To my estranged brothers in Christ who have taken up with the white nationalist politics of Donald Trump,
I have a recurring dream where another woman and I are making out in the back of a taxi cab. She’s a friend, someone I’ve done feminist work with; I slightly pull away when she kisses me — not out of disinterest, but a disbelief that folds back into itself, stirring euphoria. She tells me she loves me and that her pussy tastes like candied ginger, and I don’t need to be afraid.
I reach for the door handle sometimes, because as it replays, the brilliant miracle boils away into hellish subconscious taunting. I’m selfish for having the fantasy and a coward for not facing rejection like an adult and telling her how I feel. Doing defangs the dream, but there’s a comfort in the lingering agony of isolation. Starving of intimacy, I see the face of God. And anyway: she’ll come and go, and likely much faster if she knew how I felt and what I’d want her to do to me — this phantom iron maiden will keep well into middle age.
I guess you could say this makes me a cuck. If to this you say “citation needed”, I’m writing this from the couch as my future wife spends the night with her boyfriend. I brought them a baked apple with cream I whipped by hand before I went to bed.
Here it is.
They’re a bit mushier than other baked apples because I made them in a Crock Pot, which meant they ended up stewing in their own juices — I understand this is called “involuntary celibacy” in your parlance.
I had a recipe, but it was for a Crock Pot model made 50 years ago. I adjusted the ratios and instructions based on variables and just eyeballed it. These are important instincts to develop, especially for you, and especially for now.
You, the Returning Kings, the Triumphant Racism Frogs, have decisively, systematically cucked yourselves.
You have, in the span of a Presidential election, surrendered more sexually frustrated white dudes to perennial denial than all the hotwife tumblrs and self-published male chastity erotica on Amazon.
Men’s rights, alt-right — whatever you wanna call your flavor of white nationalism — sells you on the promise that, once you help the rich eliminate the immigrants, queers, non-whites and disabled, you’ll share in the bounty of the rectified world.
But you blockheads, you chumps.
You’re the guy who gets called up on Price is Right, bids $50, and then loses out to someone bidding $51 right before the episode goes off the air.
You’re the guy who gets fined by the city for not cutting down the tree on your property, and then fined by the state when you finally do.
In the best possible scenario (for you), you win the day and drive all the undesirables out, and then turn to your brethren to celebrate, realizing that not many openings in “CEO” or “conservative journalist” or “neo-masculinity life coach” have been created as a result of a brother dying in action, so now you get to work the Applebee’s you just liberated for the master race. You realize that service jobs aren’t worthless, but instead pushed on those society deems as worth less, just as you’re shot or deported for taking leftover babyback ribs to feed your family because you vowed to make America “great” not “economically equitable” again. You never learn how to butterfly a shrimp.
In just about every other realistic scenario, you’re sent half-starved to fight the resistance so as not to disturb your leader’s contemplation of his failures in his fortified palace. Or you’re just another gaping-mawed fucking nobody who stands by as fascism gets toppled and your entire generation bears the shame of being at worst monstrous and at best, weak-willed and ineffectual in the wake of coercive power.
When Donald Trump or other white nationalist politicians talk about their entitlement towards women’s bodies, they don’t believe you share in that privilege. I wouldn’t be surprised if the incoming regime actually pushes to make rape a capital offense, just to make it clear that the rabble, i.e. you, have not earned the right to violate their women.
Yes, their. You think that maybe, because you might agree with the politicians who want to strip uterus-possessing people of their right to reproductive health services, that you share in this power dynamic. But it’s not done in solidarity with you. A man who is richer than you’ll ever be and has more power than you ever will decides what your partner can do with their anatomy because he, at heart, is terrified of mortality, and so he and other men terrified at mortality pass legislation that make it so any “vessel of their legacy” must carry the fetus to childbirth, even if it will kill her, even and especially if it wasn’t consensual.
Your feelings as a potential father mean nothing to them. Because you aren’t a potential father to them. You don’t factor into the greater design of the white race.
You: Yes, hi, I’m here to apply for the breeding program
ALPHA MALE: What have you done for white America?
You: I made some photoshops that triggered a lot of SJWs
ALPHA MALE: NEXT
You: I also have addictive semen because I wash my dick with coconut oil every day
ALPHA MALE: SECURITY
Future editorial comics will remember you as a pasty white boy in an anime t-shirt with swastikas in his eyes yelling “ERASE ME FROM THE GENE POOL, DADDY” at Donald Trump. That’s you. That’s you forever.
You thought feminism was eating at your virility, but feminism is the only narrative where men like you aren’t regarded as impotent and in the way of “real men”.
If you serve the new state, it won’t be as a commander pushing the hordes out to the sea, or the educating intellectual. You’ll dig ditches, you’ll pour the coffee for some uninformed millionaire helping to devastate the planet via climate change while he casually hurls taunts of sexual violence at the love of your life.
You don’t hold the destiny of “our people” in your hands— you hold a warm towel to give the white nationalist state after it finishes jerking off on the face of your actual future.
You’ve made yourself more insignificant and disposable than feminism ever could. It’s called “white supremacy”, not “white solidarity” or “white friendship”.
You’re me when someone I had a crush on for years finally approached me at a sex party, told me she’d be down to hook up, turned me down later that night because some skinnier and prettier asked first, and then made a point to find and kiss me goodbye the next morning.
Except you’ll hate it. And no one will believe you or care when you say this isn’t what you had in mind when you helped an avowed sexual predator and racist get all the nuclear codes. You had an opportunity to reach out to people who understood your plight, that could have given you the tools to break out of the toxic binary of patriarchal masculinity. But you sent them pictures of ovens on twitter and yelled “cuck!” whenever there was a gap in any conversation that wasn’t about you.
You’re one of us now.
And at least I got to meet my girlfriend’s lover. I got to approve of him. Believe whatever you want about your free will in electing Donald. Just don’t make eye contact with him, don’t speak to his wife unless spoken to, and bring out more fried frog legs.
Welcome to the couch. Don’t get too comfy; if the new government follows through on all the promises of a whiter America, there will be resistance. Then you’ll take the floor while the true alphas take the couch, just until all this anti-fascism blows over. Go write some mediocre graffiti — the cucks will rise again —on a dirty public bathroom stall if you need to.
Just don’t interrupt America with her new lover.
Author: Jetta Rae
Founder of Fry Havoc. Can be found on twitter at @jetta_rae