Mistress of the World: The Glory of The American Woman

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I’ve always like Americans principally for their obliviousness (I won’t use the word ignorance, as that can never be used affectionately). I am not talking here of the much mocked obliviousness of the external (non-American) world cheerily exhibited by small-town US citizens. I mean more the obliviousness, common across the class divide, which Americans display toward their own country and the extreme nature of their everyday reality.

I refer to how Americans are prepared to accept the most insane and evil things as utterly ordinary, unremarkable, and generally tolerable, from legally-owned sub-machine guns slung around the backs of obese white-supremacists in KFC restaurants, to extortionate health care fees, almost universal anti-depressant and opiate use, a history of genocide, segregation, and enslavement celebrated by monuments to the guilty, medieval prison routines, and the Roman-style blurring of the military and the state. None of this seems to disturb the average American citizen, or at least not enough to prompt them to emigrate to Canada, Britain or Australia. It is not strange enough for them to want to escape from it. It is part and parcel of their nation, the nation they swear allegiance to, and it is part of who they are.

America, of course, has always been an experiment in gigantism. They took things from the rest of the world and made them bigger – bigger, one might argue, than they needed to be. They took slavery from the West Indies and made it considerably bigger and considerably worse. They took military developments from Europe and expanded them to grotesque and potentially apocalyptic proportions. They took food from Italy, France, and Germany, and offered them in portions so big that the national stomach now requires surgery. America is a banquet, an overindulgence, with a history of vomiting, bleeding, and migraines, skilfully assembled to substitute for a national tradition.

Note – this is not intended as some juvenile anti-American screed. This author is not remotely troubled by capitalism, and would not want to live without it. I am not a bleeding heart defender of any tribe or race or nation. The world, I believe, has benefited immensely from American daring, initiative and forward-thinking. I mean only to say that America is grotesque, and that Americans are charmingly oblivious of the extent of this grotesqueness.

And I not only find this charming, but deeply, fiendishly erotic. American-ness in a woman is greatly arousing to me, precisely if  she possesses the most objectively negative traits associated with her country. Put simply, the more stereotypically (defectively) American a woman is, the more I find her sexually desirable.

When I lick the thick, burger-fed thigh of an American woman, I like to imagine she has the blood of Indian-killers, segregationists, gun-nuts, slave-owners, and overseers, flowing voluptuously beneath her pink American skin. As I taste her vagina, I think of the death penalty, high-school massacres, atom bombs, and oxycodone bottles. She is the human distillation of her entire country; the fattened posterity of unrivalled enslavement, violence, and conquest. I am licking America, its extreme past, present, and future.

I am also licking power, by measure of which America is obviously preeminent in the world.

An American woman, with her vote, has more power at her fingertips than a hundred thousand Estonians, Belgians or New Zealanders put together. She is carelessly and zealously protected by the world’s most powerful military, with its ICBMs, carrier strike groups, and M1 Abram tanks numbering by the thousand. Millions could be liquidated to defend her. She is thus an aristocrat of the democratic world. I should rightly be scared of her, awed by her power, desperate for her approval, fearful of upsetting her.

Of course, most Americans do not understand their power any more than they appreciate their extremity. Why else would American women treat English men as if we are their superiors? Why else would they seem to believe our accents, intelligence, and reputed charm, rightly merit their giggling humility? Britain is surely an irrelevance. In reality, we are prostrate at their feet, along with the rest of the world.

How I wish they would become conscious of their might!

The American woman is mistress of the world, to be obeyed, feared, and worshipped.

PG


Purchase (and please review) my books:
The Torture of the Octoroon: A Tale of Sex & Slavery
Synopsis: Abigail and Susannah are half-sisters. Abigail is white. Susannah is not, being the result of their father’s extra-marital relations with a mixed-race slave at his tobacco plantation in Florida. When their father dies, Abigail inherits not only the estate, but her sister along with it. Their relationship soon changes out of all recognition as Abigail finds a dark part of her own nature that delights in the cruel treatment of her childhood rival.
Kindle & paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9
Conquerors: Israeli Girls Having Fun
Synopsis: Hannah and Eden are old friends – and blossoming lovers. While the two are training to join the Israeli security forces, Hannah, a ruthless sadist, manages to persuade her weak-willed sweetheart into an act of extreme perversion.
Kindle : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07736XNYP
Paperback : https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conquerors-Israeli-Girls-Having-Fun/dp/1979313881
The Cherokee’s Nearly-White Slave
Synopsis: 1851. USA. Juliet is a blonde twenty-three year old farm slave in Appalachia. Only one thirty-second black by blood – nearly white by law – she hopes to have an illicit child (who will be legally white and thus free) with her owner, Jack. But that dream is soon shattered when Jack, under great financial strain, sells her to a sadistic Cherokee master with plans to use her for breeding.
Kindle & paperback : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077SNXHW1

Anilingus: The Suspension of Civilisation

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Sex is overrated. By this, I mean to say that the climax of sexual desire – the ‘in-out’ – to adopt Clockwork Orange vernacular – is overrated, and too much importance is ascribed to it.

Much better is foreplay; an (in)discipline of infinite variety. Like a game of chess, no two sessions of foreplay are exactly alike. They vary wildly. It can sometimes be boring, sure, perhaps a little routine. But it can also be heavenly; a banquet for the senses without limit. Via foreplay one can devour a person, not merely use them for pleasure. One can explore everything there is to know about that person. And to this end we can use not only our bodies, but our words and minds, our creativity. Foreplay is to sex what Jazz is to music. It is free-flowing and ecstatic, primitively complex.

And of the kinds of foreplay, the most exquisite activity is surely that which technical types refer to anilingus; the pleasuring of the anus with the mouth. (Colloquially this is known as ‘ass-eating’, and, to be honest, I prefer this more literal term.)

The beauty of ass-eating derives from its perfect degradation of the giving partner. There is no way of dressing up anilingus as something dignified. It isn’t. It is shamelessness and surrender perfected. And that is why I am so utterly, proudly addicted to it.

When I lick my partner’s anus, I am caressing with my tongue the tube down which her excrement and flatulence travels. Without such gruesome aspects in mind, the activity is far less enlivening.

For a person to eat an ass is to surrender utterly to the animal part of his or her being. It is to strip away the veneer of civilisation completely and expose the chimp-like reality that is only ever half-obscured beneath the suits and ties, the sky-scrapers and the banks, the democracies and all other cants with which modernity powders its face in the morning.

Anilingus rolls us back down the evolutionary hill. It is the sport of kings and queens. And no life may be called complete without a taste of its mysteries.

PG


You can support my writing by buying my novel: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9 – or you can confuse / scare your friends by sharing my work on social media.

Is it OK to be aroused by this?

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I read an interesting story this morning. A woman in Michigan, America, has been convicted of raping a man at gunpoint. The photo above is the woman in question.

This story aroused me. I cannot deny that it did. I prefer always to tell the truth.

As I read of the events alleged to have occurred, I developed an erection. As I pictured the scenario in my mind, my moral instincts melted from the heat of my lustfulness. A rape, the sexual assault of an innocent man, aroused me.

Let us be clear – just because, in this case, a woman is said to be responsible and the victim is a man, that does not make what is alleged to have transpired any less of a rape. Rape is rape. It is a gender-neutral crime, equally traumatic to both sexes.

But my arousal is nevertheless surely connected to the special circumstances of this case. I am not aroused by the rape of a woman by a man. As a heterosexual masochist, I have long fantasised specifically about being raped by a woman – about female-on-male rape. That is what I find erotic.

And how should I feel about this? Something in my conscience demands that I feel guilty for these thoughts. Are such fantasies really harmless? Am I not deriving enjoyment and pleasure from someone else’s misfortune and trauma?

It’s hard to deny these charges. And yet I remain excited. I enjoy imagining being put through the same trauma, but with a smile on my face.

Rape fantasies have always been a very difficult moral issue in the sadomasochistic subculture. Traditionally, such fantasises have been the preserve of women and gay men. But, as this story shows, it’s something we all have to think about at some point.

PG


You can support my writing by buying my novel: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9 – or you can confuse / scare your friends by sharing my work on social media. Gracias…

Sarah Huckabee Sanders is the Most Desirable Woman in the Universe

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The Trump administration currently managing the United States of America is generally agreed to be a bad thing for the USA and the world more broadly. I don’t want to go with or against this consensus (if it is one) here. This posts intends only to deal with one particular actor in the regime, not the regime itself. I hope that the reader can therefore agree or disagree with me according to sentiments separate from their pre-existing view of the current American government.

The thesis I want to advance is that Sarah Huckabee Sanders – who is, at the time of writing at least, the press secretary to Donald Trump – is a woman of quite dazzling beauty; and more than this, that she may in fact be the most desirable woman in the universe.

At the time of writing, my position is not broadly shared.

If you access a video of Miss Sanders on YouTube and take time to browse the comments beneath, it quickly becomes apparent that the press secretary’s beauty is not of the simple or crowd-pleasing kind. It is a complex beauty, whose very existence is appreciable only to those who understand already what beauty truly, objectively is.

The kind of beauty people perceive depends I believe as much on that person’s intelligence as on any other aspect of their perspective. More intelligent people perceive ‘truer’ forms of beauty than unintelligent people, just as they perceive art with better taste and accuracy. Beauty is thus not entirely subjective any more than art is.

An ignorant person might honestly find a photograph of a cheeseburger to be aesthetically superior to a Miro painting. He is not lying about what he prefers, and it may be true for him in that sense, but we can confidently remark that his opinion stems from a lack of something on his part. Blind to a certain kind of higher beauty, he settles necessarily for something easier to appreciate. A cheeseburger is appealing because he likes cheeseburgers and understands the value of food. Understanding the value of Miro, on the other hand, is beyond him.

The simplest kinds of human beauty, like the simplest kinds of aesthetic design, appeal more to less intelligent people than to intelligent ones. Unintelligent people are drawn to what is superficially appealing. Intelligent people are attracted to what is rare and distinct and genuinely valuable.

Ms Sanders’ beauty is of the rare and complicated kind. It is multifaceted and often transient, being dependent somewhat on her mood and chosen expression. When Ms Sanders’ face is blank, for example, she seems rather plain and unremarkable. But when she smiles, when she is happy, her face lights up in a thousand places, and she becomes divine.

There is also the factor of Ms Sanders’ voice to consider. Her accent – citric, drawling and unmistakably Southern, is perfectly charming in its music. She is a woman of the mountains, of the hills and ravines. Her voice, with all its weathered carvings and indentations, is pure Americana, the result of centuries of tumult and thunderous history.

Ms Sanders’ body is masculine and dominating. She is not a waif of a thing as seems – quite inexplicably – to remain the fashion of our time. She is a Waterhouse Goddess, with broad shoulders and a neck fit for a thoughtful head. The fact that this intimidates the simple and the ignorant only renders her still more desirable.

Sarah Huckabee Sanders is a goddess.

PG


You can support my writing by buying my novel: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9    – or by sharing my work on social media. Gracias

Five Shades Better: The Greatest Works of (Serious) Erotic Cinema

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In the age of 50 Shades of Grey, the genuine, long-term aficionado of erotic literature/cinema naturally feels conflicted. He/she is happy that interest in his/her preferred genre of art is being revived, but also mournful that the works generating this renaissance are of such lamentable quality.

To play my own part in steadying this unbalanced gift of fortune, I will list here my choices for the best five works of serious erotic cinema; works which, unlike 50 Shades, look set to stand the tests of scrutiny and time.

 

5. Ma Mere

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Incest, being a perennial and universal taboo, is an inevitably rich vein for an eroticist to tap. Ma Mere, a loose adaptation of a short story by the great French novelist-critic Georges Bataille, is clear evidence of the power the topic still has to unsettle and shock.

 

4. The Piano Teacher

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Adapted from Elfriede Jelinek’s novel, one of the greatest and deepest literary treatments of sadomasochism in recent memory, The Piano Teacher, like Ma Mere, stars Isabelle Huppert, whose versatility is seemingly endless, and whose curious beauty provides this otherwise sombre exploration of female sexual repression with a hard erotic kick.

 

3. The Story of O

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Pauline Reage’s (Anne Desclos’s) classic 1954 novel is too rich in imaginative detail to capture perfectly on screen. But this adaptation invests enough effort to be worthy of a place on this list. I simply love the book too much to fail to admire any tribute to it.

 

2. Love

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Gaspar Noe is without a doubt my favourite contemporary director. His films, from I Stand Alone to this stunningly shot celebration of the visual beauty of sexual intercourse have repeatedly broken new ground in European cinema. In a world-culture dripping with the most vulgar and thoughtless forms of pornography, forms which cheapen and demean the magic of sex, Love is a both timely and effective counterblast.

 

1. Bitter Moon

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Roman Polanski’s personal troubles aside, this terribly underrated 1992 masterpiece is simply awesome in its erotic power. I can still vividly recall seeing it for the first time as a teenager on (UK) Channel 4’s late-night ‘taboo’ season. The breakfast scene will always remain deeply imprinted on my memory. I truly believe it prodded awake a hitherto undisturbed perversion in my soul.

In conclusion, despite the giggling ignorance of many mainstream critics, erotic cinema is a serious and multi-faceted art-form. The films listed here are excellent examples of its potential.

PG


You can support my writing by buying my novel: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9  – or you can scare your friends by sharing my work on social media. Gracias

Why I Am a Masochist

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The title of this post is imperfect. It should rightly be worded ‘How I became aware of my masochism’, but that’s not as snappy or satisfying, is it? I cannot really be expected to explain fully where my masochism comes from, or how and why it first developed. To do so would require taking myself apart and studying my components with an impossible detachment from my personal biases. Realistically, I can only hypothesise on these matters by tracing its emergence over my years of sexual awakening and estimating, in that light, what appeal it holds for me.  And that is what I shall try to do in this post.

My masochistic tendencies, as distinguished from my sexual desires in general, were first excited in the classroom of my high school, and more specifically by a girl we will call “Mandy”.

Mandy was something of a bully. Not a terrible one, you understand. Not the kind we read of in disgust in the newspapers following some poor adolescent’s suicide. No, Mandy was merely a rather typical teenage bitch, a ‘mean girl’, with a sarcasm/intelligence ratio of around 10:1.

At certain times in science class, Mandy, bored of talking to her plentiful friends, would swan over to the table at where I sat, and, crouching beside me, commence to taunting me with a kind of softly-spoken mock-friendliness. She would enquire after my mood and my health, how my day was going, etc. All of these questions were dripping quite obviously with insincerity. Mandy didn’t want me to believe she was actually being friendly. She just wanted to see me uncomfortable. And she achieved this.

After this introductory charade Mandy would then begin to ask explicitly nasty questions; things like, “Does it bother you that people don’t like you?” and “Why don’t you make an effort at anything? Do you not care about failing?”.

It was always this second wave of taunts that stirred something awake inside my imagination. I would quickly feel my discomfort melt away, replaced with a queer sense of exhilaration and excitement. I would unfailingly develop an erection, one so obvious and full-blooded that I was often forced to adjust my posture to obscure it. And the more she degraded me, the deeper the pleasure seem to penetrate. Mandy was, the reader should be aware, a very attractive girl. She had (and to my knowledge still has) skin as pale as chalk and thick full lips. Her backside was very large in proportion to her waist and, along with her trunky thighs, would wobble and ripple the fabric of her skin-tight black leggings whenever she took a step forward or back.

The combination of opposite factors involved in this routine – beauty with cruelty, feline grace with canine spitefulness, stupidity (she wasn’t the brightest button in the drawer) with the confident expression of superiority – was the purest opium to my senses. I wanted to encourage her, to tempt her into becoming still crueller, still happier in her cruelty.

But it rarely lasted long. Mandy quickly grew tired of me, just as she had long ago grown tired of her friends and of everything else in her life. She was like that; a very teenage teenager. But I never could forget the feelings she aroused in me. And soon enough I began to notice these same sensations in other situations and environments. I noticed them when my English teacher (we’ll call her Ms Williams) kept me behind for talking in class. I noticed them when a thuggish girl from an upper year gave me a dead leg outside the English mobiles. And after a while I saw fit to construct a philosophical context for these feelings. Women were not like men, I decided. Women were holy beings, imbued with infinite power and splendidly unjustified (I will explain this) authority.

In my mathematics class I was particularly interested in a girl named ‘Linda’. Linda was fairly unattractive, all things considered; chubby and short and unintelligent. But in my mind I made her into a goddess, one to whom bizarre tributes and sacrifices were regularly due. Whenever Linda rose from her seat in class, for example, I decided I was obligated to hold my breath until she sat down again. If she took a full minute to sharpen her pencil over at the waste paper bin, then for a full minute I was not allowed (by her divine law) to inhale or exhale oxygen; a sacrificial gesture, I imagined, that was a natural and appropriate acknowledgement of the glory of her chubby, youth-blushed thighs, which I would gawp at intensely, excitedly, as my face grew redder and redder.

Outside of school, and in all areas of my teenage life, these thoughts became ever more common and expected and understood. I was no longer shocked or mystified by them. They were an accepted, even integral, part of my personality. I was a masochist. I wanted women to abuse and control and degrade me. I wanted them to do unhygienic things to me, to relieve themselves on me, spit on me, etc. This grew steadily into an obsession.

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But why? Why do such feelings develop in a rational – or any rate non-psychotic – individual? I began this post by conceding that I could not hope to supply a definite answer to this question. I will now try instead to do what may be the next best thing; to explain just what these feelings are; what they consist of; what it is exactly I am so excited by. That is a question I do feel I am qualified to answer.

What I am most attracted to and excited by is injustice.

For me, a masochistic fantasy will not typically involve a scenario in which a naturally stronger, superior being dominates and controls a naturally weaker, inferior being. This is not an exciting scenario to me because it is not unjust. It is natural; as natural and boring as rainwater. A six foot tall, musclebound neuroscientist dominating and controlling a weak, spindly imbecile is not arousing to me because it seems right. It seems justifiable. And it is in the injustice of a situation that the salt and citrus of my masochism, the thrill of it, is to be found.

One of the pleasures I feel in being dominated by a woman is rooted in the ineradicable attitude all men have of gender superiority. In the natural scheme of things, men dominate and control women because we are physiologically designed to be (on average) stronger than they are. A woman holding power over a man is thus, to the male imagination, thrillingly perverse in itself.

Intelligence is another important factor in forming an injustice of rank. (I am not insinuating, incidentally, that there are gender differences in this. And if there are, it is surely to the female advantage).

One of my most favourite fantasies has me as the intelligent well-spoken houseboy of some drawling, idiotic English heiress. It is vital to the fantasy that the heiress is idiotic. It is vital that the natural hierarchy of humanity is violated in some way by our relationship. I must be made to submit to something ugly and unfair. And the pleasures of submission become all the more intense the more I reflect on the flaws (physical and intellectual) of my dominator.

Of course, this is not to say that my masochism only operates in this way. I have been often attracted to the idea of being abused and controlled by a woman who is my equal or superior. It is just that these fantasies are more difficult to intensify in the imagination, due to the absence of obvious flaws, bruises, scars, tattoos, inferiorities, etc.

Where uncommon flaws do not exist in the bearer of authority or object of worship, one is naturally compelled to seek out those imperfections which are universal parts of the human condition. Even beautiful and intelligent women have unpleasant body odours from time to time. Even the most impressive and glamourous women have dirt on the bottom of their shoes. And it is sometimes enough to simply reflect on these aspects, even if one cannot deliberately expose oneself to them, to make the worship of our Goddess seem more unjustified than it is.

All that matters ultimately is that I am compelled to submit to or worship someone or something objectively unworthy of my obedience or praise. Objectively good qualities (hygiene, prettiness, kindness, humility, sophistication) are never desired, only tolerated. I can get over them only if I can find (or imagine) something to cancel them out.  I don’t want to revere a beautiful woman’s beauty. I want to revere or submit to something about her than is unworthy of my allegiance; her flaws, bruises, idiocies, unjustified arrogance or authority.

So there is a brief and no doubt thoroughly inadequate introduction to my private perversion. I hope the reader did not find it too boring.

Let me close this post by saying that I have never once regretted or bemoaned my condition. On the contrary, I enjoy being a masochist. Truly. It is a big part of who I am. And I would not want to be any other way.

PG

My Intentions for this site

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Since it is still quite a fresh weed in the internet forest I thought it might be worth saying a few words about the point of this website and my intentions for it.

I understand that there is a lot of erotica already on the internet (what we might call the ’50 Shades effect’). But a lot of this is, in my less than humble opinion, generic and tame. I was moved to create this site in order to (hopefully) add something new and subversive.

Despite the consensus of popular ignorance, erotic literature is a genre of great depth and great seriousness. If the reader ventures beneath the garbage floating on the surface, one can find in it real life-changing artworks – works like those of Anne Desclos, George Bataille and (perhaps most of all) the Marquis De Sade, whose novel Juliette has been on my bedside table since I was a teenager.

Erotica should not, I believe, be subject to the limitations of conventional morality. Fantasy is fantasy. Life is life. One may influence the other, but only as the result of human agency. The human responsible for any real-world act is the only person to whom the blame for it rightfully belongs. Erotic writers should thus be completely free to break taboos.

Anything can be arousing. And no-one should feel guilty for thinking something.

If this manifesto is one you approve of, you can best support it (and me) by buying my novels. I intend to write lots of free fiction on here, but my novels will (hopefully) help to support me. Please also share my work on social media.

Buy ‘The Torture of the Octoroon: A Tale of Sex & Slavery” with these links:

Amazon.com (Kindle) : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9
Amazon.com (Paperback) : https://www.amazon.com/dp/1975807308
Amazon.co.uk (Kindle) : https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B075CK7LB9
Amazon.co.uk (Paperback) : http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1975807308

Synopsis: In this erotic novel, Abigail and Susannah are half-sisters. Abigail is white. Susannah is not, being the result of their father’s extra-marital relations with a mixed-race slave at his tobacco plantation in Florida. When their father dies, Abigail inherits not only the estate, but her sister along with it. Their relationship soon changes out of all recognition as Abigail finds a dark part of her own nature that delights in the cruel treatment of her childhood rival.

(Pinke Grapefruit)