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This is one of the most remarkable pieces of writing I've come across recently.

It's by Lily Cade, one of the women quoted in the BBC "cotton ceiling" article.

She also wrote a shorter piece more directly responding to that, but this is more interesting.

Previous Ovarit thread on her here: TRAs response to the BBC article about lesbians being coerced into sex by transwomen was to expose Lily Cade, one of the women interviewed as a serial rapist. Is it true or just a distraction?

You should probably read her section of the BBC article and that Ovarit link for background.

No direct link to this piece, as it was published on the blog on her porn site.

Very dark. (If I did "trigger warnings", this would probably have a complete set.)


To The Pussified Men of America, if They are Brave Enough to Look

I have no respect for trans women, and I have no respect for a culture that is so afraid of the consequences of upsetting them that it is willing to sacrifice its most vulnerable upon the altar of their delusions. A man in a dress is still a man. A man is the male of the race. The male is the one who produces sperm.

A man producing from his body that sperm, by his own hand, while imagining himself as whatever it is that he, as a man, understands a woman to be, and becoming so addicted to this vile act that he constructs from his own body a funhouse mirror effigy of the thing that I am inescapably and he will never be is not mentally well. The treatment for this mental unwellness cannot be insisting that the entire world pretend to believe this man’s delusions until your children actually do. Pretending to believe this is making your children crazy.

The deep, dark heart of every trans woman whispers you are not a woman, you will never be a woman. This is the deeper truth, the blood truth, the bone truth, the millions of years of evolution before the dawn of symbolic thought truth. I prefer veterinary science to the farce we call modern medicine. A man who spends all his days thrusting his arm up the assholes of cattle need waste no further time on bullshit. A castrated dog is not a bitch. A bitch given steroid injections is not a dog, even if you cut all ten of her tits off.

Trannies I don’t mind. The tranny is honest. I knew a lot of trannies, hundreds in passing. I had affection for some of them, and I sure as fuck had respect. They were tranny whores and they wanted to be tranny whores and they didn’t care what you thought about it. Some of them are dead now too. Juliette, a seven, perhaps, among her people, looked enough like a female five that she tranny surprised hundreds of straight dudes. She didn’t care if one of them finished her. It feels so good to almost die. Death, itself, feels like nothing. Juliette dared the Universe, like I did, to stop her. She was, like I was, an acolyte of the shadow, a willing sacrifice. We were sisters, were we not?

I know what it is to surrender myself to a sexual persona so deeply that it superceded love, family, community, my own dignity and the dignity of others, and truth. I was brave and stunning too, once, was I not? Have you forgotten? You lauded me, you paid me, and you followed me into Hell. Masturbation is spiritual weakness. Lily Cade didn’t masturbate, but she helped you do it. She helped you ruin yourself. She trained your daughters to be whores. She trained your sons to be the prey of whores. She had no shame in any of it. She thought it was awesome! She moved through the world like she owned it and everyone treated her as if it were true.

She sinned much, Lily Cade. She transgressed everyone and everything she ever cared about. She knows the size and the weight of the sin. You know what you read on Twitter, in as minute an infobit as possible, so that you can feel the hit of the specific emotion you want to feel and not have to look at the example of this life and what it can teach you. No one before me. No one after me. Good.

Remember that I walked Los Angeles before #metoo naked and unafraid, with no man’s protection but the iron will of my shadow self. Remember what monsters I looked in the eyes, real monsters, darker monsters than I whose scalp was the other woman’s orgasm and not my own. Remember my 10,000 Eskimo Brothers. Remember all those dead whores I once loved. The women whose eyes I looked into remember. I looked every single one of those girls in the eyes while I did it. I looked into their souls and they looked into mine. I knew them and they knew me. I trucked no shame. I saw no evil. I loved, just a little bit, 4,000 of your cast offs, your rebels, your lonely, your damaged, your broken, your lost, your addicts, your daughters, your sisters, your mothers, your dead, your women not mine.

I knew where the line was until I didn’t. The women knew. They saw in my eyes that I had gone to the darkside. They saw my weakness, and they slit my throat. They were whores, remember? They knew the shadow themselves. When a girl said no, I stopped. When a woman spoke of trauma, I believed her. When I was called out, I stood down and took it. Women had no more need of Lily Cade. It is not to women that I direct these words, but to men.

If a rapist is someone who is accused in public of sexual misconduct, then I am a rapist. So, too, are three of your last four presidents, the men who sit in your halls of power, and the men who make judgments over your laws. So are all of your heroes, and you know it, and you don’t care. If a rapist is someone who pays women to have sex that they don’t actually want to have, then I am a goddamn fucking rapist, and your world is run by rapists. Think of the money men, all those money men, with all the same story about Cambodia. I thought it would cost so much more money than it did to have sex with children. I had a great time. Such is the shape of power. All who touch power know the shape of it. They all know what they did, too, all those men, and not a one of them had the balls to admit it.

Maybe, Epstein had the balls. They feared the spectre of the balls he might have had so much they iced him between the reels. Did you know that Maxwell, too, played “take these two fingers and pretend it’s your dick?” I bet those finger blow jobs were a lot more sensual than mine.

Bill Clinton taught me what a blow job was when I was twelve years old. If he’d been just a little bit more of a man, not enough of a man not to fuck the intern, but enough of a man to tell it like it was, then maybe Hillary would have been president, back then, back in the day, when people used to say she was too good, before the shadow took her soul too. Donald Trump, as masculine a man as America could find, the empty shell of a man’s persona that took such brilliance, once, to create, aye what a showman, feared nothing but this admission. He walked it back, the pussy. Locker room talk, he said. Paid them bitches not to talk. Had a bitch shot in public to prove he had balls instead of having them.

Where are your fucking balls, America?

You cower before a minor respiratory illness that she who must walk with the ghost of Lily Cade for all her days got on purpose, as soon as it came out, and passed through with no greater suffering than an especially bad hangover. You cower before the unprocessed emotions of your most spoiled children. You cower before the great wall of virtual shit spewed from the shit-fed fingers of your weakest, shittiest, stupidest people. Your shadows rule you. All of you.

What are you afraid of? Dying? I died once. It was fine. You’re going to die anyway. Better to die in your boots than your bed, and better to die in your bed than the hospital.

Being canceled? I’ve been canceled. It was good for me. Donald Trump got canceled and he’ll still be your next President. We’re two degrees of separation, at minimum, in bed. I fucked whores who fucked the whores he fucked. Maybe, we fucked some of the same whores but by god why on Earth would anyone talk about that man if you did not have to do it. I would say he taught America’s twelve years old what a golden shower was, but they already knew. The shadow monsters of the Internet got to them first. Max Hardcore taught your daughter about the golden shower. Max Hardcore, who still slings fake dick.

Losing your job? They can’t fire all of you. You can always get another job. I, a broken whore, with no resume, mad, with no connections, found work in every city of the world in which I sought to pass and enough work on the Internet doing random odd jobs unrelated to sex work to sustain a lifestyle that involved a dozen international flights a year. It only takes $38,000 to be a member of the global 1%. What the fuck are you doing with your life? A man with balls need not worry about a job. There is always a job for a man with balls.

Women won’t fuck you? Yes, they will. Women love a man with balls. They do not love monsters. They slobbered all over my rubber balls even though I am five foot five and a half and an actual goddamned bitch. When I became a monster, they cast me out. Those porn whores who told Lily Cade to get fucked have more balls than all the men of America put together.

In my travels, I have spoken to thousands of your people. Not once have I looked a straight men in the eyes who did not agree with the statement “trans women are men” with the same blood-deep, bone-deep, millions of years of evolution certainty with which he might agree that “water is wet” or “the sky is above us.” Ah yes, but can we not find the actually in the margins of those things too? Yes, of course, we can, and write so many papers, and make so many jobs for so many “thinkers” who need not toil by their hands nor look upon the ruin their intellectual masturbation has wrought. The dog doesn’t see the actually. The dogself just knows that a castrated dog, induced to develop mammary tissue with exogenous hormones, whose penis has been bisected and stuffed inside out into a body cavity constructed by his doctors, perhaps sewn together with some bits of colon if the penis in question wasn’t big enough, does not smell like a bitch!

Trans women are men!

Trans women are men! It is not their fault that they are men. There is no shame in being a man. There is only shame in falling short of your best self.

Trans women are men! All men, a subset that includes trans women, know that trans women are men. They want you to pretend not to know this because it gives them power.

Because you are afraid to speak truth to power, these openly pussified men have become the dominant males in your castrated society. They are your Kings! They prove this by dominating your women in public, as once did Lily Cade. They do this even though they know that the women do not like it. The tranny is a shadow. The tranny whore knows it. The trans woman denies it.

Women cannot stand up to men in single combat. I have tried, and been twice punched unconscious for my trouble, though, indeed, I have won some fights by my wits and my superior knowledge of body positioning. My people are the weaker sex. Women can’t fight this. All women can do is what they have been doing this entire time, speaking truth to power. When they speak up, they are silenced. Trans women control the Internet, such as anyone controls it. They rule by fear. They rule with all the tactics of the monstrous shadow children that they are. Anyone who says I will kill myself if you… ought to do it, immediately, and decrease the surplus population. Shit or get off the pot, you worthless piece of shit. Your feelings are not and have never been anyone else’s problem but your own. Kill yourself in front of me and I will feel only joy for the souls of the cattle and the swine and the songbirds who need not die to sustain the gift of life you would so disrespect.

I was in the vanguard of the counter-culture that has become your culture. What’s the vanguard? Cannon fodder and fixed bayonets. Did I thrust that tip into twisting guts? And how! I did it. I loved it, hard, until I was forced to look upon it. Those who were in those trenches with me know also. We called you civilians for a reason. I was a sacrifice. Lily Cade is just another dead whore. Dead whores tell no lies.

We who called ourselves homosexuals fought for the right to love whomsoever we loved. Among our number, always, were many who exhibited cross-sex behavior in various forms. I was a bitch who mounted bitches like a dog. I was not alone. Most of us were excellent, present company, naturally, excluded. One needs a conceptual framework to understand oneself as a homosexual. The framework has undergone many shifts. We were called once inverts. We were called once witches. We were called once the damned.

The lesbian, specifically, such as she existed before the meaning-is-dead not-with-a-bang-but-with-a-whimper fall of Rome to the barbarian hordes of the corporate Internet, was a woman who pursued romantic relationships with women and not with men. To the trannies, this was not offensive. They lived their lives and we lived ours. Before the passage of gay marriage, our party line was that sexuality is something you were born with, something you had every right to state explicitly, and nothing to be ashamed about. “Born this way” was always a little white lie, so that straight America would support us. We were, as everyone is, born and bred, made and trained.

My own father, he of the forced starvation, and the psychological torment, and the beatings with a newspaper, too much of a pussy to stand up to a stepmother who bled my sister into her bathwater, a man so heinous he purposely made his children sick to get back at their mother, asked me, once, calling from a blocked number so that I accidentally answered the call, if it was his fault that I was a lesbian. “Yes,” I said. “Of course, it’s your fault. Either it’s genetic, in which case it’s your fault, or it’s because you are a terrible father, in which case it’s your fault.” I didn’t mind. I never saw myself as a victim. I’m grateful for the child abuse. It made me who I am. It’s those women who Lily Cade hurt who aren’t grateful for it.

I started, very early on, to notice the tension between trans women and the lesbian community. I went to MichFest, the lesbian music festival held by the last human souls with the balls to say no to this, but once. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It was a force for good, profoundly, and would have made me a better person if I had not been sold the party line that to declare a space, only, proudly, alone, for the female sex was offensive and failed to go until the very end. Pour one out for the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival. The Lily Cade of MichFest would never have held another woman down, mistaking the look of I won’t stop you if you take it from the one of desire. Trans women had that shut down, with their whining, mostly, poor me, it’s not fair, how dare a woman say no to men even if they cut their dicks off? A man or two has cut his dick off for me, specifically. I would rather he have cut his throat.

Lily Cade believed it was her right to state her sexual preferences openly. Lily Cade was not an ass man or a tits man, but a pulse man. No fat chicks. No aftermarket pussy. Any woman with a pulse. The trans community found this offensive. Lily Cade got into much Internet drama over it, many times. At the same time, she also faced the same attitude in other contexts, such as on Tinder. Lily Cade was harassed every single day by men because she stated that she did not want to fuck them. Trans women harrassed her in the exact same way and for the exact same reason, because they are men. Other lesbians, who did not have more balls than Bill Clinton, also had this abuse visited upon them. Many succumbed to it. The whole community succumbed.

The phrase “The Cotton Ceiling” refers to the idea that a woman’s sexual boundaries, specifically those that would incline a woman to seek sexual congress with the female of her species but reject that vile funhouse mirror effigy that a man has constructed of himself for his own erotic purposes, are a barrier to be overcome. They meant overcome in the sense that the culture ought to educate women out of this rather than that individual women ought to be overcome by force. Trans women are shadow monsters who groom your children. It is not I who bear the ruin of that education, but those who came after me.

The concept of “gender identity” is an idiotic farce, designed to explain the phenomemen of the trans women instead of looking at the truth. It’s a fucking fetish, fed by porn, suborned by masturbation, no different from the adult baby, or the furry. Gender is a meaningless box. “Identity” is bullshit. No one needs an “identity.” Wear whatever you want. No one fucking cares. “Identity” is another tool of the masters to keep you from thinking and being in the world. Your animal body has an immutable sex, complicated very, very occasionally by disorders of sexual development. Some children are also born without legs, but we have no problem declaring man a biped. Your animal body experiences a wide range of desires. Some of them are healthy and some of them are not. It is your responsibilty to train that animal. You want to eat that entire fucking bag of Cheetos too, don’t you? Sure likes cocaine, that animal that you walk with, don’t he? At least the coke fiends have some shame.

Where are your fucking balls, America? Land of the free, home of the brave my ass.

Where are these patriarchs they speak of? Where are the fathers, who are meant to protect your children? I am a Californian. I am Manifest Destiny’s end game. In my veins flows the blood of Mayflower Pilgrims, and Potato Famine Emigrants, and the soldiers of all America’s wars, of the rebels and the yankees too. They raped the world to protect me. They reaped the souls of men, women and children and the bison and the passenger pigeon. They were brutes, a great chain of brutes, stretching back to the dawn of time, who cowered once before the leopards until they rose tall enough and bloodthirsty enough and perceptive enough to wear their skins instead. For my life, much was sacrificed. I did not choose it. I cannot change it. I did not write it. It wrote me. All I can do is try to make it worth it. Try not to make it worse. Trying is the same thing as failing. Trying is better than doing nothing.

A certain creampie delivered into a free sample today sponge during the Billboard Hot 100 Reign of Phil Collins’s Against All Odds made me. The Internet trained me. I came to it late. I was twelve, maybe, or fourteen. It took more effort then to use the Internet. It had not been yet colonized, nor had your society been colonized by it. I crawled through the dark underbellies of the virtual, seeking desensitization. I found pornography. I found car crash videos, and jihadi propaganda, and Dan Savage. I found a value system more useful than the one I had been given by the pedophiles of the Catholic Church, whose framework few people could still respect then and even fewer respect now. Why would you? It was always bullshit. It’s all bullshit. A framework is only good if it is useful. A framework that induces children to self mutilate is not useful.

The Catholic Church was always run by pedophiles – meaning those who sacrifice children to their shadow. Paul of Tarsus gave you Jesus and Peter gave you the Chair. Their acolytes ran the world for fifteen hundred years. It had nothing to do with God and everything to do with power. The shape of power is always the same. The Catholics had you castrate your children too, remember? Oh how sweet, they said, the eunuch’s voice. Succulent, isn’t he, the capon? The cock, poor beast, he has none. That’s why he must wake up at 4:30 in the morning every day and tell everyone that he is the biggest cock in the world all day long until he goes to bed or someone kills him. His balls are on the inside. Sometimes, when you buy a supermarket chicken, a testicle is left behind, a tiny, oblong, off white bean. They hold him down and slice them out to make a capon, so that he grows fatter, softer, more tender, so that he shuts the fuck up.

Why are you letting your children be made capons to feed the Shadow Monsters of the Internet? Why have you sold them to TikTok? Why have you put a slot machine in their hands? You know the smartphone is destroying you. Why do you not rise up?

I know why.

Because you would rather jerk off.

A dog knows that his hand is not a bitch, too, but where are the dogs of America? Stroking their own cocks while the world burns and proud of it, rewarding themselves for nothing, rewarding themselves for their worst thoughts, rewarding themselves for a lack of action. This is good enough, says the American man, death grip on his own mutilated dick, mutilated by his parents in the service of someone else’s ideology. It’s cleaner, said the doctors back then. If you chop it off you won’t have to teach him how to wash it.

That’s how stupid they think you are.

They’re right.

You are that stupid.

You prattle on about idiotic conspiracies while it’s all there, right there, in public, the same way Lily Cade did everything that she did. When she took the fall, all those soul reapers came up to her, in private, and expressed their sympathy. “Poor Lily,” they said. “We feel so bad for you. We did much worse things than you but we didn’t do it in public.” I did not want their pity. I only did it because it was in public.

The world has always been run by pedophiles. It always will be. Hillary Clinton doesn’t get high off the tears of ritual sacrifices, you goddamn fucking idiots, she just stood by while her husband played with Epstein’s underage whores and took the money from all those money men with all the same story about Cambodia and looked the other way. Maybe, Bill believed that those girls liked it. Maybe, some of them did. I saw him speak once. I remember nothing he said, only the sounds of the panties in the audience dropping and the smell of all those slick slits. Who knows? Whores lie. That’s the whole point of whores.

You have mentally ill men in women’s prisons, raping women. You have mentally ill men in women’s sports, pissing (with their dicks) all over the records set by female athletes who gave their whole hearts to sport. You have mentally ill men invading every conceivable women’s group, including support groups for breast feeding mothers, for women bereaved by miscarriage, shifting the conversation from the honesty of the animal experience to the twisted madness of their delusions. Women can’t stop this assault upon your culture. They are too soft. They put themselves second. They pity, poor beasts, they pity weak men. Only men can stop this. Stand up. Say no. You are stronger than these monsters. You are stronger than the monster within yourself.

You know why I know you’re full of shit? Because every last one of you told me to my face that I just needed to find the right dick. It’s easy to stand up to a 5’5 ½” woman, isn’t it? You pussy ass bitch. Pick on someone your own size. Trans women are men. They know they are men. You know they are men. The Emperor is standing naked before you, stroking his cock, daring you to stop him. He can’t stand before the truth, that’s why he works so hard to shut it down.

What are you afraid of? Getting punched in the face. It feels good to get punched in the face.

Dominate your worst selves instead of letting them dominate you. Stop lying. Stop lying to yourself. Stop letting people who are lying to themselves and lying to you about it rule you. Stand for the light and not the shadow. Look at primary sources and not memes. Break your smartphone. Give up your horrifying addictions to drugs, alcohol, stroking off to porn, and most especially the endless scroll. Get off social media. Get a gym routine. Look at everything that scares you with your eyes open. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear has killed your minds. Fuck your clubs, and your brands, and your identities, and your racial affiliations, and your teams, and your sides, and just open your mouth and breathe it in and know what the shape of the world tastes like instead of spewing your meaningless opinion or worse yet vomitting back out the meaningless opinion of some other shit-eating shit-spewing sack of shit in the approximate shape of a human being.

But you won’t, because all that would take balls, and they don’t make men with balls in America anymore. They make cucks, and simps, and chronic masturbators, and incels, and complainers, and trans women, lots of trans women, more and more every day. Look at all that power you give them. Men love power. They love it more than they love their dicks and you know how hard you all love those. All men, including those children of the race who may bear the name only in the collective, love power, because it feels good.

Grow a pair, you soulless bootlicking eunuch. Speak the truth. Break the Internet. Get a Gabb Wireless phone. Take down Twitter. Hack TikTok. Burn Facebook. My grandfather and all his brothers who stood up to Hitler are rolling in their graves. They fought Hitler and you cower before Bruce Jenner in a dress. Stop this before it’s too late.

Where are your fucking balls, America?

This is one of the most remarkable pieces of writing I've come across recently. It's by Lily Cade, one of the women quoted in the BBC ["cotton ceiling" article](https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-57853385). She also wrote a shorter piece more directly responding to that, but this is more interesting. Previous Ovarit thread on her here: [TRAs response to the BBC article about lesbians being coerced into sex by transwomen was to expose Lily Cade, one of the women interviewed as a serial rapist. Is it true or just a distraction?](https://ovarit.com/o/GenderCritical/47137/tras-response-to-the-bbc-article-about-lesbians-being-coerced-into-sex-by-transw) You should probably read her section of the BBC article and that Ovarit link for background. No direct link to this piece, as it was published on the blog on her porn site. Very dark. (If I did "trigger warnings", this would probably have a complete set.) ---- # To The Pussified Men of America, if They are Brave Enough to Look I have no respect for trans women, and I have no respect for a culture that is so afraid of the consequences of upsetting them that it is willing to sacrifice its most vulnerable upon the altar of their delusions. A man in a dress is still a man. A man is the male of the race. The male is the one who produces sperm. A man producing from his body that sperm, by his own hand, while imagining himself as whatever it is that he, as a man, understands a woman to be, and becoming so addicted to this vile act that he constructs from his own body a funhouse mirror effigy of the thing that I am inescapably and he will never be is not mentally well. The treatment for this mental unwellness cannot be insisting that the entire world pretend to believe this man’s delusions until your children actually do. Pretending to believe this is making your children crazy. The deep, dark heart of every trans woman whispers *you are not a woman, you will never be a woman*. This is the deeper truth, the blood truth, the bone truth, the millions of years of evolution before the dawn of symbolic thought truth. I prefer veterinary science to the farce we call modern medicine. A man who spends all his days thrusting his arm up the assholes of cattle need waste no further time on bullshit. A castrated dog is not a bitch. A bitch given steroid injections is not a dog, even if you cut all ten of her tits off. Trannies I don’t mind. The tranny is honest. I knew a lot of trannies, hundreds in passing. I had affection for some of them, and I sure as fuck had respect. They were tranny whores and they wanted to be tranny whores and they didn’t care what you thought about it. Some of them are dead now too. Juliette, a seven, perhaps, among her people, looked enough like a female five that she tranny surprised hundreds of straight dudes. She didn’t care if one of them finished her. It feels so good to almost die. Death, itself, feels like nothing. Juliette dared the Universe, like I did, to stop her. She was, like I was, an acolyte of the shadow, a willing sacrifice. We were sisters, were we not? I know what it is to surrender myself to a sexual persona so deeply that it superceded love, family, community, my own dignity and the dignity of others, and truth. I was brave and stunning too, once, was I not? Have you forgotten? You lauded me, you paid me, and you followed me into Hell. Masturbation is spiritual weakness. Lily Cade didn’t masturbate, but she helped you do it. She helped you ruin yourself. She trained your daughters to be whores. She trained your sons to be the prey of whores. She had no shame in any of it. She thought it was awesome! She moved through the world like she owned it and everyone treated her as if it were true. She sinned much, Lily Cade. She transgressed everyone and everything she ever cared about. She knows the size and the weight of the sin. You know what you read on Twitter, in as minute an infobit as possible, so that you can feel the hit of the specific emotion you want to feel and not have to look at the example of this life and what it can teach you. No one before me. No one after me. Good. Remember that I walked Los Angeles before #metoo naked and unafraid, with no man’s protection but the iron will of my shadow self. Remember what monsters I looked in the eyes, real monsters, darker monsters than I whose scalp was the other woman’s orgasm and not my own. Remember my 10,000 Eskimo Brothers. Remember all those dead whores I once loved. The women whose eyes I looked into remember. I looked every single one of those girls in the eyes while I did it. I looked into their souls and they looked into mine. I knew them and they knew me. I trucked no shame. I saw no evil. I loved, just a little bit, 4,000 of your cast offs, your rebels, your lonely, your damaged, your broken, your lost, your addicts, your daughters, your sisters, your mothers, your dead, your women not mine. I knew where the line was until I didn’t. The women knew. They saw in my eyes that I had gone to the darkside. They saw my weakness, and they slit my throat. They were whores, remember? They knew the shadow themselves. When a girl said no, I stopped. When a woman spoke of trauma, I believed her. When I was called out, I stood down and took it. Women had no more need of Lily Cade. It is not to women that I direct these words, but to men. If a rapist is someone who is accused in public of sexual misconduct, then I am a rapist. So, too, are three of your last four presidents, the men who sit in your halls of power, and the men who make judgments over your laws. So are all of your heroes, and you know it, and you don’t care. If a rapist is someone who pays women to have sex that they don’t actually want to have, then I am a goddamn fucking rapist, and your world is run by rapists. Think of the money men, all those money men, with all the same story about Cambodia. *I thought it would cost so much more money than it did to have sex with children. I had a great time.* Such is the shape of power. All who touch power know the shape of it. They all know what they did, too, all those men, and not a one of them had the balls to admit it. Maybe, Epstein had the balls. They feared the spectre of the balls he might have had so much they iced him between the reels. Did you know that Maxwell, too, played “take these two fingers and pretend it’s your dick?” I bet those finger blow jobs were a lot more sensual than mine. Bill Clinton taught me what a blow job was when I was twelve years old. If he’d been just a little bit more of a man, not enough of a man not to fuck the intern, but enough of a man to tell it like it was, then maybe Hillary would have been president, back then, back in the day, when people used to say she was too good, before the shadow took her soul too. Donald Trump, as masculine a man as America could find, the empty shell of a man’s persona that took such brilliance, once, to create, aye what a showman, feared nothing but this admission. He walked it back, the pussy. Locker room talk, he said. Paid them bitches not to talk. Had a bitch shot in public to prove he had balls instead of having them. Where are your fucking balls, America? You cower before a minor respiratory illness that she who must walk with the ghost of Lily Cade for all her days got on purpose, as soon as it came out, and passed through with no greater suffering than an especially bad hangover. You cower before the unprocessed emotions of your most spoiled children. You cower before the great wall of virtual shit spewed from the shit-fed fingers of your weakest, shittiest, stupidest people. Your shadows rule you. All of you. What are you afraid of? Dying? I died once. It was fine. You’re going to die anyway. Better to die in your boots than your bed, and better to die in your bed than the hospital. Being canceled? I’ve been canceled. It was good for me. Donald Trump got canceled and he’ll still be your next President. We’re two degrees of separation, at minimum, in bed. I fucked whores who fucked the whores he fucked. Maybe, we fucked some of the same whores but by god why on Earth would anyone talk about that man if you did not have to do it. I would say he taught America’s twelve years old what a golden shower was, but they already knew. The shadow monsters of the Internet got to them first. Max Hardcore taught your daughter about the golden shower. Max Hardcore, who still slings fake dick. Losing your job? They can’t fire all of you. You can always get another job. I, a broken whore, with no resume, mad, with no connections, found work in every city of the world in which I sought to pass and enough work on the Internet doing random odd jobs unrelated to sex work to sustain a lifestyle that involved a dozen international flights a year. It only takes $38,000 to be a member of the global 1%. What the fuck are you doing with your life? A man with balls need not worry about a job. There is always a job for a man with balls. Women won’t fuck you? Yes, they will. Women love a man with balls. They do not love monsters. They slobbered all over my rubber balls even though I am five foot five and a half and an actual goddamned bitch. When I became a monster, they cast me out. Those porn whores who told Lily Cade to get fucked have more balls than all the men of America put together. In my travels, I have spoken to thousands of your people. Not once have I looked a straight men in the eyes who did not agree with the statement “trans women are men” with the same blood-deep, bone-deep, millions of years of evolution certainty with which he might agree that “water is wet” or “the sky is above us.” Ah yes, but can we not find the *actually* in the margins of those things too? Yes, of course, we can, and write so many papers, and make so many jobs for so many “thinkers” who need not toil by their hands nor look upon the ruin their intellectual masturbation has wrought. The dog doesn’t see the *actually*. The dogself just knows that a castrated dog, induced to develop mammary tissue with exogenous hormones, whose penis has been bisected and stuffed inside out into a body cavity constructed by his doctors, perhaps sewn together with some bits of colon if the penis in question wasn’t big enough, does not smell like a bitch! Trans women are men! Trans women are men! It is not their fault that they are men. There is no shame in being a man. There is only shame in falling short of your best self. Trans women are men! All men, a subset that includes trans women, know that trans women are men. They want you to pretend not to know this because it gives them power. Because you are afraid to speak truth to power, these openly pussified men have become the dominant males in your castrated society. They are your Kings! They prove this by dominating your women in public, as once did Lily Cade. They do this even though they know that the women do not like it. The tranny is a shadow. The tranny whore knows it. The trans woman denies it. Women cannot stand up to men in single combat. I have tried, and been twice punched unconscious for my trouble, though, indeed, I have won some fights by my wits and my superior knowledge of body positioning. My people are the weaker sex. Women can’t fight this. All women can do is what they have been doing this entire time, speaking truth to power. When they speak up, they are silenced. Trans women control the Internet, such as anyone controls it. They rule by fear. They rule with all the tactics of the monstrous shadow children that they are. Anyone who says *I will kill myself if you…* ought to do it, immediately, and decrease the surplus population. *Shit or get off the pot, you worthless piece of shit. Your feelings are not and have never been anyone else’s problem but your own. Kill yourself in front of me and I will feel only joy for the souls of the cattle and the swine and the songbirds who need not die to sustain the gift of life you would so disrespect.* I was in the vanguard of the counter-culture that has become your culture. What’s the vanguard? Cannon fodder and fixed bayonets. Did I thrust that tip into twisting guts? And how! I did it. I loved it, hard, until I was forced to look upon it. Those who were in those trenches with me know also. We called you civilians for a reason. I was a sacrifice. Lily Cade is just another dead whore. Dead whores tell no lies. We who called ourselves homosexuals fought for the right to love whomsoever we loved. Among our number, always, were many who exhibited cross-sex behavior in various forms. I was a bitch who mounted bitches like a dog. I was not alone. Most of us were excellent, present company, naturally, excluded. One needs a conceptual framework to understand oneself as a homosexual. The framework has undergone many shifts. We were called once inverts. We were called once witches. We were called once the damned. The lesbian, specifically, such as she existed before the meaning-is-dead not-with-a-bang-but-with-a-whimper fall of Rome to the barbarian hordes of the corporate Internet, was a woman who pursued romantic relationships with women and not with men. To the trannies, this was not offensive. They lived their lives and we lived ours. Before the passage of gay marriage, our party line was that sexuality is something you were born with, something you had every right to state explicitly, and nothing to be ashamed about. “Born this way” was always a little white lie, so that straight America would support us. We were, as everyone is, born and bred, made and trained. My own father, he of the forced starvation, and the psychological torment, and the beatings with a newspaper, too much of a pussy to stand up to a stepmother who bled my sister into her bathwater, a man so heinous he purposely made his children sick to get back at their mother, asked me, once, calling from a blocked number so that I accidentally answered the call, if it was his fault that I was a lesbian. “Yes,” I said. “Of course, it’s your fault. Either it’s genetic, in which case it’s your fault, or it’s because you are a terrible father, in which case it’s your fault.” I didn’t mind. I never saw myself as a victim. I’m grateful for the child abuse. It made me who I am. It’s those women who Lily Cade hurt who aren’t grateful for it. I started, very early on, to notice the tension between trans women and the lesbian community. I went to MichFest, the lesbian music festival held by the last human souls with the balls to say no to this, but once. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It was a force for good, profoundly, and would have made me a better person if I had not been sold the party line that to declare a space, only, proudly, alone, for the female sex was offensive and failed to go until the very end. Pour one out for the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival. The Lily Cade of MichFest would never have held another woman down, mistaking the look of *I won’t stop you if you take it* from the one of desire. Trans women had that shut down, with their whining, mostly, *poor me, it’s not fair,* how dare a woman say no to men even if they cut their dicks off? A man or two has cut his dick off for me, specifically. I would rather he have cut his throat. Lily Cade believed it was her right to state her sexual preferences openly. Lily Cade was not an ass man or a tits man, but a pulse man. No fat chicks. No aftermarket pussy. Any woman with a pulse. The trans community found this offensive. Lily Cade got into much Internet drama over it, many times. At the same time, she also faced the same attitude in other contexts, such as on Tinder. Lily Cade was harassed every single day by men because she stated that she did not want to fuck them. Trans women harrassed her in the exact same way and for the exact same reason, because they are men. Other lesbians, who did not have more balls than Bill Clinton, also had this abuse visited upon them. Many succumbed to it. The whole community succumbed. The phrase “The Cotton Ceiling” refers to the idea that a woman’s sexual boundaries, specifically those that would incline a woman to seek sexual congress with the female of her species but reject that vile funhouse mirror effigy that a man has constructed of himself for his own erotic purposes, are a barrier to be overcome. They meant *overcome* in the sense that the culture ought to educate women out of this rather than that individual women ought to be overcome by force. Trans women are shadow monsters who groom your children. It is not I who bear the ruin of that education, but those who came after me. The concept of “gender identity” is an idiotic farce, designed to explain the phenomemen of the trans women instead of looking at the truth. It’s a fucking fetish, fed by porn, suborned by masturbation, no different from the adult baby, or the furry. Gender is a meaningless box. “Identity” is bullshit. No one needs an “identity.” Wear whatever you want. No one fucking cares. “Identity” is another tool of the masters to keep you from thinking and being in the world. Your animal body has an immutable sex, complicated very, very occasionally by disorders of sexual development. Some children are also born without legs, but we have no problem declaring man a biped. Your animal body experiences a wide range of desires. Some of them are healthy and some of them are not. It is your responsibilty to train that animal. You want to eat that entire fucking bag of Cheetos too, don’t you? Sure likes cocaine, that animal that you walk with, don’t he? At least the coke fiends have some shame. Where are your fucking balls, America? Land of the free, home of the brave my ass. Where are these patriarchs they speak of? Where are the fathers, who are meant to protect your children? I am a Californian. I am Manifest Destiny’s end game. In my veins flows the blood of Mayflower Pilgrims, and Potato Famine Emigrants, and the soldiers of all America’s wars, of the rebels and the yankees too. They raped the world to protect me. They reaped the souls of men, women and children and the bison and the passenger pigeon. They were brutes, a great chain of brutes, stretching back to the dawn of time, who cowered once before the leopards until they rose tall enough and bloodthirsty enough and perceptive enough to wear their skins instead. For my life, much was sacrificed. I did not choose it. I cannot change it. I did not write it. It wrote me. All I can do is try to make it worth it. Try not to make it worse. Trying is the same thing as failing. Trying is better than doing nothing. A certain creampie delivered into a free sample today sponge during the Billboard Hot 100 Reign of Phil Collins’s Against All Odds made me. The Internet trained me. I came to it late. I was twelve, maybe, or fourteen. It took more effort then to use the Internet. It had not been yet colonized, nor had your society been colonized by it. I crawled through the dark underbellies of the virtual, seeking desensitization. I found pornography. I found car crash videos, and jihadi propaganda, and Dan Savage. I found a value system more useful than the one I had been given by the pedophiles of the Catholic Church, whose framework few people could still respect then and even fewer respect now. Why would you? It was always bullshit. It’s all bullshit. A framework is only good if it is useful. A framework that induces children to self mutilate is not useful. The Catholic Church was always run by pedophiles – meaning those who sacrifice children to their shadow. Paul of Tarsus gave you Jesus and Peter gave you the Chair. Their acolytes ran the world for fifteen hundred years. It had nothing to do with God and everything to do with power. The shape of power is always the same. The Catholics had you castrate your children too, remember? Oh how sweet, they said, the eunuch’s voice. Succulent, isn’t he, the capon? The cock, poor beast, he has none. That’s why he must wake up at 4:30 in the morning every day and tell everyone that he is the biggest cock in the world all day long until he goes to bed or someone kills him. His balls are on the inside. Sometimes, when you buy a supermarket chicken, a testicle is left behind, a tiny, oblong, off white bean. They hold him down and slice them out to make a capon, so that he grows fatter, softer, more tender, so that he shuts the fuck up. Why are you letting your children be made capons to feed the Shadow Monsters of the Internet? Why have you sold them to TikTok? Why have you put a slot machine in their hands? You know the smartphone is destroying you. Why do you not rise up? I know why. Because you would rather jerk off. A dog knows that his hand is not a bitch, too, but where are the dogs of America? Stroking their own cocks while the world burns and proud of it, rewarding themselves for nothing, rewarding themselves for their worst thoughts, rewarding themselves for a lack of action. *This is good enough,* says the American man, death grip on his own mutilated dick, mutilated by his parents in the service of someone else’s ideology. It’s cleaner, said the doctors back then. If you chop it off you won’t have to teach him how to wash it. That’s how stupid they think you are. They’re right. You are that stupid. You prattle on about idiotic conspiracies while it’s all there, right there, in public, the same way Lily Cade did everything that she did. When she took the fall, all those soul reapers came up to her, in private, and expressed their sympathy. “Poor Lily,” they said. “We feel so bad for you. We did much worse things than you but we didn’t do it in public.” I did not want their pity. I only did it because it was in public. The world has always been run by pedophiles. It always will be. Hillary Clinton doesn’t get high off the tears of ritual sacrifices, you goddamn fucking idiots, she just stood by while her husband played with Epstein’s underage whores and took the money from all those money men with all the same story about Cambodia and looked the other way. Maybe, Bill believed that those girls liked it. Maybe, some of them did. I saw him speak once. I remember nothing he said, only the sounds of the panties in the audience dropping and the smell of all those slick slits. Who knows? Whores lie. That’s the whole point of whores. You have mentally ill men in women’s prisons, raping women. You have mentally ill men in women’s sports, pissing (with their dicks) all over the records set by female athletes who gave their whole hearts to sport. You have mentally ill men invading every conceivable women’s group, including support groups for breast feeding mothers, for women bereaved by miscarriage, shifting the conversation from the honesty of the animal experience to the twisted madness of their delusions. Women can’t stop this assault upon your culture. They are too soft. They put themselves second. They pity, poor beasts, they pity weak men. Only men can stop this. Stand up. Say no. You are stronger than these monsters. You are stronger than the monster within yourself. You know why I know you’re full of shit? Because every last one of you told me to my face that I just needed to find the right dick. It’s easy to stand up to a 5’5 ½” woman, isn’t it? You pussy ass bitch. Pick on someone your own size. Trans women are men. They know they are men. You know they are men. The Emperor is standing naked before you, stroking his cock, daring you to stop him. He can’t stand before the truth, that’s why he works so hard to shut it down. What are you afraid of? Getting punched in the face. It feels good to get punched in the face. Dominate your worst selves instead of letting them dominate you. Stop lying. Stop lying to yourself. Stop letting people who are lying to themselves and lying to you about it rule you. Stand for the light and not the shadow. Look at primary sources and not memes. Break your smartphone. Give up your horrifying addictions to drugs, alcohol, stroking off to porn, and most especially the endless scroll. Get off social media. Get a gym routine. Look at everything that scares you with your eyes open. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear has killed your minds. Fuck your clubs, and your brands, and your identities, and your racial affiliations, and your teams, and your sides, and just open your mouth and breathe it in and know what the shape of the world tastes like instead of spewing your meaningless opinion or worse yet vomitting back out the meaningless opinion of some other shit-eating shit-spewing sack of shit in the approximate shape of a human being. But you won’t, because all that would take balls, and they don’t make men with balls in America anymore. They make cucks, and simps, and chronic masturbators, and incels, and complainers, and trans women, lots of trans women, more and more every day. Look at all that power you give them. Men love power. They love it more than they love their dicks and you know how hard you all love those. All men, including those children of the race who may bear the name only in the collective, love power, because it feels good. Grow a pair, you soulless bootlicking eunuch. Speak the truth. Break the Internet. Get a Gabb Wireless phone. Take down Twitter. Hack TikTok. Burn Facebook. My grandfather and all his brothers who stood up to Hitler are rolling in their graves. They fought Hitler and you cower before Bruce Jenner in a dress. Stop this before it’s too late. Where are your fucking balls, America?

33 comments

[–] Mmmm_Brains 34 points Edited

Jesus. This was not an easy read, I didn't realize how entrenched I still am in my defensiveness of seemingly offensive things. I got caught up in the words she was using, instead of really hearing the message behind them.

I think that too was the point, she's shocking us, using the words society uses all day everyday, as if they're nothing and assaulting us with them. Making us look at what our language was, and is. I know all those words and their meanings, and yet those are words created by porn and for porn.

She called herself a rapist. And she implied that any of us who have watched or partaken in the using of others pains may well as be rapists too. Even in terms of other women who have been speaking up, I have not seen someone speak like this in a while. It was brutal, rude, crass, even offensive and get it was a person speaking their truth. I honestly can't remember the last time I saw that. Even rarer to see a woman do it. Even in real life I censor and the people around me censor.

This was powerful, whether you agree or disagree, there was power here.

The language will scare off most posters, but I found her rage soothing.

[+] [Deleted] 14 points
[–] BlackCirce 🔮🐖🐖🐖 24 points

Back in the day I followed her fight with Drew Deveaux on Twitter. She was passionate, brilliant. She said “I will die on this hill.” She was fighting for her vagina, in public in front of everyone. I’m not calling her an ideal role model. But I felt ashamed because I wasn’t as brave as her, to be as she says “ Remember that I walked Los Angeles before #metoo naked and unafraid, with no man’s protection but the iron will of my shadow self.” She was naked fighting with men who had claimed some academic right to her vagina and I was too much of a coward to say I agreed with her, because I didn’t want my nudes leaked or to not get into medical school

Same. It’s so refreshing to read something written by a woman that isn’t tiptoeing around male feelings.

I was almost scared off myself! Then I wondered why I'm desensitized to the truly awful shit that is said in the mainstream about women everyday and why I balked here. It's interesting when you confront your inner biases, as well as the ways you've been affected by the societal messages.