Realtalker Of The Month

A Turkish newspaper columnist with brass balls wrote an article about the unattractive manliness of female athletes.

A Turkish newspaper columnist has been heavily criticised after writing an article which said the Olympic Games is destroying the female figure.

The piece – called Womanhood is dying at the Olympics’ – was written by Yuksel Aytug and was published in the daily newspaper Sabah and on the paper’s website.

However, it soon spread around the world by saying the Games was distorting women’s bodies and that extra points should be given to female athletes based on how feminine they looked.

According to Hurriyet Daily News, he said: ‘Broad-shouldered, flat-chested women with small hips; [they are] totally indistinguishable from men.

‘Their breasts – the symbol of womanhood, motherhood – flattened into stubs as they were seen as mere hindrances to speed.’

Get this man a VIP pass to the Chateau! He speaks the truth no nancyboy or femcunt would ever dare admit, even to themselves. Who with the eyes to see hasn’t noticed the narrow hips, the grotesque six-pack abs (never a good look on women), the chest “stubs”, the linebacker shoulders, and the manjaws of an inordinate number of the female Olympians? (Synchronized swimmers are a welcome exception to the rule. Of course, proficiency in synchronized swimming doesn’t require a chiseled male-like physique.)

A disturbing number of the women athletes have what amounts to ripped, pubescent boys’ bodies. If you cover the faces and crotches of some of them, you could easily mistake them for lean men. But I bet they fuck like champions!

[Aytug] was accused of sexism and reducing the identity of women purely to appearance.

Weren’t the Jizzebelers recently objectifying Ryan Lochte’s appearance? Anyhow, the point is superfluous. Feminists are simply unable to come to grips with the fact that double standards in how the sexes relate to and perceive each other exist, are grounded in immutable biology, and won’t disappear just because a few fat sluts organized a pride parade.

In his column, he also said the Olympic Games forced woman to look more like men so they could become successful.

Aytug is right. It’s NECESSARILY true that women must conform more to the male physique ideal in order to compete successfully in sports, and particularly elite sports, because women’s natural bodies are not evolutionarily designed to run, throw, fight or lift optimally like men’s bodies are designed to do. Women’s bodies are — and I know this will get under the skin of the right sort of losers — shaped by the relentless laws of nature to fulfill TWO PRIME DIRECTIVES:

Visually please men.

And bear children.

Everything else women do is commentary.

If you are a woman who wants to long jump, or throw a discus, or box, or run the 100 meter race, you will perform better the FURTHER your body gets from the archetypal female physique and the closer it gets to the archetypal male physique. Hips and boobs and upper body weakness undermine all that Olympian kickassery.

This is why unscrupulous countries (which includes just about all the Western and Communist or formerly Communist ones) pump so much money and, when they can get away with it, steroids into their female athletic programs and athletes. They know that they can get more medal bang for their buck by masculinizing their female athletes and pushing them, however unintentionally, to assume male physical forms, (or by recruiting women with inborn male-like physiques), because there are a lot fewer women who are 1) interested in high-level competitive sports and 2) willing to sacrifice their femininity for a rigorous masculinizing regiment.

Someday a real rain will come and wash away this mountain of gender-bending lies. And when it happens, the world’s femininely-renewed women will sway their child-bearing hips and heave their bounteous breasts as their charmingly soft limbs and delicate hands are raised heavenward in thankfulness for being relieved of the pressure to look and act like men.

PS Isn’t it ironic, then, how the feminist-defined pursuit of sex “””equality””” is essentially tantamount to making women more man-like? You’d almost think feminists believe the male form and male psyche are superior to the female form and psyche. Maybe that’s because most dedicated feminists are ugly, masculine robodykes.

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What Happens When Your Nation’s Men Are Emasculated

Supposedly, that is the Crips’ gang sign those Swedish handball team women are all flashing. It may as well be a gangbang sign, because odds are good Usain Bolt rammed home a 9.63 in each one of those broads’ Nordic pussies.

Now I know some (most) of you looking at this pic felt a blood pressure rise or, at the least, a stirring of disgust. That’s perfectly natural. Seeing women of your race (or tribe, or family) bang an outsider alpha male interloper, even going so far as adopting his cultural swagger and betraying their very essence as members of your shared tribe, and feeling emotions that would scandalize polite society, is a primal reaction that is evolved in all humans and has therefore likely served a beneficial role to our reproductive fitness. The id monster will not be reeducated.

It’s said that Swedish men are, arguably, the world’s most feminized men, bending backwards to feminist demands, rhythmically swaying to intone feminist boilerplate and flagellate themselves for their sin of being born men. It’s also said that Swedish women are among the most eager of the world’s women to sample the cock of the Other.

My purpose with this post is to proffer that the emasculation of Sweden’s men has a direct, causal effect on the willingness and ardor and shamelessness with which Sweden’s fully feminist women rush into the crotches of decidedly non-feminist, self-confident alien swashbucklers. When your women’s kinsmen — the men, lest the reminder be needed, who are the presumed benefactors of their women’s sex — are lickspittle, mincing betaboys who happily accede to every asinine feminist idea, it should be no surprise to scholars of female nature that the women who hold such ahistorically lopsided power over their countrymen would, unintentionally, geld them so thoroughly that they are reduced to anhedonic lumps the likes of which the male competitor Usain Bolts of the world could run over with impunity.

What this photo symbolizes better than anything is the age-old and unmitigable female paradox of insisting upon shit she does not really want. If you listen carefully and follow to the letter your women’s rambling feminist inanities, you get Sweden, land of the castrated men who repulse their own women. If, on the other hand, you dismiss and deride, in action as well as word, the feminists in your midst with the cocky assurance of the man who makes no excuses for his raw masculinity, you might piss off a few ugly manjaws, but you get to enjoy the continued admiration and carnal desire of your beautiful native women.

Game can save Sweden’s men from utter humiliation. Game at its most primitive is an illusion of power, but an illusion of power is still better than powerlessness.

This post gently massaged into Bill Bennett’s shoulders.

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A Little Pain Warms The Female Heart

As the Kristen Stewart affair (re)confirms, women, particularly young, slender women with high mate values, possess a seeming masochistic tendency to seek out relationship drama and wallow in it. All women have this urge, although the degree to which the urge expresses itself varies in its intensity among women. A very rough estimate by yours truly puts it at 1/3 women crave sadistic assholes (who may even beat them), 1/3 of women are drawn to men who provide non-thuggish but nonetheless insecurity-amplifying drama, and another 1/3 are put off by thuggishness and prolonged drama-inducement but who do enjoy some minimal amount of relationship tension, whether manufactured by the man or organically arising from his higher value relative to hers.

Furthermore, this craving for asshole men diminishes slowly with age, and with declining beauty. The elicited excitement and allure of the jerk tends to be strongest in very pretty, slender women aged 16-25, and weakest in ugly women over age 35. The reasons for this dynamic are obvious: very attractive and maximally fertile women — that is, those women with the most options in the sexual market — are best able to capture the attention of an asshole, and extract commitment from him. Older, uglier, fatter women are not even on assholes’ radars; their options are limited and their ability to extract commitment from men is kneecapped, so they tend to de-emphasize their longing for badboys and emphasize their appreciation for the secure reliability of lower value niceguys.

A few feminists are only now beginning to grapple with these hypergamous truths of female nature, not least in part because of the efforts of alternative blogs belched up from the bowels of hell, like this one, but they have yet to fully imbibe the meaning behind the evidence that confronts them. Many of them will attempt to scaffold their tattered ideology and hide the beast from their sights by making feeble assertions to the contrary, with no evidence in hand, that for instance, to pick a classic example of the genre, men “like drama-inducing bitches just as much as women like drama-inducing jerks”.

Well, ain’t that an ego salver! Too bad it isn’t true. There is very little real world evidence, either in the scientific literature or in anecdotal observation, that men crave relationship drama and the bitches who can give it nearly as much as women crave the badboys who can give them drama. Dark triad traits? Benefit men’s desirability; do nothing for women’s desirability, or even hurt it. Female groupies for male prisoners? So well-known that there are even websites devoted to letting women air their grievances with the prison system and detail their efforts to get conjugal visits with their killer lovers. And then of course, there are the women who, despite plenty of resources and peer pressure to guide them to better choices, freely opt to love and love again abusive men who turned their faces into mashed pulp.

Men do not share with women this masochistic compulsion for relationship drama. Men who are stuck with abusive women are often losers who know they couldn’t find another woman to save their lives. Men who have options will leave bitchy women without a second’s thought. Men, in fact, are the total opposite of women in this regard: the typical man will usually RUN AWAY FROM bitchy women in favor of sweet, feminine women, given equal looks. Even given unequal looks, most men will choose, for example, a sweet, caring 7 over a bitchy, sadistic 9, at least for long-term consideration. (For a one night stand or short term fling, men will put up with some shit in exchange for the pleasure of defiling exquisite beauty.)

So it is with this sex difference in drama-seeking in mind that the theme of this post emerges.

Maxim #19: Making a woman feel a little emotional pain will reward you a thousandfold in returned physical pleasure.

You don’t have to be fists-of-fury Chris Brown to pick up a Rihanna and make her fall in deep, profound love with you, but don’t let the lesson of their relationship be lost on you. If you are a beta male — and odds are you are — you can superglue your relationship bond by instilling in your woman a calculated level of discomfort and insecurity. You won’t feel bad about this, because you will know that the discomfort you create is subconsciously DESIRED by your girl. Despite her outward appearance of frustration and timorous appeasement, you will know that inside, she is lit up like a vagina tree, with a squirting orgasm shooting out of the star on top.

The more beta you are, and the hotter your girlfriend or wife, the more necessary will be the application of drama inducement game (DIG).

Reader David Collard comments:

I have written a poem about virginity and defloration, mainly to annoy skanky feminists:

http://davidcollard.wordpress.com/2012/04/16/first-draft/

As I have said before, deflowering my wife was unpleasant, and painful for her, but I am glad I got to do it, not some man before me. […]

I have seen a serious scientific (evol psych) argument that the pain of childbirth gets a woman to bond to her child, and the pain of defloration gets her to bond to a man. On the other hand, my wife says my deflowering her put her off sex for quite some time. She had a very tough hymen.

It is an intriguing theory that women are, in some primal sense, attracted to the freeing chains of pain. The pain — physical or emotional — seems to release in woman animal lusts, which then stampede beyond her control. This loss of control is something women secretly yearn to experience, and the alpha males who so delight them are the men most adept at stripping women of their superficial veneer of control.

David writes that childbirth and defloration are both major masochist milestones in a woman’s life that also represent pinnacles of pain. In the crucible of this pain (physical in these two instances), a bond so powerful, so unbreakable, is formed, that the woman will be forever merged in psyche, soul and snatch with the child and the man, respectively, who visited this pain upon her. I believe this is the best argument there is for beta males to actively seek out and deflower virgins, for the resultant bond will be so strong that they can then coast in their betaness for many years afterward without threat of cuckolding.

“Anonymous” writes:

Quoting Kristen Stewart: “I feel boring. I feel like, Why is everything so easy for me? I can’t wait for something crazy to fucking happen to me. Just life. I want someone to fuck me over! Do you know what I mean?”

So, she wants to play some Russian Roulette? Why are women so masochistic? You have a tenuous alpha/beta analysis when it isn’t even 100% clear that Alpha’s are better for survival or fitness then beta (why are there so many betas if alpha is the better gene)? I won’t quibble over this because your pop science has a much more serious problem. The central problem with female fitness in modernity has nothing to do with alpha/beta but is delayed pregnancy. What are the psychological consequences of going 15-20-35 years after menstruation and failing to get preggers? Ancient women were ALWAYS pregnant, like in stone age societies. Women are designed to be constantly knocked up and hauling 5 kids. How can their psychology pull the 180 to barren femcunt lawyer slut? Or barren and bored slut actress? You don’t think this makes them masochistic freaks? They are built for pain (pregnancy and hauling kids). Your Alpha/Beta analysis works, but the bigger issue is masochism and other psych problems from being chronically barren.

I understand anonymous’ wrenching repugnance at women’s callow and seemingly self-annihilating unimpeded sexual behavior, but that is a confusion remedied by a widening of perspective and a depth of experience. This odd drive by women for the powerful, charming, dominant men, even when it threatens a solid and secure relationship, must have served some benefit to our distant female ancestors, including the mothers of the infinite mothers of your mothers.

But then, as anonymous rightly states, there has always been, until relatively recently, a natural curb — an auto-pilot emergency brake — on this female hypergamous impulse, that would engage when the impulse became destructive. This natural curb was PREGNANCY. Ancestral women used to get knocked up quickly, at very young ages, and then be burdened with child after child until the wall removed from them the last hope of fulfilling a latent hypergamous urge. A Kristen Stewart, shorn of the props and rebar and condoms and abortifacents and Pills of modern society, would not, in the ancient times, have had the luxury of chasing down and fucking multiple alpha males to satisfy her id-shaped itch. In times bygone, her downlow would have meant the abandonment and eventual death of her child by her beta provider (Robert Pattinson) and the ostracization by her tribe’s women. Her alpha lover (the director) would not have agreed to help much in the raising of the children she had borne from previous men. There would not have been a media-savvy slut-excusing PR machine, aided and abetted by feminists and manboobed robots, to carry her through the ordeal to a safe landing ensconced in the lap of a replacement alpha male.

Instead, a modern Western Kristen Stewart gets to skip all that pain that would have been hers in prior eras, and indulge her hypergamy nearly free of consequence. Perhaps anonymous has a point; the mitigation to almost total irrelevance of this primal pain that was once the birthright of women has rendered their sex so psychologically scarred, so emotionally gutted, that they deliberately seek destructiveness in their relationships to feel anything at all. This destructiveness, once harnessed, feeds on itself, and there is no cure save sexual obsolescence, which must come, as it does for all women, sooner than they think.

The barren woman. The spinster. The pathetic partying cougar. The slutty alpha female. The delayed marriage and childbirth. The 0.5 child SWPL mother. Is it all coming together in a vortex of unhappiness and self-despoilment? Is the answer a reconnection with the animal spirits — and the animal dangers — that used to animate our free choices?

Kristen Stewart and millions of women in similar circumstances as hers will realize their fates too late. Worse for them, the Robert Pattinsons of the world are beginning to wake up and realize their fates as well. The interesting times are just beginning.

This post sealed with a kiss for Billyboy Bennett.

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Entitled Careerist Woman Logo

Petition to make this the official logo of the modern, Western, feminist, entitled careerist woman.

“I watch you die.”

Ugly, bloated Western woman dressed in the latest fashion sits idly with look of perplexity as a man in distress collapses before her leaden gaze. She even leans away from him, offended at this breach of protocol. Another woman seated nearby joins her in the sitting. The men around them rise to help the stricken man.

It’s a peculiar time when men rush to help another man out while women dawdle uselessly, their nurturing instincts vacuumed out of them by decades of feminist indoctrination and consumerist rat-racing. Another bell tolls for the West.

Could someone make a gif of the relevant portions of this video? And then plaster Jizzabel’s comment wall with it?

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Automation And Redundant Humans

There’s a lot of chatter from the internetsia and on various econ-centric and forward-looking culture blogs (i.e. mediums hosting most of the interesting ideas you won’t ever hear discussed in the increasingly self-discrediting MSM) that automation and computerization are leading to impressive productivity gains, mostly concentrated among the high IQ elite knowledge workers who feign disbelief in the relevance of IQ (and other inheritable personality traits that are useful in a high-tech, interwoven economy, like conscientiousness). The thinking goes, and trend line evidence supports the notion, that vast swaths of humans will be left unemployable by their inability to grasp the language of abstraction. Unemployment rates that dwarf Great Depression numbers could soon be the norm.

Pursuing this line of thought, these Cassandras theorize that the end result of a bifurcating economy into machine overseers and redundant humans meant only to consume the products produced by the machines and their management consultant handlers will be huge wealth residing in the hands of a few, while pittances will drop like bread crumbs from welfare-issuance offices upon the benighted masses.

I happen to believe, based on the growing dysfunction I see organically emerging in my estranged country, that the theory has merit.

So I have two questions for any economists reading:

1. How is the present automation and productivity conundrum qualitatively different than ones from the past (for example, the classic case of the auto replacing the horse and carriage)? If you do not believe it is qualitatively different, explain how we escape the “zero marginal productivity” worker trap, especially in an era when human capital is shrinking due to a combination of dysgenic birth rate differentials and mass migration of unskilled poor? Note: “Humans are fungible” is not an acceptable cop-out.

2. If, say, most of the profits go to the top 10% in society, while the bottom 90% are unemployed or marginally employed, how is it exactly that those top 10% will be able to extract profits from a customer base that doesn’t have the income stream to afford more than the basic necessities?

There must be some self-regulating rebalancing dynamic that comes into play past a certain egregious level of wealth and employment inequality. I figure this rebalancing will happen in one of two ways: One, the government will step up redistribution (virtually guaranteeing a livable “income” for the left side of the bell curve). This option, naturally, confronts a bit more difficulty in a multiethnic society. Two, the profit geyser will dry up as the world comes to be increasingly dominated by a few elite essentially bartering amongst themselves. What good are productivity gains if no one is left with the cash to buy your products?

There is a third, albeit unlikely, outcome: goods will be able to be manufactured and distributed so cheaply that no more than a meager income stream will be needed to adorn one’s lifestyle with a slew of creature comforts.

Of course, riot-quelling Danegeld or sufficiently inexpensive goods say nothing about the devastation to the human psyche that would occur in a world of relegated uselessness. Unlimited consuming has a way of eating itself to death.

Please, spare me the singularity crackpottery. That, or genetic reengineering, won’t happen in time, if it happens at all, to stave off mass calamity.

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Diverse Linkage

There’s a tumultuously adventuresome discussion thread going on over at GLPiggy’s about “citizenism” versus white nationalism, in which your cockily imperturbable narrator has contributed some choice morsels (look under ‘heartiste’).

Couple addendums: I wasn’t familiar with WN until the one degree of separation internet revealed glorious new vistas to me. As such, I’m not up to speed on their political platform, although I can make an educated guess. I prefer not to spend too much time around relentlessly serious people, a fatal personality defect that some (some!) WNs share with feminists and grievance group racialists.

And, I’m not doctrinaire on the subject of national homogeneity. Like with most things in life, quality and quantity matter. A huge nation can accommodate some small number of immigrants who don’t resemble the native stock. I spell it out in more detail over there at piggy central, but in short, I believe an advanced nation’s social and economic health is best served by an immigration policy that does not shift its majority ethnic/racial demography below 80% of the total population. Obviously, the US is past that critical ratio and falling fast, and just as obviously, the US is concurrently experiencing the long, slow decline to has-been status in earnest, complete with all the expected attendant neuroses afflicting ever larger swaths of individuals and communities.

ps Libertarians are still stoopid. And it mostly hinges on their willful blindness to this issue, the one issue to rule all issues.

pps I might emigrate someday in the distant future for, ah, moister pastures, to which a pro-swamp white people advocate might justifiably accuse me of hypocrisy. Hey, no one said life was tidy. I think Social Security is a Ponzi scheme waiting to implode, but that doesn’t mean I’ll turn down the SS checks the government sends my way when I’m old. Countries have a right to restrict who enters and gets to stay, and if, for example, Poland decides not to accept my application for citizenship, then I’ll abide their decision. I won’t like it, but I’ll understand perfectly well why they enforce the immigration policy they do.

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The Tell-Tale Slap

When I had made an end of my morning labors slathering lotion on my skin to protect it from the sizzling tropical sun, it was eleven o’clock — hot but now tolerable, the air stirred by cooling winds, the rays glancing at a blinding angle off the sand. Laying on my towel face up, inviting the browning of my flesh, I swiveled my head to the left and right, to ensure my immediate area was clear for uninterrupted napping, and to savor perhaps one more plump, glistening nude buttock before I closed my eyes.

Sunlight ricocheted off the pocked sand, blinding me as I squinted to the smallest aperture possible to view my surroundings. To my right, about ten feet, two girls, early 20s, lay on a blanket on their backs, faces craned skyward. Skimpy bikinis concealed only the most imprudent parts of their lithe figures, and their pale skin, nearly as light in hue as the sand which enveloped them, showcased off-toned strap lines. I knew this because they had untangled their tops, letting the cloth rest loosely on their breasts. Giddy with freedom, they nonetheless couldn’t muster the insouciance to splay out entirely naked. Here they allowed a mere hint of their wares on one of the most notorious full nudity beaches in the world.

My right eye lingered on one girl’s twinkling side boob until I began to drift off.

As the surf sounded the seconds, there came a faint, seemingly distant patter approaching from my left.

slap slap slap

At first I thought it was the blood rushing through my ears, but as the sound congealed it became apparent the source was foreign and the noise it made strangely rhythmic, almost monotonic.

I smiled, — for what had I to wonder? Although the beach was only a third full, nothing of note ever occurred except the infrequent native pitchman hawking his trinkets. I strained to catch sight of the intruder, curious about his product for sale, but saw nothing save for bloated humps of tourist flesh possibly rolled over on their infant walruses. I grimaced that such aging monstrosities are often the ones least susceptible to self-regulating modesty.

I bade sleep welcome. But not soon enough, for the steady patter returned.

slap slap slap slap slap slap

I listened intently this time, agreeing with myself that the sound most resembled the light thwacking of a heavy, uncooked sausage against a wall or open palm. It grew ever so slightly in loudness, until, Doppler-like, it passed behind my head at its zenith and then receded, to return to prominence again in a few minutes as it swooped around the opposite side where my feet pointed.

slap slap slap SLAP SLAP SLAP slap slap slap

Ere long, I felt myself getting disconcerted and wished the sound gone. My head heavy with stupor, each time I looked around to locate my pattering torment, dazzling sunlight obscured my vision.

Had no one else been hearing what I heard? The walrus humans snorted and quivered like Jell-O, periodically scratching a fold. I fancied a hallucination brought on by the heat: but still the terrible soft patter encircled me. The gentle slaps became more distinct, less distinct, then more distinct again: I talked myself into believing it was an energetic small child bemused by a new toy to get rid of my curiosity: but it continued and once more gained definiteness — until, at length, I found that the noise had stopped ten feet from me.

No doubt I now grew very intrigued; — but I remained unwilling to sit up for a clearer visual inspection that would solve my mystery, for there were only a few minutes left to the conclusion of my facial bronzing, a chore I had planned in advance and hoped to premiere at that night’s danceclub opening. Yet the sound stopping aggravated me even more — and why would that be so? It had stopped for a reason, and so close by, and I had to know its purpose.

I arched my head to the right, toward the girls again, and slowly gazed upward into the blackest silhouette imaginable, backlit by the blazing sun. I could see the geometric contour of a thin, sinewy man, standing close to six feet tall, looming over the heads of the girls, his face totally hidden in shadows like an eclipse, and below his torso, equally cast in impenetrable shadow, a tubular structure swung languidly like a pendulum, its edges shimmering from a corona of sunlight.

I propped myself on my elbows — could it be? And yet the beachgoers saw it not, or pretended not. The girls had just opened their eyes, possibly rousted by the man’s shadow cast across their faces, and one of them audibly gasped as she looked straight up into the vortex of the pendulous tube swaying inches over her forehead, and past it into the barely perceptible grinning mug of the man holding some primitive face masks in his right arm.

Her open mouth frozen in shock, perhaps awe, the man inquired loudly in the local dialect.

“I have masks. Very good art. Good party masks, too. Dancing masks. You wanna buy? Ten dollars, my friends.”

No reply. He talked more quickly — more vehemently; but the girls’ catatonia steadily increased. I stared at the spectacle, pondering a rescue, but all I could see were wispy limbs, torsos and heads swirling nebulously around the mammoth tube.

Finally, the girls both wriggled to their sides, holding their tops against their chests with a free arm, and assumed a kneeling position a few feet away from the pubic proboscis. They erupted in giggles, looking at each other for confirmation that what they were seeing was in fact real, and one of them shook her head no. But the other, ostensibly the mischievous one of the two, asked about his selection, which prompted him to extend his arm full of masks, the motion of which caused the tube to swing in a parabola before their faces, inciting another round of stifled giggles.

Though cast in shadow, his toothy, brilliant grin was nonetheless visible enough, accentuated by the obvious creases in his cheeks. I was certain he prowled defenseless, but easily entertained, fillies in this manner every day of the week.

A brief bargaining ensued with no sale, and the man shrugged and walked off, the slapping noise commencing once again. I watched him retreat, his consciously exaggerated gait betrayed by his muscled legs sweeping outward a bit, and as if excited to fury by the giggles of the women, the tube arched upward then fell heavily from its own weight, thumping against his thigh, grazing the knee.

And then I knew. The slapping — the irrepressible noise of flesh on flesh, growing louder, louder!, then quieter, heard by others for certain who irritated me sourly, for they never let on that they suspected the source of the noise (they knew! they were making a mockery of my horror!), and still they sunbathed pleasantly, and glistened like oiled slugs — the slapping was his enormous member, thick enough around to plug a truck exhaust, bouncing happily off one leg, then the other, as he strolled, each stride punctuated by the beast’s shaft and head landing on the thigh like a breaching whale on the ocean surface, just short of the kneecap, a full 17… 18? 22?… inches from its origin point.

slap slap slap

Oh God! what could I do? I foamed — I raved — I mentally swore at the thing for refusing to suppress my prejudicial stereotyping! I sat up straight from the towel upon which I had been laying, and watched the snake slither across the beach around mounds of apathetic onlookers, pausing every so often to surprise a mark into an impulse buy. I noticed he studiously avoided the naked men, who, I guessed by their indifference, had either seen the snake handler before and were inured of his infamy, or were gallantly hiding evidence of their insecurity with quick hoists of bathing suits over blotchy, reddened privates. In time, every woman, even the old ones, who caught sight of the unearthly appendage tittered like schoolgirls, laced with a hint of anxiety.

“Fake!” I announced to the brightened girls next to me, “It’s so fake. You have to admit it.”

“I don’t know. It looked real to me,” girl one demured.

“Yeah, you were pretty close to it,” scoffed girl two at her friend.

“He could rape a girl from across the beach!” girl one whispered loudly.

Disgusted with their levity, I told them that if they had grabbed the thing and tore it off at the root, they would have found the little guy hiding underneath. That it would be surprising if sex stores didn’t have very lifelike organs nowadays for sale, and this thing was his gimmick to sell child-like art to dumbstruck tourists.

In the distance, a good hundred yards from our spot, maskman waded into the turquoise water, still in shadows, his member nevertheless clearly distinct and hanging like a giant grandfather clock chime from his crotch. He grabbed the shaft in the middle with one hand (his hand did not make it all the way around), the unattached end of the leaden pipe drooping toward the water, and took a piss into the waves.

The girls looked back at me. “Fake?”

I smirked. “Camera tricks.”

Later that evening, for the first time in my life, I was less than proud of my god-given nine inches. It would be nothing but small-vaginaed asian girls for me, from then on.

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