A MAN-SIZED DILDO

The following passage is taken from Andy Nowicki's A Final Solution to the Incel Problem, Part 3: The Master Monk Speaks, now available on Kindle.

The Master said:

You forget, yet again.

You keep forgetting, distracted adept of mine!

Or rather, you don’t forget, because you never learn in the first place, thus removing even the possibility of forgetting, since a man can’t possibly forget what he never even knew.

Consider the last time you made love to your ex-lover, after you knew she no longer loved you. 

Remember the fitful passion she displayed, with no savor of affection to it? Remember how she avoided your eyes, and how her grunted exhalations resembled those of a beast scratching an itch?

There was no tenderness left in her. She did not wish to be pleased, only satisfied. She did not sigh lovingly at your ministrations, nor did she delightedly dwell upon moments of tantalization in anticipatory wonder and joy.

Recall, O stubborn adept of mine!

Immerse yourself in these awful memories, which you have attempted to shove from your mind!

Recall how she seized your fingers and pressed them upon her in a far more forceful manner than had ever been typical on any previous occasions. Never before had she prompted your grip to tighten with such a demand for immediate climax. And you realized then-- did you not?—that you had ceased to be anything other than a tool to bring her bodily relief. No longer a man, much less a lover… but merely an instrument, useful to for a moment, then a thing to be discarded.

              

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It is often claimed that men tend to depersonalize the sex act, that they are prone to “separate sex and love.”

Like most of what is said about this and similar subjects, it is a lie. In fact, women are if anything more adept at such psychic compartmentalization, once their love dissipates but they continue to desire physical fulfillment.

After all, distracted adept, you must remember how, during those last few furious bodily couplings, she didn’t even seem inclined to kiss you. Eventually she allowed your lips to meet hers, but somewhat grudgingly, as if the act of kissing were a distraction… what was crucial to her was racing towards her finish line, and she felt no shame in demanding that you do exclusively that which would bring her to this destination of satiation.

Afterwards there were no whispered “I love you.” There was no shared contemplation of the afterglow, silently wrapped in one another’s grip. Instead, there was an almost immediate decoupling of spirits, initiated on her behalf. She might as well have thanked you for refilling her cup of coffee, so impersonal was the entire exchange.

And you--- naïf one!—felt astonished that she could have developed so mercenary an attitude towards the act. It could not even be graced with the term “hedonistic,” because a hedonist desires to linger in pleasure, to dwell upon moments of treasured delectation, along the way to the ached-for ecstasy.

Instead, in the case of your former lover, who ceased to love you, the climax itself became the end-in-itself. Much like a hungry man stuffing food into his mouth, without pausing for a moment to savor its taste, so behaved your woman upon this occasion: she wanted to get it over with, in order that satiation might be achieved.

Once that sought-after fulfillment washed through her, she was, so to say, “done,” just as that formerly ravenous man might have pushed his chair away from the table with a satisfied belch. You were simply the food that brought her from hunger to fullness; you ceased to be a treasured end-in-yourself to her, and became a mere vehicle used to affect a physiological reaction.

You ceased to be a man, and became a man-sized dildo.