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goodnightallwhites · 4 years

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Mommy's Secret BlackingPacking

Women are shit. It was a term I heard in some way, shape, or form nearly every day now from the people I spent my time with. Well, not really like that. They were people online, people who I didn’t know, but people I could complain about. I had tons to complain about. I was romantically hopeless. I’ve never had a girlfriend, never even kissed a girl. They never seemed interested in me. Maybe I was too skinny, too thin-wristed, too round-faced, too wide-eyed. A short guy with a baby face. That’s what I complained about around half the time I was online. The other half I spent jacking my meager 3 inch pin penis until I shot my load into the trash or the toilet. I was getting into increasingly demeaning fetishes. Mostly with dominant women and pathetic little cuckold men. I was afraid that I’d have to be in a relationship like that. I loved jacking to it, but after I came? I was always disgusted with myself.

I hated girls more though. I hated all of them. They always fucked and dated the worst guys, and made fun of guys like me. Called me pin-dick. Made fun of me for being short and hairless. I tried to be nice to them but they wouldn’t care either way. They always dated loud, obnoxious apes who were fighting and bragging in public all the time. Almost always these guys were black. I jerked off to blacked a ton. It was like my addiction. I tugged it to blacked and blackedraw and especially cuckold sessions. My favorite part was how white guys always got their little dicks humiliated by snow bunnies who just had to take the biggest cock available. My least favorite part was how I hated myself after I busted a nut. How I had to convince myself that BBC was a myth. How I wanted to cry and chop my dick off. Of course women would want the biggest dick they could get. They were shallow and stupid and only cared about getting the best train run on them but some nigger with a 2 foot cock. Why should I even bother? Even the nerdiest girl in my school could probably get some black asshole to fuck her if she acted slutty enough. I was sure every girl I ever liked thought I was a loser just because my dick was a bit below average. I didn’t trust women and I didn’t like them. The one exception I always thought was true was my own mother. She was tall, busty, beautiful, and always the nicest person in my life. I felt bad when I occasionally jerked off to a certain outfit she wore. How she’d occasionally show off enough skin for me to get turned on. Rubbing out a load into my hand still felt wrong, but it felt more normal. Plenty of guys said stuff like ‘I fucked your mom’. It couldn’t have been worse than me gooning to interracial porn I hated. One night I was doing just that. I was bored and my balls had been wanting to be drained all day after a good edging session last night. My homework was tossed around the floor while I was on the computer. My feet were spread on my desk with the keyboard and mouse on my stomach. I was slouched way down, and my pants were at my ankles while I played with myself. My little dick was rock hard as I watched Kendra Sutherland stare at a chocolate monster that was the size of her whole neck and head. Even hotter was the fact that a girl posted it.

I wanted to edge because post but clarity hit hard. I watched an amateur POV video of the viewers girlfriend explaining why big black cock was superior. How it was bigger and thicker and more filling and how it hit all her spots and whenever it came in her it flooded her womb and pussy until there was literally nothing left. She said she’d spoken to ‘your’ mom and sister and all your exes and they all take black cock on the regular. They all will never go back to white boys and all know you’re a tiny dicked loser who can’t satisfy a girl to save his life. But I at least got the change to be taught how to eat a creampie and was threatened with chastity if I came even once before she did. I had to let go of my dicklet then because I knew a light breeze would all it would take to cum. I wanted to get a chastity belt so I could stop spending every night gooning to blacked. I hated women and I hated these pornstars who bragged about how little they thought of guys like me. I never asked to be white or tiny dicked. I hoped I would find the rare loving girl like my mom. But I’ve heard of popular, smart jocks at my school being dumped because they didn’t measure up to girls standards. White jocks at least. And I didn’t wanna date an ugly girl, or some fat weirdo. But honestly I came to the fact that that’s all a teeny white nerd like me could get. I really wanted that chastity cage. It’s been embarrassing in the gym locker rooms but black guys already bullied the small cocks of white guys everyday so I wouldn’t feel much difference. The girls might be meaner but at least I’d get their attention. I thought of mom again. I’d seen my dad in the shower before. He was, like me, a short, unimpressive white man, and it turned out he had a totally tiny penis too. It might have even been smaller than mine. 3 inches was technically fine, but dad had a straight up micropenis. And if mom loved him with that, I was sure I had a chance. So tonight, I was jerking off yet again, but this time it was to more wholesome content. Instead of women getting brutally fucked by gigantic black dicks or POVs of women talking about how much better their horse cocks are. Today I was just watching a calm jerk off encouragement video with a calm, quiet girl who acted all loving and romantic. It still got my little shaft full of blood, so I was happy tugging to her. I started hearing something weird though. There was a loud moaning in the background. There was always loud moaning when I watched porn, but this jerk off session didn’t have that kind of video. I checked all my other tabs, but there wasn’t any hardcore porn anywhere. Then I took of my headphones. To my horror, I found it was aloud, but my headphones were still plugged in. Meaning… It had to be coming from somewhere else in the house! I live in my house with my parents and older sister, who was out with her friends touring a college a city away. My dad wasn’t home either, only my mom. So sure enough, when I followed the sound, it came from the end of the hallway her room. What was mom doing… I cracked open the door just a tiny bit- and there I saw it. She was laying down on the bed with her legs spread wide and her toes curled in what had to be pleasure because she was begging for more. What was worse was what was in between her legs. It was a black man, huge, tall, and muscular. The kind of- of nigger I hated! Fucking my own mom? “I’m cumming! Fuck I’m cumming on your big, huge black dick again!” He thin arms flopped to the side of her as she became like a ragdoll. Orgasm shot through her with loud moans. Orgasm!? I had spoken to a lot of girls online and even sexted. They told me they enjoyed sex, but never orgasmed. They said girls didn’t, so I shouldn’t feel bad if I couldn’t make one. But my mom obviously just had one. “Yeah, three times a night bitch!?” yelled the manly black bull she fucked. I was in shock. Three times a night? “And I haven’t even cum yet!” “Lets see- if you can last another half hour then!” A half an hour? How long had they been doing this for? Weren’t guys supposed to last for 2 minutes in real sex? No way that blacked garbage was REAL?! “I’m close babe,” he said, “but you gotta beg for it?” Beg? He was gonna make my mom- “Fuck yes, give it to me babe, give it to me, you know how much I love your cum, pull that huge fucking dick out stud, shoot your perfect hot thick fucking black cum all over me!” Unbelievable. I was seething- how could she do this? I was still coping though. No way MY mom was really there. It couldn’t be. And the things she was saying? Just dirty talk, right? “FUCK yes,” she let out. She breathed heavily. “Fuck you’re gonna make me fucking cum again before you do! Your dick’s better in every fucking way than my husbands!” I gulped. She HAD to just be saying this to turn him on. It was a nice thing. She’d probably been faking orgsms! There’s no way she could really love this nigger more than my dad, right? “Mmmmm, babe, scream again- I fuckin LIKE that!” “I can’t- we’re already being to loud- my son will hear!” “You told me you didn’t give a shit about him, babe, you just want my dick.” “Fuck… you’re right.” What the hell? “Give it to me! Yeah, yeah fucking give it to me!” “Ahhh fuck yeah babe, I’m fuckin cumming, I’m gonna cum raw in your tight little cunt!” “Pull out! Pull out pull out! I’m not on the pill!” “AH FUCK!!” He yelled, pulling back to rip his dick out of the pussy I was born from. I was hoping I’d be proven right about black dicks, that they were average, like any other dick. Maybe above average, if it felt especially good. I expected- no, I hoped to see a penis about 5 or 6 inches in length, seven at the most. “FUCK YEAH!” he yelled. That monster had to be a foot long. He slammed it down onto my mom’s toned stomach that she worked so hard on. She was proud of it. Now I could only think of how this huge, 12 inch dicked nigger slammed his huge cock on it and started cumming like a firehose. He shot thick ropes onto her tits, her face, even the pillows she shared with dad. And I was getting off to it. As they both breathed heavily in their afterglow, I snuck off before they noticed me peeping, and ran to the bathroom. I shut the door behind me a little too loud. Hopefully they wouldn’t be suspicious of that. Hell, hopefully it was a dream. I couldn’t believe it. Any of it! I washed my face with cold water and I hoped to wake up. I was already awake. I looked at my face. The face of the only son of a man and woman who really loved each other, right? I hated myself, but at least I could say that. Now I couldn’t. My mom was a whore, just like every other woman on earth.

I pulled my pants down. My small dick, a quarter his size, was still rock hard. I couldn’t believe it. What the hell was wrong with white women? What the hell was wrong with white dicks?? What the fucking hell was wrong… with me. I started jerking off.

#Interracial #story #bbc

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aestheticritique · 4 years

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For young men (Part 1)

In my latest lockdown induced depressive episode I have been meeting some new people online. They are all young, male, mostly heterosexual, very nice and extremely considerate. However, they also are often afraid becoming a burden, insecure in their appearance or social skills, and often struggling with mental health. Given this, they are also usually extremely afraid of never finding themselves having sex or getting into a meaningful relationship in the late stage neoliberal capitalist dystopia we find ourselves in. To be honest I didn’t understand them at first, especially their obsession with sex. But the more I am thinking about it, the more I realize that we are united in the same dynamic of seeing sex or love as magic verfication of... What?

Growing up, I used hookups as a way to prove to myself that I am worth something. I thought that my value was defined by men’s desire. I originally in writing this wanted to show my perspective from the other side of the same coin, but after realizing how much of an undertaking that would be, I decided to start with the two most common answers from men used as justification to why they think they won’t get laid. These are things I find will help these kinds of people out, but as a great thinker once said...

“I can’t mom you through this one, boys. You are on your own.” - Contrapoints

(I link songs I like through out btw, the underlined text are links you can click on)

Foreword: Social factors

The average age of first intercourse has been rising in the US. Teenagers have less sex than ever before. These changes will affect you. In teen movies and shows charakters often experiment with sexuality before the age of 18. Everything else is played as an abnormality. If we compare ourselves to this misrepresentation of teenage sexuality, of course we seem like the losers.

“The proportion of young people who have had sexual intercourse increases rapidly as they age through adolescence”. It’s very likely, at least from my view, that you are just going to grow out of the awkward zone of wanting intimacy but not getting it. Just like you grew out of other things, such as bad musical taste or that one gaudy outfit. Don’t stress over this one specifically either.

Adolescence is weird for all of us. Even if your first encounter is after college, let’s be real here: having such a good thing in your own place without your parents looming or having to share your room with a roommate you barely know is so much better anyway.

The Ugly fuck too

A common answer to my question why they think that they will never have sex is that they are “unattractive”. The implication being, that sex is the prize for looking a certain way.

But is it? We are so used to the perfect, porn-ready bodies in the media that we forget that the Ugly fuck too. We never see the foldes of fat and skin, never see acne warriors or moles, never see people who actually look like us.

In the movie “The Parasite”, there is a scene where the husband of Gook Moon-gwang, the former housekeeper, is implied to have sex. (the clip, starts at 3:00) It gave me weird feelings of discomfort, as the illusion so stereotypically found on the silver screen was not present. These two characters are not pretty. They look old. She is fat and he is a balding skeleton. They are not special, and that’s okay.

Being fuckable does not equal beauty. Being fuckable does not equal beauty. It was a terrifying thought initially for someone like me who defined their value over beauty & their beauty as being fuckable. It might also be a scary thought for someone who doesn’t think that they deserve love and intimacy because of their looks. I promise you that you still deserve love! Sex did not cure my problems with my appearance, or the fact that I based my self-esteem on the way I look. It will not make you feel normal. It will not make you feel better, prove your worth or even give you more self esteem in the long term beyond the initial rush of dopamine. It is not a caravan to fulfillment.

Beauty is a concept that is based on exclusion. Allow yourself to feel the pain of being excluded, of not reaching the impossible beauty standards and the disadvantages that come with it. Allow yourself to feel the fear of not being “man enough” and be happy in spite of it.

“Patriarchal masculinity teaches us to control our pain, but it can block us from experiencing the grief that is part of a full life. Chasing pleasure and controlling pain is patriarchal. Opening ourselves up to joy and grief is to be fully human.”

”Those of us in that skinny nerd category are especially prone to thinking that we aren’t “man enough.” [..] But the more I talked to men, the more convinced I became that almost all men at some point in their lives don’t feel man enough. Even the men I thought were the “real men” were scared.

That’s not surprising. Masculinity in patriarchy—that is, masculinity in a system of institutionalized male dominance—trains men to be competitive, in pursuit of conquest, which leads to routine confrontation, with the goal of always being in control of oneself and others. But no matter how intensely competitive one is, no matter how complete the conquest, no matter how many successful confrontations, and no matter how much one stays in control—men are haunted by the fear that they aren’t man enough, that they can never stop proving their masculinity.” - Robert Jensen

Stop comparing your appearance to other men’s. Start talking and bonding with them over your undoubtably shared insecurities rooted in society’s relentless toxic masculinity. Unlearning the things you’ve been indoctrinated into since conception is damn hard. I am still in the middle of it personally, but I promise you it is worth it. It will improve not only your relationships with other men, but also with yourself and that one girl you’re pining after.

There are a ton of resources targeted at women about self acceptance, but not many for men. Robert Jenson comes from a tradition of critical men’s groups. Even though I don’t agree with him on everything, he manages to scare most men (especially the kind I mentioned in the first paragraph) to their core, but also improves their lives drastically with his kindness and radical ideas. I implore you to look him up, and try your best to keep an open mind.

“A person who functions normally in a sick society is themselve sick.”

The other most common answer to the initial question was “being socially maladjusted”, implying that sex is something you earn by behaving a certain way. It is ingrained in the way we talk about love. “Deserving love” is the best example. Neither love nor sex is a product of work. Love and intimacy are a lot like sleep. It is a slow but unconscious process. You slowly work into it, with no idea of what comes next, and then, after an agonizingly long moment, you’re there. The fall is not often expected or easy, is always exhilarating, but never the product of conformity to anything except comfort with who you are.

I do acknowledge that social settings can be weird, existentially unsettling, and full of unseen complexities. This is especially true if you are neurodivergent and / or struggling with mental health. Being neurodivergent or struggling with mental health goes against the impossible, hegemonically masculine standard of always being in controll. It’s a common cause behind feelings of emasculation. Disregard that feeling, and remember that you deserve love, no matter how manly you are or are not, no matter how you behave.

Learning social settings are lot like learning to skate. In the beginning you will be covered in bruises, but with enough effort, you will be better at it. The chance of mistakes will get lower, but never zero. You will always have awkward situations, but that doesn’t mean that you are bad at them. It just means that you have room to improve still. Maybe consider getting lessons or joining a skate crew.

We tend to hyperfocus on the accidents. Think about how many nice conversations you had over the internet, text or otherwise. I ask you to value them. Value these positive experiences, value your friendships and acquaintances, value the people supporting you, online and offline. We tend to hyperfocus on meaningfull longterm friendships, just like we hyperfocus on love. Value your social enviroment, value someone who just made you feel ok for a moment. You are socially adapted, because you have a social enviroment you feel comfortable in, where you have relationships with people. The depth of a relationship is not messured by time, nor by physical touch. Being mindful of your feelings for the people around you can make you realize that you are less alone than you thought.

Some Tips

If you want to make friends additionally to that, here are some tips from someone, who is bad at social clues:

Join a group with a common interest or struggle: Book clubs, activist groups, selfhelp groups, they are great settings to meet new people and you already have a topic to talk about :)

If you feel save about it: Being open about your issues can help other people adapt to you and understand you better - especially in early on in relationships.

People sitting at the bar or smoking outside are generally more open for conversation

Don’t be afraid of getting rejected: They don’t reject you, when they reject a conversation with you. The reasons people don’t want to talk to you is very diverse. Stay respectful and polite.

Don’t expect to much: No one owes you a long conversation. A smalltalk is perfectly fine.

Learn to make compliments casually and learn to compliments that aren’t based on appearance.

Find a common ground (politically, a interest ect.) and talk about it

Take a improv class, seriously TAKE A IMPROV CLASS! (there are online ones, and sometimes it’s even free)

Here are some youtube videos by Anna Akana with more tips. (1) conversations, (2) how to be a better friend, (3) overthinking

Here are is a piece about being bad at relationship I liked.

Footnote: Trophies and muses

“We do not want to do the work of helping you to believe in your humanity. We cannot do it anymore. We have always tried. We have been repaid with systematic exploitation and systematic abuse. You are going to have to do this yourselves from now on and you know it.” - Andrea Dowkin

Behind the whole obsession with sex is often a distorted perception of women. Just remind yourself that women are human? Access to female bodies is not a human right. We are not trophies to push your ego. We are not there to inspire you or heal you. We are humans with agency. We desire love and being loved, just like everyone else.

I am tired, but I believe in your humanity...

xoxo,

aestheticritique

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truffledmadness · 7 years

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A Girl

Content notes: this thing is a holy mess, some of which is about gender, some of which is about sex/romance, all of which is extremely cishet, because it’s mostly personal narrative time up in here, and I’ve only got the one perspective.

I remember the first time I ever felt like A Girl. I was eighteen.

Okay, no, that’s not quite right. I’m AFAB and cis and until I was out of elementary school I felt entirely like a girl--Girl as opposed to Boy, and I was very much a princesses-and-flowers (and Elizabeth I) girl at that.

But then the primordial soup of puberty cooked and transformed me and everyone I was spending time with, and things changed. I always knew I was A Woman, or at least, I would be, but there was this THING, this thing to Being A Girl, and I wasn’t that. I was a female, a woman. I was just Truffles. But I wasn’t that. I didn’t think I’d ever be that.

It had a lot to do with a kind of glamour, as manifest in generic desirability and light mystery. When I say generic desirability, I don’t just mean sexual--I mean an air that meant, when you, A Girl, were out with other Girls, perhaps walking in a horizontal line at the mall, little old ladies would smile wistfully and think what a fine thing it was to be A Girl. Boys you hadn’t had a real conversation with would “ask you out.” What this meant when nobody had a car is confusing to me even now. You and your friends would trade clothes, because you were all the same size. The thinkpiece machine would wish you into a STEM career. Somehow, I could always tell the thinkpiece machine was fine, just fine, with me pursuing the humanities.

It wasn’t that I didn’t have a clump of female friends to lurk the mall with. I did, in varying combinations. But we were goth-adjacent nerds of various stripes and no one, but no one, would see us crouched in Books A Million and think we were indulging in the Mysterious Golden Times of Girlhood. We were just...us. Not mysterious. Not desirable. Maybe we were girls (at least one of us would later find they weren’t), but we weren’t Girls.

A guy friend of mine once asked me for romantic advice in high school. It was prefaced with “Hey, Truffles, you’re a girl...” I wasn’t as brave as Hermione. I didn’t sneer.

I thought I was ugly. I’ve concluded since that I’m probably not, even if I’m not Natalie Portman either, but I knew there was something that made me not-quite. I thought that thing was ugliness. In retrospect, it was probably a combination of the “wrong” clothes, anxiety, and autistic traits, plus my high school really was objectively awful.

But back to when I was eighteen. I was at a University Jewish Society thing with a friend, and a guy there asked the two of us to come to his frat house barbecue the next day. The clear implication was that he needed us to stand on his lawn as a sort of bait for new recruits, who would only want to go to a party if they could meet women, and he was willing to compensate us for our troubles in the form of a free meal and something amusing to do on a Sunday afternoon. The idea that my presence was even remotely plausible bait for potential frat recruits shook me to my socks.

This is humiliating to write, incidentally. It’s intimate and horrible and I feel like I’m splitting myself open to show my organs to the world and I’m doing it anyway, because I could have used a thing like this to read, back then.

These days, I am 25 years old, and I don’t particularly enjoy feeling like A Girl. It happens, from time to time, and I always feel like I’ve tricked people. “Ha! You are flirting with me because you think I’m that thing! I’m not, I’m not, I’ll never be, but I’ve TRICKED you!” My ex once implied I had less to be nervous from at a party where we didn’t know people than he did, because I was “a hot girl,” and such people were wanted at parties. I stored his exact words to send back to my former self, who would never believe me anyway.

So why am I even writing this? I don’t know. Except. Nobody ever talks to women about this. Maybe because Club Feminism has decided that too much pursuit is always worse than sexual invisibility, so we pretend the latter doesn’t exist on Our Side. (”If we admit it’s a problem, we have to give the Other Team points”) Maybe because I was quite young when I first read a guy complaining that ‘girls’ didn’t like him, and I was acutely aware that this guy would never, ever, want to go out with me.

Maybe because a woman can complain her particular crush doesn’t like her and it’s normal, but it’s a shocking and disgusting if she says she wants A Guy, Any Guy and is having trouble acquiring one. Men can say they want A Girlfriend and that’s perfectly normal.

Maybe because even in feminist circles, the experience of womanhood is still framed as such a passive thing. Maybe because it’s been my week for noticing a lot of sexual weirdness (like how “skinny-armed allegedly feminist man in horn rims who only wants to date blonde sorority girls” is a known stereotype, but another character I’ve run into quite a bit, “burly conservative WASP who is REALLY into liberal alterna-girls” is never EVER mentioned except once at an author talk I was at).

Maybe because I was a really sad kid--no, a sad girl, dammit--and I felt like a freak, and I am convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there are others out there, and half of them are at Feminist Club where they’ll be told that of course they’re experiencing near-constant sexual advances, and that’ll make it worse, and this is the only message in a bottle I can think to send.

#personal #truffles is silly #truffles grows up #idk man

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thecorteztwins · 7 years

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✍️ Toad with an acolyte that might like him?

(using WATXM so the first-gen Acolytes and second-gen ones can be on the same squad! Also assuming this is for @toadlingscentral. I also wasn’t clear on what “might like him” meant so I went with friendships.)Toad neverbeen lucky enough to know other physically mutated types. Okay, technically there was Blob, but…Fred still looked human. Not a type of human that other humansliked, but still…better fat than a freak.After he’d joined the Acolytes, however, he’d been introduced to Seamus Mellencamp (no codename) and Mortimer Everett (alias Barnacle), both of them physically mutated in…less than attractive ways…and had found companions in them both. Of course, Toad wasn’t friends with themjust for that, he was sure they’d have gotten along fine anyway(especially Barn, he was really nice—and his real name was Mortimertoo!) but there was a certain unspoken sense of solidarity betweenthem. Without ever having had to talk about it, they knew theyshared certain experiences, certain feelings, certain realities. Theyall understood what it was like to be like them in a way that the others,even the kindest, just couldn’t comprehend. Indeed, Toad actually wondered ifthese two didn’t have it worse than he did. Mellencamp looked even more inhuman than Toad did, frighteningly so, and poor Barn…his mutation had given him dry cracked scabby crusts and scars all over his skin, not to mention a big lumpy abscess that hung over one eye, rendering him half-blind. To top it all off, he also had a speech impediment, possibly from having crusts and scars on the inside too. So yeah, it was hard not for Toad to feel a certain connection with these guys.Not that the other Acolytes were all bad either. Some were bullies, like the Kleinstocks—though atleast unlike Fabian, they didn’t seem to hate him for how he looked,they were just jerks—and some, like Senyaka, were just plainscary….but Milan was great. He looked totally human, but he was a big nerd who the others picked on a lot. This and a shared love of technology connected him and Mort.Amelia Voght was nice enough if not exactly his friend, and Scannerand Neophyte seemed as unsure and nervous as he often was, seen them, and he saw them bossed around and picked on too.And, of course, Anne Marie. She had been the first Acolyte he met, and his first friend among them. She’d always been nice to him, and she never flinched when looking at him, nevergave any sign she was looking at anything strange, be it disgust orpity or the natural nervousness that an appearance like his couldinstinctively incite in people not because they were bad or hatedhim, but just because…people weren’t supposed to look like him.Barnacle had been the one to explain why most people were like that.”It’s called kkkst the Uncanny Valley,” he said, “You and—kkkst—I, we look human, but not human enough. It hits a weird part of the brain that–-kkkst–unnerves people even more than monsters do. That’s why clownsand puppets—kkkst— scare people. They look SIMILAR to humans but withsomething just ‘off’.”He paused to take a drink of water; Barn had to do that a lot when he talked. Then he continued,“They use that in–kkkst–movies, to make people creeped out instead of just ‘oh shit a scary—kkkst—monster!’ like when they see someone like Mellencamp.”Barn paused again, and then finished, “”It’s natural instinct, everyone–kkkst— has it.“Idunno, man Anne Marie doesn’t,” replied Mort, “But that girl ain’t got a lot of anyinstinct, I don’t think”He liked her a lot, she was just a bit…screw loose. But in a good way.

“Shefeels bad for you,” said Mellencamp, putting his claws lightly on Mort’s arm, as if delivering some painful news, which he was,”Some people—especiallywomen—they’ve got this Quasimodo complex. They pity us, they wantto be that one special person who sees past our looks, but theydon’t, not really. They can’t. Like Barn says, it’s instinct. Evensomebody blind wouldn’t like us once they touched us—they can 'see’with their hands, you know. ““Anne Marie’s 'bout as subtle as anaxe to the head”, said Mort,”If she thought we was ugly monsters,she’d say so.”“Kkkkst—she has!” Barnacle exclaimed.

“What?” Mort’s jaw dropped, “You sure you ain’t mixin her up with the OTHER Cortez?”“Fabian?” said Barnacle, “kkkkst—No, he’s—kkkst—cool. As cool as anyone can be, But his sister—well, like you said, blunt as a—kkkst– axe to the head.You’re telling me she really hasn’t said anything to you?”“No! Whatdid she say to you?!”“Well, she walked right up to me when we met and said wow, you look like amonster!” Mellencamp told him, his voice full of understandable resentment.“She started–-kkkst– trying to touch my lump,” Barnacle bemoaned, referring to his forehead abscess, “Like I’m a zooexhibit. The others at least give me a little—kkkst-–respect.”Mortcouldn’t believe what he was hearing. Anne Marie? The sweetest girl inthe world? Scary, sure, but sweet. There must be some kind of misunderstanding. He’d try to clear it up–he didn’t want his friends to fight, and he especially didn’t want these two guys to feel bad! Because boy, he knew what that was like.***”Anne Marie?” Mort asked timidly as he approached her. She was lying on her back on the grass, pedaling her feet in the air, bouncing a ball of them.”Hey, Anne Marie, can I ask ya something? Am I…do you think…am I ugly?””Yeah!” said Anne Marie, without hesitancy, and without cruelty, just casual simplicity, as if he asked if she’d like a soda. As earlier, his jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t wanted to believe it. He always usually assumed people thought he was hideous to start, but he’d come to think Anne Marie was different…and that made it hurt so much more than when people like her brother said it. Because Fabian, he was a douchebag in general, but Anne Marie…she was a nice person.So if even nice people thought he was ugly…Tears began to well in his eyes, but it had been a long time since he’dever cried in front of anyone, so he wouldn’t start now. Without another word, he hopped away fastas his legs could carry him.Anne Marie, oblivious, got to her feet and began bouncing the ball off her knees***Later that week, Mort ventured into the kitchen when Chrome and Frenzy were having a conversation. Usually, Mort just tuned out their discussions like everyone else did. He could seldom follow what they were saying. Mort was not dumb at all, buttheir kind of smart was very different than his kind of smart. He couldn’t help picking up, however, that they were talking about looks, and how people were treated because of them, and he began to listen despite himself. They were saying stuff about…how beauty wasin the eye of the beholder, you aren’t entitled to have people findyou attractive, but also how people see beauty was shaped by a verybigoted culture hence the existing standing of beauty and how thatshould be questioned…“But ultimately, isn’t that juststill playing into the dominant paradigm?” said Chrome, pointing a finger as if to illustrate some invisible diagram,“Like,okay, let’s say the powers that be say that brunettes are ugly andblondes are the best. If the brunettes go, hey, you know what,brunette is beautiful, then they’re still playing the game, they’restill supporting the idea that beauty matters at all. When a lot ofpeople say “fuck your beauty standards” what they actually meanis “include me in them” rather than dismantle them altogether,which is what SHOULD be done. We’re so entrenched in this system,this way of thinking, that we’re trying to get a piece of the piewhen the pie itself is rotten.”“I agree with your pointin theory,” Frenzy returned, “but in the real world, beauty DOES matter in society, and peoplenot considered part of the pretty pie are getting treated like shit forit—-namely, people of color, transgender and gender-nonformingfolks, the disabled, the physically mutated, none of which YOU are, soforgive me if I think it’s really easy for you to say that beautyjust shouldn’t matter to anyone when you have the privilege of it notaffecting you in the first place.”“You know what, that’s a really fairpoint, excellent point,” Chrome admitted, “So, with that in mind, what would you think of—”“She’s right!”Mort burst out without realizing he was even talking until it was too late, throwing his arms up, “You have no idea what it’s like! Either ofyou!”Both of them stared at him, and Mort felt himself shrink. He seldom spoke to either of these Acolytes at all. They were intimidating people. Frenzy was was even bigger than Anne Marie, andunlike Anne Marie, she NEVER looked friendly. Chrome was scary in hisown way too—not because he was big, he was tall but he was as skinny as Mort— because he….he was very handsome, Toad thought, not like amusclebound meathead like the other men here, but like a willowymodel, with a strange sort of striking beauty. And he was…he wasn’tmean in the way like Fabian or the Kleinstocks were, but he was always arguing withpeople, and he always seemed to be right. It made Mort uncomfortable,he didn’t like the conflict, and he didn’t want to ever risk being onthe end of that kind of tongue-lashing. To his surprise though,neither of them told him to shut up. They looked expectant.“Go on,”said Chrome after a moment.“…go on?” Mort squeaked, confused.“Your opinion is relevant”,said Frenzy, “We’d like to hear it.”“I…I…I don’t have an opinion,I just…I just…later!”And he hopped away again.***The next day, as timidly as he had approached Anne Marie, he hobbled up to Chrome in the hallway.“Um, chrome?”Chrome looked at him.“You’re…you’refriends with Anne Marie, right?”Chrome nodded.“Does she….does she think I’mugly?”“Best way to know is to ask her,” Chrome answered, “Anne Marie doesn’t lie. Don’t thinkshe can.”“Yeah, I…I know,” Mort hung his head, “I did ask her.”Chrome regarded Toad thoughtfully for a moment, then asked, “She said said yes, didn’t she?”Toad nodded.“And she probably said it realcasual-like, like it was the simplest thing in the world, am Iright?”Toad nodded again, head still down. Chrome nodded too, but it was more of a thinking nod, and he curled his long thin fingers around his jutting chin as he did. Then he put his hands out in a ‘hear me out’ kind of gesture, his tone matching,“Okay, so—here’s a little thing that’s differentabout Anne Marie. When most people say ugly, they mean bad. Uglinessis culturally linked to evil and inferiority in our society. Like,it’s no fuckin’ coincidence that light skin and straight hair, aka traits associated with white people, getconsidered the prettiest, y'know? And when people say you’re fat,they don’t mean it the same as “you’ve got green eyes” like just another physical trait, they meanyou’re gluttonous and lazy and probably really stupid and gross. All this stuff attached to it. So,you know what Anne Marie means when she says you’re ugly?”Mort whimpered, afraid to hear.“She just means you’re ugly. She doesn’t have avalue judgement attached to it. She doesn’t think ugly things arebad. You know what I was saying, about how we need to embrace aworldview in which beauty, be it societally defined beauty or our ownpersonal definition, does not matter beyond who you’re choosing to fuck? Anne Marie is already doingthat and she ain’t even trying. You know what she means when she saysyou’re ugly? Just that she wouldn’t sleep with you. Andshe doesn’t wanna sleep with MOST guys, so don’t go feeling specialfor that.”Mort looked up at last, “But…Barnacle and Mellencamp…”Chrome winced, “Oh yeah, that. Yeah, even I wanted to slap her for that one, though I gotta respect her candor—or I would, if it was something I thought she tried at instead of just, like I said, how she is. But yeah, no, those guys, if they’re mad at her, they got every right. Her delivery is totally disrespectful, she has no idea how her wordsaffect people and she should really fucking work on that. So I’m notgonna tell you, oh, you can’t be hurt because she didn’t mean to hurtyou. Someone fucking opens a door into my nose, doesn’t matter ifthey didnt mean to, it HURTS. But what I mean is…the real reasonsyou might feel bad when people say ugly, because of all the things theyMEAN by it—that you’re bad or inferior or not worthy of love orwhatever—they aren’t attached to it when she says it. She just sayswhat she sees.”“I just…I thought she liked me?”“You think saying you’re ugly means she doesn’t like you? Anne Marie loveslots of ugly things!” Chrome threw his long skinny arms out the sides for emphasis, “Man this one time she showed me these weird newts, and she said they were so ugly, and shesaid it the way most people say cute! Look, I’m not gonna tell you how tofeel, or what to do. That’s your choice. Just, if I were in your shoes–flippers, whatever—I’d go back to her and ask the right questions thistime. For your sake, man.”***”Anne Marie?”Mort had poked his head into her room. She was on her bed, curling in on herself, trying to bite the waistband of her underwear.“Uh huh?” she said, continuing her attempts.“Do you…like me?”“Yeah!” she said happily.“Are wefriends?”“Yeah!”“Would you…ever have sex with me?” He didn’t WANT her too, and he didn’t want her to think he wanted her to, but he remembered what Chrome had said about that, so….“Nope!”“DoI…gross you out?”“Nah!”“But I’m ugly?”“Yeah.”“Isthat…bad?”“Nah” she sat upright properly and beamed at him, “You’re really good.”Mort smiled back at her,

“Youknow, you’re really good too.”

#fic

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nicotineandtears-blog · 6 years

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The Monster.

12/14/17

It's been a week. For a week i've had to cry by myself, laugh at what used to be inside jokes, handle my boy issues on my own, and see people I love and completely ignore them. I've seen them twice the past two days and it's just this moment of coldness and tension. I have to act and put on a smile like it doesn't bother me, I can't let them know that they're words and actions are hurting me. I can't let them think my whole world is going bonkers right now and complete chaos in my head. I can see it in them that they are happier without me. I know they are. I know how to put on a face, I've done it a lot. But what I haven't done is become my own best friend. I've always had someone there to be my support system and to lean on. I have that one person, Jason. Jason listens to me and makes sure that i'm happy. I've been best friends with him since the 7th grade. He knows me better than I know myself. I know him like the back of my hand. But the problem is I can't really talk to him about boys. Why? Cause for some reason he always seems to find something wrong with them.

“He's too skinny” “Hes gay” “Hes looks like a nerd” “He doesn't even drive a truck”. Fun facts about Jason, he's a cowboy. Straight redneck. So if the guy I'm dating or I like doesn't drive a truck, doesnt know how to fish/hunt, or doesn't own a pair of cowboy boots then he's not good enough for me. So I can't really talk to him about guys. (we've had the “no one is ever good enough for you and stop bashing on my men” fight millions of times)

I guess I'll rant about guys on here. There is two guys in question right now. Ryder and Josh.

Ryder I am not romantically involved with but he did something yesterday that has been making think non-stop. He has been texting me off the side, given me hints and hope for the future. Like how he wants to work things out and giving me hints about the first step to getting my friends back is. I dont know how true that is and a piece of me believes that hes only saying that to trap me. But yesterday, I was at work (I work with the university police and I patrol the campus at night) and I was walking around the library (as per always) it was like 10:00 pm. I was leaving the building as that whole group was coming in. I locked eyes with Ryder and he gave me this smug look. A look where he wasn't going to say hi but he wanted me to know that he was going to walk by me and not say hi. He wanted us to look at each other. What's that all about? Why did he even have to look at me and give me that look. Why couldn't he just look away from me? Or maybe looked in every other direction like everyone else? Why be weird about it? I know what some of you might think, yeah maybe he wasnt looking at you. But he was. We locked eyes and its like the world stopped. I wanted to hit him as the curls of his mouth went up in this cocky way. I know he looked at me. We locked eyes. What other proof do you need? The reason I am so upset is because he wants to give me such a contradicting look while texting me on the side. Dont act like you want to text me on the side, but then completely ignore me in public. Something's not right. I also was told by Taylor, that today while he was studying with Rachel. Jenna, and Dionne showed up and I was brought up. Jenna was mad at the fact, Taylor was even there and Dionne asked what I told him and if I was sad. Taylor, being the amazing friend he is, kept it short and sweet. They want me to crumble. They want to know how I'm doing but all of them are just too afraid to ask. If they only knew how much I missed them. How much it hurts to wake up in the morning and know that I have so many inside jokes and phrases I say and no one understands them.

Yes, I am mad about what happened and how it all went down but I'm more upset that the fact that this is so easy for them. That is so easy to just pick up the pieces and move on with their lives. Like I never happened. The fact that it's so easy for them to not look at me, just baffles me. It's so emotionally draining to walk by them and not say anything. It's like a break-up. So much of my life is just gone. It's been a year and now all of them just vanished within a week.

The second guy in question, Josh. I'm in completely and utterly in love with every piece of him. The way he smiles when he sees me, the way he laughs at me when i'm eating because i'm such a slob, we get lost in talk about the same dreams we have, and the way he watches over me. We talk about everything and anything. Let me give you some background information.

Josh and I met at a work and it was like an almost instant connection. Not love at first sight. But connection. We realized, we had so much in common and our minds worked the same way. Granted, we do work together for 6 hours at a time. We sit in a car for 6 hours and you get to know each other. Everything was going so well, we play flirt, we talked, we really hit it off. We got to know each other well in a short amount of time and became rather close but the worst part of it? He has a girlfriend. It's so sad. There's a lot to our story than this but long story short, he ended up breaking up with his girlfriend, we slept together, fell for each other even farther, and got into a huge fight, so big that, to make himself feel better he ran back to his ex and I told him to stay there, and he did. It was too late. He went back to a girl who was just as in love with him as I was. I haven't had the balls to tell him how in love with him I am and how I'd give anything in the world to just beg him to leave his girlfriend and come back to me. But it's too late. He graduated last weekend, he's getting ready to move back to his hometown, and she can give him everything he needs. Stability and commitment. I am afraid of commitment and Im so mentally unstable that I might be too much of a mess for him.

I wish this world was perfect and it was so easy to just express how we really feel. But fear is an ugly monster who keeps us from doing what we need to. If I could just be honest with my friends about how I feel about this whole situation, maybe it would make things easier. Give us a bridge to build on. They Are sad, and I'm sad, or they are happy without me and i'm sad, or vice versa. We could take a step forward. But instead fear traps us from what we want people to see. If I told Josh how I really feel, he might stay here an extra 6 months and we could really work on these strong feelings we have. I wish I knew how to fight the monster and let out the real Valerie. But until then, I will keep the screams inside and hope that things play out in my favor.

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aiikko · 7 years

Text

Him

He loved using the Chatly app because as he himself admits, he’s too shy to meet girls in real life. The anonymous interactions that the app provided excited him even more than the possibility that somewhere in the world there is the right girl waiting for him. It was not an addiction he insists, but more of a basic human need for communication. “Then why don’t you ever go outside the house?” his mother frequently asks him and always, the replies are variations of how they live in a small town that boasts no excitement whatsoever. “Plus the girls in this town are either taken or ugly- and I’m not about to settle for personality!” he’ll say. The principle of the app is simple, you sign up, type in facts about yourself (gender, etc), and it automatically pairs you for chatting with someone whom the algorithms of the app determines as your perfect match. Whether or not it works for the both of you is outside the app’s control; it’s up to the people involved if they decide they liked each other enough to stick around. Otherwise, you can simply opt out by ending the chat.

He’s had instances when the girl on the other end would abruptly end the conversation without saying goodbye. He hates to confess it, but when they do that it stings on the inside as all rejections do, even anonymously. It was during the nth time playing around with the app that fate brought him to a girl named Jen. “I love Dystopian fiction.” This for some reason was Jen’s introduction. “1984?” he immediately typed in and Jen replied with “Totally!” It was love at first chat. The conversation went from books to the personal, spanning topics from favorite ice cream flavor to their shared Atheism. “There is no substantial evidence to prove that there exists a God. Man created the concept of a god as an excuse for his imperfections.” This was according to Jen and in his mind, this was a sign that he found a potential friend. Jen is a self-confessed introvert like him; she says she prefers staying at home as she’s “allergic to other people’s bullshit.”. And this information was the go signal for him to move to the next step.

“So, Jen, are you seeing anybody at the moment?” He typed on his phone, hoping that it didn’t sound too obvious his intentions. “Hmm…I’ve had some from the past, but at the moment? No.” Jen replied. He almost gave himself a high-five. Now having more confidence, he uploaded on the screen the best picture he could find in his photo album. He captioned: “This is a fairly recent pic of me. See, I’m not some pervert living in his mom’s basement, I’m just a regular guy albeit on the skinny side.” Again, he hoped that by uploading his picture Jen would be encouraged to do the same. “You kinda resemble David Foster Wallace when he had short hair, glasses and all…cute!” Then a pause. After a few awkward seconds Jen told him that she needed to run errands for her mom and that she had to end the chat. “Goodbye for now. You’re a cool dude to talk to. We’ll chat again. Bye!” Disappointed, he typed in his goodbye. However, there was no doubt in his mind that they will talk again through the app the next day.

When tomorrow came, he waited all day for Jen’s online status to light up. He ceased from his normal daily activity of sitting on his bed reading books just so when Jen does appear online, they’ll be able to chat. He waited all afternoon until his mother called him for dinner. At the table, his mom noticed that he won’t stop checking his phone instead of eating. “Mind your manners young man!” She told him in a sing-song voice. She only took her eyes off him when he tucked his phone in his shirt pocket. “By the way, your Grandma Janis and Uncle Ted will visit us tomorrow.” His mother informed him as she mushed her potatoes with a fork. He gave her a slight nod but it was obvious he wasn’t interested in any of that. Later on, lying on his bed at midnight, he patiently waited for Jen on the app. It was about an hour later when the screen showed him that Jen is finally online. Immediately, he tapped her name and typed in “Hey!”. Several moments passed before the word “SEEN” was displayed underneath his message but no reply came. He tried another approach: “I hope you’re not having any trouble with whatever. Even if you have, I’m here to listen.” Again, the word “SEEN” and nothing. He sighed. Did he come off as too upfront about his intentions? Perhaps the glasses made him come off as too nerdy? But she loves reading books and staying at home, surely she won’t mind hanging out with a nerd? Such are the questions that whirled inside his mind. In the end, he gave up. She was probably one of those girls who pretended they did the same things as smart people do so boys would take them seriously. And by boys, he meant the good-looking ones. He took it as a slight against his person but his defence mechanism retorted that by not uploading a picture, it was obvious that Jen was ugly. “And possibly fat.” He thought to himself, nursing his inner hurt by thinking the worst of the girl who hurt him. In the end, he got over it and slept in the wee hours of the morning.

He dreamt about a girl named Jen. In his dream, Jen was a pretty brunette with big breasts and a small waist. They stayed on his bed all day reading books and mocking religion with the occasional sex here and there. As he pounded her from behind in his dream sex scene, he kneaded her butt cheeks and slapped them hard until they turned red. In the dream, Jen stopped gyrating on his penis to turn her head to look at him; without warning, she transformed into a giant burrito. The dream ended here. He woke up to his mother’s voice and an aching erection.

His relatives visited them that day. Grandma Janis was lively for her age and as usual, uncle Ted was weird. He can’t help but imagine his uncle eating glue at a young age, uncle Ted certainly looked like someone who’d do that. With his uncle obese, balding, and smelling like moist fart, he had every evidence to assume so. Uncle Ted ignored him for the most part. While eating, uncle Ted made porcine sounds as he gorged on the meal prepared especially for their visit. After their lunch the four of them went to the front porch to have tea. Grandma Janis reminded his mother that she accidentally left a scarf on their house on a prior visit. The two women got up to go inside the house to look for it. Which leaves him alone outside with his uncle Ted. A bunglesome silence passed between them for neither would break the ice. More silence passed until the air suddenly smelled like rotten eggs; he looked sharply at Uncle Ted who shot him a glance before clearing his throat and looking up at the sky. He was about to cuss about uncle Ted’s unethical farting when his Grandma called from inside the house: “Ted! We��re leaving, say goodbye to your nephew and sister!” But uncle Ted did nothing of this. When uncle Ted got up from his chair, his nephew saw that he had left a phone behind. Still pissed off, he decided not to tell his uncle about it.

Later, when the visitors left, he got curious about his uncle’s phone. There was no passcode in it (he sort of expected it that a buffoon like his uncle would not think twice about security) and he could freely navigate all of its contents. Suddenly a familiar blue logo caught his eye. It was the Chatly app. He gave it a tap and inside were the details of his chatting history. He scanned the names until he saw HIS.

We all have our quirks. Some put the milk first before the cereal, and some like cats more than humans. If you think about, it’s pretty normal to be unique. But even if you are self-proclaimed nonconformist, there are simply standards we have to maintain when dealing with society such as not breaking the law for example. While it is not wrong to have that bit of weirdness in you, too much of something is never a good thing. Especially if you’re a fifty-eight year old obese, balding, smelly, virgin pretending to be a young woman half your age to lure unsuspecting boys on the internet.

Uncle Ted’s chat history showed that he is pretending to be a girl named Jen and that he has engaged in what they call nowadays as “sexting” with several young men. It suggested that he started the chats off with bold statements about himself to gain the attention of his victims. On one of these chats he introduces himself as a redhead with Irish heritage- “Kiss me I’m Irish!” uncle Ted says. He felt his stomach turn upon reading the threads wherein some of the young men uploaded pictures of their private parts for uncle Ted’s predatory eyes to claim. Some of these boys are not even older than fourteen according to what he has read.

He recalled the dream. The brunette. The burrito. The balding oaf who still lived with his mother. HIS uncle Ted.

Then he thought about himself. Rarely going outside the house. Living with his mom. No friends. Lurking the interwebs for potential sex-partners.

He put two and two together: what if I become like HIM? He lost it and went to the bathroom to throw up.

The very next day, he applied for a job that had the most possibility of human contact with it. Not that all the introverted and awkward are like uncle Ted, but still.

With anonymity being a key feature in most online experiences, one can never tell who is who these days. He needs to log off now, and likewise, the hour is nigh for a proper introduction of himself— this time to the real world.

#first draft

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