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AC_Wright 58F
83 posts
7/25/2014 12:51 am
Good-Bye to VladVampirelord

The original version of this, which is a comment attached to the last note, was too much to just leave where it was—especially after having banned Vladdy-Laddy from posting further comments to my blog.

In a sense, you could call this post a part of the "horrible mistakes men make that should be avoided" series filed under the category of "expressing bitterness at women who want nothing to do with you." I think that will be a separate installment at some point, perhaps after I dispose of "desperation."

Remember, if you like how I write, I publish a series of stories on Amazon called "Black Tickets: The Memoir of His Slave."

This is the original with a few adenda that I went over last time.

Away we go...

@vladvampirelord.

Let us take stock for a moment.

Yesterday, I wrote a long blog entry on what men do wrong when contacting women on alt and gave examples. Your response to this was to post a comment within which you wrote a scenario within which you penetrate me in the woods while I grasp an old tree trunk, "offering up my erotic treasures to you in the darkness."

After that, you follow up with further miscellaneous verbiage in which you delve further into epic fantasy by imagining that after I block you forever, you will somehow live on in my dreams, where you, a trite vampire fantasist loser, will be known to me because you are standing around (presumeably surrounded by pointing, staring teenagers in a sweaty-smelling goth club) as a bloated, middle-aged creep dressed cap a pe in black plether, with "blood" (by which I can only imagine you mean corn syrup with red food coloring in it) on his lips.

Now, I know sexual assault when I see it. You've read my blog posts. You know I am in a happy, monogamous relationship and that I am not looking for anyone and, even if I were, I would certainly not look for you or anything like you and yet you send me a description of what you want to do to me.

Let me be clear if not concise: a short, crusty dildo and a crumpled magazine photo of Woody Allen would be more likely to excite me than you ever could be.

If a massive, terrible plague struck down every man on earth but you while every woman on the planet, including me, suffered and groaned from the constant onslaught of Spanish-Fly overdose symptoms, and you wanted me to the point of pain, you would find that I had cut my hair short, donned a motorcycle jacket and become a ravening Lesbian because, as before, a crusty dildo and a picture of Woody Allen would stand me in good stead as a far better man than you are—even if you were the only living man on earth.

God would have to come down from heaven and rearrange ALL OF REALITY AT THE ATOMIC LEVEL THROUGHOUT THE UNIVERSE before I could ever find you attractive.

Why is that?

Well, you're you (see above and below) and becuase your message is the equivalent of an obscene phone call—complete with heavy breathing, descriptions that amount to threats—the pathetic assumption on the speaker's part that the r*pe he describes will turn into blissful acquiescence as his manly magnetism overwhelms the woman's resistance (and in your case, disgust). etc, etc, blah, blah, blah. In the movies, the guy who thinks the way you do usually ends up shoved off of a building by the heroine at the end.

Sexual assault, psychologists tell us, is never a question of love or lust but one of power. You want to have power over me, by making me imagine your imagery (and, yes, the thought of sex with you is every bit as repulsive as full-color close-ups of parasitic diseases) and being upset about it. You want me to do the equivalent of screaming and writhing as you thrust home your ill-punctuated paragraphs.

Sorry, Vladdy-Laddy. I'm not a teenaged girl and your mental three inches don't impress me. You are nothing new to me: I've seen nasty old men with odd-stares and filthy, buttonless raincoats before.

This is how upset I was after I read your response last night. I stopped in the middle of this to write this whole story before going on with this response to you.

Mister Singh

I took a cab home. It was driven by an aged Sikh who was old enough to be my father, his head wrapped in a huge, turban of smooth beige cloth. His eyes were soft and beautiful, as close to black as made no difference, his face betraying no signs of age save for a small furrowing around the lower-lids and that his full beard was all but innocent of color—white in a way we associate with Santa Claus.

He was so polite as he drove me home, calling me "ma'am" driving competently and calmly through the streetlit streets. I felt a sense of well-being as I thought of the Sikhs and all their strangeness: a warrior religion where every man lives caparisoned for war; where each is required to never cut his hair or beard so that the turban and hair form a helmet and to always wear a bracelet on the left wrist that is a symbol for a shield and, among the most orthodox within the religion, to carry at the very least, a small dagger. The Sikhs non-spiritual side is so beautifully warlike that the Indian Air Force designed a pilot's helmet made to fit over a turban...

I settled back into the seat and thought about Alan Ginsberg: "dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix..." Ginsberg was a great poet. Ginsberg was a strange little man.

I luxuriated in the warm safety of the old man's presence and there was something "meta" about him that made being driven by him more than just a cab ride and transformed it into one of those rides you can only have in New York when you cab it all the time and can open yourself to the understanding that the cab driver is more than an automaton who brings you to another place. He made me understand how we all work even when we work for very litlte in distant lands.

He stopped in front of the fire hydrant in front of the building where I live. The fare was five dollars and fifty cents. I handed him a ten and asked for three back to make it the customary seven. When he turned back to me and smiled, I thought of how the night had gone. How my work had gone. What I had seen that night. He handed me my three singles and I felt good about him and I knew it was sad that I would never see him again. Did he have ? Grandchildren? Had he ever served in an army? Fought in a war?

I was never going to know.

I was about to get out of the cab and I was especially short of money, but he'd given me so much—such incredible things just by being who he was, by being THE cabdriver he was who took me to my home the way he did—that money didn't matter.

I handed him back the last three of the ten and he thanked me profusely, saying it was his first ride of the night. I smiled and said I was happy to make him happy.

I closed the door and watched him glide silently into the night.

Now, Vlad. Back to you.

I don't know why you think that sending me your little r*pe fantasy was a good idea and I don't care. Not really. It doesn't bother me—at least not in the way I imagine you hoped it would.

From where I'm sitting right now, you're an example of the problem I'm talking about when I talk about bullshit in men's communicating with women. I think you know this. I think you must. After all, you're a pouchy-faced, physically repulsive, middle-aged man who has seen all the "Blade" "series and the"Highlander" movies three times too many who spends his time online trolling women who say things he doesn't like and subjecting them to sexual assaults in prose after photographing himself with one of those swords that young troubled loners with no friends buy with their parent's money. In your case, the swordmaker's are lucky: You're over forty and you've got money of your own and you're a man who knows that he will never touch another woman in his life without reaching for his credit card.

All of this leads me to an overwhelming question: "Who cares about you or who you are or what you think?"

The answer is, "not I."

I don't care if you wake up tomorrow with a compulsive need for diet and exercize. I don't care if you find an ambition-free teenaged girl with a ton of eye-makeup and not an ounce of self-esteem. I don't care if you win the lottery tomorrow. I don't care if you die.

I suppose you wrote what you wrote to me for the same reason that pedophiles touch . I guess you did it because something about you says you have to.

Again: I don't care.

Here's my counter-image: not the dream you say I will have one day that will make me decide to leave the man I am with who is a man and the opposite of you, but the dream your thoughts will make me dream.

You like dark, gothic themes? Try this one:

An angel comes to me drowning the air in light, telling me to rise and listen after I fall to my knees in awe.

He is Dumah, the Angel of Silence, and it is his mission to offer me a choice: At no cost to myself or my owner, I can engage in any sexual act with you, from the touch of the smallest finger of your left hand to my lips to the full reenactment of every act in the Kama Sutra—anything great or small—and you will be given a long life, many loving and prosperity that will be famous throughout the land, or, again, at no cost to myself or my owner, I can have the privilege of squatting over the locked-open mouth of your gray-skinned corpse as it stares up at the sky, while maggots writhe and boil in your flesh-emptied, testicles, as trails of ants gather the dew from your tear-ducts—all of this while your mother watches and applauds.

I can and must choose one of these.

My answer, the answer I deliver to an angel of the Lord, before whose light a lie would be unforgivable blasphemy, involves several orders of extra-spicy, lamb-vindaloo from that place at the corner of sixth street and first avenue, (Banjara Indian Restaurant, 344 East Sixth Street, NY, NY 10003) a roll of toilet-paper and a well-padded chair so your mother can rest her legs while I tend to her greatest mistake.

See what I mean about power and imagery?

Thank you for inspiring me to write about the old man. He deserves to be remembered and noticed.

I think I will block you. I don't need to hear from you again: you've already had more of my attention than you deserve.

Remember: Every leper who ever lived before you.

Remember: maggots writhing and twisting in your scrotum.

Have a good life.

ACW


Schrille Schlampen aller Länder, vereinigt euch! Ihr habt nichts zu verlieren als euren Kontakt mit Versagern!


AC_Wright 58F
323 posts
7/25/2014 2:03 am

LMAO!

Thanks!

When I saw you'd responded, at first I thought. "Oh God... I was too harsh. She's his friend. She's going to defend him..."

I was just so *fed UP* by him. When I see someone's made a comment I want it to be a response to what I'm writing, even if it's someone's slamming it in a big way and there he is with his cheap, psycho-twinkie goth spiel that amounts to, "Boy, if I could get you alone out in the woods, you'd love it when I r*aped you."

I found it odd. It was like there was this reality-distortion field around what he said. It was like, "No. He can't really be saying something that horrible and not have anyone, not one man or woman call him on it, can he? It must not be so bad..."

After his last comment, it just clicked: "He's *utterly disgusting* and he's talking about being *inside* me—in my body..."

Thanks for the wonderful praise!

I'm going to go estivate in the shower...see you in a week!. ;D

Amanda/Muah!

Schrille Schlampen aller Länder, vereinigt euch! Ihr habt nichts zu verlieren als euren Kontakt mit Versagern!


msfunfor 63M
10611 posts
7/25/2014 7:26 am

oh boy ,,,or better girl .
well I think you dislike his advances ?
is that a correct reading of your text ? ?

be good
M



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