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Put it back in your trousers. I don’t want that.
And I can’t conceive of how you believed that a mutual enthusiasm.
Men // your workplace superiors installed by a prevailing, misguided mentality of status quo maintenance //  are bad listeners. And even poorer observers of reality, in realtime in front of them, as they are indentured to private fantasy they feel entitled to enact without regard to whom they may hurt.
You are allowed indulgence of liberal imagination, on your own time in private. Spare me mine.
How can you claim to respect another’s individuality, if you are engrossed in actualizing solely your private desires onto their unwilling form.
The last time it happened with me, I wracked my naive brain for lost days on how I could have elicited something like this to happen; what verbal boundaries I could’ve crossed in casual conversation to precipitate the cross of physical boundary against repeated refusals.
What is it about embodying the “weaker sex” that conditions us to default to self-blame and isolation? If we close ourselves off, even out of self-protection, they win. They get to move on to the next vulnerable, trusting soul. Until the face of this earth is as barren, frigid, and bolted-shut as their receptivity to change.
Kindness and sympathies are wasted on self-righteous men. They are crude libidinous conduits to reckless lack of self-control, and paired with a physical mass that poses a real sinister danger when unchecked.
In their interior narrative, they are perennially the good guy: well-intentioned, “nice” / exceedingly patient surface, rather than exploitative pupating larva biding time for a vulnerable moment.
Why should they get to shrug it off, rinse and repeat, like “I bungled the misread signs, guess she’s not into me.” Like, that’s far from the point-- you made an adult woman feel unsafe. Internalize that. And be careful with the trust of other humans.
A real friend listens attentively and understands your body language, rather than project personal fantasy over platonic reality-- in effect snuffing your connection as humans with his uncontrolled private desires. Friends don’t exploit friends. Friends don’t make friends feel unsafe.

How did it come to be that women communicate their desires with words, while men with physical coercion.
Men who disappoint us and waylay us need to apologize, moreover demonstrate sincerity in a measured effort at self-control, if they expect women to tolerantly remain a part of their lives.
Are men behaving badly a function of collective enabling / lack of collective expectation for better from them?
It’s Thursday, and I haven’t felt a desire for the company of others in quite some spell.
I too harbor private, remote fantasy. For a presence in which I could feel safety, comfort, and camaraderie.
To whom I could speak my mind with room for playful contest, sincere compassion, and without danger of drastic misconstrual.
The universal image of girlhood is loss of innocence, 
shifty-eyed autonomy-robbed, blushing bloom of self-reproach blazed at exploitation of trust by entitlement, by a prevailing dominant narrative. 
He pantomimes he’s sorry, but he had to shoot his shot.
Leant the power of more female voices, esteem buffeted with the sails of validating solidarity, can we 
train ourselves to demand better from men
Lovelessly ridding herself of this temporal intrusion, the unwanted dispatched without eye contact “because it’s either easier or certainly quicker over this way.” Her mind already a flag in the wind, far-flung away from the ropes worked out by frictive manual labors.
Flagrantly removed, with disregard that it will weigh heavily on her naive psyche for lost days.
The alienating effect of unwanted erections on the autonomy-robbed “weaker sex.”
I have for you, my Glassdoor review of vagina ownership.
Reactionary eschewal of binary heterosexuality.
In my experience, I have had really satisfying friendships with men, until their escalation. 
Squarely, everytime I get close to one, their behavior compels denunciation.
He drank in her tentative upturned gaze, breath ragged as moth wings beating dusty circles about a flame.
Her grip was tight, asphyxiating. Remote. And then it was over, and she was relieved to be allowed the peace for inner turmoil. Maybe that was why she acquiesced in the beginning, coyly for the evitable collision course to self-evisceration.
My own behavior is far from spotless. I am too slight to convincingly enact physical intimidation. I instead specialize as a whittler of words into scalpels and sly shivs.
There’s been an accrual of sleaze.
Binary heterosexuality. 
Transactional intimacy. Conditional romance.
These associative aggregates inflame my aversion.

My attitude on asexuality has come to converge with my outlook towards veganism.

Celibacy as sexual veganism, a lifestyle critique of transactional intimacy / conditional romance of binary heterosexuality.


Sex is good. It feels both invigorating and brings relief, and beautifully, you can have it autonomously, independent of evitable harm to others.


Would this attitude classify me solipsistically immature and emotionally stunted, or unselfishly unimposing, against outsourcing accountability for my impulses on another for fulfillment. What I ultimately seek is self-containment.


Romantic or aromantic, sexual entanglement breeds jealousy, resentment, codependence. I, a free-standing individual am better able to take care of myself unfettered.


// A treatise on hermitage.


Masturbation is good. If they more so masturbated off their tensions, I would be freer to live my unfettered life evading men.


While out, I’ve mastered the eye-roll dismissal graciously proclaiming,“I am a self-contained interior life, and I’ve exhausted the humor for this intrusion.” Unlike men, I don’t have to resort to violence or coercion to be rid of what itches.

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