Addicted to Vibes: Darcy, the depressed asian sex addict.
Undercover Fake-Therapist: the goal of a fake therapist is to get fake clients.
I have decided to become a sex blogger.
No, you do not need to have sex to be a sex blogger. This is 2025. Sexuality is best expressed by talking about sex, not by having it. Get with the times, old man.
Instead of having sex, I will be interviewing women about their sex lives.
Today’s interview is with “depressed Asian woman” (DAW, we’ll call her Darcy).
Within a few minutes of introduction, without any prompting on my part, Darcy is sending me pictures of her ass in that “phone over the shoulder” shot that Zoomers seem so fond of. Her face is buried in a pillow, while she arches her back. The thong is really doing the work on the angles here.
She tells me she is hung over from staying up late last night drinking, and she just woke up (the time is 8:57am). I ask her for pictures of her face, and she politely excuses herself to take a shower and put on makeup.
So far, I am dealing with an exceptionally compliant and polite woman. She self describes as “an OnlyFans model who doesn’t get paid.” But she is getting paid. She is getting paid in my attention toward her.
She sends me an old picture of her face, making a surprised “O” shape with her mouth, with cum dripping down her chin. I ask her,
“Is this a post-blowjob pic?”
She responds,
Perhaps lol
Why
Is that like a problem?
I send her a long spiel about how I am not here to judge her, I am just curious, because in all my long years, this has never happened to me. A woman has never sent me this particular picture at this particular point in the conversation. You think you’ve seen it all, and then someone switches up the game. The ride never ends.
This is a woman who wants to be humiliated, and she wants to be humiliated pathologically, and quickly. She needs the Amazon one-day delivery of sexual humiliation. She needs German efficiency in concentrated orgy-camps, Kommandanten who keep the boots on during sex. She needs Chinese bridge builders spam-building Chinese sex camps in the Minecraft world editor. But in these camps, burly Turkic Muslim men are the ones cucking and impregnating the Han women.
She complains about how the OnlyFans market is “super saturated” with celebrity micro-influencers, making it a dead-end for amateurs and beginners.1 She worries about “getting caught” and ruining her future career prospects. But what she is really afraid of is getting rejected. If the men are paying her money, then they don’t really love her; they’re just using her. It breaks the illusion of affection that she craves.
She tells me she’s lost count of her sexual partners, but it’s over 50. The majority of the guys came after a breakup. Hoe-phase, stable relationship, breakup, hoe-phase. This is the cycle of craving affection.
She is insistent,
I swear I’m clean and I don’t do porn
She really doesn’t want me to reject her. She really doesn’t want me to think she is an ugly, disgusting, worthless whore. I feel bad for her.
The sex cycle began slowly when she was 16, with serious boyfriends. She went to college with a body count of 3, which quickly escalated past 10 with a few parties.
Her next breakup doubled that into the 20s.
Then, after breaking up with the man she described as “basically perfect” after dating for 2 years, she jumped from the 20s to the 50s.
It just kind of happened
To be honest, I’m not actively looking.
It’s just some weeks I’ll match with a bunch of guys and they’ll all be free and I’m, you know, doing five a week and then sometimes it’s only two a week or one every other week. So it kind of fluctuates. But yeah, I get around, but I also am smart about it, use protection and stuff. So yeah.
I have been asking Darcy all of these extremely intrusive questions about her sex life, and her deep ancestral intuition begins to worry that she is some guinea pig in a blog post authored by a fake-therapist. But this ancestral wisdom cannot penetrate her conscious mind, so she merely gets “a weird vibe,” and asks me,
What’s a cute guy like yourself exactly, um, looking for outta this?
Now it’s Darcy’s turn to interview me. I begin to share intimate details of my personal life to show her that I too can be vulnerable. This isn’t traditional therapy, this is some kind of kamikaze double-edged group-therapy where you begin working through your problems with sex addicted Asian women that you met five minutes ago.
Addicted to the Vibes
Darcy is a Zoomer, signaled by her excessive use of the word “vibes.” I am beginning to wonder if the term “vibes” is some kind of compensatory extremism on the part of autistic women. Vibration has to do with the physical air, the water, and the Earth. To feel vibrations you must be connected to physical space. But most people live on a 3rd floor apartment building where the only “vibes” come from the faint buzz of the central AC unit pushing cold air through the vents in the ceiling.
I call this “the Hippie-Yuppie singularity,” where the Hippie culture of the 1960s fused with the Yuppie culture of the 1980s to become the Zoomer culture of the 2020s. Boomer dad, Gen X mom, Hippie + Yuppie = Zoomer. The term “vibes” is an echo of the Beach Boys, Cool Vibrations, but it has become so overused that the term itself is just a series of endless echoes running down an unending corridor in the backrooms. Uncanny. The vibes are off.
I see. So, what I’m hearing is… I’m like entertainment for you. No, you’re all good. *laughs* I won’t judge. I was just curious… I’m just here, you know, just yapping at this point.
I reassure Darcy that the vibes are on, and we continue.
Darcy regrets losing her virginity to a hookup. She wanted it to be special. But she also is a “firm believer that everything happens for a reason.”
She wonders if I’m related to another white guy who shares my fake last name, “and similar voice tones.” Nope. All white guys sound alike, apparently. We’re all one big happy family here in the white race.
Satire is Dirtier than Sodomy
Darcy is still anxious about my intentions. She needs assurance that I accept her and that she is good enough for me.
I saw that you mentioned “hooking up” *vocal fry peaks*… Is that like what your intentions are? I’m just trying to get, like, an idea here.
No Darcy, my intentions are to cut deep into your heart with my scalpel and pull out your organs and display them to my audience like I am a medical professor in the morgue showing all the students how to remove the liver and the kidney. You donated your body to science and you didn’t even know it. This violates all professional norms and ethical standards. This is what Doctor Mengele would do to the Jews, if Doctor Mengele were a fake-therapist. Your most private, personal thoughts are being put on display — to your hypothetical horror, and to the actual horror of anyone who stumbles upon this plastic bag of guts.
I’ve always hated dissection. It’s my most superstitious and anti-scientific attitude. I refuse to dissect the frog. I’ll skin a deer to eat it, but I don’t want to dissect the frog. It smells terrible. I wrote an essay instead. I was a conscientious objector. For some reason, I cannot stomach the act of physically violating a frog’s bodily dignity, but I more easily violate the soul.
There is something rape-like about violating someone’s privacy. But it is even lower than rape, because at least rape contains some kind of force, courage, risk, violence, or vital energy. What I am doing is low-risk and merely scummy.
In the legal world, the privacy of clients is protected by “attorney-client privilege.” Even the most corrupt lawyers stay true to that law. In the therapy world, privacy is protected by “confidentiality.” If Darcy finds out I wrote this essay and reports me to the Board of American Fake-Psychiatry, I could lose my fake-license. While the real-life stakes are low, the fake-stakes are quite high.
But Darcy doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know that I am a fake-therapist with a fake name tearing out her guts and awkwardly displaying them for the supposed entertainment of the audience.2
She thinks I am trying to have sex with her.
In some strange way, it would be more respectful for me to hit Darcy across the face, spit on her, and sodomize her — because that’s what she wants — than for me to coldly upload the contents of her life to the internet. She wants a personal connection, not a public shaming. But there’s nothing on the line here. Darcy is a made-up name, and there are thousands of girls like her, scattered across college campuses in all 50 states.
I tell Darcy that I’m a very busy fake-businessman (little does she know I am actually a fake-therapist) and I do not have time to visit her to slap, spit, and sodomize. I travel frequently for fake-business.
She is apologetic for presuming that I was trying to have sex with her, and calls me “dude” to diffuse the tension. “Dude” is something that neurotic Asian women call the white men that they worship when they want to downplay their obsequious codependence. We’re just two dudes, two bros, just hanging out. It’s all good vibes.
I just wanna make sure we’re on, like, the same page, but yeah, I’m not trying to label anything. I just wanna make sure, like, one us wasn’t expecting anything more or less.
She wants equality. This is the purest expression of feminism: a desperate and ravenous call for male attention, masked behind a shallow and superficial demeanor of androgyny and gender equality.
I am a feminist.
I joke around with Darcy, using my Boomer humor, in all-caps,
“DARCY, MY EXPECTATION IS THAT WE MARRY AT ONCE.”
Haha stop lollll
[four “l”s signals her approval of my joke, which helps diffuse the tension caused by the brief exposure of her deepest vulnerabilities. She is grateful that I am participating in the emotional diffusion ritual]
I ask her if she likes anal.
Um, do I have like “anal queen” like written in like ink that only men can see?!… because like every guy always ends up asking me *laughing, coughing* if I’ll let them… fuck my ass…
I tell her she has an “anal attitude,” which is true. The desire for punishment. For abuse. To be torn apart and ruined. To have her back broken. Combined with a deep knowledge and almost religious reverence of porn culture. You haven’t tried anal? What a philistine! Every truly open-minded taboo-breaker has tried anal… Aren’t you a little bit curious? Perhaps this particularly brutal sex act is the key to finally achieving the emotional catharsis you seek, freeing your soul from the eternal torment of loneliness and fear.
She lists her deepest darkest desires:
Spanking, face slapping, choking, hair pulling, being tied up, anal, edging, throat fucking, public stuff, spitting swallowing, handcuffs, blindfolds. Someone getting excited, lol? I don’t do threesomes, I would fight a bitch if she tried stealing the dick.
[here Darcy objectifies the male genitalia, the dick, trying to assert her ability to be masculine, to fight a bitch, in order to counter-balance her explicit desire for enslavement, to maintain respectable feminist androgyny. The frame must be maintained, lest the mask slip and the total helplessness of the submissive woman be revealed (alongside her inability to consent — because how could such an infantile, self-punishing mind be said to be equipped or capable of informed, rational decision making?)]
Putting my trust entirely in another person gets me off
I ask her bluntly and abruptly:
“Are you adopted?”
Um yea
How’d u know jeez
R u like psychic 💀
No Darcy: I am not psychic. You are Asian and mentally ill, so of course you are adopted. You have developed an Oedipal Complex for your white father (sociological, not genetic) and you are projecting that onto my penis. By having sex with 50 white men and submitting yourself to them completely, you will finally overcome the emotional distance you feel between yourself and your white father.
“Have you ever fetishized the idea of race?”
No but I’ve had guys def do that to me lol. Told me I was born to serve their big *race* cock lol. Mostly white guys. Lots of em say stuff abt me being Asian
Haha um idk it’s not my fave tbh
Makes me feel idk just weird
The underlying theme of racial humiliation is obvious, but bringing it into the conscious mind ruins the fantasy.
Darcy has a nasally voice. She sends me a close-up picture of her C-cup breasts, nearly falling out of a low-cut tank-top. These aren’t rounded orange-shaped breasts, but torpedo watermelon-shaped ones, which could easily fall out with the slightest adjustment. I applaud her fashion choice, and she dutifully replies,
It’s just a shirt, not intentionally tryna do anything babes
Then she sends me another unsolicited ass picture. The same over-the-shoulder Zoomer angle. I do not appreciate this.
The female form should be dignified, standing, like a Greek statue. But I cannot express these constructive criticisms. They would be lost on Darcy, and be taken as insults. And they wouldn’t help her achieve her goal, which is appealing to Zoomer men who love seeing women degrade themselves and bow down before them.
This is because Zoomer men are anti-feminists. I am a male feminist, and I want to see women standing tall, proud, and confident. Darcy’s submissiveness isn’t attractive to me. There’s nothing to be conquered. I desire the hunt, and she has given me a can of spam, for free. Her terms of diminution, like “the cock,” “dude,” “babes,” do not create the gendered friction necessary for the erotic struggle. These little feminist slights cannot compensate for her crippling social anxiety, chronic alcoholism, and desperate need for attention. She is a small, short, weak woman, and I pity her.
I try to subtly imply that Darcy should model her ass in a more dignified way, but the signal is too subtle, too weak, and she immediately floods me with dozens of videos of her riding dildos with butt plugs in her ass, and getting fucked by men who I presume are either deeply-loved long-term boyfriends or random hookups. The videos are formulaic, unathletic, and uninspiring. She is not a true artist like me. She would never make it into the top 1% of creators on OnlyFans, and she knows it.3
Sex, for her, is not an Olympian art, but a form of real-therapy (not the fake kind that I offer), used frequently in conjunction with drugs and alcohol. Biological, emotionally, is there any difference between sobbing, crying and having an orgasm, besides the activation of the tear ducts? They are both shuddering shockwaves sent through the body. Vibes. She is addicted to the vibes.
I try to gently explain to Darcy that this flood of hardcore content, given freely without resistance, is not desirable. I explicitly tell her,
“I am not saying you are ugly or repulsive. I’m not criticizing you, but I’ll say my particular fetish is teasing.”
Oh, like humiliation?
She doesn’t get it.
“No, I don’t want to be humiliated. I’m not rejecting you, but I’m saying that the build-up of non-nude eroticism is much more interesting and powerful.”
I’m lost lol
Were they not what you were expecting?
Or like, not good enough?
I am genuinely saddened. This is the death of the 80s strip tease, encapsulated into a single crazy Asian woman.
Women are forgetting What Men Want
It is said, frequently and often, by both men and women, that men do not really understand female sexuality. This is not true. Men understand it very well; most men are simply incompetent or do not care about pleasing women.
For example, a huge percentage of women enjoy being tied up. If men really wanted to please women, they’d go out and buy some handcuffs and ropes — but we all know that this is a fairly rare activity, in relative terms. Let’s say 50% of guys drive up to the hookup with condoms in their pockets — what but percentage bring ropes and handcuffs? 1%? Maybe 10%? It’s not a problem of knowledge — it’s apathy. Men don’t care about the women they hookup with (they don’t even really care about themselves).
So yes, men understand women. They just are weak, lazy, and apathetic, and so the median dickings they provide are mediocre in quality. But the opposite isn’t true.
Women, increasingly, do not understand men. And I think this is because women are becoming “autistic,” that is, severed from their female intuition and instincts, as women become more and more alienated from their own bodies by birth control and box-checking.
They don’t understand that men enjoy the chase and pursuit of sex more than the orgasm at the end, which is enervating, depressing, and gross. They don’t understand their own power. They’ve been trained to misunderstand male sexuality by a monstrous algorithm: supply nudes, accepted. Restrict nudes, rejected.
100s of men a month, or maybe even every week, are hitting her up in the DMs, asking for nudes. If she gives nudes, they say, “WOW QUEEN GORGEOUS TITS FUCKING HOT.” If she says she’s not comfortable, they say, “FUCK YOU AND DIE UGLY BITCH.”
This is a slight exaggeration, but it is directionally true. There is an army of nude-gatherers who are rudely harassing women for nudes. And over time, this onslaught conditions emotionally stunted women into thinking that what men want is instant gratification. No! No! What a horrifying, ignorant tragedy!
Ahh okok I see u want me to like tease u then?
U want more like subtle flirty texts rather than nudes?
I’m srry I misread the vibes ig haha my b
Darcy’s Anxiety
I ask her about her anxiety disorder, which she medicates with alcohol, sex, and drugs.
This is gonna sound really weird, but… I have a fear of… heavy wind. So whenever I’m outside and it starts to get windy, I could be in my yard, I could be walking to my car, I could be sitting in my room. If the fan’s too high, I get anxious.
I think it’s cus we used to have a cabin in the middle of literally nowhere in [state], and one time there was a really bad storm there, like a tornado, passing through and… I don’t know. It freaked me out as a kid. So now… I have that. I don’t know, I’m afraid of shit blowing away, I guess.
The other part, I guess somewhat more understandable, but also looks stupid, is sometimes if I’m near a group of men and I’m by myself or I even could be with my friends, but I could be at the gym and near the free weight section or on the stairmaster and if a group of men are working out near me, like, I don’t know if it’s a pheromone thing, but I get anxious.
They literally could be minding their own business, literally not looking my way, and I’ll be like, “oh my God, they could like, rape me. Same thing if I’m out drinking or something, and like, I don’t know, I’m walking to the bathroom or going to get a drink or playing darts or something, I get nervous, like I don’t know, that something’s gonna happen. Even though, again, they could just be minding their business and trying to have a good time. I just get nervous.
Darcy asks me if I have crippling anxiety about anything, and I tell her that I have 60 drafts of Substack essays which are unfinished, which have been growing in size, up from 10 to 20 to 30 to 40 to 50 over the past year, and with each passing month, the rate of growth seems to increase, so that I will never be done, I will never be finished, I will never “make it,” I will never publish the “final essay,” I will die knowing that the work was never complete, I never accomplished my goal, I failed…
But I don’t actually tell her that. I tell her I have 60 very important money making projects in my fake-business, which is very real and serious. She respects this illusion of competence I have created.
My First Fake Business
I started learning fake-business in elementary school. I was in detention, being forced to write the same sentence over and over, when the principal came over and asked what I was doing sitting outside in the hallway.
I told him a marvelous story about how I was actually advanced, far past my classmates, and the teacher told me I had to continue my studies independent, uninterrupted by the mediocrity of the masses.
I spun a tale of how I created my own curriculum, and how I was teaching myself the secret of the true American history; how the Native Americans were the heroes and the pilgrims were the villains; how the Christians were evil and the pagans were good; how everything was good before the white man came; and people lived in peace and harmony with nature. He smiled and respected my adroit lying, because I knew how to lie in a way that flattered the manners and politics of the times.
What exactly do you do, if you don’t mind me asking? I feel like you’d do something white collar, like marketing, or maybe, I don’t know, law related maybe?
“Yeah, it’s basically financial data related to public policy.”
I compliment Darcy’s boobs a few more times, and we talk about many other degenerate but repetitive things. Once you’ve had this conversation with a woman 1,000 times, you’ve had it 1,000 times. It’s very entertaining to a sex-addict and a fake-therapist, but I wonder how many times you can read an unsexy dialogue between two broken people about the Pornhub fetish categories before they throw up their hands in disgust and hit the unsubscribe button.
Darcy’s Life Story
Anyway, I bring the conversation back into focus, which is on Darcy’s deep seated issues stemming from her dislocation as an Asian orphan, her identity as a refugee and a displaced person, a failed abortion, an unwanted child, rejected at birth, never really fitting into her family, always being the black sheep, the odd one out, never being white enough. But I do it tactfully and gently.
“What was the best relationship of your life?
Jeez dude we r getting deep here in the chat 💀
But once she is finished with her pseudo-masculine dude-bro caveat, buttressing her vulnerability, she launches into her life story:
My best relationship with a person was my mom’s mom, just because we had a lot in common, like spiritually, and politically, I guess, compared to the rest of my family. She was really into nature and so am I. I get a lot of my core values and philosophy and philosophical mindset from her, and she was a big inspiration in my life, and why I’m going into the field that I am. She’s gone now. She passed away when I was 16, but yeah.
Best partner relationship was probably the last one I was in. Um, it was like, I don’t know… He was like literally perfect and I’m still not fully over it to be honest. We still talk, but, it was my longest, most healthy, stable relationship. It just ended because we couldn’t keep doing the distance. He goes down to school at [school] and we both started wanting to do different things… I started going out and partying. He wanted to stay in more. We just started slowly drifting away.
But on pen and paper he was like perfect, like everything I physically and emotionally needed from a partner. I mean, there were times when he would like, overanalyze stuff, and hit the panic button, and I needed him to be more… not manly, but stronger of a rock as a partner. But other than that, like legit perfection. It’s just, the relationship got stale and boring and… I don’t know.
But he was like legit perfect, like same life goals… He was so funny and laid back and chill, like compared to all my exes. I miss him and I miss that relationship. But, you know, it’s whatever.
Lack of communication led to our downfall, because it led to assumptions and arguments.
During the relationship, we’d have these serious talks or arguments, and I always felt like the villain, and he took the victim role, and he was very emotional, and that’s fine. I’m not saying like, you know… I loved the fact that he was vulnerable, you know. It’s just sometimes, he would narrowly focus on the minor things when I’m a big picture person and I don’t wanna bring it up and, I don’t know, I guess I’m scared. I want him to be happy regardless.
I know it sounds bad, but I’ve been doing shit to fill the void. So I still get attention. Lately it’s been sucking ass. Not gunna lie, I feel like I’m being used. So I don’t know if that’s why I feel the need to go back to my ex because I feel like, “oh shit, there’s nothing better out there.”
I’m not thriving. Hooking up is fun at first, I like the speed of it, but sometimes I… lowkey, it makes me question my morals, doing some of this stuff for guys. I miss the consistency.
Sometimes with the constant nude requests or even just hooking up casually, it just makes me wonder if I’m too easy. Like I’m settling. Makes me feel like a sex worker minus the money.
“Maybe the self-worth you are looking for externally needs to be found internally.”
wdym?
I don’t know, Darcy. That’s just something fake-therapists say. “Maybe the real orgasm was the self-acceptance you were seeking all along.”
It’s 4:26am and I’ve left Darcy on read.
This is the plight of the fake-therapist. You try to solve the problems of broken people, and in trying to empathize with them, you find yourself seduced and join them in the same pit of despair. You gesture tritely into the distance, saying, “hey, don’t worry, there’s a ladder over there,” and they say, “where?” and you disappear into the darkness to be alone, realizing your folly, abandoning the game.
Instead of helping her, I plastered her pain on the bathroom stall.
That’s fake-therapy for you. Whether the clients are helped or not is not the point. The goal of a fake therapist is to get fake clients. Mission success.4
P.S. After writing this, I messaged Darcy, responding to her “wdym?” with two words: “self-acceptance.” Her response? “Ehhhh who knows. I’m just trying to have fun while I’m young still at this point.”
The American dream is dead!
If this essay does not get 20 likes, that means all the evil I have committed today has been for naught; my reputation ruined alongside Darcy’s, in vain! Out of respect for Darcy, you should probably hit the like button — like casting a flower upon the grave of her privacy. But if this essay gets too much positive feedback, then I will stop writing about politics entirely and dedicate my life to providing low-stakes fake-therapy to deranged women for the entertainment of strangers on the internet. So if you do like the essay out of respect to Darcy, make sure to also leave a comment telling me that I am a horrible person. All things in balance.
In addition to providing fake-therapy, I am also offering OnlyFans consulting services. All you have to do is agree to a public interview with me. My marketing strategy is all about a post-post-ironic inversion of Belle Delphine, where customers are attracted to the “new sincerity” of the woman they are paying for nudes. They will jack off to pre-recorded therapy sessions where we go over the darkest moments of the model’s life, while she wears sexy lingerie, and strip every time we have to pause the interview for bouts of crying. Fans will come to deeply empathize with her pain and childhood trauma, while at the same time jacking off to her tasteful and uniquely artistic porn videos. It will be a Gesamtkunstwerk of paradigm shifting proportions. I am the new Andy Warhol of porn. Kanye West is an amateur and a poser. Ladies, DM me for more info. You will not only be rich, but you will be the most prestigious pornstar of all time.
Repulsive article. Remarkably sinful and base. Your soul is more depraved and corrupted than the poor girl you're humiliating.
Haters always lose, in the end