Bedtime Stories for Broken Girls

Many things to talk about here, in no certain order.

1. I’m responding to this because you caught me in a moment where your comments intersected with some of my current thinking, and you managed to keep your contempt-to-politeness ratio somewhat reasonable. Good show.

2. This isn’t a “d/s blog”. Nor is it about BDSM, DDlg, or whatever random assemblage of letters people are using to organize and label the things that make them go “ouch!” in the night. This blog claims no tribal affiliation, nor is it representative of anything more than the perversely curious and philosophically flexible thoughts of one man and his merry band of compulsively masturbating followers.

3. Lots of chicks mean lots of things when they claim to “crave abuse”. Some of them fetishize the symbology of it, touching it lightly through the ritualized abstractions of consensual kink. Some want to (re)create specific scenarios that feel real in the moment, but are actually funhouse mirror representations of cruelty, devoid of the gaslighting and threats that make real abuse so insidious and detrimental to them. Some of them mean to reclaim and repurpose a collection of deeply ingrained, broken assumptions and behaviors, and in so doing, bring a sense of purpose and order to an often cluttered, chaotic inner life.

There’s far more than that, of course, which is my point: you have to listen to what a woman is actually trying to say, and not just the words she’s using. They are girls, and they contain worlds.

4. “Mentally unfit” for what? For average sexual relationships with conventional men based upon traditional expectations? Yeah, they’ll fuck those up most every time; they’ll either attach themselves to the kind of smirking asshole they’ll learn to quietly despise and fear, or they’ll give in to the relentless sales pitch of some should-have-been-friendzoned do-gooder who will waste years of both their lives vainly striving to fix the unfixable.

Do you mean unfit for work? I’ll grant you, there aren’t a lot of captains of industry writing to me, begging to have their minds fucked; based solely on my anecdotal evidence, there may be a cunt-specific glass ceiling standing between my girls and corporate advancement. Then again, I’ve got a strikingly diverse audience; it could be that all those hustling sugar babies, picket fence bimbos, kinky little camgirls, cuckqueaned soccer moms, submissive file clerks, academic feminist hypocrities, artsy hipster fuckdolls, corrupted daddy’s girls, and service-industry sluts just don’t care about getting ahead when they could be giving it. Perhaps they don’t give a shit about being fit.

Outside of that, I don’t see them as any more mentally suspect than the rest of the human race, most of whom foster fucked-up ideas about sex and power while (mostly) managing to make it through life without people questioning their dubious normality.

5. Pretend I don’t belong with them? Not a chance. I’m right here in the mud beside them, in our baptismal of filth, dunking their squealing little faces into the darkness for which they yearn.

Of course I like you broken. You all go through *so* much bullshit as women, with life slowly molding you into creepy little emotional athletes; by the time you get to me, you’re finely tuned fuck-up-machines who need the right kind of man to work you out and keep your twisted minds spinning in place. I enjoy being that kind of man.

If it helps, think of me as the psychic equivalent of a gymnastics coach. Only less sexually abusive.