Down the rabbit hole I go. Deti, being brilliant and savagely honest, has been commenting prolifically at The Woman and the Dragon (link below). This comment stands out. It’s a searing observation of the infamous cock carousel.
As always, his comments are brilliant.
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)?
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?
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.”
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. 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.”
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.
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? 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?
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. 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.”
“That sex sucked. But he was hot.”
“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?
Do you have anything more to show for your life than N>10, an STD, recurrent UTIs and probably an abortion in there somewhere?