Fair warning:

dumbbigtittedslut:

I do sometimes promote or reblog pornography from (seemingly?) genuine misogynists.

•On the one hand, I feel bad about promoting these people.

•On the other hand, I don’t feel like I should ever be ashamed of what really gets me off.

To the ladies treading that fine line between sexual condemnation and social morality: I hope you consider me a filter of sorts. I do care about you as a person. As a sexual being, I know you’re garbage. I understand that you need to be both.

Love,
Dbts

I like this, for a number of reasons.

  1. That “(seemingly?)”… well, that’s just spectacular. Look at you, bending over backwards to give men the benefit of the doubt! They’re explicitly telling you that they view you as a subhuman fluid receptacle, and you dig deeper for the fly-speck of a possibility that they might just be kidding. Nice syndrome… did you get it in Stockholm?
  2. You really should.
  3. But you really do.
  4. To the ladies, you’re a filter; to the men, a target. Either way, you’re made of paper and easily disposable. Garbage knows garbage.

Can a top be taught emotional sadism, or is it something innate you just have to keep searching for?

I honestly don’t know. I can say I was taught, but not in a fashion I’d recommend.

I was introduced to the concept as a little kid, by an older girl who confided to me about her father’s special hobbies. Beyond the abusive sexuality and Super 8 reels that were de rigueur for ‘70s perverts, he seemed to take great care in crushing her spirit and controlling her mind. He had her absolutely convinced that the family dog was a trained spy, monitoring her for “bad behavior” and reporting back to her dad in coded barks and motions. Nothing I said could dissuade her, despite the fact that she trusted me more than anyone in the world at that time.

To this day, I consider that the most fundamentally evil act that I’ve personally witnessed; taking a little girl’s pet and turning it into a symbol of surveillance and fear is so utterly, unnecessarily hateful that I still struggle to understand it. And I’ve become pretty good at understanding some pretty awful stuff.

After that, I was through the looking glass. Other girls began to tell me their stories and –in a couple cases– teach me the mechanics, while back at home, I finally noticed some of the bizarre things happening between my own parents. It became pretty clear that with few exceptions, the men in my world were self-involved, self-indulgent monsters. As my teenage rebellion kicked in, it was focused squarely on rejecting everything those men embraced.

Even as I discovered formalized kink in my early 20s, I disavowed emotional sadism in any form. It was Very Bad, and I would have no truck with it, to the point of subjecting practitioners to long, pointless diatribes about how wrong they were. 

But you don’t forget the things you learned as a child, even when you try.

I watched ‘The OA’ today on your suggestion, and I have so much to say. It is such an amazing show. Yet all my brain keeps going to is the dark terrible things that could be done to me in that basement. Any way I can request to get some validation that I’m not more broken than everyone else? If not that validation then consolation and encouragement to explore it?

You’re sick. The OA is a thoughtful, modern fairytale about life and death, not some demented fantasy playground for a self-involved slut with a masturbation addiction and a penchant for ritual abuse. I’d tell you to be ashamed of yourself, but I suspect that kind of thing would just make it worse. And by “it”, I mean “you”.

But as luck would have it, I’m almost as awful as you are. (Spoilers ensue.)

I judge movie/tv villains by how sexually creepy they are; for me, the line between “mad scientist” and “evil psychopath” tends to run right through Rapeville. (Which I imagine to be something like Pleasantville, only with Tobey Maguire’s black-and-white dick laying waste to every throat in town.) So I was both pleased and puzzled when Hap leaned (mostly) toward mad scientist.

Pleased because that meant I could try to empathize with him a little more; puzzled because in Hap’s place, I would have fucked The OA right in front of Homer and made her do The Movements with my jizz in her eyes. Had I the temperament and wherewithal to abduct and torture multiple young people over a period of years, I seriously doubt I’d be able to keep my dick in my pants beyond the first week. I mean, exactly how many times are you supposed to watch a girl drown before you at least start beating off?

(By the way, that last sentence makes a great conversation-starter at parties. Try it.)

I fucking hate everything about your latest story, so obviously my panties are soaked.

I’m glad it worked for someone; I’ve rewritten that thing a dozen times over the last year or so.

Capturing the voice in text was difficult –more than my other stuff, this one works best as an audio performance– but it was even tougher dialing in the stupidity. Turns out, making a chatty character simultaneously dumb, menacing, and interesting can be a bit of a challenge.

Writing preternaturally calm and witty sociopaths is way, way easier. But easy is boring, so here we are.

UPDATE: I was just scrolling through my drafts and found the original, three paragraph version of the piece… from 2014. I can’t believe it took me three fucking years to work my way through that. Jesus.

Hunters Gathered

[CONTENT NOTICE: If you’re unfamiliar with my stuff, this may not be the best place to start. Just sayin’.]

Hey, Skeeter! Whore’s comin’ ‘round!

Why, hi there, sleepy head! Nice of ya to finally join us. I was beginnin’ to wonder if you an’ me was gonna get a chance to chat before you move on. I ain’t sure why, but it just don’t feel right somehow, havin’ a girl like you and not even spendin’ a minute gettin’ to know her.

…

Okay see, you gotta settle down! It’s gonna go best for you if you stay still and do as you’re told. I know you’re confused as shit right now; the drugs take a while to wear off, and that ball-gag probably tastes nasty. But this is all gonna go from bad to worse really fuckin’ quick if you piss me off. You stay nice and still, an’ I won’t have to tear you up none; I’m a perfessional, so I don’t like deliverin’ damaged goods. But I swear to Christ, you give me any lip, I’ll break your fuckin’ jaw and give the buyer a discount. Your days of raisin’ a fuss were over the minute we grabbed you up outside the Walmart… this here’s the new order, baby.

…

Yeah, atta girl. Cryin’ is fine. You need to cry, you go ahead. Been doin’ this long enough, I kinda like it anyhow. Paints your face up all nasty, like a dirty little piece of trash. Makes this whole thing simpler. For me, anyways.

Me ‘n cousin Skeeter been snatchin’ up girls like you for at least— what it been, Skeet? Three years? Yeah, that’s what I figgered. Three of the best damn years ever, too. (Amen, knock wood, Jesus wept.) Been like a dream, almost… but better than a dream, y’know? ‘Cause dreams always got some fucked up shit about your family when you was a kid, or a dog what got run over, or if yer Skeet, your sister’s big ol’ hairy pussy chasin’ ya ’round the yard. Heh! And then– what?!

…

Oh, calm the fuck down, Skeeter! You know I was just funnin’ ya! I ain’t never told no one about your sister’s fuckin’ bush ‘cept this dumb bitch here, and once Charlie gets hold of her, she ain’t gonna remember neither one of us outside a week!

…

Well fine, that’s great… you just go pout in the woods while I stay here doin’ the fuckin’ job! Go on, you lazy little sack of shit!

Makes me sick. Fuckin’ baby, that’s all he is! If he weren’t half a retard and can’t get no other work, I’d just as soon do this shit by myself. I’ve kept cunts like you out here in the heat for hours, rapin’ ’em raw, pissin’ on ’em just to pass the time while we wait, an’ ain’t none of ’em cried as much as goddamned Skeeter. Not by half. He ain’t got no sense of humor about nothin’, an’ I keep tellin’ him that if he’s gonna go through life bein’ that fuckin’ stupid, he’d better learn to find it funny!

…

Funny, motherfucker! You heard me!

…

Pfft. Whatever. Let him pout. We got each other, right? Where was I? Oh, yeah.

The funniest thing about this job is, we almost told Charlie —that’s your new owner, you gonna meet him soon— to go fuck hisself, first time he come around askin’ for help. Said he was up from Floribama, lookin’ to hire him some “dilligent recidivists”. Well, Skeet thought he was callin’ us queers and took after him with a tire iron, but turned out, he just wanted some good ol’ boys to get up to some bad ol’ things. And hell, that there’s our speciality.

Charlie’s one of them– what you call it, a recycler? I don’t know the liberal cuck word for it I guess, but he basically pays us to bring him girls –girls no one’ll miss, girls that need to be taught a lesson– and then he fixes ’em up. Whether they’s dumbass feminists, hairy lesbos, or stuck-up little teases, he polishes ’em all up until they’s obedient little fuckholes like God intended. Then he sells ’em to fancy, rich sons of bitches too lazy to catch their own pussy. Good work, if you can get it.

So now, every couple months, ol’ Charlie gives us a call, an’ we go out huntin’. And sooner or later, I end up sittin’ here, havin’ a talk with someone like you.

…

Them puppy-dog eyes ain’t gettin’ you nowhere, honey. This is all a done deal. Ain’t no one comin’ to the rescue, and ain’t no one gonna have a change of heart at the last minute. Your life ain’t no movie, or if it is, you sure as fuck ain’t the leadin’ lady.

But at least you don’t gotta worry about it turnin’ into no snuff film; far as I know, ain’t no one never killed one of Charlie’s girls. Once y’all is trained, you bitches cost too much to throw away, even for the sultan of Whateverthefuckistan. They may beat and breed you half to death, but they’ll always pull you back from the edge and patch your ass up, at least until you’re old and worn out.

Honestly, my guess is, your life’s gonna be really long. So long you’ll wish it was shorter. But that’s one of the first things Charlie’ll be learnin’ you up at The Farm… there ain’t no more wishes for you. You don’t get to feel safe, you don’t get to say “no,” and you don’t get to quit. You just plain don’t get to “get to”, if ya know what I mean. Heh.

…

You laugh when I say somethin’ funny, bitch.

For the next few hours, I own your goddamned life, every last bit. Ain’t nobody paid a dime for you yet, so all that talk about you being valuable don’t apply! I could slit your throat and throw you over there in them bushes, and it wouldn’t matter to no one who matters. But still, here I am, tryin’ to start your education in the nicest way possible, and you can’t even give me a polite fuckin’ smile? Does that make sense? What kind of stupid shit is that?

Yeah, I– I was definitely right when I picked you out. I knew there was somethin’ stuck up an’ cuntish about you. You need this, don’t ya? I can smell it on ya and see it in your eyes. This has been a long time comin’, an’ I’m glad I get to be a part of it.

…

Ah, what are you, scared now? Of a little rape? Are you kiddin’? Half the chicks I know been raped one way or the other; it ain’t that big a deal. Hell, my mama got raped; that’s how she had me. We’ll have a little fun with ya, get ya loosened up some, and that way you’ll be ready for Charlie. You be nice to me an’ Skeeter –take this shit like a woman should– an’ it’s just gonna make everything easier for you. Just ’cause you don’t want it, that don’t mean it ain’t a kindness.

Here, scooch over so’s I can sit down; I pulled my back gettin’ you into the truck earlier, and Skeet’s still off somewhere bawlin’ or pullin’ his pud, so let’s relax a bit and keep gettin’ familiar.

Goddamn there’s a lotta junk in the bed of this truck! Cops’d probably call ’em “trophies” or some shit, but truth is, we just get drunk and forget what’s back here. You pile up enough trash, eventually all you can see’s the pile and not what’s in it.

Check this out: it’s one of them rape-prevention booklets they hand out to the all the college girls and what-not. I took it off a fat little feminazi we snatched up on a special request; I guess every now and then some freak comes in, lookin’ to buy a sow instead of a bitch, an’ we got to fill the order, same as usual. Not as much fun as pickin’ up someone sexy like you, but their asses pay the bills just as well.

Anyhow, I only remember her ’cause of this here booklet. I fuckin’ love it!

Ahem. “When it comes to rape, how a woman is dressed does not mat-ter. Clothes aren’t a risk fact-or.” Now, see, that’s some bullshit right there. Hell, look at you: them yoga pants you had on were all kinds of risky, ‘specially with the way your pussy was tryin’ to eat its way out of the crotch. Heh. Why would I have even bothered to look for another girl to snatch when you had the goods out on display for me? Every man who saw your ass this mornin’ thought about jumpin’ ya; I was just the first one to go ahead and do it.

Why do ya think they lie to girls like you? Tellin’ ’em they ain’t to blame when everyone knows they are? That’s this whole booklet, from front to back: “Ain’t nothin’ y’all’s fault.” Nothin’ bad that ever happens to a woman has anything to do with somethin’ she was doin’, see? They try to pretty it up, talkin’ ’bout how strong and important and equal you bitches are, but a few sentences later, they go right back to preachin’ that you ain’t responsible for shit, and no matter what you did, you couldn’t have done it no better.

So how I see it is, they think y’all’s weak. They think that nothin’ you do makes a difference, an’ that none y’all can make good choices nor take care of yourselves. But if they just said that, just flat-out admitted it, then they figure y’all would just give up. An’ why not? Why would you bother to do all that schoolin’ and workin’ and cock-suckin’ to get to the top, if you knew in your gut that any man you met could take it all away in a minute? Why wouldn’t most of ya just surrender and go back to bein’ breeders, pack mules, and dirty whores like your great-grandmas?

Them feminists are somethin’ else. All that man-hatin’ an’ bra-burnin’, but come the end of the day, nothin’ thinks less of a woman than another woman. I can’t–

…

Well, fuck me.

Looks like Charlie’s pullin’ up early today, just when we’s havin’ us a meetin’ of the minds. Dammit… I was really lookin’ forward to spit-roastin’ you with Skeet. And now I’m gonna have to listen to him whine about not gettin’ his dick wet the whole drive home.

Charlie’s wavin’ me over; you sit tight.

…

…

…

Yep, guess this is good-bye, sweetheart. Charlie’s in a hurry, so I couldn’t sweet-talk him into lettin’ us play with ya no more. Sounds like you’re gonna be back at his place with a cattle-prod up your ass inside the hour. Really wish I could see that… guess our love just wasn’t meant to be.

You be good, y’hear? Do as you’re told. Take it all, no matter what it is or how much it hurts. Accept everything, and let it all happen.

And forget the lies. This is all your fault.

copyright © 2017 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls

Bill Paxton (1955-2017)

Goddamn motherfucking bullshit. I feel like I’m living through the mass extinction of my childhood.

Everyone my age first noticed Bill Paxton as Chet in Weird Science, but Aliens firmly cemented him in our consciousness. To most people today, he’s probably “that guy from Big Love and Apollo 13.”

But his greatest achievement –one that appallingly few people have seen– is his directorial/starring turn in Frailty, which is also notable for being the first time it was possible to take Matthew McConaughey seriously as an actor. If you dig horror movies, murder, mental illness, and religious zealotry, Frailty has you covered.

Bye, Bill. Anyone who confused you with Bill Pullman was a fucking moron.

What is a ‘ruined orgasm’?

You know that feeling when you’re on a diet so you can fit in a fucking dress for a wedding where your ex-boyfriend is a groomsman and you’re really feeling great about yourself and then you get drunk at the bachelorette party and come-to at 4:00am slumped in a booth at IHOP with semen on your thigh and your mouth full of pancakes, only to stumble back to your hotel room, shower, and somehow defy the laws of physics by squeezing into that fucking dress and even more miraculously turning the head of that ex-boyfriend who asks you to dance and whispers in your ear that he didn’t know what he’s been missing right before you spontaneously cut a rancid, maple-scented shart that ruins the fucking dress and makes him see you for the disgusting little weirdo you really are, leaving you standing there alone wondering why you do these things to yourself?

It’s a little like that.

Recently Watched

  • The Super Bowl: Probably the best SB I’ve watched live; I may not like Brady & Co., but they put on an amazing show. Same thing goes for Gaga, who delivered the best halftime show this side of Prince; subtly political but primarily energetic and fun.
  • The Good Place: Michael Schur is his generation’s Norman Lear, and Kristen Bell is possibly the most likable person on the planet. But my favorite part? Listening to Adam Scott’s character repeatedly refer to Fake Eleanor as “Trashbag”; I thought of you girls every time he said it, and again every time F.E. made that confused, hurt little face in response.
  • The Magicians: How the hell can I be on a nerd-nexus like Tumblr this often without anyone telling me about The Magicians? You’ve let me down again, assholes. But more importantly, how the hell can a show with such a bland title, no-name cast, and mind-bogglingly derivative premise be that good? Its one weakness –the fact that it isn’t about anything in particular, and thus doesn’t feel Important like BSG or Buffy– is the biggest clue to how it manages to work so well. The arm’s-length camera work, the drab color grading, and the actors’ weirdly grounded performances all contribute, but the real star is the story structure; it feels like someone has finally figured out how to evolve beyond The Whedon Method of genre storytelling by stubbornly refusing to linger on melodrama and relentlessly culling or subverting every obligatory story beat it can find. All the big stuff you expect from a “mature viewers” show about gods, witches, and wardrobes clocks is there, but trimmed of all the fluff and irony.
  • The Expanse: Just started it, so all I can say so far is that it’s ambitious, and WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY IS THAT MESS ON TOM JANE’S HEAD?
  • A Series of Unfortunate Events: As with Harry Potter, I think I’m just too old for this shit. There’s nothing technically wrong with it, but no amount of NPH and Warburton is enough to get me excited about warmed-over Roald Dahl.
  • Victoria/The Crown: So far, The Doctor’s royal drama is much stronger than his erstwhile companion’s, but I can overlook the intense Downton Abbey-ness of Victoria as long as the camera keeps making love to Jenna Coleman’s perfect face.

I don’t have a question, so my apologies for abusing the ask button to fire statements at you… But your writing is so beautiful and relatable. My heart and cunt ache at the same time when I read your blog. It’s perfect. I hope you keep writing. ♡

I love this. Everything about it. Let me count the ways…

  • It starts with an unwarranted apology. I know you girls are constantly telling yourselves that you shouldn’t apologize for nothing –for just existing– but personally…? I think it’s cute.
  • It’s made up of multiple coherent sentences. (Emoji aside.) See, I talk about “dumb girls” a lot, but it should be understood that I’m mostly interested in emotional stupidity and poor decision-making skills, not actual, illiterate dumbassery. I sometimes speak in paragraphs and expect a chick to keep up.
  • It evinces an adorkable attention to the meaning of words.
  • It focuses on the writing and addresses me as a writer, rather than blindly reaching for my cyber-dick and making vague, empty promises of sexy nonsense. This is a girl who recognizes why I’m here and what I’m trying to do.
  • Secretly, I kinda liked the emoji.

Be more like her.