on fucking brutes and neanderthals

I’m about to mansplain some problems with BDSM and female submissive participation in it. The nature and limits of empathy are an interesting problem, but I don’t believe in the taboo that it’s always wrong to “speak for others.” First, people don’t always have good insight into their own behavior. Second, I think it hurts the cause of empathy to mystify what it’s like to have a certain identity.

If white people want to call out Barack Obama or Clarence Thomas for being house Negroes, I’m in favor. If white people want to call out black celebrities for being race traitors confirming the stereotypes, I’m in favor. Speak the truth.  Everyone is allowed to reason from facts and principles.

Some aspects of the human condition are shared by most humans and many animals. If we pretend it’s not like that, we start having to deal with attitudes like black people don’t feel pain or Aspies don’t feel emotions. It’s not complicated why it sucks to be treated like shit, for anybody. It’s not beyond human understanding. It’s beyond the majority’s willingness or emotional capacity to understand.

This will be a commentary on two articles:

My personal biases, since opinions don’t come from nowhere: The way I understand it, which is from reading about it, because Asperger’s, flirtation involves crossing an escalating series of social boundaries, while reading unspoken cues welcoming it. I think most people around me appreciate that I don’t attempt this as a socially retarded mulatto. I can’t get lynched for staring at the ground, having good manners, and not trying to touch anybody. Actually, I can, but it’s best not to push one’s luck in this area. A certain amount of comfort with other people was bullied out of me for good. Social anxiety.  Notice that black children already know they’re presumed rapists who don’t belong here because spiteful racists:

I get that I come across as awkward and “not confident”. I’m generally not dominating a situation except for talking too much about shit nobody cares about. It would be more traditionally masculine if I acted more like the people who dominated bullied assaulted me in middle school. I’m personally offended by the idea that they should win forever. I experience more loneliness in my life as a result of this cultural norm. That doesn’t invalidate the rest of what I have to say. I think everyone would be happier if they came around to my way of thinking.

I should Do The Right Thing and try to understand the people who reject me for insufficient man points. I’ve read articles about problems with “nice guys” and “male feminists”, and there are very good observations in those articles. I’m pretty sure I get it. The old familiar sting.

The difference is that I got therapy for my self-hatred and what’s left is a diagnosis of autism and the realization that I really appreciate clear instructions and the relief from having to figure out what the fuck to do all the time or else consequences. Actually getting off on re-enacting slavery is gross to me and I wish people wouldn’t. It is in fact a matter of class privilege that I could do THIS much therapy and THIS much associated reading. I don’t think therapy is the only way to help yourself, though, and I helped myself in some ways before “seeking help”.

My point is that I’m reading what these submissive women are saying and trying to understand how they came to such different conclusions. Too much academia, writing a preface about how I’m allowed to write…

This is how Emily from xojane starts things off:

I feel bad about my BangBus.

Not while I’m actually watching it. Sexual arousal doesn’t leave a lot of room for ambivalence and who stops masturbating to ponder the political implications of what they’re getting off to? I can barely stop masturbating if someone else comes in the room, much less to make way for niggling feminist guilt.

But occasionally, when someone asks me if I watch porn, I feel embarrassed to say that the only porn I regularly watch is founded on the (scripted) premise that a bunch of dudes are driving around in a van coercing women into having sex on camera with the promise of cash, before dumping them by the side of the road, shouting insults as they peel away.

I can honestly say that I’ve stopped masturbating to ponder the political implications of what I’m getting off to. Or to have a visceral disgust reaction to the messages in what I’m seeing. That scenario reminds me too much of bad shit that happened to me, and the men in porn tend to be the jocks I’ve hated since childhood. What is the meaning of a woman getting cheerfully degraded by those who once degraded me? Why is the world so horrible? My erection is long gone.  I believe this is healthy.

To me, it’s self-evident that pairing that scenario with orgasm is socially destructive. I think it’s self-evident to Emily, too, which is why she feels bad. She just doesn’t honor those bad feelings. Only the good feelings are supposed to be her “real” sexual identity. Feeling bad doesn’t prevent most people from eating meat, but it does stop vegans. How much does the average person care about moral consistency, really?

True fact: rich people train people on a mass scale not to feel guilty for indulging their impulses, using psychoanalytic methods.  Interesting that psychoanalysis determined so much of how the media works, but knowing about psychoanalysis is considered dumb.  Focus groups are group therapy…


I see what’s beautiful about being shameless like the sun, but the perverse super-ego is still a super-ego. “Culture as such has to be interpreted”.


After saying that the personal is not the political because her vagina has a mind of its own, she says something honest:

A lot of factors go into the creation of a fetish, just as they do our non-sexual preferences. One of mine is almost certainly trauma. I wish this is something they had told me about rape: that afterward, your brain will try to work out what happened in bizarre, repetitive ways, which may include recreation of the trauma in your fantasies and life. I don’t really understand it intellectually, but apparently my brain and heart think they can make things turn out differently this time, somehow reverse the past by taking control of what was once a powerless scenario.

You don’t have to have been raped to have fetishes like mine. In fact, I liked a lot of this stuff before the traumatic event. But it’s certainly an angle that seems to go unmentioned by those who think admitting that some women have rape fantasies is in some way encouraging men to rape. Are we willing to tell women how they should process their own experiences?

Yes, the repetition compulsion. I’m willing to say there are more constructive ways of processing it. Mari Ruti has written beautifully about this issue, in The Summons of Love:

Under these conditions, our best course of action may be to concede that when two individuals come together in a romantic alliance, they are more or less guaranteed to arouse each other’s deep-seated unconscious patterns. And the more intimate the relationship, the more likely this is to happen. After all, the person we most love is also the person we let closest to ourselves. He or she is, by definition, someone who wields considerable power over us, and doubly so if we are hoping for some sort of redemption. From this perspective, the idea that we could somehow escape the repetition compulsion might be largely unrealistic. A more prudent approach might be to acknowledge that the compulsion is likely to complicate matters at some point. It might be wise to see it as an emotional “given” that we are bound to confront if we want our relationship to endure. That way, instead of wasting our energies on fighting the inevitable, we can focus on building a romantic rapport that is flexible enough to ride the turbulence caused by the compulsion. I am in fact tempted to say that those who expect their relationships to remain completely harmonious may inadvertently be setting themselves up for disillusionment. In contrast, those who see moments of disharmony as an intrinsic component of love increase their chances for genuine intimacy…

One of the most damaging aspects of the repetition compulsion is that the more it absorbs us, the more likely we are to fail at basic emotional intelligence. In other words, the more we ignore the power of the past to speak in the present, the more we risk abdicating our interpersonal accountability; we risk acting out on impulse, without pausing to think about the consequences of our actions. In contrast, when we take an active interest in the ways in which the unconscious guides our behavior, we increase our capacity to adequately care for those we love. This does not mean we should try to tame or discipline our unconscious, for this would ultimately be a wasted effort. Nonetheless, the more connected we are to our recurring patterns, the more consistently we are able to catch ourselves whenever these patterns threaten to pull us into rigid networks of behavior that injure others; the more we “own” our unconscious as our personal liability, the more responsibly we are able to treat those closest to us. This kind of responsibility does not exhaust us but, quite the contrary, carves a passageway to more inspired relational possibilities. In this sense, there is no contradiction between our responsibility to others and our ability to feel inspired. Instead, the former is a precondition of the latter.

The more curious we are about our unconscious patterns, the easier it is for us to revise our romantic lives so that new relational plots and scenarios become available to us. When we start to amend the manner in which we interact with the world as a structure of interpersonal possibility, we may come to see that we have more options–that the field of possibilities is wider–than we are accustomed to think. When we expand the domain of what we consider emotionally attainable in our lives, we more or less automatically open a space for more ingenuous, authentic, relaxed, and playful modes of relating. Even when we cannot change the external world, we can modify the ways in which we relate to this world, and in this fashion, indirectly, the ways in which the world responds to us. We can over time rewrite the patterns of passion that motivate the choices we make, as well as the actions we take, in our most intimate relationships.

It seems like Emily literally has trouble imagining social relationships that aren’t based on exploitation. In a mean-spirited universe like that, maybe it’s liberating to be sexually degraded so you’re not homeless?

These issues are certainly real, but the idea that men consume porn and women are damaged by it seems too rigid to me. We’d all do well to remember that the actors and actresses in films are getting paid to do things that even they might not engage in in real life. I’ll do a lot of shit for money I wouldn’t do for fun.

What if, instead, we all cooperated to provide everyone with life’s necessities?

Maybe I’m just boring in bed?

If you don’t have fantasies like mine, I can understand the impulse to want to erase them from the world. But women like me and all the other straight freaks in this world stubbornly refuse to be erased. Sex is too important, too essential a life process, to spend our lives faking it. Anybody who thinks I, personally, am going to spend the rest of my life being sweetly made love to while I cry tears of sheer, uncut BOREDOM is out of their freaking minds.

Maybe, but I do question what sex means to Emily. Is sex with someone you love really boring, emotionally? She talks about Mr. Boring with a lot of contempt, so he’s better off not having sex with her. I’m reminded of bell hooks in All About Love:

The best sex and the most satisfying sex are not the same. I have had great sex with men who were intimate terrorists, men who seduce and attract by giving you just what you feel your heart needs then gradually or abruptly withholding it once they have gained your trust. And I have been deeply sexually fulfilled in bonds with loving partners who have had less skill and know-how. Because of sexist socialization, women tend to put sexual satisfaction in its appropriate perspective. We acknowledge its value without allowing it to become the absolute measure of intimate connection. Enlightened women want fulfilling erotic encounters as much as men, but we ultimately prefer erotic satisfaction within a context where there is loving, intimate connection. If men were socialized to desire love as much as they are taught to desire sex, we would see a cultural revolution. As it stands, most men tend to be more concerned about sexual performance and sexual satisfaction than whether they are capable of giving and receiving love.

Further,

Individuals who want to believe that there is no fulfillment in love, that true love does not exist, cling to these assumptions because this despair is actually easier to face than the reality that love is a real fact of life but is absent from their lives.

John Stoltenberg imagined another way in Refusing to be a Man, then concluded that there wasn’t “any readiness for this in any existing movement”:

Or is sex good to the extent that it transcends power inequities—to the extent that sex between two individuals mitigates the power disparity that they bring with them from the social context? In theory, two people might approach a particular sexual encounter either as a ritual celebration of the social power differences between people in general and between them in particular or as a personal act of repudiating all such power inequities. Someone whose sexuality has become committed to celebrating the political status quo would consider sex good to the extent that its scenario achieves actual and lasting physical sensations of power inequity—through dominance, coercion, force, sadomasochism, and so forth. But someone who chose actively to resist the political status quo would consider sex good to the extent that it empowers both partners equally—and to the extent that they succeed together in keeping their intimacy untainted by the cultural context of sexualized inequality. The political question is tough, but it’s important to remember that it is a political question, and that “What is good sex?” is a question about the relationship between the social structure and the particular sex act….

Let’s assume that there exists an authentic erotic potential between humans such that mutuality, reciprocity, fairness, deep communion and affection, total body integrity for both partners, and equal capacity for choice-making and decision-making are merged with robust physical pleasure, intense sensation, and brimming-over expressiveness. Let’s say that some people have actually already experienced that erotic potential and some people have never. Let’s say, further, that the experience of this erotic potential occurred quite against the odds—because given the prevailing social values about sex, it could not have been predicted that two people would ever find out that this erotic potential exists. Everything about the cultural context would seem to predict that sexual meetings would be tainted with or steeped in shame and guilt, hierarchy and domination, contempt and repulsion, objectification and alienation, sexually crippling incidents from childhood, or simply emotional absence from each other. But as luck would have it, a few folks happen upon an erotic potential that is actually rooted in the same values that bring kindness and exuberance and intimacy to the rest of their life. So then the question becomes: How does anyone pass along their knowledge of that potential to other folks on the planet—how do they express it, show it, communicate it—without having to sleep with everyone?

Emily insists she likes things this way:

Getting slapped and called a slut because it turns me on and I’ve asked for it is not abuse. The men who want to do that are not abusers; in fact a lot of them are some of the nicest and most respectful men I’ve met outside of the bedroom. Rape play and rape are never going to be the same thing. And pretending that the two are similar is actually way more confusing and dangerous than clearly differentiating them.

If our men truly can’t tell the difference between hurting, abusing and degrading a woman, and participating in consensual play utilizing some of these elements, then the problem lies with them and sexual education in our society, not with those temptingly rape-able women who enjoy rough play.

If you are still confused, consider this: After we’re done, when I’m spent from being used, being told I’m a filthy whore as you hold me down or toss me around or hit me if those are the boundaries we’ve agreed upon, when I’m covered in saliva and sweat and bodily fluids, look at my face. I will be smiling.

That’s the difference.

I’m not convinced. From Ayako Black’s Why I left the BDSM community:

The year I discovered kink, shortly after my 18th birthday, I met a Dom who I desperately wanted to impress, who we’ll call P. P. was more than twenty years older than me. We’d fooled around once at a club and we had a good time, so I wanted more. This was long before the Internet was a reliable source for information about kink safety, and I was dumb, horny, and inexperienced. I was also insecure, and I wanted to be a good submissive for him, whatever that meant.

P. asked what I wanted. I said I wanted to be spanked. Somehow, the negotiated spanking evolved into him “play-raping” me, followed by anal penetration. Afterward, I was bleeding. I still have scar tissue from the encounter.

The encounter with P. made me profoundly uncomfortable, but I refused to admit to myself that anything inappropriate had happened. “I didn’t say no,” I rationalized, “so it was consensual. Hadn’t I fantasized about submitting in that way?”

I called my cool, older friend, who was also a member of the kink scene, and described the experience to her. “It was so hot,” I told her.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “You don’t sound OK.”

“No, it was great, he was so dominant. It was like my fantasies,” I told her in a voice that belied my anxieties, wanting to sound brave and adventurous. I didn’t want to admit that maybe I hadn’t been on board for everything. I was smarter than that, wasn’t I? I must have wanted it.

I fell into a crippling depression for a week after this incident. It took me fifteen years to realize that when P. suggested “play rape” in the middle of the scene, he was actually using kink to justify actually raping me.

What’s missing from Emily’s article is any reflection on the meaning of domination for her partner. It’s not like raping the bitch and she wants it is a creative and different fantasy. It’s how men are socialized by default.

Stacey May Fowles plays the victim, in the her piece on Alternet:

It’s important to point out that, however you attempt to excuse it, this inability to accept BDSM into the feminist dialogue is really just a form of kinkophobia, a widely accepted prejudice against the practice of power-exchange sex. Patrick Califia, writer and advocate of BDSM pornography and practice, wisely states that “internalized kinkophobia is the unique sense of shame that many, if not most, sadomasochists feel about their participation in a deviant society.” This hatred of self can be particularly strong among feminist submissives, when an entire community that they identify with either dismisses their desires or pegs them as unwitting victims.

It’s a bit circular to assume BDSM is ethically neutral and then make up words to label its critics. It’s hard not to see someone as a bit naive and “unwitting” if they say that exploitation isn’t exploitation if it’s part of a financial transaction.  The author’s credibility is definitely important to consider when reading critically.

Fowler insists there are advantages:

It’s taken me many years of unlearning mainstream power dynamics to understand and accept my own desire for fictional, fetishized ones. Despite this deliberate journey of self-discovery and the accompanying (and perhaps contradictory) feelings of being in total control, it’s pretty evident that the feminist movement at large is not really ready to admit that women who like to be hit, choked, tied up and humiliated are empowered. Personally, the more I submitted sexually, the more I was able to be autonomous in my external life, the more I was able to achieve equality in my sexual and romantic partnerships, and the more genuine I felt as a human being. Regardless, I always felt that by claiming submissive status I was being highlighted as part of a social dynamic that sought to violate all women. Sadly, claims of sexual emancipation do not translate into acceptance for submissives — the best a submissive can hope for is to be labeled and condescended to as a damaged victim choosing submission as a way of healing from or processing past trauma and abuse.

I think the benefits she cites are the benefits of being in a decent relationship, whether or not BDSM is involved.

But safe words!

Whether or not it’s difficult to accept that the desire to be demeaned is not a product of a society that seeks to objectify women, I would argue that, regardless of appearance, by its very nature BDSM is constantly about consent. Of course, its language and rules differ significantly from vanilla sexual scenes, but the very existence of a safe word is the ultimate in preventing violation — it suggests that at any moment, regardless of expectations or interpretations on the part of either party, the act can and will end. Ignoring the safe word is a clear act of violation that is not up for any debate. Because of this, BDSM sex, even with all its violent connotations, can be much “safer” than non-safe-word sex. While not very romantic in the traditional sense, the rules are clear — at any moment a woman (or man) can say no, regardless of the script she (or he) is using.

The safe, sane, and consensual BDSM landscape is made up of stringent rules and safe practices designed to protect the feelings of everyone involved and to ensure constant, enthusiastic consent. The culture could not exist if this were not the case; a submissive participates in power exchange because a safe psychological space is offered up to do so. That space creates an opportunity for a display of endurance, a relief from responsibility, and feelings of affection and security. Before any “scene” begins, the rules are made clear and the limitations agreed upon.

Wait…could it be that the super-feminist is victim-blaming Ayako Black for failure to speak the safe word? All the contracts and practices create the alarming impression that sex lives are being arranged by sleazy lawyers trying to get away with stuff. For all the talk about power exchange blah blah blah, Fowles has a model of power that sides with the rapist who said she wants it because she didn’t use the magic word. You can’t rape someone who freezes in fear?! This is like feminism/human decency 101 and I’m a man.  The spirit of the law and the letter of the law.  The law says black people have legal equality.  That doesn’t mean they do in practice.  People are going to do what they’re going to do.  Law is a means of exercising power, backed by the threat of violence.  Normal people don’t like to talk about it.  It’s really gross to get your hands dirty.

Fowles has obviously never read Andrea Dworkin, or she’d know that rape-y porn wasn’t invented yesterday when the mainstream people stole BDSM from her:

This, of course, doesn’t mean that BDSM culture is without blame or responsibility. Despite the obvious fact that domination and submission (and everything that comes with them) are in the realm of elaborate fantasy, it is interesting to examine how those lifestyle choices and depictions (both mainstream and countercultural) influence an overall rape culture that seeks to demean and demoralize woman. While consensual, informed BDSM is contrary to rape culture, more mainstream (or nonfetish) pornography that even vaguely simulates rape (of the “take it, bitch” and “you know you like it” variety) is quite the opposite. When those desires specific to BDSM are appropriated, watered down and corrupted, the complex rules that the counterculture is founded on are completely disposed of.

No true Scotsman BDSM practitioner!

This is ludicrous to me, as a black person:

The average computer user can have instant access to a full catalog of BDSM practices, ranging from light, soft-core spanking to hard-core torture, in a matter of seconds. This kind of constant, unrestrained availability trains viewers who don’t have a BDSM cultural awareness, investment or education to believe that what women want is to be coerced and, in some cases, forced into acts they don’t consent to. Over the years, various interpretations of the genre have made it into straight porn, without any suggestion of artifice — women on leashes, in handcuffs, gagged, tied up and told to “like it” are all commonplace imagery in contemporary pornography.

BDSM imagery obviously didn’t emerge into the world ex nihilo. I can’t think of any earlier examples of whips and chains…

Whips and chains have been part of mainstream American sexuality for a long time. Maybe the guy that left those scars felt really big and powerful afterwards, and he had to go rape his wife or whichever subhuman was around. They didn’t see much difference between the two.  When people dress up in sexy maid outfits, they should remember that a major role of mixed-race women in society was to be maids you could rape.  That was the whole point of why they cost more.

Would you host an Auschwitz-themed orgy? Can somebody explain to me the difference between that and the BDSM scene? Andrea Dworkin’s writing is so beautiful I’m re-using this quote (Pornography, IIRC):

The beautiful Jewess ravaged and dragged through the streets by her hair is still enticing, still vibrantly alive in the pool of sexual images that mystify the Jewish woman. But the Nazis in reality created a kind of sexual degradation that was–and remains–unspeakable. Even Sade did not dare imagine what the Nazis created and neither did the Cossacks. And so the sexualization of the Jewish woman took on a new dimension. She became the carrier of a new sexual memory, one so brutal and sadistic that its very existence changed the character of the mainstream sexual imagination.

The concentration camp woman–emaciated with bulging eyes and sagging breasts and bones sticking out all over and shaved head and covered in her own filth and cut up and whipped and stomped on and punched out and starved–became the hidden sexual secret of our time. The barely faded, easily accessible memory of her sexual degradation is at the heart of the sadism against all women that is now promoted in mainstream sexual propaganda: she in the millions, she naked in the millions, she utterly at the mercy of–in the millions, she to whom anything could be and was done–in the millions, she for whom there will never be any justice or revenge–in the millions. It is her existence that has defined contemporary mass sexuality, given it its distinctly and unabashedly mass-sadistic character.

The Germans had her, had the power to make her. The others want her, want the power to make her. And it must be said that the male of a racially despised group suffers because he has been kept from having her, from having the power to make her. He may mourn less what has happened to her than that he did not have the power to do it. When he takes back his manhood, he takes her back, and on her he avenges himself: through rape, prostitution, and forced pregnancy; through despising her, his contempt expressed in art and politics and pleasure. This avenging–the reclamation of masculinity–is evident among Jewish and black males, though it is in no way limited to them. In fact, in creating a female degraded beyond human recognition, the Nazis set a new standard of masculinity, honored especially in the benumbed conscience that does not even notice sadism against women because that sadism is so ordinary…

It is her image–hiding, running, captive, dead–that evokes the sexual triumph of the sadist. She is his sexual memory and he lives in all men. But this memory is not recognized as a sexual fact, nor is it acknowledged as male desire: it is too horrible. Instead, she wants it, they all do. The Jews went voluntarily to the ovens.

CAN SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME THE DIFFERENCE? All of this happened to my extended family on both sides, so I really want to understand why this is something people try to bring into my sex life and that’s considered normal and healthy.  Explain it to me in a way that it’s not actually destroying everything that’s beautiful.  I envy normal people that this stuff never harshed their buzz, but it seems to make them assholes.

The important thing about WWII is not that we’re #1, the important thing about WWII is don’t even start to do that shit.  We learned the truth of human nature and dehumanization.  It’s like…things happened that were so bad it fucks you up in the head just knowing those things ever happened to people like you.  More than one aspect of your identity is marked for destruction by the normals, from birth.

Is it really that normals are projecting, and they don’t feel emotions?  Then they create environments so perverse that people who do feel emotions literally start to freak out or shut down or physically run from the trauma…Normals were playing Pokemon Go at the Holocaust Museum.  I think they might be dead inside.

Anyway, this is from Venus in Furs, a foundational text of the movement:

Suddenly I realize my position, and am about to rise. Wanda stands proudly erect, her cold beautiful face with its sombre brows and contemptuous eyes is turned toward me. She stands before me as mistress, commanding, gives a sign with her hand, and before I really know what has happened to me the negresses have dragged me to the ground, and have tied me hand and foot. As in the case of one about to be   executed my arms are bound behind my back, so that I can scarcely move.

“Give me the whip, Haydee,” commands Wanda, with unearthly calm.

The negress hands it to her mistress, kneeling.

“And now take off my heavy furs,” she continues, “they impede me.”

The negress obeyed.

“The jacket there!” Wanda commanded.

Haydee quickly brought her the _kazabaika_, set with ermine, which lay on the bed, and Wanda slipped into it with two inimitably graceful movements.

“Now tie him to the pillar here!”

The negresses lifted me up, and twisting a heavy rope around my body, tied me standing against one of the massive pillars which supported  the top of the wide Italian bed.

Then they suddenly disappeared, as if the earth had swallowed them.

In the end of Story of the Eye, you know shit’s really about to go down once the black people get involved. That’s really saying something. The very last word is “Negroes”:

Two hours later, Sir Edmund and I were sporting false black beards, and Simone was bedizened in a huge, ridiculous black hat with yellow flowers and a long cloth dress like a noble girl from the provinces. In this getup, we rented a car and left Seville. Huge valises allowed us to change our personalities at every leg of the journey in order to outwit the police investigation. Sir Edmund evinced a humorous ingenuity in these circumstances: thus we marched down the main street of the small town of Ronda, he and I dressed as Spanish priests, wearing the small hairy felt hats and priestly cloaks, and manfully puffing on big cigars; as for Simone, who was walking between us in the costume of a Seville seminarist, she looked more angelic than ever. In this way, we kept disappearing all through Andalusia, a country of yellow earth and yellow sky, to my eyes an immense chamber pot flooded with sunlight, where each day, as a new character, I raped a likewise transformed Simone, especially towards noon, on the ground and in the blazing sun, under the reddish eyes of Sir Edmund.

On the fourth day, at Gibraltar, the Englishman purchased a yacht, and we set sail towards new adventures with a crew of Negroes.

I’m not just saying that BDSM has to do with race. It’s not “oversensitivity”. It’s not self-hatred as a man. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that the guy holding a whip and an erection and telling you to call him “Master” is fucked up and women shouldn’t encourage that shit by having sex with him in enthusiastically degrading fashion.

Is that me trying to exercise my man privilege and regulate women’s sexuality? By quoting mostly female authors and agreeing with them? By asking people not to be tacky and to have a sex life without glorifying the worst things that ever happened? Oh gawd the boredom. How did the human race even propagate itself before there was metallurgy to build dungeons? Nobody ever came. There was just nothing sexy, nothing at all. The women had to have sex with Neanderthals, actually:

According to Haldane’s law, the heterogametic offspring of interspecific hybrids are likely to be absent, rare, or sterile (Short, 1997). If Haldane’s Law applied to the offspring of H.neanderthalensis and H.sapiens, we would expect to find female hybrids quite commonly, but male hybrids much more rarely. The male hybrids would have carried a Y chromosome very similar to that of the original hybridizing male. The lack of Neanderthal mtDNA suggests that the initial hybridization involved a Neanderthal male, but there would probably have been few if any male hybrid offspring, so the Neanderthal Y chromosome and the mtDNA would have been quickly lost. Nonetheless, the Neanderthal autosomes would have happily mingled and interchanged with human autosomes, eventually losing their identity in the process.

Could it be that Homo neanderthalensis males were able to mate with Homo sapiens females but that the reciprocal cross was unsuccessful? Alternatively, were male H.sapiens disastrously incapable of wooing the physically more powerful H.neanderthalensis females? Or were H.neanderthalensis females simply unable to give birth to hybrid offspring? Perhaps male H.neanderthalensis outcompeted early male H.sapiens and eventually the male Neanderthal genes gained dominance (and maybe H.sapiens females somehow out-competed H.neanderthalensis females for partners). All of these possibilities potentially explain how we share a common male ancestor 59,000 years ago, but a common female ancestor 170,000 years ago. Simultaneously, these hypotheses explain why comparisons of DNA sequences in mitochondrial DNA from Neanderthals and modern humans have indicated that there was no interbreeding between these two exceedingly similar species (Potts & Short, 1999:59). Mitochondrial DNA from Neanderthals simply may not have made it into the modern human lineage. The nuclear DNA of Neanderthal males, however, possibly did.

I really want to know what life was like for the hybrids, but we’ll probably never.  The Primal Father was a more recent historical development, verified by genetics.

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