Category Archives: Socio-Sexual Studies

The Teacher of His Adolescent Fantasies

I plan to post a chapter today, Wednesday and maybe Friday. This should be a full week at VP.

This follows a thread started in Chapter 6.

8

D MINUS 83

COCCOCINO COUNTY, ARIZONA

Terrance Handel drove his Honda Pilot off the CBC property to the highway, tuning through the radio stations.

He might have spent more time pondering his treatment at CBC Southwest Tactical had he not seen the news segment on the TV in the lobby.

Finally he found a station broadcasting a news segment. He waited for the report from Norman, Oklahoma, and finally it came. “The primary suspect is local school teacher Cynthia Greeley, 45.”

Terrance drove aimlessly while he listened. His day and this trip were a bust, anyway. He had nowhere to be, and would have to figure out what the wisest course of action would be, now.

While driving through the town of Sedona he noticed a quaint old tavern-like establishment with an owl logo on the sign. He pulled into the parking lot, listened to the rest of the news report, then went inside for a beer.

When Terrance first saw Ms. Greeley, she was teaching biology at his middle school in Oklahoma City. She was maybe in her 20s then, and the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. He hoped to get her for biology in spring semester, but was assigned to Mr. Spicer instead. Ms. Greeley’s class filled to capacity early–and no wonder: every horny boy in the school wanted to ogle her for a full period.

She had a fantastic body that she routinely showed off with short skirts and tight, low-cut blouses. She had a sensuous voice and walk, and boys who took her class claimed that one time seeing her uncross and recross her legs made the whole school year worthwhile. But what really pushed her hot factor over the edge was how she looked and spoke to boys. She never said anything overtly sexual in school but boys were just certain she was sending out seductive signals. When she batted her eyelashes it seemed she knew their naughtiest fantasies and was more than capable of fulfilling them.

Terrance witnessed this once when she discussed one student’s homework with him. Then, toward the end of Seventh Grade, he approached her to ask about getting in her class the next year.

She smirked at him like she understood perfectly well why he wanted her class. He didn’t remember much about what was actually said. Mostly he remembered her scent; her lips as they formed words; her perfectly tanned cleavage; and her bewitching eyes.

He spent all summer fantasizing that she would turn out to be one of those teachers who had an affair with a student.

But he didn’t get her for biology. The year passed and he was off to high school.

He didn’t see her again for the next four years, but he thought about her constantly. He thought about her all through boot camp, too. He also convinced himself to look her up when he got back.

He returned home on leave after Parris Island and visited the school in uniform. Teachers and students alike gushed over him, but the high point was when Ms. Greeley looked at him with an appreciation he hadn’t seen when he was a student trying to get in her class.

“You remember me?” he asked.

“Of course I remember you, Terrance. I was hoping to teach you some biology.”

“I tried to get in your class,” he said. “But they assigned me to Mr. Spicer.”

“Oh, he couldn’t possibly teach you about biology the way I can,” she told him in a conspiratorial, sultry tone. Then she actually winked at him, shooting his imagination into overdrive.

He wanted to say, “It’s not too late; I’m still willing to learn.” But he chickened out.

Then, the next day, he ran into her at the bank. He decided he had nothing to lose, since he would be shipped to Afghanistan after AIT. So he flirted, and asked for her number.

She not only gave him her number, but her address.

He showed up in uniform again, which was a corny thing to do, but she apparently didn’t mind. There was little preamble. When she met him at the door she immediately took his cover off his head and pulled him inside. She asked if he’d had any personal biology lessons before. He admitted he hadn’t, and she proceeded to give him the biology lesson of his life.

Technically she was married; but it was an open arrangement and her husband was rarely home. By some coincidence, his job took him to the Pentagon frequently. She lived mostly alone in their house, and kept herself busy when not in school with some weird religious stuff that required Terrance to remove his shoes inside the front door.

She made all his fantasies come true, and then introduced him to some he’d never even thought of. Every time he got leave, he arranged to spend it with her. Strangely, he remembered less and less details about their love-ins as time went on. He just knew he left satisfied.

It was funny, how his memory worked. It seemed like so much was blurred into obscurity during his childhood and after becoming intimate with Ms. Greeley (she still insisted he call her that, even when they were in the most informal positions). He didn’t even remember much about his deployments, or all his years in the Corps.

Come to think of it, he didn’t remember how he came to the decision to visit CBC Southwest Tactical, or why he wanted to place bulk orders for gear.

So Ms. Greeley had moved to Norman. He wondered if all the stuff about sacrificed animals was true. And a human baby, too?

No. He knew her. She was only interested in bringing pleasure to others, and she excelled at that.

He thought briefly about visiting her in jail. Maybe even testifying as a character witness for her. But he’d lost touch with her in the last few years. Plus, these days he had an instinctive compunction to keep a low profile.

Ms. Greeley was no longer low profile.

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

###

The link to False Flag is on the upper right sidebar.

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The Wussification of the American Male

There are too many trends on too many fronts, pushing toward the demise of this nation, for me or anyone to document thoroughly. I pay attention most to our financial and political suicide. I virtually ignore the foreign policy disasters engineered in Washington (arming and funding radical Islam; provoking Russia toward war after weakening our military more than anyone will admit and utterly neglecting–if not scuttling–any tenable defense of the home land; etc.).

But there are even more fundamental causes for why life as we know it is coming to an end. While our constitutional republic is dismantled before our eyes, basic human characteristics like our intellectual capacity, our moral compass, the nuclear family and the very gender laws of nature seem to be on the ropes.

One of the cancers eating away at us has focused on masculinity itself. First it confused us about what manhood even is; now it’s poised to eradicate it altogether. When young men and boys are being bombarded with the message that Bruce Jenner is the model of courage, only the depraved can deny our state of depravity.

Of course femininity has been nearly eradicated in this country as well–among females, anyway. But I don’t speak female, so that’s for a woman to address. A real woman, that is.

But while good men did nothing, these attacks were launched long before most victims were old enough to vote. They were launched through the culture–and pop culture specifically.

For decades, only one side showed up to fight in the war for our culture.  The efforts of guys like us at Virtual Pulp, the Puppies, and others might be too little/too late, but as for me…I’m going to at least put up a fight.

Who Gets Blamed Automatically For Domestic Violence?

7

Y MINUS FIVE

AMARILLO, TEXAS

Joe Tasper pulled his boots on while his girlfriend continued to rant. His headache was getting worse.

He had to raise his voice to be heard over her tirade. “You don’t need any more jewelry, Crystal. And I sure don’t need to run my credit card up any higher.”

“If it was something for your car or your stupid computer, you’d put it on your credit card!” she said, spittle flying from her mouth.

She was about five-foot-seven, had multicolored hair and piercings in various places. When he first got with her she seemed normal and was attractive. Since she’d been with him, her persona had grown more and more bizarre; she grew overweight; and she started fights all the time about nothing.

“Why does it have to go on the credit card anyway?” Crystal demanded. “What have you been doing with the money that you hide from me?”

“Paying bills,” he said, tying his work boots. “Like the electric bill that’s more than doubled since you moved in. And the phone bill, since you insist on exceeding your minutes every month.”

“Oh, don’t you dare blame me for your money troubles, Joe! It’s not my fault that your job is for losers. Maybe if you’d have gotten an education, you could have found something that pays decent.”

He finished tying his laces and stood. “Oh, like your fancy college degree is doing you so much good? Go buy your own trinkets if your education is so great at generating money.”

Her face beet red, she stepped forward, poking her index finger toward his face, and called him a few unflattering names. “You would belittle my education, you pathetic moron! You’re so threatened that I’ve accomplished more than you have; that I have a degree…”

He stepped around her, pushing her finger out of his personal space, and strode for the door. “You wanna give me something to feel threatened about? Get off your ass and find a job. Bring home some money to help with the bills for a change, instead of just spending it faster than I can make it.”

“Oh, you think you’re a ‘real man’ because you go screw around with your buddies all day and get a paycheck for it?” Crystal asked, shrilly. “I bet Jordan doesn’t mind buying his girlfriend something nice once in a while. I’ll bet…”

The rest of her words didn’t register. He was blown away by the idea that she believed his grueling, dead-end blue-collar job was “screwing around with his buddies all day.” She made it sound like he was at some fun party six days a week, instead of working himself half to death. Was she really that delusional?

The distraction of this thought must have slowed his stride, because she raced past him despite the weight of her flab, and barricaded herself in front of the door.

“You’re not going to walk away from me this time!” she declared.

He rolled his eyes. “You’re complaining about how I don’t have enough money to buy stupid shit, so you’re gonna keep me from going to work? How much sense does that make?”

“It’s not stupid! You want to know what stupid shit is? It’s spending hundreds of dollars on a stupid pickup truck you don’t need!”

“Oh, I don’t need it?” he retorted. “Like how we used it to move all your crap over from your mom’s apartment?”

She was ready with a remark, as always, but changed gears when he picked her up and set her down over to the side so he could open the door. She screamed out as if she’d been injured, and screeched obscene insults while flailing wildly at him. One of her clawing hands caught his shirt and tore it right down the front.

Joe felt himself losing his temper, and had to get out of there. He stepped through the door and slammed it behind him, which at least muffled the volume of her tirade. Now he had to show up for work wearing only a partial shirt. He wasn’t sure how serious a reprimand he’d get for that, but he knew better than to go back inside and try to get an undamaged one with Crystal on the rampage.

He got in his car and started it, itching to take off right away but not wanting to strain the engine before it warmed up. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he saw he was bleeding from scratches under his eye inflicted by her fingernails when she clawed at him.

He heard a door slam and craned his neck around toward the source of the noise. Crystal was charging toward him. She had taken his baseball bat from inside his closet and wielded it like a weapon. He rolled down his window and shouted, “That’s mine, Crystal! Put it back where you found it and calm down!”

“Calm down?” she repeated. “You want me to calm down?” While hurling more insults, she swung the bat with all her strength into his windshield.

The glass was shatterproof, but the blow cracked it into a spiderweb pattern.

Now he was pissed. He got out of the car and stalked toward Crystal.

She held the bat cocked, threatening to smash his head with it. He grabbed it and yanked it out of her hands.

“Listen, bitch,” Joe said, straining to control violent impulses, “get the hell away from me; get your ass back in the house and keep your big damn mouth shut! We’ll deal with this when I get back.” He tossed the bat in the back seat and began to open the car door again.

He wouldn’t have guessed she could act any crazier, but she went completely berserk now. All she heard was the word “bitch,” and she became a windmill, trying to punch and kick him repeatedly.

He caught one wrist as she was trying to hit his face. She swung with her other arm and he caught that wrist. She kicked him in the groin and spit in his face. Reeling from the pain, he let go of one wrist and wiped the spit off. She took advantage of the opportunity to slap him.

She’d slapped him several times in these stupid altercations since they’d been together, and he’d never retaliated. All his life he’d heard it was wrong to hit females, so he put up with a lot because he had no choice. But at that moment he stopped caring what he’d been taught.

He slapped her and she went down, wailing, gasping, staring up at him in horror.

He spit on her, got in the car and drove away.

Joe had almost made it to work when the cop car pulled up behind him with flashing lights.

Great. Now he was going to be ticketed for the windshield, which was going to make it even harder to scrape up the money to replace it. And it would make him late for work. He had already missed several days at his job due to Crystal’s unlimited supply of personal crises, and was probably close to getting fired.

He had to get her out of his life. He was a fool for ever letting her in.

Two cops got out of their car and walked up to stand at both Joe’s doors. He rolled his window back down.

“Is your name Joe Tasper?” the cop nearest him asked.

That was weird. Usually they asked for the driver’s license and registration first before they let on that they knew his identity. Joe confirmed who he was and the cop rattled off his address, asking if Joe lived there. Joe confirmed again.

“I need you to get out of the car, Mr. Tasper.”

Joe complied, asking, “What’s going on, officer?” as he stepped out.

“Face your vehicle and place your hands on the roof, please,” the cop said, with a hard ugly look.

“Whoa, wait,” Joe protested. “What’s going on?”

“Just do what I said, Mr. Tasper.”

The cop nearest him had handcuffs in his left hand, his right hand resting on his gun butt, thumb under the holster snap. The other cop was circling around to sandwich Joe from the other side, something black in his hand.

“Are you arresting me?”

“We are placing you under arrest, yes.”

“For a busted windshield? It’s my own car; and I’m not even the one who did it.”

“You’re under arrest for aggravated assault,” the cop said.

Joe groaned. Crystal again. The gift that just kept on giving.

“Listen, officer, if there was any assault that happened today, it was against me. I was kicked in the groin; slapped in the face; my clothes torn up; windshield smashed… You can see my face is bleeding, right?”

The cop coming up behind him said something, but Joe only caught part of it: “…You get for abusing…”

“No, you listen,” the other cop growled. “I said turn around and put your hands on the car!”

Again Joe swallowed his anger. There was nothing he could do right then to avoid getting arrested, so he spun in place and began leaning forward. But before his hands made contact with the car, two sharp objects pierced the skin in his side. He had time to look down at the source of the pain and form the word “tazer” in his mind, then he was on the ground, flopping like a fish.

###

There are supporting characters in False Flag who play a significant part in the story–partly because they’re just normal citizens in worsening circumstances. Joe Tasper is one such character.

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

###

The Kindle version of False Flag is on sale for 99 cents for one more day.  After that it will likely jump to a price point that is around $4.

CORRECTION: Price will remain $2.99 for two weeks.

The paperback will probably stay at its current price for a long time. As lengthy as the novel is, it can’t really sell for less and be profitable.

###

Nice (BETA) Guys Finish Last…But Society Grants Approval

…But is that “attaboy” of societal approval much of a consolation prize? Watch the two excerpts in this clip:

The first guy did everything our feminized society tells us a man is supposed to do to keep a “good” woman. What is his reward for all the sacrifice and servicing of the woman on his pedestal? You red-pillers know all too well: she got bored, contemptuous, and found excuses to dump him. “All his cooking made me get fat!”

That’s what happens to chumps. But at least you have the approval of a TV judge, huh?

I don’t watch TV, unless it’s a show on Netflix or Amazon Instant Video. I’ve certainly never wasted my time watching court shows, except when I’m in a waiting room. So I don’t know the story of the second couple. Maybe the guy is a scumbag—I never heard the particulars of what he did or didn’t do. But he’s an alpha dog, and that alone was probably enough to prejudice this TV judge against him.

Exhibit C–another “strong independent womyn” who grew contemptuous of her beta provider:

And again, the simp earns the approval of society. Go let yourself be taken advantage of by the next entitled princess and flush another few years of your life down the toilet. Maybe she’ll turn out to be “the one.” Or maybe the entitled, egotistical shrew after her.

Exhibit D: “That Guy.”

This guy obviously let himself go physically, emotionally and mentally.

At least he’ll be able to see his kids, sounds like. Trouble is, observing their weak beta provider father get walked all over as they grow up is going to damage his kids anyway.

Most Feministas Don’t Consider Themselves Feminists

A whole lot of recent news is comment-worthy, but it’s hard finding time to comment.

One story I really found illustrative is the one about Joss Whedon coming under fire for Avengers 2 not being feminist enough. Nevermind that Scarlett Johenson’s amazon superninja character is portrayed in Marvel movies as somebody who could take on Bruce Lee, Mike Tyson (in his prime) and Chuck Lidell (in his prime) all at once and subdue them in half a second without wrinkling her tights. Not strong enough, say the feminazis.

blackwidow

You’re a sexist unless Black Widow is shown to be superior to Captain America, Iron Man and Thor (not just Hawkeye).

But here’s a quote from this article that made me groan/laugh:

“For years Whedon has been lauded as one of the few Hollywood screenwriters who creates strong female characters.”

Face-palm. One of the FEW????????

Has this writer been hiding under a rock?

For anyone with eyes and a brain, it’s obvious that females dominating males is obligatory in the Hollywood Bible. Physically in action movies. Intellectually in sitcoms. Morally in dramas.

Okay, there are some weak female characters in romantic comedies; but the males in that genre are even weaker (except when the male is homosexual).

But white knights and manginas accept that as the status quo. It’s only when the cultural svengalis get really outrageous that anyone in the mainstream (including “conservatives”) so much as raises an eyebrow. Until that outrageousness becomes the status quo.

 

Alpha Anthems: “The Wanderer” by Dion

With his group the Belmonts, Dion had a classic doo-wop hit with “I Wonder Why.” After that his emphasis shifted from music to becoming a teen idol, and he put out some candy store fodder for the next couple years.

Maybe he grew self-conscious after all the pandering to teenage girls; and this song was an attempt to prove to the guys he wasn’t a total wimp.

Methinks perhaps he doth protest too much.

Nevertheless, there does seem to be some red pill themes at work here. He brags about his success picking up hotties in every town, but when he finds himself “falling for some girl,” he jumps in his car and lays rubber out of there.

If Rosie (the one he loves best) can fit under his shirt during normal day-to-day activity, she might be almost skinny enough for the average manosphere blogger.

Mangina Melodies: “I’m Your Puppet” by James & Bobby Purify

Wait…is the last name Purify or Pussify? The latter is definitely what happened to the generation raised listening to this song.

Now granted, a whole lot of females out there think they want a puppet…but they’re never happy when they get one (whether they find a turnkey version or fundamentally transform some chump into one). And there are plenty of manginas out there just dying to be a puppet for some manipulative shrew. But they’re not exactly being mobbed by romantically-minded women, are they?

I’m sharing the video with the lyrics teleprompted (so even Obama can sing along). WARNING: Virtual Pulp is not responsible for irresistible impulses suffered from hearing this song…like the urge to hunt down the pathetic worm who wrote it and strangle him to death for the good of the species.

Solidarity Is For Women Only

The myth of a patriarchy is ridiculous for a few reasons. One is, of the two legitimate genders in existence, it is only the females who feel and act on a solidarity to their own sex. In fact, Team Womyn is the only sex ANYONE shows allegiance to.  Even today, men are compelled to compete against other men exclusively, and habitually act against their own self-interest, and that of men collectively. They are oblivious to the organized opposition to their very manhood,

I don’t like video selfies that much, but this clip is really worth a watch–especially starting around 5:40 or so. If you skip what’s before that, I’ll summarize something she shared:

Several men approached Girl Writes What privately to thank her for speaking out, but when she organized a conference specifically addressing the discrimination men suffer, nobody showed up.

And isn’t that just like us?

When Survivor was all the rage, I never watched it. I had cable with all the bells and whistles at the time but just didn’t watch a lot of TV–especially reality shows. But I caught the first episode of one season while a guest at a friend’s house. From what I could tell, the format of that season was guys vs. gals. The first competition was a timed obstacle course, and the men were winning decisively until some dork lost his balance on an obstacle, fell off repeatedly, and added enough time to the cumulative score that the women were able to pull ahead and win.

If your goal is to win a given competition, then it only makes sense to vote the weak links of your team off the island, right? The loser with no balance should have been first on the chopping block.

Instead, individuals on the men’s side conspired to vote one of their strongest members off the island, and they kept the clown (who I heard caused them to lose subsequent events). The females, however, voted in a way that was best for Team Womyn.

Whatever the rules are in Survivor that might justify the men’s actions, it is nonetheless illustrative of western culture in general.

There is organized effort to assign all the responsibilities in our society to men, and all the benefits/privileges to women. Men can be abused, cheated, conned, even killed, but it’s always women who are recognized as the victim (whether or not a man has the audacity to fight back).

Because vagina.

You’d have to be blind as well as ignorant not to be aware of this.

Yet, while nearly all females have an ingrained loyalty to other women collectively, men continue to throw each other under the bus (often for some psychological expectation of personal gain, perhaps?). At least 75% of the male population are white knights who think the situation should be made worse, not better. And this is just as bad on the right as on the left.

I’m very grateful to Girl Writes What for saying what few have the courage to say (her other videos have good info, too). I know nothing about her personally besides what she shares in the clips I’ve seen (and yes, she would probably look better with long hair…now snap your superficial self back to the subject and focus), but I really feel her pain about going through the trouble of setting up that conference only to have nobody show.

It kinda’ reminds me of one of the windmills I’ve tipped at.

I stopped visiting bookstores after the early ’90s when all the men’s fiction disappeared.

Chick-lit and romance dominate the literary world. Even when you find a book which appears dude-friendly on the cover and blurb, the author will sucker-punch you sooner or later with the obligatory feminist-pandering message and “strong female character.” When the book business went online, the pattern remained the same. And as if the gender bias wasn’t bad enough in mainstream, ostensibly neutral outlets, there are bazillions of groups, blogs, publishers and stores which cater exclusively to women. There was no masculine counterpart.

I got tired of drowning in the estrogen, and decided to make a difference.

My quixotic undertaking involved sparking a revival of pulp fiction and men’s adventure in several genres. Those were the last entertainment mediums that catered to masculine sensibilities, so I considered them the perfect kind of vehicle for taking back a small chunk of the literary world from entitled feministas and their white knight enablers. I imagined that whispered phrase from Field of Dreams: “If you build it, they will come.”

This post is already getting long so, to make a long story shorter: after a couple years investing a whole lot of time and effort to bring back male space into the literary world, almost nobody showed up. And they kept not showing up. I stayed at it, and there were modest inroads made. Other authors and publishers thought a pulp revival was a good idea, so there were glimmers of hope.

What pimp-slapped me back to reality was, one of the guys I networked with brought some soccer mom into a mutual project, who immediately began beating her drum to feminize pulp, have homosexual pulp heroes,  social justice messages and so forth. In other words, to make pulp fiction exactly like everything else.

Shortly after that, it became evident that the guys I networked with to revive pulp didn’t share my Quixotic motives. They echoed the sentiments of the homophile soccer mom.

I had no allies.

It wasn’t the only time I bowed out of a creative undertaking because I  refused to conform. Other than working with cover artists, I’m not sure I’ll ever try to collaborate again.

I didn’t get it when I watched that episode  of Survivor, but now I do: for women, “the battle of the sexes” is a team sport; and they do and say whatever they think will benefit their team. For the male of the species, it’s every man for himself.

Lessons in Masculinity From an Unlikely Source

Bill is right, I have to admit: as horrible this series was as a whole, the early episodes (in black & white) were not that bad, as TV science fiction goes.

My sophomore year in high school, this show was on the air when I got home on weekdays. My family never had cable, so choices were limited. I watched it most of the time simply because there was nothing else to do.

There was an upperclassman I changed next to in the locker room that year. He obviously watched the show a lot. His favorite character was Dr. Smith, and he hated Don West.

On the surface this seemed idiosyncratic because the guy was a loud, egotistical blowhard whose behavior bordered on bullying. In other words, what most people would assume to be alpha male traits.

Looking back, though, I realize the “alpha traits” were just part of the guy’s defense mechanism. It was a facade he put on, probably because he’d been victimized by the sort of males he was imitating by the time I met him. Peel the facade away, and he is pretty representative of males of my generation (and later ones). It makes perfect sense why he would choose Zachary Smith as a role model.

Thanks Bill Whittle, for your analysis.

A picture’s Worth 1,000 Divorces

Spoiler Alert: You should go read the article and look at the pictures before you come back here and read the next paragraph. When you find the “clue” (it’s more of a smoking gun), it might give you a case of the creeps. But in a fascinating way.

Maybe the picture was photoshopped and this viral story is all a hoax. I haven’t heard as much, but anything can happen in the Information Age. It’s still very plausible, though. So I’m gonna treat it like it’s real unless told otherwise.

So this guy leaves for a business trip or something (I guess). He comes home without warning to surprise his wife. He takes a picture of her, still chilling on the bed, evidently happy at the surprise.

For some reason (and this is the part I’d like to know more about) he later takes a closer look at the picture. Maybe he caught a wierd vibe off his wife, or she said or did something suspicious. Maybe his subconscious mind picked up on what was semi-hidden in the photo.

The back door man that wifey had been screwing while hubby was gone happened to be hiding under the bed. And he might never have been caught, but I guess he really wanted to see the expression on his victim’s face (so he could gloat about cuckolding, perhaps) so he positioned his head for better viewing. And the camera flash penetrated the shadow he probably assumed would mask him.

Here’s what you should take away from this story, though (especially if you believe in the inherent purity of the female heart): Take a look at the wife. Does she look any less than utterly sincere in her joy at hubby’s return? What picture of innocence and love…if you don’t look too closely.

Not many women become movie stars; but nearly all of them are talented actresses capable of Academy Award performances.