There’s a famous scene in 40 Year Old Virgin where Steve Carrell’s character inadvertently reveals his complete lack of sexual experience with women (not that there’s anything wrong with that) by suggesting that a women’s breast “feels like a bag of sand.”
I sometimes find myself wondering if some of the guys I write about here have ever actually been in the presence of a naked woman. I mean, sure, it’s not really that surprising that a committed vagina-avoider like the legendary Man Going His Own Way known as Christopher in Oregon would write about women in general, and their vaginas in particular, as if they were stinky alien creatures from Planet Yuckygirls.
But it’s a little weirder when someone who claims to be an expert on the female mind and body describes, for example, the human vagina in ways that seem to suggest that he’s never actually been in the same room with one.
I’m referring to our old friend Heartiste, the smug, racist piece of human trash who presents himself to the world as a pickup artist extraordinaire, someone who in his glory days “slew pussy like the Quim Reaper” (his words, obviously, not mine).
In a recent post, though, Heartiste cast aspersions on a fat woman’s alleged “sticky, bulbous, pitcher plant vagina.”
Bulbous? Bulbous?
Dude, you do realize that vaginas are, er, concave, right?
Heartiste, a somewhat overenthusiastic fan of metaphor, has previously suggested that vaginas are less like pitcher plants than they are like a shark’s toothy mouth, describing how “alpha” males find themselves “staring into the maw of an excited vagina aroused by the scent of cock in the water.”
In other posts he’s written of “poon petals flower[ing],” rhapsodized about “pussy waterfalls … sprayed in fine mists over jungle canopies,” described the vagina as a “fetid, humid mess” that no true alpha would want to go down upon, and suggested that the vulvas of “aging women” regularly become “low-hanging hammocks” needing plastic surgery in order to compete sexually with the less-hammocky vulvas of younger women.
He’s talked about “vaginal gusher[s],” exploding pussy, and women whose desire “erupt[s] like Mount Vaginius.”
Taking his cue, perhaps, from Frank Herbert’s Dune, he’s described male desire for a world in which “the snatch will flow.”
The word “labia” seems to send him into a veritable paroxysm of excited metaphoring. He’s described labia as “flowering,” “flapping,” and “pulsating.” He suggests that a sexually aroused women will need to “shift a little in [her] chair to make room for [her] engorging labia.”
In one post, he warns his readers that if they can’t pull off at least a reasonable impersonation of an alpha male, their girlfriend’s “labia will wither like rose petals in a Texas drought”; in another he suggests that if a fella can successfully ape an alpha, a woman’s “labia [will] begin to flower like a Desert Lily after an August deluge.”
He laughs at the thought of a “loser … jab[bing] a few tepid spurts into sea cucumber labia.”
And even more weirdly, he’s referred to the phrase “hey you” as “the symptomatic verbal goosebumps of the warm chill caused by her engorging labia.”
Wat.
But no variety of labia seems to excite him quite so much as feminist labia. In one post he attacks the “crooked labia of feminist ideology,” whatever that means; in another he happily predicts that his opinions will cause much “gnashing of labia”; in still another, he imagines his writings causing “a million fatties and fug feminists [to] sprout martyrdom stigmata on their marbled labia.”
And in an even stranger bit of metaphorical overkill he once referred to “Manboobz Fatrelle’s porcine labia,” which is evidently his somewhat baroque rendition of the standard Manosphere taunt that I’m a fat “mangina.”
Your challenge today, dear readers, is to draw a picture of what Heartiste must think vaginas look like based on his various descriptions of them. I recommend using MSPaint.
Why this guy bothers with picking up is beyond me, he clearly doesn’t enjoy what he does. It’s like he’s in a holding pattern.
If real life worked like the commercials, I would want to offer him one. “Here, eat a Snickers.”
“What? Why?”
“You’re a judgmental, creeptastic douchecanoe when you’re hungry.”
*nom* *poof* Problem solved.
Ahh, should have refreshed before commenting. I was responding to a comment about the creepy Snickers dude.
There is a potentially hideous joke to be made about testicles and the hygiene standards of some PUAs here.
Wow. This guy and Christopher in Oregon would make Lovecraft weep bitter tears of rage and disappointment. Also, father Nurgle.
Is there a Chaos God of misogyny?
minilizzy – you did not overreact at all. That man told you twice that he has been watching you for some time. He is a hairsbreadth from being a stalker. It makes me so sad to think that young women are enduring the same and worse than what I did in the 70s and 80s.
Maybe Fartiste should go to some art exhibits.
The Snatch Must Flow
http://img135.imageshack.us/img135/9479/guildnavfinishedyaythum.jpg
When I was a slightly younger man (22, maybe 23), I once walked by the central train station of the city in which I then lived. It was around midnight in November or early December, and the street was icy and slippery. An old man, I’m guessing he was in his 70’s, came off the train and was clearly struggling making it down the stairs from the platform. I watched him for a while, wondering if I should offer to help him. When he was struggling even worse in walking up the stairs to the street on the other side, I finally decided it was time to intervene.
I walked back to the man and asked if he needed my help getting up the stairs. He raised his head and looked around as if trying to find me, even though I was standing right next to him. While he was smelling slightly of alcohol, I also realized that his eye sight was very bad, and he was carrying a cane presumably both to help him walk and to find his way while walking around outside by himself at night. He did seem thankful for my help – I supported his arm to make it easier for him to get up the stairs. After reaching the street he thanked me for my help, I said I was happy I could help, and then I was about to be on my way. But then the man asked me if I could walk with him all the way to his apartment, which he promised was very closeby. I said ok, why not, and his apartment was indeed just two blocks from the station.
After reaching the man’s building I was again about to say goodbye, but this time the man offered me to come inside with him and have a beer, as a sign of his thankfulness. Now I thought I should really go home and get some sleep since it was getting late and I did need to be up early the next morning, so I declined the offer in a friendly manner. He asked me once or twice if I was really sure I didn’t want to come in for a drink, and when I still declined he accepted my decision and thanked me again for my help.
A few weeks later, near 1am, this exact same thing happened again. I saw the man stumbling off the train, struggling with the stairs, smelling slightly more of alcohol this time. I again offered to walk with him to his apartment, and he seemed very thankful. He actually remembered me from the last time, so this time he was a bit more talkative, telling me how he just got home from a Christmas dinner with the company he used to work for. Again he invited me inside to have a beer with him. This time I was less tired and had no particular reason to be up early the next morning, and besides that, I didn’t want to disappoint him again, so I agreed – just one beer and then I’ll go home and sleep.
His apartment was large, fairly clean, and stacked with books everywhere (which presumably he couldn’t read anymore since he seemed to be pretty much blind). He offered me a seat in one of two comfortable armchairs standing on opposite sides of a tiny table, and then he went to the kitchen to bring us each a tall glass of beer. He sat down opposite to me, and we drank. It was the strong kind of beer. Very strong. I was tipsy before even getting through the first glass, and when my glass was empty he offered me a refill. (Wait, how could he see that my glass was empty? Whatever.)
Before our conversation was 5 minutes old, I was already looking for a way out of there. This man, who at first seemed nice and harmless, went straight into ranting mode without letting me get more than a few words in here and there. It started with regular conservative talking points, with which I disagreed but didn’t see any reason to debate in this setting, but then quickly spiraled down into racist nonsense. At that point I did feel like I needed to at least make it known that I was not just nodding along in agreement, so I tried to make a few counterarguments to the extent possible (large parts of the rants were basically word salad). He got very condescending but still fairly civil and even friendly in his tone, and he responded to my concerns with a classic “you’ll understand this when you’re older / today’s youth!” attitude.
While I did still want to get out of there, I do have a way of forgetting the time. I was disgusted with the opinions oozing from this man, but at the same time I was fascinated. I was also feeling genuine compassion for him – as much as I hated his opinions and his bigotry, at the same time I saw an old, lonely man who may not have had much company in a long time. Who knows if there really was a Christmas dinner at all – not that I would have any particular reason to doubt it. I wondered if maybe it was possible to reason with him, but as we were both (he in particular) getting more and more drunk I eventually noticed this conversation was going nowhere.
By the time I’d had my 4th beer, and he was on his 3rd or 4th as well, the man got up to go to the bathroom, but promised he would soon be back with more beer. As I sat in my chair wondering how to best excuse myself and leave, I could here him fumbling in the bathroom which was located just behind my back. He was so close I could hear the zipper of his pants open. And then.. the sound of a stream of liquid hitting the floor. For 10 more seconds I sat quietly, listening to the old man behind my back, casually pissing on the floor. Then I got up and snuck out of there before he could pull his pants up.
I walked back to my apartment, very drunk at this point, and when I got home it was past 4 in the morning. I went to sleep and woke up the next day hung over and slightly troubled by this strange experience. Later that day I had coffee with a female friend, and I knew I had to tell her this story. Her reaction to the story as it progressed was not one I had expected, and would play a major part in leading me toward a feminist perspective and eventually to self-define as a feminist years later. I had assumed she would view this scene the same way I did – at first amusing, then tragic and disturbing – but instead her spontaneous reaction was alarm and fear. Why did this man want to be alone with me and get me drunk? Why did he keep trying to convince me to stay when I clearly wanted to leave? Why did he keep trying to convince me to have more beer when I had obviously had enough already? Why did he take on a condescending tone and try to push me down? Why did he serve beer poured into a glass and not let me open the can or botle myself? Red flag! Red flag! Red flag!
Of course, I have no clue what sort of what this old man’s motivations were, or if my friend had the right interpretation of this situation at all, but what I learned from her concerns was that I, as a man (and also straight, white and cis), with my male privilege, did not for a moment even consider the possibility that someone would want to take advantage of me in the sort of way my friend was suggesting. Just listening to my female friend reacting in a spontaneous manner to my story, I realized she had a completely different world of concerns that obviously made sense to her but had never crossed my mind in the past.
I further concluded that these concerns didn’t come out of nowhere – they must have been founded on 22 years worth of practice being a girl and later woman in a society where men and women are treated differently based on their perceived gender. She must have had thousands of experiences, and thus thousands of insights, that were not available to me at that moment. If that was true, and I was now convinced it was, then it would make sense for me to listen and learn about all these things that society had failed to teach me, and for that matter I had failed to recognize. And even further – why had it never crossed my mind in the past that women might have some info that I would be better off knowing about? Why had my friend not shared this information with me before? Did she have reason to think I would dismiss her concerns? Wait, what’s even going on here? How much more is there to this?
And that’s how that happened.
Geez, sorry for the teal deer. Also, when I started writing this it was meant as a response/comment on something else in this thread, but now I can’t remember. Sorry about that too.
And sorry for the undoubtedly hundreds of typos and grammar mistakes..
Actually, that would work just as well for Fartiste. It sounds like he’s not eating properly, either.
Wow, dhag85. I’m glad you got away from that creep unscathed – your story really did throw up a lot of red flags in a way that seems all too familiar from survivor testimonies. D: Thank goodness you didn’t have to find out firsthand what that creep’s intentions were.
Dang.
dhag, that’s an amazing story – I, too, just didn’t realize the dangers that women have to know to watch out for until my wife mentioned them to me – simple things like not being alone waiting for the bus at night, something that had never occurred to me was dangerous. I’m glad you got out safely!
Here’s some potentially good news! http://www.theverge.com/2015/2/4/7982099/twitter-ceo-sent-memo-taking-personal-responsibility-for-the Actions speak louder than words, but the Twitter CEO really does seem to want to turn their harassment policies around.
Buttercup: Excellent advice as that is classic body policing that people use to keep women in line and worrying all the time about making men, they don’t know, happy.
Your advice is absolutely correct. he’s being rude and she should never worry about his feelings. She can tell him to get lost but I do stress, she should do so only if she feels safe enough to do that.
Whoops, my previous comment went into moderation – I think I mistyped my email address. :/
Should I try again?
Also want to second what Ellesar and mildlymagnificent said about trusting one’s instincts when someone’s presence is making you uncomfortable. The social contract is not one you have to keep with people who skeeve you out; you have no special obligations to share your time or personal space with random strangers. 🙂 It can take a certain amount of re-learning the script, but it’s such a useful piece of information to have (although to complicate matters, sometimes appeasing the stranger long enough to get an escape strategy together is a necessary tactic). Ugh. Creepy behaviour from creeps makes life so unnecessarily complicated for everyone of any gender. Why do they have to ruin everything so much? >:(
Maybe I should’ve put a trigger warning on my long comment? Not sure.
@dhag Since nothing bad actually happened to you I guess not.
Apart from a couple occasions where strange men crossed a line, I’m quite fortunate in that my interactions with them have been tame, in that none of them have gotten angry with me for any reason. A few times I’ve been offered a lift somewhere and always declined, they didn’t argue, but I wonder if they grasped the reason why a woman would refuse to be alone in a car with a man they didn’t know. Maybe. Still I reckon they asked out of general consideration, except for one who asked right when I was in the middle of work which was odd.
The one time I have accepted a ride was when the car was full of women and children.
Dhag,
That’s a good story. Even before I got to the part about what you learned from the experience, I was thinking about how much that guy sounded like a man who kept trying to talk to me at the bus stop. He wasn’t hitting on me exactly but he was ignoring all my signals that I didn’t want to talk. I was looking at my phone and he started complaining about how everyone these days would rather look at their phones than talk to people. Then he started ranting about Somali immigrants were ruining the state.
The major difference in our stories of course, was that after twenty years of dealing with creeps I knew not to go anywhere with him.
dhag: That’s a helluva story. And kudos to you for not reflexively dismissing your friend’s reaction. That’s not always an easy step to make.
As for the Snickers Creeper… ewewew. I’ve had unfortunate encounters on the train–some just bizarre, one or two violent–but like most cis dudes, I’ve never had to deal with anything like that.
Anyone else wondering if Heartiste was getting confused between vaginas and the Vervoids from Doctor Who? http://img1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20101221163257/tardis/images/7/7f/Oh_for_some_weedkiller.jpg
kirbywarp
In actual, non-sarcastic news, Masahiro Ito of Silent Hill fame and a bunch of other Japanese horror game veterans are teaming up for a new game called Project Scissors: Night Cry, which, and this is important, is “A brand new horror game from Hifumi Kono, the creator of the Clock Tower game series, and Takashi Shimizu, the director of The Grudge.”
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/playism/project-scissors-nightcry
(Link has illustrations of some very creepy stuff, so trigger warning for you, folks.)
Color me absolutely fucking giddy. I miss good ol’ Japanese horror games. I don’t mind some western ones (Amnesia: The Dark Decent scares the absolute poop out of me, and Outlast is good for a romp as well. I’ve also recently purchased Claire, if you want more lesser-known indie stuff. Amnesia and Outlast are indie, but they’ve gotten AAA attention), but there’s something about that nice, subtle, depressing Japanese horror that really gets under my skin and scratches my itches just so.
I was totally on board the moment I heard Ito was going to participate. The man who designed Pyramid Head and the other monsters for the first three Silent Hill games (And illustrator for Cage of Cradle, which I haven’t read, unfortunately) is at it again and if I had any spare money to throw at this, I would.
I could go on, but I’ll stop distracting peeps now.
Am I the only one that thinks that some of these descriptions are of vaginal prolapse? What the hell is it with PUAs and thinking that vaginal prolapse is a common thing? Porn, and it’s weird fetishes, has ruined some men’s understanding of sex.
While Fartiste makes a terrible PUA, I would pay hard cash for him to write erotica. Talk about unintentional comedy gold.
@Falcolner, AFAIK Tamiflu carries a blackbox warning label for children. :/
@minilizzy
Ug ug ug. Think that there’s a way you can start changing up your route/routine without too much inconvenience? You’ve obviously been on dude’s radar before if he already knew your stop. Not to scare you but the best case scenario is that he’s clueless asshole that will go away if you don’t rise to the bait because he thinks he’s “flirting” with you. The worst case scenario is that he’s intentionally being creepy and baiting you to test your reaction, to see how easy of a target you are.
I’m gonna to join in on the fun by posting these:
http://blogfiles.wfmu.org/KF/2012/04/25/vagina_dentata.gif
ParadoxicalIntention
That sounds awesome. I like some good ol’ fashion horror like ‘oh no I can’t call the police the line has been cut but what’s this? The phone is ringing? That can’t be!’
I think now adays horror games have too much gore, sexual and cussing. ‘Damn’ and ‘hell’ and a little blood once in a while is ok I just don’t understand why there is so much. I don’t know maybe Im looking at the wrong games and this all my opinion but I do sure miss the old games today it’s really disgusting.