This has nothing to do with Predatory Promiscuous Princess (PPP) directly. It’s to do with the environment – the feminist milieu – from which the PPP emerges.
I’m an insomniac sailor. I stay awake up to 72 hours then sleep the sleep of the dead.
One day, after three days of sailing, I emerged from near-death sleep to the most dreaded sound a sailor could hear: the hull underneath him graunching and groaning on rocks. Years later, the sound would haunt me again.
As a child I loved to play with my Uncle J who was one of my two favorite men (the other is my father). I loved the consistent, dependable scent of Uncle J like rich clean friable earth. He taught me to play rugby and we did vigorous tackling and scrumming against each other. On greeting we always hugged each other as naturally as night turns into day.
I flew out to visit Uncle J and his wife Aunt G. When Uncle J hugs me at airport I notice a change to his scent. The familiar scent of him is still there, but there’s a new subtle overlay of leaves fallen in autumn, clean and wholesome, yet in decay. I knew it was the scent of sorrow.
Uncle J is full of enthusiasm and laughter as he drives me to a hotel. We joke about old times. He says he will stay the night. I’m thinking, “In the past I always stayed with him and Aunt G in their own home, not in a hotel…”
We retire to bed. In the small hours of the morning I awake with a start. Out there in the dark on the couch, Uncle J is crying with the ghastly sound of a hull on rocks.
In the days that follow I visit them at their home. The interaction between Uncle J and Aunt G is artificially light and airy. I notice they both carefully contrive for me not to spend much time with their kids. The kids are delighted to see me as always but something is wrong. In dribs and drabs the kids tell me about the new man their mum is anxious for them to like, a new dad who is to replace Uncle J. They don’t know what this guy does for a living. He seems to have money. He spends a lot of time at the gym building muscle and learning martial arts.
They all live in the house, Aunt G, the new guy, Uncle J and the kids. When the guy first took over Uncle J’s place in the matrimonial bed a fight broke out. Although no-one was hurt, it was pretty obvious the new guy won rather easily.
I’m angry. Real angry. I arrive at the house unexpectedly. Uncle J is at work, the kids are at school, Aunt G is out.
The new hunk answers the door. I tell him who I am, and I tell him straight to fuck off and leave the family alone. He tells me to fuck off and when I tell him to go shit himself, he tells me he’ll humiliate me like he humiliated Uncle J, made Uncle J look silly and useless in front of his wife. He told me how the fracas wakened the children who came through and saw the rest of what happened. The hunk defeated Uncle J so easily he didn’t even have to hurt him. The hunk shoved Uncle J’s head down the toilet bowl and flushed it in front of the family.
Since then, the hunk says, he’s taken over the matrimonial bed and “wimpy” Uncle J has to sleep in another room. The hunk fucks Aunt G and they enjoy it so much they can’t help the sounds of her moaning and gasping going out into the house. The “wimp” (Uncle J) stays for the children. He goes around the bedrooms comforting the kids. It’s gotten to the stage where they all huddle with Uncle J in the room farthest away from the sounds of their mum enjoying herself too much to care.
The hunk is confident. He has built huge muscles and skilled himself in a martial art, probably the Israeli one. He is goading me as he talks. His chest bumps against mine. That was a mistake. Let’s just say I humiliate him.
As soon as Uncle J hears about it he begs me to leave. The hunk is sweating because everyone at the gym knows how he humiliated Uncle J and it would wreck his reputation if word got out that he was bettered by a young guy. Uncle J says the hunk has friends and he won’t back off and things will escalate if I stay.
On the return flight to my home every living cell in my body is willing the pilot to turn the plane around and take me back to Uncle J. I’m remembering things from the past now. How Aunt G joined a woman’s group and I overheard a meeting of them at Aunt G’s place, women laughing and saying how they kicked their husbands out and how much better life was without the loser dick, and how women owed it to themselves to give themselves the life they deserved. They said a way to force a man to file for divorce was to cuckold him with a big hunk. I remember noticing that Aunt G started to lose her love for Uncle J after that. She simply loved her feminist group more than she loved him and she let their hate filter into her.
Back home, the news comes through that Aunt G has accused Uncle J of domestic violence. While the case against him is being investigated, he must stay away from his home and his wife and children. I roar with frustration. How will he cope? His kids are his world, his life. I go outside and grab the first thing I see, a tree branch, and whack the ground as if beating up on mother earth herself. I want to pummel the System, the fucking feminist establishment that is doing this to him. I want to thrash it down into the ground and make it go away.
During the months that follow the news comes through of the divorce and Uncle J losing his job and we only hear from him briefly. He seems to be moving around with no fixed abode, looking for work. He is in arrears with child support and we worry that he might be out living on the streets. Aunt G won’t let him near her or the kids. The kids aren’t doing well. The oldest is in trouble with the law.
I make arrangements to return to Uncle J. There must be something I can do. The day before I’m due to fly out, my mother comes to my home. I feel dread. Uncle J, she says, is dead. I feel myself slipping down, where there’s a deep graunching and groaning of ghastly stress.
Mother holds me until I return to reality. She keeps holding me while she explains why Uncle J died. He didn’t commit suicide. He just died of a broken heart, she said, and I, her precious son, must never ever ever put myself in a situation where it could happen to me. In the world of today, she said, I must live my life as if no young woman was worthy of me.
Without knowing what MGTOW was, I started going my own way that day.
Edit by Cill 2/6/2015
A good question has been asked : “I’m still curious about this group your aunt belonged to… why they felt the hell on earth they were willingly creating was ‘justified’?”
I have now given an answer ( https://spawnyspace.wordpress.com/2015/01/27/why-im-a-mghow-in-the-land-of-the-ppp/comment-page-1/#comment-9915 ) which I’m adding here to the post because I suspect that a lot of people might be asking the same question.
The women of that group didn’t hate Uncle J in particular. Most of them had never met him. They hated men in general. After my uncle died I went on the net and tried to find something – anything – that would explain it. I found so many examples of the hatred that I became fatigued by it, over-exposed.
We all know of the Becker case in which a woman cut off her husband’s penis and threw it in the waste disposal unit, and the women’s forum in which Sharon Osbourne and 4 other panelists and a female audience of hundreds whooped and applauded at the maiming. I’m not going to provide a direct link to it; I refuse to bring the stench of Osbourne’s breath into this blog. You’ll find a link to it here:
Osbourne and her audience were not a freak atypical bunch of women. I found many cases of other women treating the Becker incident with levity, e.g. “The happy Hour”: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOkIV_hUhso
This is female hatred of males in general. There’s no other explanation for it. The feminist group to which Aunt G belonged was not atypical either. It was an average example of female hatred of males.
The women who defend the hatred, or shrug their shoulders at it, disgust me. The men (usually white) who blankly refuse to see the hatred even when it dances naked in front of their eyes, or who criticize the man who exposes the hatred, disgust me even more.