The sexual revolution is alive and well, and it will not be televised! Instead, it will be posted on Instagram stories. Infographics about consent, about how real men don’t care about your body count, about how you should be free to fuck whoever you want to, as soon as you want to, unbound from shame or consequences. You are the liberated woman! The liberated queer! Surely you won’t regret being in your most vulnerable state with that man you met at poetry slam last week. Well, he’s hard to talk to, and he has the self awareness of a mentally handicapped puppy barking at its own reflection, but he’s six-foot something and he showers you with attention! He texts back right away, and don’t even get me started on his values. He’s a staunch leftist; he cares about social justice and the people's revolution. He’s always going on and on about misogynoir and the disparaging state of Gaza. You guys share the same sentiments, so why not fuck him a week after meeting him? You’ve shaved your bush for the date. Suddenly, the affection dries up. You promised him you were just friends before the hookup, and now he’s using that against you! Why won’t he treat you like a girlfriend for exactly as long as you want him to before being discarded? Is there something about this situation that isn’t the foundation for a healthy relationship? Ugh, men are so awful, they all treat you so badly. What is wrong with them?
As you can tell already, dear reader, I am not an attractive man, and I am not at peace with that. Firstly, I’m short. My hairline is pushed back, my eyes are too far apart, I have a negative canthal tilt giving me the appearance of a prey animal, I broke my nose a couple years back and it never lined up properly after healing, I have a weak chin and I’m out of shape and my hands are small and my face rests in a permanent leer. But beyond all of this, I have an off-putting atmosphere about me. I am an extremely easy man to hate; when I encounter a stranger there is at least a seventy percent chance they will walk away feeling a tinge of disgust. That figure increases up to ninety percent with women. This is a result of my brash confidence and outspoken demeanor. The social paradigm for the ugly man is that he knows his place. An ugly man can be withstood as long as he puts his head down and keeps quiet. But an ogre with a lust for life? A ghoulish figure who’s willing to flirt with beautiful women, who’s willing to call Adonis out for being a mouth breathing pseudointellectual? Everyone would be better off without him. They fear the man who does not bend under the weight of his own appearance.
Aesthetics aside, I somehow managed to convince a beautiful woman to fall in love with me. Our relationship was long and our romance potent. Eventually, however, the rose-coloured glass faded, and she no longer desired to sleep with me. She still loved me, and she never would have abandoned me, but she didn’t want me. So, I did what had to be done. I broke off our engagement, and within two weeks she was getting fucked by men nearly twice my height and half my IQ. Low libido my ass. Leaving her had some serious negative repercussions on my already abysmal public reputation. When an ugly man leaves a beautiful woman, onlookers get angry. HE dumped HER? Didn’t he know what he had?
Everyone who’s ever loved knows that there’s many things to consider beyond just physical appearance. How about how she made me feel? But nobody cares how I feel. Nor should they. I am but a collection of worms wearing the skin of a man. Maggots in a trench coat.
This heartbreak did have one positive result: It gave me an air of tragedy. My aura of repulsion became that of an artist recluse. He’s putting you off on purpose, because he’s been hurt before.
I was transformed from a strange little freak to a writer, a troubled man, one who suffers. It wasn’t hard to lean into this new archetype either. It is a simple thing resigning yourself to never being loved, if you haven’t chosen consciously to leave a Goddess. Compared to before I met her, I had become quite sad, and this afforded me entrance into new worlds completely foreign to me, adventures I never saw myself taking part in. Women love being around a man with a death wish, even if they won’t fuck him.
One such adventure began at a social event I had very much resisted attending. My friend’s girlfriend, Nicky, hadn’t yet begun resenting me as most of them do, and in fact, against all odds, seemed to have taken a liking to me. Presumably out of pity for my ever-present melancholy, she invited me to an artist’s retreat. I have always had a hard time saying no to women and, despite my best efforts, I conceded to taking part. What else was I going to do? Sit in my room and think about lost love? Might as well get out of the house. I was informed that I would be the only straight man allowed anywhere near the event, a daunting proposition to say the least. But to pique my interest, she also told me about a couple of single nymphs in attendance. One, a model who had walked some high fashion shows in Tokyo, and the other an academic, obsessed with Aztec human sacrifice. Though I remain aware of my inability to land women, I am also a hopeless romantic, and my mind raced with possibilities. Marriage to a model, an intellectual, both. I would be punished for my greed.
The ‘artist retreat’ was just about fifteen or so people in Nicky’s apartment, working on whatever projects they could muster up. Mostly sewing clothes, dolls, the like. One man was a DJ trying out his set, so the musical accompaniment was nice and curated. I sat in the corner and pretended to write, hoping someone would ask me about it. There was a curious phenomenon as I looked about the room. Any woman I made eye contact with instantly looked away, seemingly out of fear. I understand why they do this; they worry that locking eyes with a golem for longer than a second would be tantamount to inviting the clay beast to converse with them. God forbid. Only two women had the courage to look at me, and in a stroke of luck, they were two I had attended for. In days of old, such as Paris in the late thirties, this would have taken place in an opium den. Temptresses would have been catatonic, strewn about the room on silk sheets and embroidered pillows. Now they sit cross legged, wholly focused on stitching the finishing touches on their cosplay. They still smoke, only it’s pot instead of poppy. Sativa, with enough THC to make a normal person develop paranoid schizophrenia. It was on one such smoking outing, on Nicky’s balcony, that I finally had a chance to talk to the two beauties I had heard so much about. Their names were Sol and Luna, the model and the intellectual, respectively.
Sol was so gorgeous it was as if she glowed, a natural beauty oozed from her every pore. She was German, with high cheekbones and blonde hair so short it made her resemble the fae of her people’s folklore. Her charm was effortless, uncoverable, subconscious. She was in a deep state of religious psychosis, and she was a terrible flirt. I think God might have spoken through her as she teased my poor hopeless romantic heart, in the way that poets think God speaks through them in their work. She led me on through divine inspiration, her low hung coquettish eyes shone along with her halo. She was in training to become a nun and had already sworn a vow of celibacy (which contained some very convenient loopholes, as I would later find out). She also had a set of very suspicious tattoos, Pagan runes on her shoulder and a magic circle around her knee. I instantly clocked her as a fascist, though she was ethnically part Jewish and claimed she was just in a strange cult. She was of dual nature, full of contradictions which you couldn’t even blame her for as she didn’t seem aware of them.
Luna was her opposite. Her beauty was sharp, intelligent, purposeful. She was round faced; with large thin rimmed glasses and hair she’d put into shapes you’d never seen before. A white Latina, Cuban to be exact, her every movement seemed calculated. When she would flirt with me it made me feel like I was a lab rat in a maze, her sultry words like stimuli she was testing my reaction to. What do you think about knife play?
I stutter in response, and she makes a mental note. Her wardrobe was immaculate, each piece chosen with the utmost care. All bearing names of designers she could tell you about in detail. Even the way she rolled joints was surgical. You should’ve seen it, she could roll two, three at a time with one hand, without spilling a single green flake. No tray necessary. She even filled them with Tobacco, in traditional Cuban fashion. A wonderful smoking partner, she always carried with her a few cigarillos if the need arose.
Both women in fact were extremely intelligent, and both were breathtaking in appearance. The interesting thing was how each wielded their talents. We returned inside and conversed on one of the couches, whilst the people around us scoffed in frustration that we dared distract them from their juvenile crafts. We spoke of Luna’s family heritage, of Cuban cliffside murders for inheritance, of higher ups in Castro’s regime, of their unique blend of voodoo and Catholicism. We spoke of Sol’s patron saint (Joan of Arc, the choice of schizophrenic women everywhere), of her strange relationship with her Warhammer 40k group (she had unintentionally led them all to become smitten with her), of her studies in particle physics and her struggles with Crohn’s Disease. It felt so nice to converse with women in this way. I’m the kind of man who needs feminine energy and dialogue. The women I date must be Intelligent, attractive, well spoken, they must desire me, the list grows. I know, a man of my stature ought to lower his expectations. I can’t help it, I have a natural interest in people, more so out of voyeurism than a love for the human project. The strange thing was, as our conversation sunk more and more below the depths, Luna hopped up on Sol’s lap and began straddling her. They would look at me as I spoke with hungry eyes, then devour each other in response. Luna would reply while gazing deeply into Sol’s face, and the German would giggle. They would rub cheeks, press their foreheads together, and even lock lips with such passion I was surprised they could stop. Shockingly, when questioned about it, they both maintained their heterosexuality. We’re just girls
were their exact words.
Eventually we would hit upon a touchy subject for me. These women, these evil temptresses, had the gall to bring up free love, and how sexuality was much more about chemistry and personality than physical appearance. I began arguing intensely for the sexual marketplace. It’s all hierarchy all the way down. Free love is bullshit people feed themselves so as to not feel guilty for fucking some six-foot Chad they hold no connection to. Supersensitive men like me, real romantics cursed with a visage not even their mother could love, we get bent. We are there to watch, to inflate women’s egos with our flowery words, to be a shoulder to cry on after their hookups invariably don’t give them the affection that they sought. Because, those such people who can have many partners at once, who can sleep around without guilt or shame or regret, who can ignore the hurt they cause with their soul bonds, those such people have a complete disconnect between their mind and their body. They are entirely incapable of love. The idea of hookup culture makes me fucking sick to my stomach! It is antithetical to romance! Cyrano got a confession only because Roxane knew she was never going to have to fuck him!
I was practically yelling, much to the chagrin of my fellow apartment goers. Luna had a curious glint in her eye. She responded:
Okay, if that’s the way you feel about it, how’s about we make a wager. Come with us tomorrow. We are partaking in what some would refer to as a hippie sex cult initiation ritual. Retreating to a commune owned by a guy we just met. This is the heart of free love in the city. If you can’t find satisfaction there, we’ll concede defeat.
Sol cut in: Oh my Gosh, Luna, he would toootally fit in there.
She finished her sentence off with a giggle. Adorable, ugh. I happily accepted their wager, in the spirit of my constant need to be proven right about everything.
A couple days later (the event kept getting postponed due to meaningless complications), I arrived at this so-called ‘modern sex commune’. In reality, it was a cabin off the Ottawa river owned by the parents of the ‘cult leader’. Nice place, too nice. The leader was this small, skinny guy with long curly hair and a goatee. The dude was a dick, always talking down to me as if he was some brilliant once in a lifetime genius, despite never having even finished high school. He thought he was some revolutionary Maoist thought leader. He was ‘Queer’ insofar as he went by any pronouns so girls would let their guard down around him. He and his partner were the original ‘seed’ relationship, and the cult ballooned from there. The absolute state of modern hippies. Even the drugs are worse. Fuck ketamine.
From the looks of it, the ratio of this ‘cult’ wasn’t exactly very progressive either. Except for the leader and one other non-binary member, I was the only male presenting person in a room of almost twenty. I might’ve hated the guy, but the leader’s queer schtick was working, so I had to hand it to him. Every person in that room, myself not included, was at least an eight out of ten on the attractiveness scale. Not that I rate women on an attractiveness scale. I was also the only masculine person there with the confidence to be visibly horny, openly sexual. I have long since accepted my animal nature, and I think it is very suspicious of a man to hide it, to try and seem safe and nonthreatening. Truth is, women should be a little weary around men, I will never blame them for that. Every human has the capability for great evil; every man is born in sin. I’m not saying we should go around making women feel unsafe, it’s just that you should prove your respect for the fairer sex in your actions, not in some effete disguise.
I was seated with Sol and Luna on yet another couch, this one velvet and green. Luna was sitting closest to me and her homoerotic friend was up on the armrest facing us. Sol was wearing a black knit skirt with two slits along the calf and, as we conversed, she slowly pulled all the fabric of the skirt inwards and upwards such that it rested between her legs, so I could see all the way up her ample thighs. The Cuban had positioned herself in such a way that I could see between the flowing fabric of her shirt and her bosom. I could make out the entire side of her breast, save for the nipple. They both looked intensely into my eyes as we spoke, as if daring me to take a glance. One downwards twitch of my iris and they win. Even still, though both were playing the same game, I could tell Luna was doing it with curious intent, and Sol was doing it with subconscious ignorance. Thirty minutes of chatting and passing drugs around, then the orgy began. It started with the ‘seed’ couple, who obviously got off on group sex. Then it cascaded fast, the members all hurried to find a partner. I didn’t realise the urgency until my time was up. To be honest, I figured Sol and Luna would throw me a bone. Rookie mistake. They were in their own world, finally releasing all the tension they had built up at our last meeting. I got the feeling this was a regular occurrence. It also turned-out Sol was a never-nude, she stripped down as far as she would go, which was a pair of pink panties, complete with a bow above her concealed peach, and a white tank top, see through just enough to make out some larger than average areola. I could see no signs of a happy trail on top of her underwear, but a bit of hair poking out the bottom, around her forbidden fruit. Ah, trimmed in all the easy places, then. Luna was once again her foil. She threw off her clothes without hesitation, and she resembled a work of art when naked. Both girls had ample thighs, derrieres and breasts, though our Cuban was slightly more well endowed. In fact, given that Luna was shorter than Sol, it almost looked as if the former was a condensed version of the latter, like in photoshop. Luna’s areolae were small points on her huge chest, so big it made you want to go on an all-dairy diet. Funny, I thought the nipple circumferences would be the other way around. Guess you can’t judge a book by its cover. Luna was hairy, it was obvious that she hadn’t shaved in years. She had a happy trail all the way up to her navel, and I could make out tufts of hair under her arms as she strangled Sol with both hands. The pair were fertility Goddesses, nymphs out of my wildest dreams. They were also a sado-masochistic duo of obvious lesbians, despite their protests, with Luna being the one in charge.
I watched as Luna, with an open palm and one hand still around her throat, slapped Sol in the face, hard enough to daze her. Sol barely had a light behind her eyes anymore, but she instinctively responded with a wide smile. I’ve never seen someone so effortlessly happy. It was too much to take. I groped Luna’s ass with my hand, trying to use my index to get a taste of the honey which flowed freely from her nether regions. My mouth was watering, I couldn’t see straight, I could only think of sweetness on my tongue. Luna was on top, and the juices flowing out of her had stuck her pubes up slightly like gel; the hair glistened with moisture. Just as my fingers got close to her fig, she slapped my palm away. I attempted two more approaches, with the same result. It seemed a man was unnecessary in their love making.
Some nun you are
I said in protest. Sol snapped out of her daze for a second
Actually, there’s nothing sinful about this. I’m completely straight, we aren’t having sex. I still have my clothes on, dude. Nuns aren’t allowed to have fun with their friends anymore? Have you ever been around a nun? This is what they do. Eroticism is deeply engrained in Catholicism. You don-
Her lecture was stopped short by Luna’s hand seizing her mouth. Luna was practically growling as she spoke.
Did I tell you to talk to this fucking loser, Pet?
Sol’s eyes widened, the iris within them shrank, I could see real fear. She looked like a deer in the headlights. Frozen, resigned to the pain she was about to endure. There wasn't even any pleasure left in her. It was all too much for my voyeurism to take. I left the pair to their ‘friendly’ games and sulked around the room. Everywhere it was the same, hand slapped away, glares making it clear I was unwanted. I had come here knowing I was correct in my assertions about attractiveness, but damn, I hadn’t known just how right I was. To add insult to injury, both the other male presenting people in the room had five women each to themselves. Come on, five? We can’t be satisfied with like, four? Help a struggling soul out here man. Why was I given all this desire, all this lust, all this erotic passion with nowhere to direct it? My only release is in writing. A shitty consolation prize.
Eventually I sat on the floor in front of the only other orgy member in attendance without a partner. What attracted me to her was that she looked almost as bored as I was. She was on her back, with her legs spread and her knees bent at a ninety-degree angle, such that her feet were suspended in air. She had lovely soft feet, with white painted toenails. In fact, her entire nude body was lovely and soft, supple and hairless. She had no breasts to speak of save for some plump nipples, and I could fit my hands around her lithe torso. She was Indian, with short black hair and a prominent roman nose. I like that, I think a big schnoz on a woman is aristocratic. She was situated on a red rug of Arabic design, surrounded by silk pillows. Her legs and torso were gyrating rhythmically, as if she was being humped by a ghost. A lackluster ghost. When questioned about it, she revealed I wasn’t far off:
At first it only appeared when I was asleep. It’s got the horns, the red skin, everything. I am so serious. I’m possessed by like, a real-life incubus. Recently it’s invaded my waking life. I can’t even get an exorcism because I’m a lesbian. Some helpful church that is. Sorry, you’re gay, live with the sex demon. Ugh, anyway. It always starts with the toes, I feel it’s tongue between them before I see it. It’s been fucking me for as long as I can remember. I would be kind of into it at this point, like hell yeah sex demon rock my world, but there’s one problem. It’s not even very good. Like, you’d think they train them down in hell, for this exact thing. You’d think it would be doing some crazy animalistic shit, scratching and biting and stuff. You can probably tell without even seeing it, the stroke game is weak. I can barely feel anything. Ugh.
I felt a strange connection to this incubus. Its entire life is centered around being sexually appealing, so that those possessed by it will give up their soul to sink into the deepest recesses of sinful pleasure. I feel my life is centered around eroticism; we are both demons, monstrous failures who cannot fulfill our one true purpose. Where he is unskilled, I am unwanted. I tried to ease his sorrows. I effortlessly lifted the small of the woman’s back and placed a silk pillow underneath it. She didn’t react to my touch, but she also didn’t shy away from it. Honestly, that was reassuring. I hoped I had made her a little more comfortable. I think I might have even sensed her breathing becoming slightly laboured. It was subtle, but there was a change. I guess the angle was better.
The rest of my time in the retreat was spent much the same way, observing sado-masochistic lesbians and cheering on a sex demon. Never once did any other member make an attempt at physical relations with me. I entertained myself with the new and inventive ways Luna tortured Sol. One day she had brought some rope, and hog tied all of Sol’s limbs together. The rope wrapped above and below the poor masochist’s breasts (her tank top had been lifted to only cover between the ropes, exposing her navel) and between her legs. It was tied tightly enough that she whimpered and squirmed from being so uncomfortable. Her whines only made Luna pull the rope even more, the sadistic bitch. When it finally came time to untie her, there were dark red marks covering her entire body. They were painful to the touch, apparent from the yelps Sol would let out when I was graciously allowed to poke at her porcelain skin a couple times. On another day Luna brought a ball gag and some mints that made one salivate. She made Sol kneel in front of me and drool all over herself. The German looked up at me with wide pleading eyes. Sorry, I wouldn't stop this even if I could. So much spit dripped down her chin that it started to pool between her legs. I was surprised at my being allowed to participate in the humiliation and the brief prodding. It seemed the pair were finally opening up to me.
I couldn’t say the same about the rest of the cult members. Their constant speeches about free love and how everyone is beautiful and deserving and equal in sexuality became less and less enthused as it became an unavoidable truth that no one in attendance was willing to fuck me. The ‘commune’ didn’t even last a week. On the day of the final orgy, the possessed woman hadn’t even bothered to take off her clothes. She said the incubus didn’t show up. He was so bad yesterday; I couldn’t help but laugh at him. Guess I hurt his feelings.
She didn’t seem particularly bothered by this development. My heart broke at the news.
A couple weeks after the whole thing ended, I saw the cult leader emerging from a Protestant church. He was loudly espousing monogamy and family values to a suspiciously young blonde girl on his arm. I ran into Luna again later that same day. I had almost forgotten what she looked like in clothing. Yeah, I concede, you were completely right. It really is all about your sexual marketplace value. I’ll catch you later, man. I’m late for a date with my boyfriend
She hurried off, leaving me alone on the sidewalk. It was a bright and sunny afternoon. I stood there for what felt like eternity.