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Here I’ll make it easy :
Last summer I finally managed to fuck this cunty art hoe—we’ll call her Selene—that I’d been thirsting over for the better part of two years.
Like every other girl I talk about in this piece, excepting perhaps the dead one, Selene will soon be reading these words alongside thousands of loyal Waltheads like yourself, because even the women who can’t stand me now continue to enjoy my blog.
The similarities end there; in most respects she isn’t at all like those other girls.
She’s older than me, for one thing. That was weird.
She’s also better educated and a lot more culturally sophisticated than I am. With most girls I’m Henry Higgins, but with Selene there was almost a Tony / Melfi vibe—oftentimes she’d reference a novel or some old movie and I’d only keep up because I could vaguely recall it being mentioned in an early Simpsons episode.
She also didn’t let me take pictures or record anything during sex, nor did she send a single solitary feet pic, even while squawking on about how desperately she needs her rent paid and Mr. Whiskers is in the hospital and you know the drill with poor people. I found this quite dishonorable, because per Harry Potter horcrux rules I own a few thousandths of her soul now and should really have something more splendid to masturbate to than blurry Obama-era Facebook photos, but c’est la vie.
She’s also the only girl I’ve been with who actually sent back money I gave her—roughly two grand in total—which she’d only accepted in the first place well after the fact, and only after we’d followed all the standard rituals of mediation / obfuscation that classier women use to sanitize their prostitution. I’m far less autistic than I used to be about this, and understand now why such rituals exist, but go fuck urself this is creative writing and contextually I’m allowed to express my troubled Male Interiority. And frankly this refund pissed me off because it had been quite nice thinking of Selene as my little whore / damsel in distress (obv the same thing). But finding twenty benjis in my pocket also let me quit my jobs with a bit less stress. So, meh.
Overall the most salient difference is that Selene is definitely the only girl I’ve fucked who might actually be more famous than I am—she’s a superbly connected figure in the meatspace art world, which is why she’s currently reading these words with a frog in her throat. The last thing she needs right now is for the fat aggressive methhead she puked on last year to turn our hookup story into a sleazy gonzo piece that inadvertently doxxes her with a surfeit of adjectives and proper nouns.
Cool your jets, babe. While it’s very funny and not a little arousing to imagine those stern raptorial peepers slicing through my sentences as goosebumps ripple across your milky girlflesh, I fully intend to obfuscate your identity as this tale progresses by randomly throwing in a bunch of red herrings.
And the same goes for all you femoids—including the dead one, because I'd really prefer to avoid having a vengeful German poltergeist come after me.
I was about to say that as a gentleman I’d obviously let her come first… but even as a joke that’s honestly such a gay and reddit attitude to have about sexuality. Realistically if Gretel decided to haunt me I’d much prefer to irrumate the apparition while snarling out a bunch of anti-ghost slurs. Only after wondering why she’s pouting and acting all annoyed would I venture forth into the Black Forest and hopefully avoid getting Samara’d by drenching my sheets in Teutonic ectoplasm.
Most probably digitally—like her friend Selene the ghostly Gretel would no doubt experience a severe disgust response should I unironically try to use a vibrator on her. Pretty much all high class art girls are obnoxiously crunchy about shit like that; every little thing in life simply must be done the hard way or else it doesn’t have soul or something. That’s why Selene looked down on my AI songs and on my job stacking and oftentimes upon the very idea of scalability and systems-level thinking. And it’s likewise why girlies such as this often end up making rent by selling pussy to strange men (more soulful than asking their rich dad I guess?), and occasionally surprise their loved ones by deciding one morning to eat a few bottles of pills.
That will never happen to Selene, of course. She’s far too strong for that. Or perhaps just too committed to suffering as performance art—no doubt a result of her heritage.
I’m not entirely sure yet if she’s talented enough to make it on her own, but she’s certainly talented enough to find someone much less trashy than me to take care of her without ever needing to make any real sacrifices. A pretty, skinny, educated white girl can demand the world on a silver platter and then complain about the service and you’ll still feel really fucking grateful for the opportunity to wait on her.
You’ll also want to smash that platter into her teeth, but it’s simply impossible to maintain such resentment when girls like this are invariably so fucking masterful at spinning these golden fables about why their life is ackchully rly hard… which of course I’ll eternally take at face value because Walters Don’t Have Agency.
Around this time last year I published a breezy and provocative little thinkpiece called Stop being mean to slutty women, which is sort of what it sounds like but mostly not.
My primary goal with this piece was to keep my name in everyone’s mouth and continue sucking up oxygen on Racist Substack by very gently approaching one of the DR’s most cherished sacred cows and launching a captive bolt through its skull.
To that end I concocted a stratagem to engage the trads in detail. The idea was to very overtly antagonize broke bitch incels so as to farm eyeballs and tickle the algorithm, while simultaneously courting the tradcon intelligentsia with an argument framed in terms of elite theory, asymmetry, and covert power dynamics—catnip to those niggas.
Obviously this wasn’t going to persuade any trads of the merits of elite polygyny. There’s no argument that would—differences like this stem from wholly intractable conflicts in moral foundations or aesthetic preference downstream of temperamental factors that are basically just genetic. Such conflicts are less salient for boring issues where there’s a lot of room for transactional negotiation, but the closer you get to Love or War the more politics degrades into this vulgar ad baculum never more sophisticated than force pushing up against force and disgust crusading against disgust. Debating such topics is only useful to the extent that doing so offers runway to obliquely pursue higher order goals by way of impactful art or clever rhetoric.
Hence my secondary goal for the piece—to facilitate amity and collaboration between vitalists and trads, both by converging our cultural lexicons / assumption sets and by artfully dampening the tradcon disgust response to promiscuity qua promiscuity by showing the volcanic patriarchal sex appeal of asymmetric lifestyles like sugar dating.
But more on that later.
Most of you will recall that the first part of my plan went swimmingly—in its Kansan apoplexy the DR chudkorps sent my engagement to the stratosphere, such that Slutty remains my single most popular work even to this day. And it’s quite nice having that to hang my hat on, because the second part of my plan yielded rather mixed results.
On the bright side the piece won me dozens of trad frens and collaborators, many of whom went on to play a central role in forging both the Walt Right during the halcyon era before I had sex with Selene and Tortuga amidst those stormy months thereafter.
On the sad side I’m fairly certain that Dave Greene continues to sort of mistrust and personally dislike me, and at this juncture don’t really expect to ever clear that hurdle. But after a certain point it behooves a man to reflect upon the trials of T.J. Detwiler, and embrace with manly courage that darkest and most esoteric of truths:
Not everyone is going to like you.
Anyway back to Selene.
This broad was significant in the broader narrative of my life for a few reasons.
For one thing she’s currently the most recent listing in my Excel sheet—since our rendezvous I’ve more or less adhered to that vow of chastity I swore last October.
I say “more or less” because I actually broke said vow approximately eighteen hours after swearing it when the lovely Rebecca called me out of the blue and drunkenly insisted that I help her masturbate by talking about raping her. Naturally I parleyed this situation into a hookup the following evening and subsequently attempted to parley that hookup into marriage, but in the end I was tragically frustrated by an obscure Floridian legal statute that allows meddling kike parents to involuntarily incarcerate anyone who might make Walt Bismarck happy.
And that’s how I ended up breaking my vow for a second time just a few weeks later, when I found myself in need of a lift to Rebecca’s rehab facility so I could deliver her some clothes and shit she’d left at my condo. Earnestly wanting to be a good goy I’d meticulously assembled everything I had of hers, only keeping for myself this cute shtetly shawl she always wore because in her absence it had proven an indispensable tool for cutting short lifeshredding goon sessions—even now it reeks of her perfume.
Unfortunately I couldn’t drive to the facility myself because my Subaru’s battery was deader than Gretel and I didn’t particularly feel like calling another AAA blackguy to come replace it. Meanwhile the sugar baby I typically used as chauffeur was no longer allowed to speak to me because the last time Amanda drove me to Walgreens to pick up my Adderall I’d impulsively offered to treble her chauffeur’s fee if she threw in a cheeky footjob and she’d obviously accepted. She also promised not to tell her bad breath Slav boyfriend about it given that she’d already cheated on him with me several times by this point and he rather understandably talks about skinning me alive… But of course the emotionally incontinent little guinea squealed anyway that very night, confirming to both myself and Boris that women don’t have agency, and at that point he wisely put the kibosh on things. Unfortunately I know Amanda far better than he does and can guarantee she’s still cheating on him for money—only now with someone older and uglier and far less capable of making her wet by artfully dropping racial slurs. But I suppose that would only make it easier for him to tolerate.
I keep getting distracted. Back to the Jew clothes.
Rebecca’s cherubic libtard bestie from NYC had offered to deliver everything in my stead, but at the time this virago was refusing to even countenance the possibility that her friend was something more than my hooker, and clearly just wanted me out of the picture. So I told the cunt to kick rocks and instead offered my Morticia Addams single mom exgf a couple hundy to call out sick for the day and be my taxi driver.
This was honestly sort of a gamble and I half-expected Morticia to refuse outright given that I’d actually cheated on her with Rebecca only a few months beforehand. But in the end my leggy firebrand with a septum piercing I used to make her take out during sex bc it sort of reminded me of a minotaur reacted with astounding maturity, wryly observing it hadn’t been Rebecca who cheated, and as the day progressed she actually grew sort of personally invested in my belle juive’s plight. The only bitterness I detected was elicited by the rather grotesque luxury of the rehab center—in the midst of all this drama I’d somewhat forgotten that Rock Bottom looks a hell of a lot worse for girls whose dad isn’t a surgeon. But even that was a very earthy sort of frustration, and if anything she got over it before I did.
Altogether the day made for a surprisingly wholesome reunion, marred only by the fact that the mexican coke dealer Morticia was about to cheat on with me wouldn’t stop texting her all these gay suicide threats, which really served to ruin an otherwise sumptuous beej. Thankfully Morticia ditched the bean shortly after getting home to check on him, and later that night we spoke about rekindling things as more of a casual arrangement wherein I’d try to Eliza Doolittle her into bourgeois society and eventually help her secure a decent provider—someone who isn’t a novelty seeking fuckboy or a Latino or something far worse.
With this in mind I immediately took her on as my secretary and overnighted a laptop to her trailer park. And in our mutual defense, her first day of work actually went surprisingly well. But of course it didn’t last and she quickly reverted to acting like a poor person, spending her entire second day flaking and ghosting only to text me some gay excuse at 10pm that attributed her radiosilence to “mom duties.”
Perhaps she assumed she’d get away with this because we were possibly fucking now. Or maybe Dunkin Donuts types just don’t understand this sort of inconsistency is never permissible at a Big Girl Job. Whatever the case I was livid, and ghosted her a week to send a message. Of course she halfheartedly pretended to be upset about this because she’d quit her dumb ice cream job to come work for me, but as she herself noted when I initially floated the idea, that was just some lame minimum wage shit easily replaceable in her prosperous resort town. Also she got a free laptop out of me, so all in all I don’t feel particularly bad about what happened.
That said I will extend Morticia a quick note because I know she’s reading this:
Babygirl—should you ever want to stop dating minorities, and think you can commit to learning Excel so you can work in an office long enough to land a White boy without any substance abuse issues, you’re always free to hit me up. At this point I’m forever obliged to play Pygmalion and will do so very gladly, but only if you’re willing to try.
Sadly I’m quite certain Morticia will never take me up on that, because working class Zoomettes above a certain looks threshold are basically just physically incapable of consistently executing white collar professional responsibilities. This isn’t a matter of work ethic, understand—they’re fine scooping ice cream for $12 or showing guys their butthole for $200. It’s very specifically when you ask them to do basic data entry for $25 that they start to perceive work as this horrifying Kafkaesque nightmare.
And I’m not even talking about the trashy bitches either—Morticia was easily 115 IQ and also a fairly conscientious ISFJ type (imagine Marge Simpson LARPing as Lana). She certainly tried harder than Amanda or any other girl I’ve attempted to Doolittle. But in the end even she shat the bed. It really seems poor people are just allergic to Microsoft Excel, as are robustly feminine women. Taking someone who’s both of those things and expecting her to learn vlookup is simply courting disaster.
And I suppose that explains my persistence, because foolhardy Wally B. doesn’t just court disaster; he writes the bitch elaborate sonnets—really fucking good ones, which at times provoke impassioned and provocative essays from famous philosophers.
Yet does anyone imagine the relationship that inspired Off to the Races was any less trashy and dysfunctional than what went down between me and Rebecca?
Half the purpose of art is transforming extreme situations like these into something unwashed normgroids can understand. And I’d likewise hazard it’s precisely because of my penchant for getting into fucked up scenarios that I’m able to spit out novel and interesting takes so consistently—spend enough time in the crevices of life and it just becomes second nature to see the world from lots of different angles and resolutions.
That sort of mindset will earn you an Orange Check in a fraction of the time it takes anyone else. It gets you into bed with girls significantly better looking than yourself. Conjoined with some follow-through it makes you a monster in the business world.
It’s probably a liability when it comes to landing a decent wife.
When I wrote Slutty I had a tertiary motivation in addition to getting internet famous and extending an olive branch to top shelf tradcons—I also wanted to convince the Woman Community I’m basically on their side so as to benefit from their social proof and cover my flanks when discussing thorny issues like precocious puberty.
The only problem with that goal is I’m clearly not on their side and women know that.
Which isn’t to say I’m their *enemy* per se—Carl Schmitt likely suffered from BPD. It’s just that I have my own agenda—as does everyone in politics. And I’ve found that when dealing with any woman who isn’t already right wing because she’s a religious wacko or gets wet thinking about patriarchy or hates poor people it’s a fool’s errand trying to convince her that right wing cultural values are ackchully in her interest.
First off arguing with women is kind of retarded to begin with unless the argument is conceived primarily as a vector for flirtation, since women especially in their early years tend to strongly dislike debate and haggling. Most women don’t particularly want to compromise transactionally on anything they actually care about—they’re just an intractable and insufferable pain in the ass until they find someone actually worth submitting to, and then it’s limitless winner take all facefuck all the time.
Generally the best way to convince women of something isn’t through arguments but by indirectly recalibrating their priorities through art. Women will vote Republican because they saw a picture of a baby or got horny listening to Lana Del Rey—not because you sent her that grainy Henry Hazlitt PDF.
And unless a woman is already right wing (in which case the practical value of her social proof drops to basically nothing unless she’s a moderate cosmopolitan type), she’ll always have her guard up. She’ll take everything a right wing man says in bad faith and assume you want to turn her into a Stepford Wife, and will continue to do so until her Stepford programming is activated with the right baby pic / Lana song.
In light of all this I abandoned from the outset the idea of appealing to women directly, and instead resolved to win them over obliquely by playing Uncle Tom.
You know how it immediately fills your noggin with dopamine cummies to hear a black dude talking shit about other black people or pretending he’s listening to Skynyrd for the first time? I surmised that by aggressively counter-signaling chuds and vocalizing the woman perspective in an interesting and credibly rightoid manner I could produce basically the same effect in women—perhaps even to such an extent that they’d subsequently permit me to act somewhat chuddish myself on occasion, in much the same way most Republicans gladly overlooked Herschel Walker literally acting like the worst nigger on the planet.
Obviously this tack wouldn’t get me anywhere with hairy armpit communist types, but for winning over heterodox centrist girlies it seemed quite promising.
And in practice it has been—though I was admittedly expecting quite a few more hot grad students and not nearly as many married middle aged Bill Maher aunties, who after this article became a pivotal demographic in the Walthead community.
But I’ve subsequently learned that married aunties are straightforwardly the single best type of woman to have in your corner. Compared to surrounding yourself with young girls the social proof they lend actually carries real gravitas and moral authority since people won’t just cynically assume you’re trying to fuck them. They’re also very consistent and loyal and have a basic contiguity of Self, which isn’t something a feller can reasonably expect from the fairer sex amidst their prime dick-seeking years.
It’s literally only because I’m friends with
and that I can get away with writing something like this.Slutty Women set free my Male Interiority.
Another one of my Substack aunties is the venerable
, who wrote the spicy piece linked above defending borderline girlies and the men who adore them. We did a fun interview together last summer after the libtards tried to cancel her again.So here’s some interesting synchronicity for you: A few months after this interview I was going through my old texts with dearly departed Gretel and was shocked to see she’d actually recommended Nina’s work to me several weeks before killing herself.
My responses suck in these pics because at this point I was mad at Gretel for flaking on a big elaborate trip I had planned for us because she wanted to fuck this hipster who ran a meme page on Instagram, which for some reason really turned her on. Naturally the dude ended up using her as an emotional cumrag (maybe physical cumrag as well; genuinely can’t recall) before abandoning her to marry a fat Jewess.
Shortly thereafter Gretel began suffering from medical issues—I want to say it had to do with her cardiovascular system but honestly can’t remember the details, other than that I internally dismissed it as fake woman stuff because my grandma and to a lesser extent mom were always sick and that makes me sort of aprioristically disgusted by the very notion of female illness. But then in her suicide note she framed it all as “dying of a broken heart” and I’m enough of a fag to feel bad denying her that.
Perhaps as a compromise I’ll just say that female biology is often mysterious.
I guess at this point I should write about the actual day that Gretel killed herself, which is also the day I met Selene
It was January 2023 and the midst of audit season at my cockrape Big Four job.
I was regularly putting in 100+ hour weeks and propelling myself through the mire by taking Hitler levels of Adderall—my own prescription plus a few additional scripts delivered by Amanda and two other womyn I was fucking at the time because I really adored mixing instant and extended release to keep the cummies flowing all day.
It was far and away the most dissociated I’ve ever been.
And on some level it made me feel like a fucking god. I was a bit less fat then, so I had more energy and was even more of a cocky piece of shit—a trait frequently amplified by the fact that I’d more or less obliterated my own capacity for cognitive empathy because I was on so much meth at this point that I maintained basically zero access to my unconscious mind or right hemisphere cognition. In this era my anima wasn’t even locked in the attic so much as that Japanese girl in Hostel.
But it’s not that I didn’t have feelings per se. They were just… rigid. Mechanical. Utilitarian (not like Bentham’s Bulldog—kind of the opposite actually). This made me exceptionally effective at bullying lazy Indian dudes trying to get out of doing the needful, but apparently not fantastic at picking up when my best friend actually means it when she talks about ending things. But in fairness I’d had more friends threaten suicide than I could even count by this point, and my instinctive response in those scenarios was to simply push them on towards a productive solution.
And to my mind Gretel had a brilliant one—immediately fly to Florida and marry me. I could support her if she wanted or help her get established as a data analyst on an American salary, and then if she decides she hates my dick or something she could simply divorce me. It all seemed so very obvious to my Addy brain because we were kind of soulmates at this point and exchanging hours of voice messages practically every day. Also I was reasonably certain I could make her cum on a regular basis.
Ostensibly Gretel was down for it. Or at least she was willing to hang out and assess whether she liked me fucking her—the plan circa suicide was to fly her out to Florida in February. Apparently her male friends all told her it was a great idea while her womyn friends (at least one of whom was fat) warned her not to and insisted she’d end up Petito’d. Meanwhile her Neon Nazi brother who apparently beat her up or something shortly before she killed herself was convinced that I wanted to make her a “mail order bride,” which really offended me because if that’s what I wanted why the hell would I pick some kraut bitch several years older than me in a market flooded with desperate college-aged Ukrainians?
Fucking Germans. They’re as bad as the Jews.
Anyway I suspect the problem might have been that at this point I wasn’t quite as tender with Gretel as I had been in the first stage of our friendship, prior to her flaking on that initial trip to come see me. I was also significantly less beta, and I could literally hear her growing more attracted to me in a way she never had been before… but there was also a certain girlish fear in there. Like basically all rape victims Gretel had a complicated relationship with masculine aggression.
And I *was* extraordinarily aggressive with her—talking about how I was going to shove my dick up her kraut asshole and beat the hell out of her as punishment for being such a stuck up little blah blah blah. The first time we reconnected after her flaking I mostly did this to vent my pent up hurt from her betrayal… and then I heard the wet pussy in her voice and figured, hey, why not just continue on that tack?
So a lot of my convos with Gretel in the last few months of her life were kind of me aggressively ranting about the ways I was going to have sex with her and her giggling back at me. This was the first time I got decent feet pics from her so I figured it was all going in a good direction. She also sort of got off vicariously on seeing my other conquests and learning about their individual personalities and lore.
And there was no dearth of conquests, because my sex addiction had grown truly cataclysmic by this point. From October 2022 through April 2023 (when one Zoomette I was genuinely quite compatible with became a somewhat serious gee eff) I was flying in new coeds from SeekingArrangement literally every single weekend. On one occasion I even had Girl A Ubering back for her return flight at the same time Girl B was Ubering from the airport to my condo. Oftentimes I’d be actively looking for the next girl while I already had one in front of me sitting around bored scrolling Tiktok wondering why I wasn’t taking her out or at the very least fucking her. That’s the sort of thing that screams indulgence has crossed the line into abject degeneracy.
During this epoch several of those girls were briefly my “girlfriend” until they very suddenly weren’t. Most of these stories are simply too embarrassing to go into here. Perhaps one day I’ll pimp a few of them out behind a paywall and endeavor to make them slightly less embarrassing by framing them as sage advice for younger men, but if I’m being entirely honest I don’t think even I could pull that off. Virtually all of these situations could only ever be experienced by someone with an extraordinarily particular tendency to oscillate between effortless hyperverbal charisma and horribly repulsive Chris Chan levels of autism.
My Babylonian debauchery during these months was of course hugely expensive, and this was actually the main reason I got into job stacking shortly after Gretel’s death—my lifestyle had simply come to far exceed my already enviable consulting salary, and I was perilously close to exhausting what had seemed an infinite dragon’s horde when I first cashed out my 401(k) several months beforehand so I could be gross.
Why did I need to be gross? Basically my job was really stressful at that point and I sort of needed to distract myself with vice to not want to kill myself.
Also my girlfriend Lexi had recently left me to go back to her 60yo sugar daddy who has her dress like a toddler, and I don’t even blame her for that because I was honestly being mean to her for the dumbest shit, like not knowing what ceteris paribus means.
Though to be fair she did also have some genuinely annoying qualities, like constantly needing to bring her enormous German Shepherd over to my high rise—it was unironically far less logistically inconvenient dating a single mom.
Lexi’s interesting though because I sort of jumped into a relationship with her specifically so I wouldn’t have to feel bad about Gretel flaking on our trip. Obviously I also really enjoyed having exclusive sexual access to a beautiful anorexic 20yo with enormous knockers, but I likely would have held out for someone with an IQ more in the Morticia range had I not subconsciously known Gretel was a vain bitch who’d immediately go full Grimhilde if I nabbed the youngest and most conventionally attractive girl possible at the very first opportunity and then sent Gretel a bunch of humblebraggy texts showing me taking bae on expensive dates.
Naturally this behavior caused issues for me right away, because at some point Gretel sent a bunch of passive aggressive texts about Lexi having poor people hair or some shit, which Lexi saw when she decided to go through her fuckboy’s phone whilst he was in dreamland. And since Sub-Mortician Zoomettes of the Dunkin class sort of act like black people when they get angry, that was some bullshit I had to deal with all day. Anyway I forget how exactly it happened, but I didn’t talk to Gretel after that until Lexi and I broke up, at which point I was sort of just raw untrammeled yang.
Anyway, back to the suicide.
One morning in late Jan 2023 I received an email from Gretel. The title was “Farewell dear” Inside it said “Listen to voice message first. Love you forever.”
I listened to the message.
Then I reported a suicide attempt to the police department of her region in Germany. The man who answered was exasperated when I asked him whether he spoke English, and proceeded to speak to me in absolutely terrible English.
I called back several hours later and they were obscenely German about “privacy law.” I unironically had to shout at them that Gretel was my best friend and I’m the dude who reported it so stop being gay before at long last I heard what I’d dreaded:
“Ja… your friend is no longer with us.”
And suddenly I no longer felt a thing.
I signed onto Facebook to contact her mother, but it turned out someone had already informed her—that famous German efficiency I guess. Frankly the old frau was eerily nonchalant about the whole thing… but I literally just said I didn’t feel anything when my BFF died, so who am I to judge her fucking mom for showing a bit of stoicism?
There was also this Indian dude she was friends with who was super into her and I had this whole separate arc with him. But it’s not really worth the real estate.
If you’ve made it this far you’re probably wondering what Gretel said to me in her final message. I actually thought about including the audio file behind the paywall, but ultimately opted against it. I’m going to leave this one thing sacred, because the poor girl’s spirit deserves a bit of privacy, as does our connection.
I’m respectful enough for that at least.
…but nowhere near respectful enough not to immediately use Gretel’s suicide as an in with one of her Instagram friends. And that’s where fair Selene enters this story.
The connection the two of them had shared on Insta was deep but ephemeral, and in the end Gretel flaked on their planned collaboration before retreating to admire Selene from afar. And boy, did she *really* admire Selene—she sort of spoke about her like a parasocial big sister, which is ironic because Gretel was actually several years her senior. But just like her fuckboy fren, poor Gretel had locked herself into a state of arrested development wherein she could never stop acting like a 23yo, while Selene generally acted her age and carries herself with a very elegant and mature kind of feminine poise. She probably seemed to Gretel like a saner and more successful and overall more evolved version of herself—someone with cool friends who works on cutting edge projects and is generally just everything Gretel had hoped to be in life before getting raped and deciding to become a hooker.
At one point Gretel even floated the idea that I relocate to Selene’s city and ingratiate myself with her crew, actually implying she’d be more likely to move in with me if that happened. And boy is *that* a fascinating counterfactual! Would they have become besties IRL? Would poor Selene end up in a Single White Female situation? Is there a Golden Ending wherein Cap’n Walt slides his lunchmeat in an art hoe sandwich?
A question for the philosophers!
And by this point I hadn’t been a philosopher for nearly a decade. Instead I was used to thinking like an actuary, and saw the world mostly in terms of brute incentive structures and amoral probabilistic reasoning.
Far more importantly, I was now a seasoned consultant, as well as a proven (though at this point somewhat rusty) propagandist, both of which meant I understood to my bones the paramount importance of narrative control.
You see, basically everything in life is about rhetorical framing. Most people are very retarded and never realize this, which is why they never accomplish anything cool. But the folks who do understand it and learn how to spin a narrative can always get tons of things they never could have dreamed of if their steak lacked sizzle.
But it’s also sort of trashy and gauche to overtly create narratives where they don’t already exist—that just makes you look like a teenage theater kid. Instead you wait patiently for the perfect story to come to you, then bellow it into a loudspeaker.
And I saw right away this had the makings of a firecracker story.
So I pulled up Selene’s info on a background check website and proceeded to text her cell from one of my burner numbers. Within a few texts I had her on a phone call and...
Dear God this woman has the most beautiful voice I've ever heard.Immediately I needed to murder someone for her—it didn’t matter who.
I proceed to tell Selene about all the sad parts of Gretel’s life—her rape, her time as a prostitute in her early twenties, her neglectful parents and violent brother. Then I go into podcast mode and make Selene cry with some nihilistic edgelord rant about how all relationships are inherently precarious and everyone is intractably selfish or something like that. And I wasn’t really saying anything I didn’t believe here, but I absolutely seasoned it in a certain way because I was annoyed she had a boyfriend she seemed loyal to and wanted to break them up so I could have her instead.
And I must have been inspired, because while Selene was crying she specifically mentioned the rant made her think about doubts she had about her own relationship, and then by the end of our convo she was even flirting back. Not a bad start!
The thing is I really genuinely felt like this woman was wife material the universe had kind of sent me to compensate for taking away Gretel at the last moment (I know why that’s fucked up don’t fuckn lecture me, remember Male Interiority)—she truly seemed like a girl I could civilize myself for. Yet it never occurred to me that I was so used to approaching the world like Faust that to a normal civilized woman most of my sex appeal consisted in being Mephistopheles. And once Mephistopheles suddenly starts trying to act like hubby material it gets really uncomfortable for everyone.
I moved too fast. Got a bit too clingy and beta. Withdrew very gracefully and declared that her relationship obviously wouldn’t last and I was certain to fuck her on the rebound. Haughtily she insisted that I oughtn’t be too certain of that!
I was certain of that. Whatever my faults I’m a decent Mephistopheles.
A year passes. Selene’s relationship chugs along.
I briefly date Rose until she leaves me for an elderly 43yo Indian man, at which point I immediately jump inside Amanda to ensure I needn’t ever feel sad about it. Shortly thereafter I begin dating Morticia and we have a genuinely beautiful honeymoon era but it peters out when Rebecca reaches out and I end up losing both of them. And now for once I can’t bring myself not to feel sad… but I’m also excited about my burgeoning Substack and also fuck Amanda again because why not? Then Alyssa brings real solace for a while, but she’s also all the way in fucking Oregon and
Selene breaks up with her boyfriend.
Says she wants to start talking.
Here we go.At first I’m too beta—again. I overcorrect on past rakishness. Feel her getting the ick.
So I course correct. Send her a Rhett Butler email and thread that needle perfectly. Selene seems to reengage—for like two fucking days.
It goes nowhere because you can’t respectfully court a girl long distance in 2024; Basically everything has to be calibrated around moistening her cunt because that’s literally all anyone cares about these days, even broads who pretend to be classy.
And so I switch back to ooga booga dooga mode and start talking about raping her. She pretends to be indignant at first and then sends me a text saying she wants me to fuck her in a mean way that hurts her or something to that effect. But sadly I don’t even get that particular text because my burner app decides to eat it and she thinks it hurt my feelings (???), which means I don’t even learn about it until she sends me a screenshot several weeks later when she’s no longer feeling horny.
Gazing out wistfully from my balcony I briefly contemplate following Gretel’s example, before reminding myself fortune favors the patient as much as the bold.
And a week later she texts again. But now she wants me to indulge her hooker fetish—reverse Single White Female? You certainly won’t hear me complain!
It’s time to turn an art hoe into a housewife.
I book a flight to her city and prepare to savor the sweet taste of victory.
One thing I’ve come to realize fairly recently is that basically all meaningful politics is downstream of the human disgust response.
When we encounter someone who seems Beyond The Pale in some regard we sort of intuitively feel like they deserve to be tortured to death. Nothing they do is right, they don’t have any dignity, anything against them is permitted, it’s all just ad baculum ooga booga. This is the impulse BPD Carl Schmitt was talking about.
And I’ll take this analysis one step further and submit that a large proportion of the human disgust impulse is merely a second order consequence of that eldritch horror of antisolipsism—on some level it’s terrifying to realize other minds exist.
You’ve probably heard of the unfortunately reddit-coded notion of sonder:
“the feeling one has on realizing that every other individual one sees has a life as full and real as one’s own, in which they are the central character and others, including oneself, have secondary or insignificant roles”
On some level this idea is trivial, but there are a lot of deeper consequences to it that most never interrogate—namely that you’re not, in fact, the Main Character of Reality and some of the things you Like and that make you really happy will not be things that other people Like and make them really happy.
Some people handle this tension in a fantastically gay and homosexual way by asserting that their Likes are “universally preferable” or “objective morality” or some shit to cope with how disgusting they are and manipulate others into not pursuing what they Like. But at the end of the day this is all just an insipid shell game.
In reality it’s all simply force pushing up against force, disgust crusading against disgust. A vulgar ad baculum wherein anyone who defects deserves to be tortured to death because fuck you winner takes all history is written by the victors.
And I think basically everyone understands this deep down, despite all the tedious copium they snort about morals. We were all in middle school and know all too well what it’s like to be on the receiving end of unadulterated disgust.
Hell, even in ostensibly loving relationships it happens—my first girlfriend had a severe disgust response to the fact that I don’t like tomatoes or seafood, while I had a disgust response to the fact that she enjoyed painting her toenails red. Both of us considered these preferences a deep and essential part of who we were, so the other’s disgust was tantamount to rejection—as was the other’s refusal to submit to our disgust.
Force pushing up against force.
This realization is one of the things that motivated Adam Lanza of Sandy Hook infamy—his writings reveal a deep distaste for culture qua culture, because he saw group coordination of norms / cultural preferences / status markers as “bullying.”
And that’s sort of a faggoty slave morality way to put it, but… yeah, he’s basically right. Personally I’d call it a perpetual memetic arms race between cynical propagandists and manipulative moralists on all sides of the Disgust Wars. And when it comes down to it there isn’t a battlefield in this war even a tenth as fraught as that of sexuality.
There’s an excellent chance that a lot of the shit that you, the reader, enjoy sexually is Gross. Most people would judge you for it. Lots of people might even build a coalition around saying you can’t do it—think the Religious Right on gays or Sex Negative feminists on age gaps. You’d probably join certain coalitions of your own if it meant enforcing your psychosexual imperative on society at large or simply defending yourself against the imperatives of your cultural and aesthetic enemies. In a large number of these cases the difference is simply going to end up intractable.
For instance, midway through last year I briefly flirted with the idea of writing more extensively about my experiences with sugaring and trying to codify a classier sort of culture around the practice similar to French mistress-keeping, with the goal of easing society’s ongoing transition into a highly asymmetric semi-polygynous structure. This elicited a surprisingly venomous public retort from a female collaborator I’d hitherto considered a friend, and while subsequent to this she generally made an earnest effort to meet me in good faith, there were also countless little actions and comments that slipped through the cracks here and there to reveal deeper biases perhaps held unconsciously. As I interrogated the issue further I determined that ultimately she was animated by an intractable psychosexual imperative to uplift female agency and sexual autonomy, and despite our friendship was always going to be thoroughly disgusted by any countervailing impulse in me to empower the Bronze Age Haremdaddy against the Willendorfian WAP.
Disgust crusading against disgust.
Another good example: a while back I was in the midst of a playful flirty convo about sex with a girl on my podcast and mentioned that I tend to dislike it when a woman is very overt about her lust in a matter I find unladylike. This girl interpreted that as me “not liking when the woman enjoys sex.” I immediately followed up that I’m entirely happy for her to enjoy it, but simply prefer for the girl to mediate or obfuscate her lust through a semi-performative frame that makes it feel like I’m conquering her.
Shortly thereafter this girl wrote an article alleging that I’m “turned off when women enjoy sex” and in the comments called me disgusting.
Now I suppose it makes a certain degree of sense for women to feel this way if they simply don’t Get It. But here’s a little perspective:
Every single woman mentioned in this piece has in her own unique way strongly preferred this sort of framing—that includes Rebecca, Morticia, Rose, Alyssa, Amanda, Lexi, Gretel, and far and away more than any of the others Selene.
Hell, Selene was getting noticeably annoyed and turned off halfway through the hookup because she literally just wanted me to fucking rape her without any faggoty BDSM shit and she felt I was being too timid about it. I probably ruined things for her somewhat by not actually being some kind of larger than life sadistic narc. I’ve hooked up with a ton of girls like that—they very genuinely don’t want to convey consent through anything but subtext. The notion disgusts them.
Then later on that evening I wanted to eat Selene’s pussy (another dimension where she stands apart from other girls, because I never do), and she immediately chastised me, saying this desire was effeminate and submissive. It disgusted her. Yet she was entirely content to let cheeky Mephistopheles irrumate a meal or two out of her.
At this point it’s hardly a secret that plenty of women are like this and most women have at least a little bit of this impulse in them. Such women are allowed to express their preferences in mixed company, and it’s only seen as mildly edgy at most.
But if a man expresses a desire to be on the other end of that equation it’s automatically treated as toxic or socially suspect—even though we all know that men are just as into dominating as women are into being dominated.
This has brought about a rather absurd situation wherein men are only allowed to talk about enjoying sexual dominance in the context of it being pleasurable to women.
You are as a man permitted to chortle impishly about how bitches be cwazy because they all want you to choke them. You’re likewise allowed to talk about how you sheepishly went along with bae’s rape fantasies even though you’re such a gentle little fellow who’d never hurt a fly. And you’re certainly allowed to gush about being a “Pleasure Dom”—perhaps the single most reddit concept imaginable.
What you’re never allowed to do is vocalize any sort of autonomous masculine sexuality or desire to dominate for your own gratification. Your sexuality is permitted to exist only to the extent it’s deemed palatable by the Willendorf Brigade.
You’re basically required to perform the sexuality of a woman.
Fail to meet this standard and you’re disgusting and deserve to be tortured to death.
Or at least unsubscribed from :
The Selene story gets rather boring and gay at this point.
The next morning I lay out this big elaborate plan for how we could build a hugely influential salon together in Florida subsidized by my job stacking shekels and basically propose we pursue a serious courtship with marriage as the endpoint.
Her eyes glaze over and she sort of prevaricates about seeing me again and I know it’s all ogre. I go on autopilot for the rest of the day and wait for the breakup text that will no doubt be the nicest thing she’s ever said to me or will ever say again.
It smashes into me midair as I’m halfway back to Florida, nuking our brief situationship and ending my third decade much like 9/11 did the nineties
But obviously it didn’t just end there. You know how this shit goes—there’s always an epilogue, at least if the girl’s worth anything. Over the next few months we fight and flirt and relitigate and at times try very earnestly to be friends. As it stands we aren’t talking—she’s into another dude and I have unusually faggoty feelings for a very retarded little Zoomette. But Selene and I developed our own connection that’s quite special in its own way, and I imagine that as passions cool and trajectories harden with middle age the potential for a less stormy friendship might emerge.
I’m also a probabilistic thinker and would hazard there’s perhaps a 20% chance we’ll hook up again at some point, and maybe a 3% chance we’ll actually date. I’ve come back from significantly worse situations in the past.
Perhaps that itself is part of my problem.
Selene always really liked the narrative that I was displacing my feelings for Gretel onto her, and I’m sure a lot of you lords and ladies agree with that assessment—especially given that I myself sort of framed it like that a few sections back.
But a big part of the reason Selene can’t help but think of things that way is that I sort of memed that story into reality. This wasn’t a *fake* story by any means, but it was definitely Myth—the sort of frame you keep around only so long as it’s useful to you.
To that end this myth was incredibly useful for me until Selene and I hooked up, because Selene is a storyteller by disposition and had a deep psychosexual need to provide a narratively satisfying resolution to her own personal Gretel Saga.
She closed the loop.
I have a hard time seeing it that way because in spite of their spiritual kinship the two women couldn’t have been more distinct—at least in their interactions with me. Gretel was scorching fire while Selene was merciless ice.
Burns and frostbite feel the same at first, and if severe enough will put you in the same place. It’s in those middle stages where you see the salient differences.
And it’s likewise worth remembering that certain wounds really need to be cauterized, whereas others desperately call for an ice pack.
I first met Gretel on the Red Scare subreddit, where I was relatively active from late 2021 to early 2024.
This community is full of anorexic teenage girls who are incredibly talented at bullying people, and this specifically is why I write like an autistic man hyperfixated on cleverly preempting the criticisms of teenage girls (this is incidentally the single best way to learn creative writing if you have Assburgers).
IIRC Gretel and I became friends because both of us were frequently dunked on as lolcows by the Xanax Battalion whenever we posted something a bit too earnest and Millennial. But she took their reprisal a lot more harshly than I did, because I was approaching the venture like a social game where I could learn how to seem cool and not cringe or cheugy to the demographic of young lady I’d mayhaps be pursuing romantically in a few years, whereas Gretel seemed to unironically crave their approval for its own sake despite being a thirty year old woman.
I slid in Gretel’s DMs and she enjoyed my flirtation at first. But then she sent me a post from her alt and I made the mistake of digging too far in that account’s history.
I saw a thread where she mentioned being a “sex worker,” and like an enormous spaz I asked her about it because I was curious.
She never admitted to me that she flipped out over this. But she definitely flipped out over this—not because she felt ashamed over hooking (I mean she did but it was complicated, not the sort of thing she’d stress about for some rando strange redditor), but rather because she’d very pointedly told me her body count was six or some shit and then by dint of her own indiscretion revealed herself to be a Big Fat Liar.
The thing is I couldn’t have given less of a fuck about her body count. I thought it was sort of funny how incompetent she was at opsec but also sort of adorable in a woman way. But at the end of the day I don’t think she ever forgave me for penetrating past the persona and seeing her Trve Self so early on and before she wanted me to.
Obviously she did on just a friendship level—friends forgive each other for all sorts of retarded shit. But in her Rapedbrain it definitely sort of foreclosed the possibility of any organic sexual attraction developing until I kick-started it much later by being hyper-aggressive. I know she told me shortly before she died that she’d had feelings for me prior to flaking the first time but nothing sexual, and that makes sense because I sort of started acting in a self-friendzoning way after the whole “Sex Worker” snafu. It just didn’t feel bad because I was hooking up with plenty of girls at the time.
Though for a brief period in early summer 2022 I may have reversed this somewhat… one day she was bummed out because some other dude had fuckzoned her and I asked her to visit me in Florida to test the waters for a relationship. She was super excited at first and agreed without hesitation. Then I gave her the ick a few evenings later by wondering too freely about leg extension surgery and felt her excitement evaporate in seconds. I knew in my bones she would cancel after that. When it came her angle was that I’d sprung it on her too spontaneously and she didn’t have time to think about it and some other agency abdication horseshit all the women reading this will side with her on because you’re all a bunch of paleolithic war brides.
I mean, whatever—I adapted. In less than a fortnight I was inside a hot little 20yo with natural pumpkins while Gretel got pumped and dumped for a fat chick.
Am I really supposed to feel bad for her? She certainly thought so. Gretel was so self-indulgent about that breakup. When I told her shit happens get over it you rejected me she acted like I was heartless. And I guess she’s a woman, so her feelings matter.
But then the fucking cunt has the nerve to get all pissy about Lexi because she lost her claim on a dude she’d likely assumed could be reactivated at any time. What does it say about your judgment that your main guy left you for a fat chick while your backup dude is with a girl who could easily be a pornstar?
So no, I didn’t feel bad for her and still don’t. Either all’s fair in love and war or it isn’t. You can’t swagger around like Achilles during victory and then moan that it’s anuddah shoah the precise moment things don’t go your way.
I mean, obviously Selene can do that.
So could Rebecca if she were sober, as could Alyssa provided the dude is more of a normie than me. Rose could do so more easily than anyone if she wanted to, but she’s far too spergy to deploy such tactics.
Morticia and Amanda have a much harder time not taking responsibility for their actions thanks to their brutish working class fathers, but honestly have the IQ to swing it if they took out their piercings and covered up their sleeve tats.
Then there’s Lexi, who’s probably just too simple to think like this… but she honestly seems perfectly content being the Boomer’s housecat. Cats needn’t know Latin.
Anyway I guess what I’m saying is a woman’s ability to successfully abrogate agency depends on some combination of her familiar wealth, personal beauty, social capital, and verbal IQ. Women like Selene and sober Rebecca can more or less rewrite the script of reality as they see fit, being capable of total agency abrogation and therefore social omnipotence. Fortunately this tends to makes such broads rather lazy and self-indulgent and they have a beast of a time caring enough about anything to properly deploy this power, otherwise they’d easily take over the world.
But there I go thinking like a scrote! Top shelf womyn wouldn’t do that anyway since they already have a lot more of the world in their grasp than they’d ever have if they overtly ruled it—feminine power is that of the infinite masculine fleet-in-being.
Women like this are at the tippity top of the social food chain, and high status men compensate for their epistemic subordination mostly by way of asymmetric dalliances with women one or two rungs below themselves. But even billionaires will make sure to keep their wife happy if she’s in the Goddess Caste—it is severely unwise to seriously upset She Who Cannot Do Wrong.
Anyway I actually do feel quite bad for Gretel now. Compared to Selene she had a fairly similar level of verbal IQ / familiar wealth / cultural sophistication, but she was also a prostitute in her early twenties and that honestly does sort of lower you a few rungs in terms of what men let you get away with.
It kind of just forces you to lie to be treated well. Either that or at some point you need to have The Conversation… but then sometimes a promising dude will figure out on his own and Ruin Everything. And then on top of all that bullshit your ability to cover your tracks is even further obliterated if you have the sort of emotional regulation issues and nasty temper that gets you branded BPD. It would suck.
But we all have our shit. Even Selene had bad stuff happen to her, though she makes a big deal about “not letting it define her” or some shit. The line feels canned but as a rightist I can’t help but respect that sort of pigheaded assertion of will to power—I wish I were that ruthless. Selene quite frankly deserves her social omnipotence.
Gretel took an out and no decent person could blame her for that.
Walt Bismarck shall persist in pushing his gay faggoty boulder forever onward.
And Selene with Her Heavenly Pvssie shall ascend into The Heavens to determine what is Trve and cast down Her Judgment.
Over the course of this piece I was quite indulgent of my angry stinky incel-coded Male Interiority. Now that I got all this out I feel kind of remorseful, so as aftercare I’m gonna write things I like about each of the girls mentioned in this piece.
Selene
You’ve helped me become an infinitely better artist. I tried to become more sophisticated / layered as a thinker to impress you, and this never really paid dividends for our relationship, but it’s really improved my Substack.
It's extremely cute how you do that one voice (you know the one) because it’s so dissonant with the rest of your polished cool girl persona.
You texted me welcome to your state shortly after I touched down in my hookup trip which felt really nurturing and sweet
Gretel
You introduced me to the wisdom of Reinhold Niebuhr
You actually listened to my lengthy WhatsApp messages about the Petrodollar
Things were really exciting leading up to that first trip.
Rebecca
It’s pleasing how Jewish you look despite only being half
It was fun watching Mean Girls with you and having you explain everything (before you got too drunk to pay attention)
Rose
Your neotenous physiognomy was always hilariously effective at pissing off women my own age when we were out in public
You were the one who ended things and got over me super quickly so I didn’t have to feel bad. But then you also never stopped flirting. Best of both worlds.
You have really good taste in escape rooms
You Have Agency
Morticia
You probably loved me more than any girl ever has
I really mean it about helping you babe, let’s work together on this
Amanda
It’s insane synchronicity I met you on the same night as your bf and we fucked you two hours apart. I feel like he shouldn’t get to kick me out tho bc I was first.
You probably were my only IRL friend the past few years. I do miss you.
I like how you’re such an aggressive driver and always got me to Walgreens fast and then we got hippie food together afterward.
Alyssa
You did a really amazing job on the podcasts babe
It was cute how insistent you were on getting a Luna Lovegood wand at Universal
It’s genuinely super impressive how fast you made regional manager at 24. I am really proud of you.
Lexi
When we went to Men’s Wearhouse to get me clothes for my business trip you really cheered me up by being so silly
I think you weren’t as simpleminded as you acted sometimes—you had something off about you that I never was able to fully interrogate.
It probably means something significant that I’m not yet willing to think about why I went a little crazy after losing you.
And that’s a wrap, ladies and germs.
I suppose you can ignore the title and continue to be mean to rakish men if you want, if only because it codes as low status to ask people not to be mean to you.
I’ll finish this piece with yet another unsubscribe button :
As someone who is interested in "red-pill" adjacent content—I rather liked this article. You eschew the typical "Alpha" behavior of avoiding expressing your male interiority as a sort of flex of true masculinity. It's refreshing in contrast to the often poorly performative masculinity of the red-pill space.
WBE arc.