Shoshana used to live in my current city, and was actively involved in my blues dance group. I don’t remember meeting her, but after my local dance lady friends started posting this video, some bragging about knowing her, a quick Facebook search showed that we have over 20 mutual friends. With that said, two of my male dance friends are “red pillers”, and both contacted me to via private message to share their thoughts. For starters, both were quick to mention her tits, each saying how unabashedly proud of their being real that she is. One said that it’s entirely common for her to regularly wear revealing tops (no surprise there), and the other said that she danced with him in his living room, topless (“I assure you that they are real”, she apparently told him).
In short, we have a good, ‘ol fashioned attention whore. Now, let it be known that my being lover of women, I am not opposed to women flaunting their feminine figures; though, I do take issue with their both doing that and then crying “street harassment” when men take notice. Correction, they take issue when men whom they don’t deem as being sexually desirous take issue.
As I said, I don’t recall ever meeting Shoshana, though I surmise that our paths will eventually cross, assuming that she’ll find her way at my town’s annual blues dance festival, or that I go blues dancing in Manhattan on my next visit.
The attention whore epidemic continues to rage.
Ideally, what (attractive) women want is a world arranged to their liking, which means a world where lesser men know their place — silent, retiring, respectful, and unassuming — and alpha males — the top 10% of all men — are permitted to admire their beauty in however a manner they see fit.
This world will never happen because convincing 90% of men to essentially neuter themselves is like persuading a fat feminist to slim down and behave sweetly. Men are wired for the hunt, women are wired to be hunted. All the liberty-curtailing laws and thoughtcrime witch hunts in the world won’t change the fact that the prey will never dictate to the predators which of them may participate in the chase, the catch, and the consumption. A hungry man has little incentive to obey rules that perpetuate his hunger.
Dunham writes of casually masturbating while in bed next to her younger sister, of bribing her with “three pieces of candy if I could kiss her on the lips for five seconds . . . anything a sexual predator might do to woo a small suburban girl I was trying.” At one point, when her sister is a toddler, Lena Dunham pries open her vagina — “my curiosity got the best of me,” she offers, as though that were an explanation. “This was within the spectrum of things I did.” […]
Lena Dunham never actually writes that she was raped by a mustachioed campus Republican named Barry at Oberlin College. She leads up to it with a long story about her childhood misuse of the word “rape” — she accuses her little sister of raping her and tells people that her father sticks a fork in her vagina when she misbehaves — and dwells on her lifelong fear of being raped. She describes two different versions of the same sexual encounter, in the latter version insisting that she did not consent to what happened. And in a remarkably dishonest turn, she has other people describe the event as “rape,” thereby dodging any intellectual or moral responsibility for making the claim herself. […]
Dunham’s writing all this is, needless to say, a gutless and passive-aggressive act. Barry is not a character in a book; he is a real person, one whose life is no doubt being turned upside down by a New York Times No. 1 best-seller containing half-articulated accusations that he raped a woman in college, accusations that are easily connected to him. Dunham won’t call him a rapist, but she is happy to use other people as sock puppets to call him a rapist. She doesn’t use his full name, but she surely knows how easily it can be found. She wouldn’t face him in a court of law, but she’ll lynch him in print.
This is the last time I’ll write a post about Lena Dunham until she drowns herself in an extra-wide bathtub *fingers crossed*.
Ultimately, the problem with stupid, bitter feminists and their lackeys is their inability to understand, let alone empathize, with how differently from women that men are aroused to desire. Once you have convinced yourself that there are no real biological or psychosexual differences between men and women, it’s a small step from there to bemoaning catcalling while your tits are thrust three feet in front of you. This is what a religious adherence to feminist lies gets you: Fear and loathing of men because they get turned on by visual stimulus with an intensity and swiftness that is alien to your gynocentric worldview.
Most women who aren’t deranged feminists trying to make a victim class point know that, for instance, catcalling is mostly harmless, and take it in stride (even if driven to annoyance by excessive street solicitations). Normal, psychologically healthy women (read: pretty women), intuitively grasp that men and women are very different on and under the hood. They may not know the evolutionary reasons for the differences, or care to know, but their acceptance of men as men permits them to behave in a more charming feminine manner, and to appease men’s desire (or avoid inciting it when necessary) because it’s fun and exciting instead of an “injustice” that must be raged against. Feminist spite and resentment towards men comes from a place of studied ignorance and, in some instances, envy of male sexuality. I think a lot of avowed feminists are ugly broads who secretly yearn to possess the liberated and unencumbered sexual joy that is the birthright of men.
If there’s one common bond that unites all feminists and feminist-lite pundits, it’s a loathing of male desire. Scour away the SJW jargon and that’s the angry little id you’ll find deep inside shaking a clenched black fist at an unforgiving reality it cannot change.
A viral load of white female privilege dropped in the patriarchy’s lap this week. It’s a video produced by a racist white puppeteer featuring a racist white woman, Shoshana Roberts, (OK, maybe she’s a “convenience white” woman), walking through some vibrant and culturally nonconforming New York City neighborhoods for ten hours recording the reactions of the underprivileged men around her.
Wow. Just…. wow. I can’t even…. I can’t watch any more of this video. I feel physically ill from the othering. FCKH8!
The racist subtext is obvious. Some cisgendered white woman with a rap sheet of unchecked privilege and internalized racism claims to speak for all goddesshood, and trawls through Harlem like she’s on some safari, baiting the heterodusky into othersexual, courtship-positive mating displays. What does she expect, imposing herself on their colorful and enriching gape culture, blaming the victims for her socially constructed alabastercentrism? This is nothing less than minority shaming. And with her mile-wide ass she should know better.
There’s clearly a superstructure of anti-indigeneity in her feminist pose. Colonialist oppression is not far from her dismissive gestures. This woman wants to fight against Hollaback discourse, but all she really is doing is promoting Collablack sexual politics. She wants to collar all the blacks and Ricans who don’t accept her barely caucasian hegemony to decide rules of intergender solicitation.
Well I ain’t no collablack girl, and to this racist white woman pretending to be a real feminist I say, “Don’t impose your values on under-served, differently amorous communities. Not every catcall needs your affirmative consent if it doesn’t come from a rich, white man with good manners.”
Or maybe Shoshana Roberts and her racist white moneygrubbing masters would like to explain the reactions of her white sisters to this man? Should he just accept their creepy, threatening harassment, or should there be laws against this kind of female objectification of the male body (part)?
pps videotaped reactions (or indifference, as the case may be) from men on Wall Street and the Upper East Side were, for some odd reason, left on the cutting room floor. rumor has it shoshana made out with a few men who glanced her way.
ppps heh.
UPDATES
– As reader CAPSLOCK HUSTLA suggested, the anger of white women toward catcalling stems mostly from the fact that a lot of catcallers are low value men who think the girl is on their level. No woman, especially not a striver 6 like Shoshana, likes the feeling that losers think they have a chance with her. It makes her second-guess the power of her looks to intimidate lesser men (or attract better men).
– It’s no coincidence that most anti-catcalling feminist indignation comes from white chicks. Although META ANALYSIS and PEER REVIEWED STUDIES have yet to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt, I suspect that non-white women, as equal inheritors of their race’s genes, respond more positively to catcalling men and also know how to handle those men (e.g., by refraining from showing vulnerability that could be misconstrued as sexual interest).
– I noticed over at the comments at iSteve that there still exist ignoramuses who think crude low class catcalling of the sort filmed in the video is the “game” taught by aristocads like yours truly. They’re ignoramuses, or they’re disingenuous liars. Yelling streetways at a woman to “smile more” and asking her post-rebuff “Am I too ugly for you?” is pretty much the opposite of game.
– Diversity + Proximity = A gauntlet of crass, 24/7 catcalling. White women will get misty-eyed for those long-ago days when a white man would walk up and say hi.
– Catcalling, if you couldn’t already tell, is mostly a non-asian minority thing. Only Mediterranean whites like Italians come close to expressing the… unsolicited robust amour… of blacks and guapos. And even then, the Italians in America catcall with a stylishness far removed from the ghetto version. It’s so rare for white men that I can’t honestly remember the last time I saw one catcall like those loping suitors in the video. And I’ve lived in a number of vibrant communities. I could set up a GoPro with Minka Kelly in Peoria, IL and go ten years without a single catcall caught on tape.
– I’m not completely without sympathy for women having to put up on the daily with nonstop catcalling that borders on creepy. The closest analogy for a man would be having to tolerate homeless bums begging for handouts every block. That would get annoying after a while. Of course, the answer is to avoid walking in areas where bums congregate. Or to have a grand ol time telling them NOPE with a sadistic grin.
– It’s as natural for vibrants to catcall as it is for white women to dislike it. The solution is to minimize the amount of proximate diversity. Hello, is anyone listening…?
– Shoshana, like her kin Lena Dunham, is a Ditz Class attention whore. She hates catcallers but loves reminding the world of her DD tits. Hypocritical attention whores like these two broads are a blight on civilization. The internet has certainly enabled their craft, but larger societal paradigm shifts away from patriarchal oppression and toward total female sexual freedom are to blame.
– Allegedly, Shoshana FatAssa is dating a bankster. I wonder how her street stooges feel about being set up by an entitled bitch?
– Here’s a funny, if less than biting, parody video. “Pumpkin spice season son!”
– Although they may feel threatened or uncomfortable in the moment, deep down most white (and white-ish) women are turned on a little by the feral male attention. It’s that dualistic female arousal mechanism at work again.
– Ultimately, the problem with stupid, bitter feminists and their lackeys is their inability to understand, let alone empathize, with how differently from women that men are aroused to desire. Once you have convinced yourself that there are no real biological or sociosexual differences between men and women, it’s a small step from there to bemoaning catcalling while your tits are thrust three feet in front of you. This is what a religious adherence to feminist lies gets you: Fear and loathing of men because they get turned on by visual stimulus with an intensity that is alien to your gynocentric worldview.
Sometimes a song that I’m singing in my head will escape from its skullblocked cage and make a run for it across the border of my lips. When this happens, I can go fifteen minutes, maybe hours given the retrospective nature of the discovery, before my conscious awareness is alerted to the fact that I’ve been whistling a happy tune in public like a damnfool. It’s a bad habit.
One of these times, my whistling must have been especially loud and taunting to fragile ears, because I was shocked into awareness by the shrieking of a chubby gargoylette, who whipped around from in front of me and demanded, “Did you just wolf whistle at me!?”
Caught completely off-guard, I stared at her flushed cheeks and fleshed body for a half second, dumbfounded. She continued glowering at me, as if seriously expecting an answer to her accusation. Pulling my head back a little, knitting my brow and squinting, I blurted, “Fuck no!”
She fumed. If she were a pig, which with a small tweak of one or two genes she could’ve easily crossed the species barrier, she’d have stamped her hooves in the mud a few times, threatening a charge. As it was, she turned on her heels while delivering a perfunctory “fuck you” and flipped me the fat bird over her shoulder as she walked away.
I felt embarrassed for the spectacle that had caught the eyes of a few passers-by, but also satisfied that my reflexive defensive parry poked a pig in the id.
I moved on, pissed that a pig deigned to shovel me a handful of her compacted shit, and pissed that I lost the tune in my head. smh…smh…smh… the rest of the walk I wondered, in vague outlines of indignation, how many American women were miserable in this way, cracking under the pressure of their fat and their delayed marriage schedules and their royalty complexes. How many women I saw every day were hiding blocks of TNT up their asses, just waiting for some misapprehended spark to blow the lid off their facade?
The feminine American woman harboring not a lick of resentment toward men is as rare as the HB10. I wonder, equally, if she knows this? I know it.
It’s time has come. More precisely, it’s time came ten years ago. We’re already playing catch-up.
False rape accusations put innocent men in jail where they are buttfucked by large black men. Feminists cheer this. Feminists are hateful cunts. It’s time to turn the tables on them and their manlet taint-lappers.
A publicly accessible list of women who have falsely accused men of rape they didn’t commit will go a long way towards shaming these succubi until they slice lengthwise. This will also serve as a lesson for the others.
Call it… David’s List. Would a diligent, energetic entrepreneur care to take up the challenge? Justice and righteousness will guide your path.
California has lobbed another salvo in the War On Men: Governor Moonbeam signed into law
a bill that makes California the first in the nation to define when “yes means yes” and adopt requirements for colleges to follow when investigating sexual assault reports.
State lawmakers last month approved SB967 by Sen. Kevin de Leon, D-Los Angeles, as states and universities across the U.S. are under pressure to change how they handle rape allegations. Campus sexual assault victims and women’s advocacy groups delivered petitions to Brown’s office on Sept. 16 urging him to sign the bill.
De Leon has said the legislation will begin a paradigm shift in how college campuses in California prevent and investigate sexual assaults. Rather than using the refrain “no means no,” the definition of consent under the bill requires “an affirmative, conscious and voluntary agreement to engage in sexual activity.”
Romance is dead. Long live romance!
I can’t think of many things that would kill the moment faster than whipping out a consent form and a pen as you’re sitting on the edge of her bed. Unfurling a one inch micropeen? Reaching under her dress to grab a handful of frank and beans? Unsnapping her bra to release a bundle of tissue paper and two deflated flapjack tits?
“Every student deserves a learning environment that is safe and healthy,”
Infantilization. Coddling. Child-proofing the cap on women’s brains.
We’ve shifted the conversation regarding sexual assault to one of prevention, justice, and healing.
Poopytalk.
The legislation says silence or lack of resistance does not constitute consent.
Women generally don’t like to verbalize their desire to get banged out. They prefer dropping subtle cues that experienced, confident men will recognize and use to lead the interaction toward the bedroom. They also prefer to put up token resistance before relenting completely. A law that requires women deny these two essential aspects of their nature, or to twist them into something inhuman, is a law doomed to fail… or to “succeed” beyond the wildest dreams of its femcunt sponsors.
Under the bill, someone who is drunk, drugged, unconscious or asleep cannot grant consent.
If a drunk woman can’t grant her consent, then a drunk man can’t comprehend her consent. This legal contortion cuts both ways. But of course only men are responsible for their own actions, so loophole exploited!
Lawmakers say consent can be nonverbal, and universities with similar policies have outlined examples as a nod of the head or moving in closer to the person.
Well, that’s a relief! Put away the consent form, you only need a video camera to provide proof to a jury of your feminist inquisitors that you received the requisite head nod and mutually voluntary personal space encroachment to proceed under legal allowance into a reproductively-thwarted union. Wait, it wasn’t thwarted by condom or Pill? Are you evil?
If it wasn’t a travesty, it would be a farce. Worse, it’s humiliation. The point of these toxic, insane, dehumanizing feminist and equalist laws is humiliation of straight (white, beta) men. That’s it. Never forget it. This is your enemy.
***
Reader 1357 quips,
I see a lot more secret recordings of all sexual encounters “just in case”, happening in california pretty soon.
Oh yeah. Externalities are a bitch. What man worth his seductive prowess will risk bedding a slutty headcase now, without video proof of her writhing arousal and surrender? But it would have to be secretly videotaped; not many women are down with a camera rolling on that first magical night together. Keep the closet door ajar, hide the camera behind cable wool sweaters, and don’t forget to put black tape over the red record light.
How ironic if a perverse law designed to catalogue the organic and nuanced stirrings of mutual consent — aka foreplay — were to have the knock-off effect of flooding the internet with more ill-gotten sex videos of regretful feminist whackjobs!
Reader joe sixpack imagines what convincing a girl to sign a pre-sex consent form would entail:
“OMG, lol, what’s that thing on your head?”
“That’s my new GoPro.
Now just look at me and say the following: “I hereby swear of my free personal will, that I do consent to sexual contact up to and inclusive of sexual intercourse whereby I grant unrestricted consent for your penis to enter my vagina, and I duly swear to hold fully exempt from any future civil and/or criminal litigation resulting from said intercourse.
You may not need the GoPro. There’s now an app for that. Good2Go. Nerds rejoice, they finally have a technical means of determining if and when a girl likes them in “that way”. Naturally, whatever slim chances a nerd gets in his life to have sex will promptly be scuttled the moment he pulls out his Good2Go app for permission to continue fondling the girl’s upper forearm.
On a serious note, this law is unenforceable. Last I checked, judges tend to side with defendants in “he said-she said” situations. (Who knows, though? That could be changing, like everything else in America, for the worse.) A law like this is pure signaling by alpha males and omega females. The former get to flex their power over weaker men and demonstrate through their indifference a prowess with women that will never be threatened by morning-after regret. The latter get to make life harder for better looking women of sound mental health, and much much harder for those creepy beta and omega males who sheepishly and awkwardly hit on them in elevators. The nerve! Then there’s the politics of it all. The War On Women rhetoric has ramped up so loudly (and incongruously) that politicians can score a lot of votes by pandering to the worst elements of womanhood. The rest of the women just step in line with these feminist gorgons, because that’s the direction the herd is heading.
