(Hat tip to Superglucose.)

No. No. No. No.

We’ve been over this ad fucking nauseam. This degrading-ass stereotype that men are horny beast manchildren, interested only in food and sex and toys, their entire decision-making process taken over by their dicks, has been debunked fifty thousand times at least. And yet, somehow, like a vampire or a superhero or a Dalek, it refuses to motherfucking die.

I know how absolutely bizarre it seems to you, Daisy Doucheforbrains*, but men are not actually automations controlled by their cocks. Recent scientific research has suggested that, as strange as it seems, men have developed what could be termed primitive “emotions” and may even have the capability to develop strong feelings for people who– get this– are not on their favorite football team.

Seriously, Daisy Doucheforbrains, do you look out your shitcocking window? Because I do! And I will tell you what I see:

I see a socially awkward virgin who has turned down casual sex because he wants his first time to be meaningful.

I see a man who spent most of last night being snuggled by his ex-fuckbuddies while he cried about his ex-girlfriend, whom he still loves, getting a new boyfriend.

I see a guy who had three girlfriends, who all knew each other and wanted to have group sex, and broke up with two of them because he wanted to pursue a monogamous relationship with the third.

And that is literally the people who are in my apartment right now.

Imagine what the rest of the motherfucking cuntsucking cockbreathing world must look like.

Who the fuck even wants a relationship with someone who has to be bribed into having a relationship with them with sex? I mean, what the everloving hell? I would like to think I mean more to my partners than a hyper-advanced Fleshlight. Daisy Doucheforbrains might disagree, but in that case I hate to imagine her relationships:

“Hey, honey, we’re breaking up. I just got this sexbot. Realistic body heat and it moans and writhes and talks dirty and realistically contracts its vagina in orgasm. It has bigger tits than you and it never gets a headache! How cool is that?”

That is not how human fucking relationships work.

I cannot say how sick and tired I am of this objectifying, misandric, sex-negative, slut-shaming idea that relationships are some kind of trade, and sex is the currency of the realm, and how fed the fuck up I am with Daisy Doucheforbrains for spreading this shit.

A guy buys a girl drinks or dinner, and she pays him in pussy. A guy is exclusive with a girl, and she pays him in pussy. A guy makes a romantic gesture, and she pays him in pussy. Marriage is a guy making an investment in a single pussy, which will pay him dividends of sex every month. Growing up and getting a good job is necessary to be able to afford a higher grade of pussy.

This whole system is based on the idea that women don’t like sex and certainly can’t seek it out for its own sake. If a single woman fucks a dude because she likes his strong forearms and soft blue eyes, the entire system tumbles. It’s like if people started paying a hundred bucks for Skittles out of the sheer joy of spending money.

(Bonus rape-culture: if women don’t enjoy sex really, then it is almost impossible to tell if a woman is consenting to sex without asking for explicit consent every two minutes. In the real world, thankfully, women who are enjoying themselves generally make their enjoyment… obvious.)

I don’t know about Daisy Doucheforbrain’s sex life, but I have to say that mine resoundingly disproves this notion. With bruises. And marks. And screams. And occasional waking of the neighbors (sorry, Greg the Long-Suffering!).

Some women– and some men, this is a people thing not a gender thing, are you listening Daisy Doucheforbrains?– don’t like casual sex. You know what? There is an easy thricedamned solution to that. Don’t fucking have casual sex! Don’t suck ’em, don’t fuck ’em and don’t motherfucking chuck ’em. It is not that hard. I spent the first seventeen years of my life not having casual sex, you can do it too.

But don’t run around ruining it for the rest of us by your close-minded and fuckwitted insistence that no women enjoy it, and that we’re all having it as a failed attempt to get TWOO WUV AND RAINBOWS AND BABIES AND SPARKLES FOR EVA AND EVA, and that men are so stupid that they think women are easily replaceable by porn.

Because pornwill not cuddle you at night, and porn will not make you soup when you’re sick, and porn will not remember that cute story with the soap bubbles about you when you were two, and porn will not comfort you when you cry, and porn will not cheer your successes, and porn will not grow old with you, and porn will not give you a single one of the good things in a relationship except the orgasm, which you already fucking knew how to do for yourself anyway unless you’re a pissfool excuse for a wankstain.

Men care about those things too! Men are human fucking beings! I cannot believe, in two-thousand-hellfuckingbound dickdroppings-eleven, that I am explaining this.

Seriously, fuck that shit up the ass with rusty barbed wire and no lube.

How about this?

If I have sex with you, it’s because you get my pussy wet. If I continue to have sex with you, it’s because the sex made me feel good. If I kiss your cheek and hold your hand, it’s because that makes warmfuzzies fill my heart. If I talk with you until four AM when I have classes at 10:30 the next morning, it’s because I enjoy the electricity of intellectual connection sparking between us. If I buy you dinner, it’s because I love seeing the look on your face when you take that first bite of fried chicken. If I steal your comic books, it’s because you have good taste in books.


If you have sex with me, it’s because I get your cock hard or your pussy wet. If you continue to have sex with me, it’s because the sex made you feel good. If you kiss my cheek and hold my hand, it’s because that makes warmfuzzies fill your heart. If you talk with me until four AM when you have classes at 10:30 the next morning, it’s because you enjoy the electricity of intellectual connection sparking between us. If you let me steal your comic books, it’s because you love to watch me laugh and squeal and cry as I read them. If you let me buy you dinner, it’s because you lost your wallet.

Our relationship isn’t a trade, it’s a synthesis. We both get the same thing out of it: we trade sex for sex, support for support, friendship for friendship, love for love. Reciprocity, not barter. Love, not a marketplac.e

*Daisy Doucheforbrains has a real name, but I have decided that this moniker suits her far better.