FIFTY SHADES OF MISANDRY

Hello Clitty! Female masturbation even has its own cute mascot.

by Andy Nowicki

As an author, I faithfully go wherever my flighty and unpredictable Muse leads me. This dedication to my ever-evolving, often elusive source of inspiration has led me down a winding and torturous path, lined with copious clusters of thorns, nettles, and poison ivy. It has most certainly not, thus far, brought me widespread recognition, fortune, fame, or glory. Yet I trust my Muse just the same, because really, when it comes to creative stimulation, who or what else do I have? Without her, I’m nothing.

I will not spill too much ink here investigating the identity, orientation, or overall reliability of the Muse, nor even exploring the question of whether she dwells within, capriciously stirring my consciousness when she feels the inexplicable urge (but always on her own terms) or if in fact she is a separate entity entirely, one who hovers above me, flitting about and occasionally whispering mischievous notions in my ear before withdrawing with a girlish giggle, darting away to a cleverly chosen hiding spot and teasingly mocking my efforts to find her again. Suffice to say that she moves in mysterious, and at times infuriating, ways. In the last couple of years, however, the Muse has proven to be a faithful helpmeet; she has sung to me freely, and I have translated her music into numerous works, some that I have managed to publish and others that have yet to find a suitable suitor.

FAP, DON'T FORNICATE

by Andy Nowicki

Apparently there’s been a thing much discussed on some manosphere sites lately, known as the “no fap challenge.” The animating conviction behind this campaign appears to be, put succinctly, that wanking is for wankers.

Satisfying oneself by one’s own hand causes one to lose needful ambition, it is asserted; spanking the monkey monkies with one’s manly vigor; jacking off jacks with one’s sense of proper determination and resolve; flogging one’s log saps a man of juice, leaving him a mere sap, devoid of substance. For the chronic masturbator, perpetual satiation leads to inescapable lethargy, which in turn keeps him mired in his loserific habits, stuck in a vicious cycle of interminable solitary self-loathing when he should be out slaying fierce dragons, rescuing foxy princesses, and otherwise getting busy.

STIHIE: JIZZBERG vs. FATBERG

Typical New Yorkers

"They call it a 'jizzberg' because the active ingredient is human semen," said Anton Jones, lead engineer on the repair project. "It's miles and miles of ejaculate, kleenex, lotion, and torn up love poetry blocking the pipes, which causes a backup when it rains hard."

Masturbation is inversely related to human fertility, so this report that New York's sewers are being clogged by a "jizzberg the length of Long Island" should ring alarm bells about the survival prospects of modern urban Western man – just as London's notorious fatberg, which has a more established news pedigree, should raise concern about the dietary habits of sedentary Londoners.

But while London's Fatberg is merely grotesque, nothing captures the moral depravity and existential horror of what the West has become as successfully as jizzberg, a giant globule of clotted-up cum blocking up the rat-infested sewers of "the city that never sleeps." This is what modernity represents – the coagulation of humanity, all races, all sexual practices – those involving males, anyway – in one undifferentiated amoral, stomach-churning mass. Even if this story turns out to be part of the "bullshitberg" of the internet, it is nevertheless a perfect symbol of our modern world.

BE A WANKER, NOT A FUCKER

The following passage is taken from Andy's new intellectual autobiography/philosophical treatise, Confessions of a Would-Be Wanker, now available for purchase.

by Andy Nowicki

But what does the pitifully slobbering soul do when deprived of God’s much-wanted and much-needed blessing, for reasons which remain forever unclear? How, under such tragic and abysmal circumstances, can a man really be expected to refrain from indulging in a pastime which brings a kind of peace to his weary soul? Masturbation is a sad and pitiful act, but then God-forsaken man is a sad and pitiful creature, and indulgence in such an act can in some way be seen as entirely worthy of just such a being.

MASTURBATION AND MISANDRY

What's sauce for the goose
is probably porn for the gander

by Andy Nowicki

In a prior article posted at Alternative Right and afterwards republished at another *site*, I discussed what I felt to be the misandric double standards which adhere to contemporary writers of erotic-themed literature who happen to be phallically-afflicted; that is, male. In short, women who write explicit sex scenes are applauded for not being repressed – you go, girl! — while men who do the same are looked at askance as queasy perverts, creepy stalkers, and likely rapists. It is part of a general cultural Zeitgeist-sponsored trend which promotes obstreperous expressions of female sexuality as good and proper exercises in ‘sex-positivity’ and ‘empowerment’, while denigrating male arousal as something altogether icky and gross.