven by an aged Sikh who was old enough to be my father, his head wrapped in a huge, turban of smooth beige cloth. His eyes were soft and beautiful, as close to black as made no difference, his face betraying no signs of age save for a small furrowing around the lower-lids and that his full beard was all but innocent of color—white in a way we associate with Santa Claus.

He was so polite as he drove me home, calling me "ma'am" driving competently and calmly through the streetlit streets. I felt a sense of well-being as I thought of the Sikhs and all their strangeness: a warrior religion where every man is required to never cut his hair or beard so that the turban and hair form a helmet and to always wear a bracelet on the left wrist that is a symbol for a shield and, among the most orthodox within the religion, to carry at the very least, a small dagger. The Sikhs non-spiritual side is so beautifully warlike that the Indian Air Force designed a pilot's helmet made to fit over a turban...

I settled back into the seat and thought about Alan Ginsberg: "dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix..." Ginsberg was a great poet. Ginsberg was a strange little man.

I luxuriated in the warm safety of the old man's presence and there was something "meta" about him that made being driven by him more than just a cab ride and transformed it into one of those rides you can only have in New York when you cab it all the time and can open yourself to the understanding that the cab driver is more than an automaton who brings you to another place. He made me understand how we all worked even when we worked for very litlte in distant lands.

He stopped in front of the fire hydrant in front of the building where I live. The fare was five dollars and fifty cents. I handed him a ten and asked for three back to make it the customary seven. When he turned back to me and smiled, I thought of how the night had gone. How my work had gone. What I had seen that night. He handed me my three singles and I felt good about him and I knew it was sad that I would never see him again—did he have children? Grandchildren? Had he ever served in an army? Fought in a war?

I was never going to know.

I was about to get out of the cab and I was especially short of money, but he'd given me so much—such incredible things just by being who he was, by being THE cabdriver he was who took me to my home the way he did—that money didn't matter.

I handed him back the last three of the ten and he thanked me profusely, saying it was his first ride of the night. I smiled and said I was happy to make him happy.

I closed the door and watched him glide silently into the night.

Now. Back to you.

I don't know why you think that sending me your little r*pe fantasy was a good idea and I don't care. Not really. It doesn't bother me—at least not in the way I imagine you hoped it would. From where I'm sitting right now, you're an example of the problem I'm talking about when I talk about bullshit (I think you konw this). You're a pouchy-faced, physically repulsive, middle-aged man who has seen the "Blade" series and the Highlander movies three times too many who spends his life trolling women who say things he doesn't like and subjecting them to sexual assaults in prose after photographing himself with one of those toy swords adolescent losers with no friends buy with their parent's money—the swordmaker's are lucky: You're over forty—you've got money of your own.

You're a man who knows that will never touch another woman in his life without reaching for his credit card.

Who cares?

I don't care if you wake up tomorrow with a compulsive need for diet and exercize. I don't care if you find a teenaged girl with a ton of eye-makeup and not an ounce of self-esteem. I don't care if you win the lottery tomorrow. I don't care if you die.

I suppose you wrote me for the same reason that pedophiles touch children. I guess you did it because something about you says you have to.

Again: I don't care.

Here's my counter proposal: not the dream you say I will have when I decide to leave the man who is a man and the opposite of you, but the dream your thoughts will make me dream.

You like dark, gothic themes? Try this one.

An angel comes to me drowning the air in light, telling me to rise and listen after I fall to my knees in awe.

He is Dumah, the Angel of Silence, and it is his mission to offer me a choice. He makes me aware of you and tells me that I can engage in any sexual act with you, from the touch of your smallest finger to my lips to the reenactment of all the acts in the Kama Sutra—anything great or small, and you will be given a long life, many loving children and prosperity that will be famous throughout the land, or, at no cost to myself or my owner, I can have the privilege of squatting over the locked-open mouth of your gray-skinned corpse as it stares up at the sky, while maggots writhe and boil in your flesh-emptied, testicles and as trails of ants gather the dew from your tear-ducts—all of this while your mother watches and applauds.

I can and must choose one of these.

My answer, the answer I deliver to an angel of the Lord, before whose light a lie would be unforgivable blasphemy, involves several orders of extra-spicey, lamb-vindaloo from that place at the corner of sixth street and first avenue, a roll of toilet-paper and well-padded chair so your mother can rest her legs.

See what I mean about power and imagery?

Thank you for inspiring me to write about the old man.

I think I will block you. I don't need to hear from you again: you've had more of my attention than you deserve.

Remember the maggots in your scrotum.

ACW

Schrille Schlampen aller Länder, vereinigt euch! Ihr habt nichts zu verlieren als euren Kontakt mit Versagern!



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