You’ve all read about the “thousand cock stare“, and most of you have seen a woman exhibiting it in your daily life. Now there’s a male version of the thousand cock stare — the thousand cuck stare — and it has nothing to do with a high number of sex partners, (just the opposite, really, as the thousand cuck stare is usually coincident with involuntary celibacy and a legacy of romantic failure).
Those eyes are seen on two types of (typically white) males: Literal bottoms (who have just passed a wet gas bubble of gay lover sperm) and figurative bottoms who are psychological castrati eager to bend over for the world’s cunts, ingrates, and swarths in a bid to rationalize that severely low T can be a blessing for humanity.
The thousand cuck stare is a watery, degenerate Sanpaku-eyed window into the soul of a male who has embraced powerlessness out of necessity and rubs out dopamine rushes by posturing as an androgyne happily relinquishing any trace of testicular fortitude for abject prostration at the cankles of the femborg hivegine.
He is a soy-drenched, sexual market discard who pretends his groveling at the feet of those who despise him is a righteous blow for equality and unctuous unisexuality. He is a contemptible loathsome creature who by dumb luck is having his day in the sun, but who will, as natural law dictates, soon be back where he belongs, foraging the icy wastelands for scraps of charity.
In two generations, when majestic Trump Presidency memorials dot the nation’s landscape, will the grandchildren (however few and miraculous) of these grandcucks recall with great shame their emasculated forebears as warnings against denigrating masculinity?