From Chateau Heartiste: Pulp romance and sex novels like Fifty Shades of Grey are the female equivalent of male visual pornography; let there be no doubt, these books are female porn, as salacious and titillating for women as close-up jackhammering is for men. If you decry the one, you must decry the other if you have any interest in being perceived as fair-minded and consistent. But will you ever hear a media darling feminist call out these books for what they really are? Of course not. For what they really are is a technicolor ringside seat spectating into the soul of woman. Fantasy is a reflection of real world desire, and as much as it is true men would hardly hesitate to fulfill in real life a fantasy about intimately plowing a Victoria’s Secret model, it is equally true women wouldn’t hesitate to be the defiled bedroom slave of a charmingly sociopathic, powerful alpha male.
Think about this revelation for more than a Twitter’s length moment. These pulpy romance books targeted at female audiences are all implausibly similar; you will never encounter a plot line that deviates much from the universal script except in the most trivial details. There is a badboy. There is an indignation, or a series of indignations, to which the female “protagonist” consents or endures, and enjoys despite her conscious declaration to the contrary. There is a niceguy the woman feels bad about not loving. There are societal expectations that add drama to the proceedings. There is sexual surrender preceded by interminable verbal foreplay (the “close-up” for the female reader). And there are pages upon pages of delirious, exquisite hamstering.
Feminists rush to claim that these sordid female fantasies are just that: fantasy. But then why is it these books of female porn never showcase a woman having a torrid affair with an attentive, polite beta male who does the dishes and shows up for dates on time? If these desires were outcroppings of the realm of fantasy alone, severed from real desirous thoughts that can be acted upon, then reason dictates women in all their glorious individuality — nawalt, don’t you know! — would fantasize in the fantasy-dedicated lobes of their brains about a random assortment of scenarios and male archetypes. Yet the thematic universality persists.
The conclusion is obvious: women fantasize about the types of men they do (like the slavemaster from Fifty Shades) because, like men watching porn, it gets them off. And what one dreams about — or reads or watches — to get oneself off is thrillingly close to the same thing that gets one off in earthbound life where flesh meets actual flesh.
It’s a good thing beta males are being exposed to this raw look at female nature in ever greater numbers. From the mouths of (aging) babes. Chalk one up for the information superhighway and its unsupervised off-ramps kicking a peg from under the princess pedestal. Perhaps with this new, unsettling knowledge, more betas will train themselves to become alpha and in turn make more women happier and sexually fulfilled. Or perhaps this cadre of illuminated betas will drop out, resigned to their hopelessness and cynicism, and slowly, inexorably withdraw the funds and the mental fuel that prop up the de facto polygyny society in which they play little part except as mop-up crew after the main attraction has ended.
Either way, the rouge has washed off this whore. The illusion is shattering. No one wants to be a dupe. My prediction is that women will regret having thrown the doors wide open on their whipped and gagged ids, invigorating hordes of disaffected or romantically noncommittal beta males in consequence. The losers in this game will rightly wonder what it has gotten them. And the heretics will say some roars were better left stifled.