Caught in the Women's Bathroom

I can do anything.

August 4th, Tuesday, was Day 13. I woke up at noon and began working on my intellectual projects -- you know, my “job.” I texted Stacy goodbye.

This is what I sent her:

“This is embarrassing but I was at the hospital due to testicular cancer, so I apologize if I’m acting melodramatic. I really liked you and want some constructive criticism. You can be harsh or ambiguous, I just hate to be ghosted without understanding why. Am I not your type? Bad date? Ur dating someone else? I think ur a good person and I have nothing against u, it would just help me to have closure to know before you go”

Obviously this was a very gay thing to text her, but my intention was to have something to report back to you, the reader. It did not work. It has been 27 hours, and Stacy has not responded, and she never will. I’m sorry, reader, that I was not able to marry her. I am sorry that I let you all down. I don’t know what I did wrong, because she won’t tell me.

When we were together, she never stopped smiling or apologizing. She admitted that she is a people pleaser. Every time I asked her what she wanted, she said, “whatever you want! :)” Clearly she is a conflict avoidant person, and clearly she is uncomfortable with something I did. Maybe it was the fact that I broke Zeus’ law by stealing someone’s seat in the movie theater. But I have no clue, and she has decided to ghost me. This is despite the fact that she told, and I quote, “that was the best date ever :)” It sickens me to think how people can lie in this way, just to avoid a small amount of discomfort.

When I saw her in person, at the hospital, I felt physically ill, like I was going to throw up and cry. That was partially because I was about to undergo a difficult medical conversation. When it comes to pt1a seminoma, there is no “right answer” to decide between chemotherapy or surveillance -- that’s for me to decide, which is much more stressful than a straightforward medical necessity. I knew I would be getting a bunch of unsolicited advice about this as well, which only contributed to the overwhelm.

And also, 4 hours prior, I had sex with the woman from Fight Club, Brittney. Brittney has curly bleach blonde hair, but otherwise, she has similarly drugged out, washed up, aggressive, cynical, suicidal energy. It was upsetting to be raped by her, to have my one-ball virginity stolen, and to realize that she couldn’t feel me cum inside her.

me and her

That being said, Brittney has been nice to me. She has followed up, instead of ghosting me, and reached out, and she texted me. That’s all I can really ask of Zoomer women these days.

Her dream job is to write for the New Yorker. I could call her arrogant for having that dream, despite doing nothing to achieve it, but I was the same way for many years. I still dream of having 200 super fans, who all show up to a park, and I am the DJ at the DeepLeft Rave. I give an impassioned speech and everyone cheers. Am I getting any closer to that dream? Probably not by writing self-indulgent sex stories and dry political analysis. So how can I blame her for dreaming of writing for the New Yorker?

She tells me: “I hope you had a good time the other day”

I reply: “My surgery scar hurt so I’m self conscious”

I’m not even sure I enjoy sex anymore. I like kissing pretty girls, but sex itself seems disgusting, disjointed, barbaric, violent. Call me gay, but I don’t want to have gay sex either. The act of penetration is only ennobled by the possibility of conception, the formation of new life. Otherwise, I lost my appetite for rolling around in filth, at least for today. Sex is especially degrading when I consider how it is used as a coping mechanism by mentally broken women, and lonely men, so that they can escape their problems… for a moment. TFR of 1.6, BDSM and eating ass. I would rather jack off to erotic fiction about Romeo and Juliette, the purity of teenage love. Today, I value the anticipation of love much more than its consummation.

She says:

“I’m sorryyyy
You have literally nothing to be self conscious about
You were great
What are you doing rn
I got out early soooo I could be ready by 10?”

I try to refuse. “I thought you were dating a very nice man”

She jokes:

“I am
You are”

Sigh.

“I meant the other guy you had sex with lol. I am maybe too soft sensitive innocent and naive to date u. My friend is worried your husband will kill me”

KryptoGal was telling me she thinks I will be killed by Brittney’s Serbian husband, using exclamation marks. What KrypoGal doesn’t understand is that this is reverse psychology. If a woman tells me, “don’t hang out with that woman, her husband might beat you up, and you are so small and weak that you will die!” then I want to take the exact opposite of her advice. I’d rather die than be weak. I am filled with the spiteful confidence that I could murder an entire gang of Serbians, not by weaponry, but through sheer psychic power of will. I am Light Yagumi from Death Note. I hate to be pitied and infantilized. If KryptoGal was KryptoGuy, one of the bros, I wouldn’t be so oppositional and contrarian toward her. But when a woman expresses fear for me, and warns me against some behavior, I have to do it. I cannot stand being longhoused.

I decide to admit to Brittney that I am on a quest:

“Besides that I have asked out 94 women in person since having surgery as part of a quest so i am not in a position to be monogamous or committed
Imagine me being a very smart 12 year old and my thought process makes more sense”

Instead of being offended or shocked, Brittney just asks, “What was your success rate on the post surgery ask out”

“15 numbers, 4 dates”

“Hey not bad
I feel honored to be the first one to take your post op virginity
It was an honor and a pleasure”

I don’t want to have sex with Brittney again, so I try turning her off:

“I feel existentially romantically melodramatic and moralistic in a way I can’t explain, I was already this way but cancer made it more”

And she just doesn’t care: “I think you are all of those things”

I wait an hour, browsing twitter, before deciding that I should just go over her house, and I call her on the phone. I imagine this is how women get raped multiple times. Yes, the sex was unwanted and uncomfortable, however, sometimes it’s better to be raped than to sleep alone. Non-consensual sex might only last for 5 minutes, and then it’s over, and at least you don’t have to deal with the existential terror of being unwanted and abandoned.

I tell her explicitly that I’m gross and bloated and I haven’t brushed my teeth and I was sore after the last time so I’m not able to have sex right now, and she lies and says “it’s ok, we don’t have to have sex”

She tells me her grandmother is gone for two days, so we have the house to ourselves. I mention wanting to take a shower at the gym first, and she says we will take one together at her grandmother’s house... I reveal that actually, I shower with apple cider and lemon juice... She calls me insane and crazy but none of this dissuades her.

I get to her house and we awkwardly shower together, before she realizes nothing is going to happen and she shoves me out. I go into the carpeted stairwell and start stretching out my back, lying on the floor with my legs up on the wall, and she comes out disturbed. Women always do this, constantly performatively acting out “shock” at all the bizarre things I do. But really it’s just a shit test. I tell her that stretching after the shower is completely healthy and normal, so she submits to my regime and comes and stretches with me.

As we’re stretching, she gives me a lecture on pregnancy. I don’t know how we got to this topic, but she’s dripping with resentment and venom for “men who have opinions about pregnancy.” I can tell this woman is going to have a TFR of zero because she claims that if she ever has to give birth, she’s going to be on “all the drugs.”

If someone has already given birth, I don’t mind hearing a lecture from them about how painful it is. They have earned the bragging rights. But when I hear some childless feminist drone on and on about how men will never feel anything as painful as childbirth, and how men are all idiots, and women have it so bad, etc etc, I have to roll my eyes. Instead of responding, I close my eyes and stretch in silence.

It’s amazing how disregard can discipline the brattiness of feminists, because as soon as I stop engaging with her, she softens and tells me about this documentary about natural, painless childbirth. All of her beliefs have changed in a split second, because she never had any beliefs at all to begin with. Every complaint, every ideological system, it’s all just a way to test men and to annoy them, to see if they will react or not. I am completely at peace, outcome-independent, and I do not care about this girl, so she loves me.

She tells me I have nice legs, and I must work out a lot, and I say arrogantly, “I know.” I know that I am beautiful, because I desire to be beautiful, and I manifest my beauty. I lecture her on how people choose to be ugly, because they do not care, and this is a great moral failing. Each living thing as a duty to be as beautiful as possible, to become physically powerful and excellent, and those who neglect this duty have sinned against God and every other living thing, their ancestors, their peers, and their descendants. To be beautiful is to give a gift to the world, and to be ugly is to pollute the world.

I’m surprised that she used to play volleyball in highschool, because she’s so completely out of shape now, despite being relatively skinny. Whereas I have a beautiful anterior pelvic tilt, that makes my ass look huge and plump, she has a posterior pelvic tilt -- not what I think of for volleyball girls. I wonder how much of her posture is a result of genetics, and how much of it is a result of psychology.

this is a fixable problem

I tell her what I would do to her if I was master: I would force her to get a total body sunburn until she was bright pink from head to toe. Sunlight, water, and a healthy diet, this is 99% of curing depression, with 90% of it being the sunlight alone. I tell her about this Seinfeld clip I watched, where Jerry explains that comedy is a product of physical strength and energy, and I draw the conclusion that this is why women aren’t funny: they lack strength and energy. They are too weak. Accordingly, the funniest women are butch lesbians.

She heads downstairs into her bedroom basement, and I head to the bathroom to do 5 minutes of jumping. I’m trying to get all the gas out of my system, and while I’m doing this, she knocks on the door. “What are you doing in here?” I’m jumping. “Jumping...” Yes, I’m jumping, because I’m bloated.

She hugs me and feels me up in the bathroom, and I look in the mirror at the both of us. She is so pale, and I am so tan, like a completely different race. I think about taking pictures together and posting them to Substack, because men keep asking me exactly what these girls look like. But honestly, there are millions of girls in this world and it would not improve the writing at all, it would only detract, to have a visual aid.

There was a moment in the bathroom where I could have had sex with her, but the moment passed and she led me downstairs. As we lie in bed, she briefly touches herself and shows me slime on her fingers. “What is that?” I ask because it seems absurd for her to be this horny without me even having fingered her at all, and she says, unfortunately, “vagina discharged. What, have you never been with a woman before?”

I have been with dozens of women, over the years. I’ve bought girls cranberry medicine for their yeast infections.¹ I have seen a lot of things and done a lot of things. And never, in all my long years, have I ever had a girl use the phrase “vaginal discharge” in my presence.

My estimate of her having an STD is much higher now than it was before, which kills whatever remaining sex drive I might have had. I’m sure if there are any women reading this, they will be ready to educate me on how everyone is different and this is completely normal, so with these voices in my head, I tell her, “you’ll have to educate me, every body is different.” But she claims that every woman has “vagina discharge,” all the time. I must just be a virgin or something.

I’m sorry to gross you out, but I have to report the facts. This is not a journal where I create the idealized fictional scenarios that turn me on or excite me. This is just what happened.

I do not believe that women’s bodies are inherently disgusting, any more than men’s bodies, but some women seem to actively enjoy making me uncomfortable with their aggressive lack of propriety. I will relate one of my favorite short stories to illustrate my point.

I was sitting in a girl’s apartment, who gave me her apartment keys and told me she loved me and wanted to introduce me to all her friends. Supposedly, theoretically, I was an important person in her life, who deserved some modicum of respect and deference. When her friend walked in the apartment, she ignored me as if I didn’t exist, and began reading out an autofictional sex story that a man had written about her. This sex story did not include any real graphic details, but the basic premise was without propriety.

This girl’s name was Samantha, or something -- it doesn’t matter, since I fictionalize all names, but I genuinely can’t remember her name at the moment -- I’m sure it will come to me later. Anyways, the point is, Samantha, if you’re reading this: do you really think it is respectful, when meeting the brand-new boyfriend of your best friend, to waltz in, ignore me, and begin to sexually dominate the room with a story of this “bald loser” who wrote a story about you? No, you are a narcissist, and you are rude. Shame on you — not for being a slut, but for being impolite.

This is what I mean when I say that some women “lack propriety.” They engage in microaggressions against me, shoving in my face these unsightly details about “bald losers” and “vaginal discharge.” Excuse me, but I do not want to hear about these sorts of things. I accept that women have vaginal discharge, and that they sleep with bald losers, but I do not want to hear about it — I barely know you! Forcing these details upon me is a personal attack -- it is their way of passive-aggressively asserting themselves over men. I am at fault for allowing them to do this. In truth, this behavior is intolerable and such women deserve to be ridiculed and humiliated for being silly little narcissists. Have some respect.

Brittney tries to rape me, and I refuse her, reminding her what she said about “we don’t have to have sex.” I tell her, “you’re a little rapist,” and she laughs, “only a little bit!” She knows it’s true. She has lied and deceived me, telling me we didn’t have to have sex, when that is all she really wants. But I am strong this time and I refuse her, and she turns off the lights. Then we spend the next few hours in the dark. I tell her how hard it is for me to sleep with only one pillow and no air conditioning, so she goes and gets me more pillows and a fan, and I am overjoyed.

I am very easy to please. Even the smallest possible amount of care and concern and attention makes me feel like the happiest guy in the world. Pillows and a fan: that is all it takes to make me feel loved. My standards for women ever doing anything for me are rock bottom.

I have no clue what we talk about in the dark, because I am fading in and out of consciousness, simultaneously tired and manic. If I had a phone or computer open right now I’d be scrolling endlessly. But eventually we fall asleep, and she wakes me up at 7am, and then I sleep in till 11am. Finally, she forces me up and tries to rape me again, and this time I refuse her by breaking out into song. I start rapping “Chickity China, the Chinese Chicken” and this absurdity finally turns her off. I am just a silly little guy. I don’t want to have sex with you. I just want to be your friend.

She tells me that the French are the ultimate perverts, and I ask why, and she says, “because they want to have sex with teen girls.” I ask her, “and in what culture do men not want to have sex with teen girls?” This is the part where, if she wasn’t in love with me, she would call me a pedophile, but instead she is forced to tolerate anything and every outrageous thing I say.

She walks around the house in lingerie that leaves her pussy fully exposed, and I feel completely at peace. I think of what it must be like to have a normal testosterone level, and how any other man in my position would be going fuckcrazy right now, and I am just peacefully conversing, relaxed, in my lane, unbothered, flourishing. Meanwhile, there is a hot Brazilian MILF who is constantly texting me today:

“Hi baby
Good morning
Yesterday you disappeared, what happened?
Is everything okay with you??”

Apparently if I don’t text her every 12 hours she gets scared that I’ve abandoned her. What a contrast to this married 23 year old!

I eat Brittney’s leftover cold beef from the fridge for breakfast. I tell her that we could spend the day writing together, and she said, “I thought you didn’t want to have sex.” I said ‘Writing.’ “Oh, I thought you said riding.” What a pervert this woman is. I tell her she needs a harem, a team of football players. I am clearly not the right guy for her... but she tells me “I like you a lot.”

This is the way of the world. If you like a woman, she ghosts you. If you don’t care about a woman, she loves you. The sad part is that I’m not even trying... there’s no redpill game PUA seduction theory here. It’s just happening.

We sit on the couch and I lecture her about depression and victimology. She totally agrees with everything I say:

1. People who complain about being victims are narcissists.

Then I tell her that women who date abusive men, over and over, are subconsciously responsible for their choices. The solution is to take responsibility and look inwardly. Of course separate yourself from the abusive partner, but then examine the problem within yourself, which you can control, rather than blaming other people.

2. And she agrees.

And then, as you might predict, she launches into a repetition of the teary eyed sob story about how her husband beat her, and how she’s been abused by so many men, etc etc, and I realize that this is a human being who is struggling to attain self-awareness and inner consistency.

It’s not because she’s stupid, but because she holds herself to no higher objective standard. In solipsistic subjectivity she can switch in one moment from a Nietzschean clarity to the self-pity she just denounced 5 seconds ago. This is why women are incapable of philosophy, and they are natural slaves.

Of course most men are this way too, so to misogyny, I will add misandry. It is not actually hatred, just realism, acknowledgement, and acceptance. This is how humans are. They willfully and deliberately lie, first and foremost, to themselves. They claim that life is impossible and stacked against them, and that they are blameless victims, and everything is so hard, when, in fact, you can simply just do things. No one can stop you.

With this thought, I look at the clock, and it’s already 12:30pm — today is Day 14! I have to go. “Time for work!” I am my own boss, and I have decided, as the boss, that this woman has occupied enough of my time today, and I now have better and more important things to do. I make the executive decision, grab my things, and run out the door. She cannot stop me, because there is no hesitancy in my voice, no second-guessing, no looking over my shoulder, no wishing that she would stop me. I am done.

I provided her with attention and therapy, so she doesn’t have to be alone. She needs to stop being depressed and hit the gym, which puts her alongside the majority of the American female population. But although that will not happen, she is nice to me, and compliments me, which feeds my ego, so we both benefit.

I head straight for the local library, and when I go to use the men’s room, inside the stall I find a locked door, and under walls of the stall I can see an entire bicycle, or a wheelchair. There is clearly a homeless person who has locked themselves inside here, who is squatting in the library bathroom, probably doing drugs.

I resent the fact that we have allowed our public libraries to be degraded in this way, and I await the day when, perhaps in another universe, in my dreams, the DeepLeft stormtroopers will seize power and send all the homeless people to Nevada, where they can rot for the rest of their lives, fat and sheltered and happy, far away from me.

Unfortunately, this library has no gender neutral bathroom. There are only two options: male and female. Well, if this homeless person is allowed to do drug’s in the men’s room, why can’t I just use the woman’s room? I can do it. No one can stop me, no one will stop me, I am transgender, I will sue you, I have all the power.

I saunter into the woman’s room and I defile it. Not intentionally, not with any malice, but I imagine millions of Charlie Kirk clones screaming out in pain as I dutifully and naturally relieve myself in the woman’s restroom. They can call me a rapist and a murderer and a pedophile, and I do not care, I act according to my nature and the desires of my body. There’s no one in here anyway.

However, as I leave the bathroom stall and begin to wash my hands, a young, ginger, female librarian with problem glasses and a polka-dot skirt and a pearl necklace walks in and locks eyes with me. In the deepest and most authoritarian voice, I tell her, “Excuse me.” She apologizes, turns around, and rushes out of the bathroom. She has been mogged by my powerful presence, and she obeys my orders dutifully.

I run out of the library, cackling at my misdeeds, my violation of the social order. “Now this? THIS is deep leftism,” I thought, deepleftistly.

I walk to the park and sit at a bench and start typing out my story. I think about urinating in public, but there’s a police officer parked across the street, and I’m not quite ready to be arrested and put on the sex offender list -- not yet.

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