Aside from Men Going Their Own Way and others who have sworn off women altogether, the almost-exclusively straight dudes of the manosphere devote an incredible amount of time trying to figure out how to get into the pants of young, hot, “fertile” women in their teens and twenties, and complain bitterly about the terrible injustice they suffer when these women refuse to have sex with them.
And then they turn around and attack women in their thirties for actually wanting to have sex with them – because these women have committed the dastardly crime of having sex with other men when they were younger. In the parlance of
our times the manosphere, this is known as “riding the cock carousel.”
Today we have a lovely example of this latter phenomenon, from prolific manosphere commenter “Deti,” who attacked former “carousel riders” in this rant he left in the comments on The Woman and the Dragon. (There may be lots of equally horrible things in the comments there as well; I haven’t looked. I found Deti’s comment because it was highlighted as a piece of great wisdom on The Private Man, yet another terrible manosphere blog.)
In light of the incalculable damage feminism has done, in light of our society being on the brink of irretrievable and total collapse, I think women need to ask themselves, individually and collectively:
Was it worth it?
Was the cock carousel worth it?
The sex, the occasional orgasms, the attention and validation, the rush, the feelings?
The drunk dancing on tables, the hangovers, the feelings of immediate regret, the knowledge that you’ve just been used as a semen receptacle (for the 14th time)?
We’re off to a rollicking start here. Apparently, table dancing and casual sex (with dudes who aren’t Deti) have brought civilization to its very knees.
Was it worth it?
The ridiculous thoughts to yourself that, no, THIS TIME it will be different. This time I won’t get f**ked over. This time I will get what I want. This time I will save it for a good man, a kind man, the right man — who never shows up.
Did you get what you wanted?
If what they wanted was casual sex with a guy they found attractive, then, uh, yes? (Whether it was good sex is another matter entirely.)
If they were looking for a longer-term relationship, and the guy did indeed turn out to be a jerk or otherwise incompatible, then, uh, no? I’m not quite sure why Deti assumes it’s the woman’s fault if the guy turns out to be Mr. Wrong. (Actually, scratch that: I do know why.)
Did the hot man, the rich man, the sexy man, the alpha, marry you? Did he give you the brass ring of commitment? Did he pledge his life to you? DId he promise to stay around for longer than just until he’s tired of f**king you and putting up with your bulls**t?
Or did you fall (again) for the player’s smooth line that “hey, I think it’s great that a woman like you can have sex with who she wants. That’s only fair. It’s a man’s world, and you should get to partake in it just like we do.”
Yep, that’s right, any man who thinks it’s ok for women to have casual sex with guys they find attractive is clearly an evil, manipulative player. And any woman who believes this is a sucker.
You get out of his bed. You’ve got to get to work this morning. You try to find your panties and put your miniskirt and 4 inch heels on to walk to your car and get an Egg McMuffin and some coffee.
Hey, come on man. Don’t bring the Egg McMuffin into this. Egg McMuffins are delicious.
You add another notch to your lipstick case (one you’ll have to come clean about someday to your therapist or drug counselor or ER doctor, if not your husband). He says “I had a great time. Let’s do it again. There’s some coffee downstairs. Help yourself. I’ve got a lot of things to do today so I need to get going. Sorry I can’t have you stay longer.” You reply weakly: “It’s OK. Call me, OK?” “Sure. You bet I will.”
Desi, worst slashfic writer ever.
LIttle do you know that he just infected you with genital herpes. You’ll find out in a week or so after the incubation period is up and you have festering blisters all over your pubic area. The pain is so excruciating you have to take the day off work, get some treatment at the ER, and stay in bed. You can’t wear panties because the weight of the fabric on the sores is too painful. You can’t walk because the skin on skin friction hurts. Oh well. I’m sure your future husband will understand.
I think we’ve just discovered a new kink: men turned on by the idea of women suffering herpes outbreaks so painful that they have to remove their panties.
In any case, herpes happens. Big deal. It’s a medical condition, not the act of an angry god. Nor is it spread primarily by sleazy players who don’t call women back. According to the CDC, roughly one in six Americans between the ages of 14 and 49 have genital herpes. And, as the CDC notes:
Most individuals infected with HSV-1 or HSV-2 experience either no symptoms or have very mild symptoms that go unnoticed or are mistaken for another skin condition. Because of this, most people infected with HSV-2 are not aware of their infection.
Back to Detiland:
Tell me: does it occur to you that you did it again? Does it occur to you that you’ve f**ked up yet again? Are you getting it yet that the guy who blasted another load on your chest or in your hair last night has no intention of returning the texts you send him, unless it involves an encore performance?
I’m guessing that most women probably aren’t that interested in having any sort of ongoing relationship with a dude who “blasted a load” in their hair on the first date.
Does it dawn on you that maybe what you’re doing isn’t working and maybe you need to try something else? Does it dawn on you that the only things you really got out of last night were a couple of bottles of beer and bragging rights?
And sex, which may have been good or bad. Which is pretty much what the guy got.
It’s 6:45 am on a Sunday morning. You stumble through yet another Walk of Shame across the quad back to your apartment, with your hair and clothes reeking of Aqua Net and stale cigarettes and Old Style and semen.
Like I said: Worst slashfic writer ever.
You pray to God above that you don’t see any of your friends. He smiles on you and today, you are spared the agony of your good friends observing you in all your disheveled, deflowered ignominy. But you see mirror images. You pass by other girls in miniskirts and heels, some of whom lost their bras last night and couldn’t find them. You see other men on their way home, some of whom are hungover, some of whom have little smiles on their faces. You exchange knowing glances with both the men and the women, some of whom you kind of know, others you don’t — but the looks are the same.
“I know what you did last night”.
“I know WHO you did last night.”
Um, no, I’m thinking that most of those who see women walking across the quad on a Sunday don’t actually know who they had sex with, if anyone.
“That sex sucked. But he was hot.”
So again, if a man is crap in bed, women are to blame for not guessing this beforehand?
“I’m never doing this again.”
So as you get home, exhale a breath, disrobe and try to wash the stench from the oddly arousing yet horribly convicting things you did and you allowed another human being to do to you, on you and in you, do you ask:
Is this worth it?
I have a question of my own here: WTF is a “horribly convicting thing?”
Do you have anything more to show for your life than N>10, an STD, recurrent UTIs and probably an abortion in there somewhere?
If you assume that women are defined entirely by the bad casual sex they’ve had, then I guess the answer is “not much.” If you assume that women are actual human beings, like men, free to live the sexual life they want but not defined entirely by it, then I’m guessing the answer is yes.
Manosphere dudes complain (bitterly) when their critics describe them as dudes bitter because they can’t get sex. It’s hard not to describe them as such when they talk about this shit endlessly, and bitterly, on their blogs.