"Sure you married her, but I can make her cum"

This is very late. Sorry. It's been an absolute flaming 12-cylinder cunt of a week.

***

She’s a special kind of girl.

Without gushing stupidities, she quietly appreciates things you do for her. She says thank you, and means it.

She does not say “We have to talk”. We do not have to talk.

She does not use the word ‘relationship’. We have what we have.

She accepts the fact that I sleep with other women. She probably expects it. She just doesn’t want to be told about it if it’s recent.

Previous indiscretions and conquests are another story. She does not have strange emotional moods when told tales of past debaucheries. She accepts the fact that there have been women before her and will be after her. She does not suffer from that peculiar affliction, “mycockitis”, where 20 minutes after your meeting a woman asserts that your penis is now her property until circumstance or grace demand she hand it back, like a genital Hong Kong.

She accepts the fact that her friends want to fuck me. She simply tells them not to.

When I told her my Rule of C’s (“Cunts crave commitment, companionship and a chump to complain to”) she thought for a second and said she preferred chocolate, champagne and cock.

She is a product of a broken home, abused as a child by a mentally ill mother and a rape victim as a teenager. She has no family now, having disowned and abandoned them for sanity and safety’s sakes. She describes them as a “bunch of fucked up jackals”. Her history with men is one long tale of disappointment and AVOs.

That being said, she is not a victim. Things do not happen to her. She happens to things. She does not wear her past, or her heart, on her sleeve.

She does not have normal feminine emotions. That is to say, irritating, irrational and shallow. She’s perfectly normal all night, then wakes up at half-past six and LEAVES.

She does not like children. She does not want children.

Finally, and Lord of all, she has the most potent, unholy, raging, ceaseless appetite for sex I have ever encountered. I have met and slept with women who like and appreciate a good dicking. I have met and slept with women who are unashamedly horny little strumpets that target men like laser-guided fuckbombs until they get a taste of what lies beneath the denim.

But this is something else entirely.

She craves the tongue, finger and the rod, and if she could dilate enough would probably love the fist, the doorframe and washing machine with the same religious fervour.

Straight, she is rampantly horny. I have never seen her socially in my life without managing to take her home. I can’t resist the idea of the uncomplicated pick-up situation. I don’t have to talk her into it. There is no begging, pleading or even asking, even if she’s with another man. “I bet you could use half-a-dozen continuous orgasms right now” usually does the trick, and a heartbeat she flips off the smudge she’s talking to, goes into estrous and is probably going to molest me in the cab on the way home.

On drugs, she is just unstoppable. She has more orgasms than a Swedish bathhouse and the continual carnivalé of filth only manages to stop sometime in the early afternoon of the next day.

In these situations I lie back with my dick in tatters, thinking she couldn’t possibly want more than that...

...and I feel a small white hand clamp down across the base of my cock. Hard.

An uncomfortable thought occurs, one which has never occurred before. Is this woman is wearing me down? In these situations, I have to consciously remind myself that I am Dr. Cuntsworthy, and no-one wears me down without a note from teacher. The ensuing sex is equal parts savage tenderness and psychic revenge. Thankfully, being held by the neck and fucked brainless is squarely on this woman’s approved list.

“What do you do with normal men?” I will ask later, as I lie in a post-orgasmic dopamine-induced coma.

“Suffer”, she says, bluntly.

Only the most extensive and intense kind of fucking, the kind where I’m worried I’ll wake up next to a smiling corpse and the autopsy will find her cervix up in her brainstem, satisfies her enough to not want sex immediately afterwards. But give her ten minutes, and she can take it again, and more. Her vagina was spun by Eros out of Cupid’s tears, silk and tungsten wire. She is normally sensitive and receptive, but sexually indestructible.

For my birthday, I’m going to ask her to bring a friend. Or two. She probably will.

She is completely incompatible with my life at large. While we have mutual friends, most of the time spent together socially is awkward. I have nothing to say to her. She is willfully and penetratingly stupid, doesn’t understand words like “willfully” and “penetratingly”. Sentences with more than one vaguely complicated word in them are immediately dismissed as “nerd talk”. Her brain wanders off like an autistic six-year-old in a shopping mall. She is only moderately attractive. I would have never slept with her in the first place, except an acquaintance told her certain stories about me which led her to get me drunk and take serious advantage at the first possible opportunity. She has no interest in my intellectual life. She doesn’t know what a PhD is, and doesn’t care. She has no overarching ambitions, and merely does whatever comes next.

I have never met a purer example of the gorgeous, loveable, loathsome, frothing bastard of a contradiction that is woman. A woman who brings her own amyl nitrate and handcuffs, but can frustrate and infuriate me in seconds just by opening her mouth.

A long time ago, after I decided the world was a shallow, nasty place populated largely by blue-veined dicks, I realised this invalidated all the lovely homilies about how men and women relate to each other and the rules had to be re-conceived. Soulmates? Get stuffed. “The one”? The fuck. True love? Please. Don’t piss in my ear and tell me you’re an otorhinolaryngologist.

Mutual respect is the best we could hope for... and like herpes and codependency, it’s something Dr. Phil talks about which most of us just don’t possess. Hell, men and women don’t even like each other. Instead we have a kind of West Bank truce, an uneasy cease-fire punctuated with fitful violence, vicious recrimination and glorious amounts of mutual misunderstanding.

“All men are swine.”

Have you met them all, Ms. Dworkin?

“All women are sluts.”

You mean they seem to find everyone except you attractive, Mr. Bundy?

Armchair sociologists of the world, unite! Link pasty white arms and declare everything incompatible! People with these opinions seem to be for the most part male. Women have a bewitching tendency to repeat them, complain about how the gender wars are “so hard”... and then hang it all and become utterly infatuated at the drop of a belt buckle. At least they still have faith, and faith implies hope. The average man has no such conviction. To him, women are a species solely created to victimise him and his diminutive little pecker. Fortunately for the sake of civilised discourse, there’s a question to shut these slothful fuckers up:

“Why should a woman find you attractive?”

Insert choking on beer and frantic backpedaling here. I’m such a gender traitor.

But that’s who they have to deal with. Women are perpetually surprised to find decent behaviour in men. Their eyes roll back in perplexed shock if they reach orgasm. They are wary and confused if you listen to what they mean, even for a second. Any kind of serious attention turns them floatingly blissful. In short, they are unreasonably grateful if you aren’t a complete pig.

Everyone is incredibly fucked up about sex, men and women alike. Why is a subject for another day. I will confine myself to saying that sexologists, those smiling cretins who think this problem is soluble with orgasm seminars, are putting the cart before the horse. We don’t need to be taught to fuck, we need to be taught to stop being teenagers when we turn twenty. The giant neurotic nervousness that pervades the fumbling of a hundred thousand bra straps will not die easily.