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Tuesday, 31 January 2017

31117

31117

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


So I’ve cut my hair, had a walk and a shower. I feel human again, like I can start piecing together my life, such as it is.

What the fuck happened? How the fuck was there a crisis? Nothing was different, nothing was unusual. Well beyond trump going full nazi. It was just a bad day, one bad day with a bit of a hangover because my mum’s interference meant the badness lingered as my energy was diverted when I should have been recovering.

I don’t want to die, I like life, I like my life. Yet I am aware rationally that my chances of getting a job are slim to nill and the effort I put into chasing economic viability will ultimately always be an uphill struggle due to my autism and past mistakes. I am not suicidal, I just made peace long ago with the idea that sooner or later my lack of economic viability would be my death and I refuse to compromise or otherwise let that knowledge force my hand. I do not give into threats and blackmail, not even from capitalistic forces. I am to die because there is not the income to live then so be it. Let me be done with.

Universal Credit will let you live but only if you struggle futilely. Fuck that. I’d rather die. Death to me is not hell or purgatory, it is simply ceasing to exist and can thus therefore hold no fear for me.

Nothing actually changed, there was no great crisis. This has been my life for the last two years. Staring down the barrel of this gun, waiting for it to fire, and it hasn’t yet. The problem however is that my mum has crises. She has anxiety and she takes pills to manage a kind of depression. She thus assumes when I talk of how fucked I am and how I am okay with dying if that is how it  is to be that it must be emotive. That chemicals will help.

No chemicals will change the knowledge that my chances of long term survival and economic viability are shit. I’ll try them because why not, because if it keeps my mum sane I may as well give it a shot. I just honestly fail to see how mood stabilisers will effect the outcome of a cold equation.

To be perfectly clear even if I am so helped I can learn to drive, get qualified as an IT technician or fuck knows what else, I am still going to be in the same boat economically where I am competing with every other fucker who is fresh out of graduation with the right degree or looking for a new job with a lifetime of experience. Then even if I am good enough I’ll get to the interview stage and fuck it up because I’m autistic.

Even if I am so bouyed that I forget this and think optimistically about my chances of success the cold equation will still be true. In a competitive market place I am doomed to fail and no amount of drugs or retraining will fix that. I am fucked. No ifs, no buts. It is only a matter of time before my ability to be supported disintegrates and I am a dead man. I know this and have known this for years now. That won’t change.

I hopes and things I love and adore, things I want to live for. Except it’s not about what I want or my mood. It’s about cold hard facts. Then again the fact that I can pay attention to the news without being swamped by it while my mum reacts to news of trump and brexit like a vampire exposed to light perhaps explains why her hearing me talk about how I’ve felt for the last two years made her think there was a crisis.

It is logical that I have a crisis: Kallman’s syndrome, growth hormone disorder, abusive father, parents divorcing, sister emmigrating, moving house, losing friends, relationships ending, computer difficulties, trump, brexit. All things that have caused me strife, that on their own would be enough to cause people to break. Except if I was going to kill myself out of sadness or self loathing I would have done so already.

The day I commit suicide it won’t be because of a momentary lapse or something snapping. It’ll just be that the cold equation has finally been born out and I will have no way of getting by. When I talk about suicide now. It’s with reference to the mercy I’d grant myself upon homelessness or starvation. We all die someday and thanks to my growth hormone disorder I know that day will be sooner than I’d prefer anyway even without the economic countdown.

Either this is to be my life, in which case I shall live every last second of it, or it’s to be a purgatory as I await judgement or a nice life or suffering, in which case I’d sooner end the waiting period. I’m done being fucked about, I’m done being threatened or motivated by the possibility of non-existence. Either I live and live well within what I have,or I am to die for lack of funds. Fuck the faffing, fuck the bureacracy, fuck the judgemental arseholes. This is my life and if I am to live it I refuse to grind it away to dust futilely.

I would love to work. To just be a minimum wage admin worker with a commute but I won’t be because compared to everybody else who’d try for the job I’d be shit. So fuck it.

Self Care and Hope in Dark Times

Saturday, 28 January 2017

27012017

27012017

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


I’m having naps. I don’t have naps, not normally. My body is a juggernaut that keeps dragging me on normally. Trump, Brexit, feminists friends turning against me, father at my door, it wouldn’t matter. My body kept me up even as I howled and begged for the sweet embrace of death or sleep. That is my normality. That is where I am best.

I am the regulated capitalist, the angsty smut fiction writer and successful failure on youtube. I scream and I shout and I rail against the world and I keep on. That is how I work best, that is how I am at my best. A flawed troubled trainwreck driven by lust, greed, jealousy and rage. Everything I have, every scrape of success I have earned was earned in that tumult, in that storm of agony and unfulfilled desires. My tears were my fuel but there are no tears now.

Britain is headed kicking and screaming towards economic suicide because a bunch of morons, bigots and protesters were too dim to see the consequences their votes would cause. If you were worried about a getting a job because of immigrants just wait until the full effects of leaving the single market hit and millions of job leave oversees, deciding to cut out the middleman and leave you with nothing. If you were worried about sovereignty, just wait until Britain is begging for scraps just to get by and being shafted by everyone it does business with. If you were worried about TTIP just wait until Theresa May is handing Donald Trump the NHS and all the nightmare clauses on a platter because we have nowhere else to go.

America has elected an even stupider version of Hitler and the revolution is already underway because it is going so bad so very very fucking fast. The Dakota oil pipeline is going ahead as the anti-immigrant Donald trump screws over native Americans for money from Canada and France. The great wall of Trump is not only getting to be paid for by the American people but it is going to be paid for with taxes on the American people importing stuff from Mexico. What better way to discourage smuggling into America from Mexico than to make it more financially worthwhile to do so. All the bravado about “draining the swamp” of corporate lobbyists has been shown as the pandering bullshit it always was as Trump hires biased moron after biased moron to fuck up jobs they really shouldn’t be doing. And this is just the stuff Trump supporters might wish to rage about, nevermind the numerous fucking instances of him being a moronic fascist out of a dystopian novel.

Yet I sleep so very soundly. So very fucking soundly. For a man haunted by sharks and fears of feminist outrage sleep now greets me like an old friend. Even as I write this, a litre of diet coke having passed my lips in a few short hours, I can feel sleep embracing me and whispering sweet nothings in my ear. The nightmares I have don’t bother me anymore. They can’t. Reality is worse.

I dream about nazis and trolls stalking me back at university, about the forbidden eighth eldergod in the pantheon of the seven. Black Adam. Black Adam the spirit of fascism, misogyny and sadism, a stalking mocking presence. So young and virile and sadistic. A hateful mockery of the worst aspects of humanity as a demon that crops up from time to time guiding humanity towards its dark desires. Oh how I want Black Adam to be real. For the evil of white patriotism and patriarchy to be distilled into a single determined calculating supernatural form. I want this shadow of my psyce to attack me so I might take great pleasure in killing it..

Instead the real Adam is just one of so many cowards, willing only to claim the name of nazi if they can be sure they won’t come to any harm so instead they hide behind the name of Alt-Right and rely on insults so esoteric nobody can understand to be offended. There is no single mastermind to take out. No great sadist to take satisfaction in dispatching. There needn’t even be any concentration camps, even if Trump does look stupid enough to open some. The victory of the nazis is not a targetted attack against any one minority, despite what very real discrimination and danger there is to them. The new nazis shall destroy all of us by obliterating the western economy and with it all the research and technology so associated.

Donald Trump isn’t Adolf Hitler, he’s Josef Stalin, the man who killed capitalism. Except where Stalin was a brutal mastermind using ideology to create divides among his foes Trump is a blundering buffoon destroying capitalism by letting it at last commit suicide. To a regulated capitalist there is no greater betrayal. Destroying the system you and the world relies on because you are a complete and utter imbecile.

I shouldn’t be so upset about that when Trump is causing so many I care about to suffer and die with his executive orders, when he is ushering in the demise of planet Earth by Climate Change, and it’s still only January 2017. Yet I can only care about so much. Trump poses a threat to everything and everyone. I can’t care about trans people, I can’t care about women or people of different nationalities religions or cultures, I struggle to even care about myself. The world is dying, the ideologies I believe in are dying. It is beyond the point when I can care.

I am a ghost in my life now. I rarely eat for pleasure anymore, just sustenance. I don’t watch things because I like them. I watch things because I like them enough and I am committed to the series. I walk because I should walk, shower because I should shower, write because I should write. My life isn’t reality anymore. Reality is just a place where my flesh vessel resides.

You know I don’t even care about my tits or my small penis anymore? Someone misgendered me the other day and I just shrugged. My father through a massive screamy tantrum giving a hardcore “the reason you suck” speech and I wasn’t even that bothered. I am not alive because I want to live or because I like life. I am alive because it doesn’t bother me too much and I know my death would only be a greater hindrance to those around me at such a critical time.

I exist, that’s all I do now and bad days aside I’m cool with it. I live for games of imperial expansion in Rome Total War or Civ 5. For fantasies of adorable submissive women. Like I love Amy Pond and Rory Williams as a couple but alternate universe versions of Amy Pond are basically my spirit animals now.

You don’t need to hear about that but it has been so long since I last hugged someone. Since I saw a friend, face to face, in the flesh. The fact that my father can ever threaten to hold my social life hostage by disconnecting the internet, nevermind that we have a shitty internet provider so I already have coping mechanisms for such an eventuality. So I dream of Amy pond. Of a life less lonely.

Heck at this point I feel tempted to write bad Hannibal Lecter fics because right now being sadistically devoured by a suave mother fucker doesn’t seem like a bad way to spend an afternoon.

Oh by the way trolls, you aren’t suave, you’re morons. So don’t even bother trying that approach.

My angst about the writing has gone, as has my drive. It’s as though without the furnace of self loathing telling me to stop I have no reason to keep going and so once I’ve written enough to get the fantasies started the writing stops.

I don’t need podcasts and audiobooks when I play games now. My brain has gone from needing the distraction to stop being bored to tuning them out and using them as reminders of when to stop playing. The game mechanic of just one more turn, just one more battle, one more city is satisfying enough.

The truly odd thing is despite the complete and utter shite raining down upon me and everyone I know there is hope upon the horizon. The revolution against Trump has already started. Even with politics forcing Corbyn to somewhat back Brexit there is enough criticism and opposition to hard Brexit that things may be smoother than they might otherwise be. Technology is advancing at an astonishing rate still and should be ready to pick up the slack when Trump succeeds in destroying capitalism. Americans are actually becoming more progressive in general, we are curing more forms of cancer and saving more species from extinction. Plus there is hope I can’t even talk about in my own life.

I feel so very very peculiar and so very fucking pathetic and yet I live and I’m actually kind of okay with that because I’ve got my games, my letsplays and my imaginary girlpets. Viva La Revolution, Comrades! Life may be shit but it is not over yet and while there is blood in our veins and a dream of a better tomorrow in our minds we may yet achieve it.

Right. I think I’m going to play some Rome Total War now. I’m playing as the Scipios on Easy mode and despite making an utter balls up of it I haven’t yet lost. Trying to conquer Egypt and the barbarians at the same time with a plant to let Carthage and Thapsus revolt so I may exterminate their populations and thus ease my earlier fuckups. I really shouldn’t be a politician. I’d make Trump look like a communist and I’m not talking about state capitalists like Stalin either. 

Sunday, 22 January 2017

220117

220117

Bloggage
By
Alexander Gordon Jahans

The past couple of months have made me really come to understand myself and my autism. It’s hard to do that because to realise how you’re different you have to use society and neurotypical people as a kind of mirror to understand yourself, a reference point to compare and contrast with. Something that I imagine is hard enough at the best of times but when autism itself affects your ability to understand people it’s really not a picnic.

What I do know though is that who I am, what I am, my personality and my behaviours, is performative. My empathy is my weakness, literally distorting who and what I am. It’s a hunger and craving to understand, succeed and help. This default psychological drive is why I can’t stop writing, why I’m good with computers and why I get genuinely distressed at people I care about acting in non-empathetic ways.
And it’s why the nazis, trolls and bullies are always so fucking obsessed with me.

I could write whole essays on those who anger me and try to hurt me for their own twisted satisfaction because I cannot help but try to understand them. That’s part of why I worry that I am a monster and have so many rules on how to treat people because I cannot help internalising models on how people think. This does not help my paranoia and self loathing as you might imagine, when I can literally hear how I think my critics would respond to everything.

But this isn’t about nazis or feminists, even if I do want to talk for hours about each subject. I can feel myself being dying. The me that was born amid volunteering and 4 days of work and commuting is being eroded piece by piece, day by day as I become a sponge for my mother’s psychological problems and so have to spend more and more time building my confidence back up to avoid killing myself.

I’m losing myself, losing the best version of me that I have been ion a long time and there is nothing that I can do about it because I live in the arse end of nowhere, nobody has any money and my health problems leave me tied to Blighty and the NHS. I need capitalism and I need work because I am what I do so if all I do is banal selfish media consumption that is all I will be.

This is why I so very much need to write even if all I am writing is pretty girls giving themselves up gladly to nerds like because then at least I am doing and being something more than a player of gamers and watcher of things. Social isolation isn’t a problem for me personally because of this chameleonic ability to psychologically adapt but it is dangerous for me. Worse is when all I am exposed to are the mentally impaired and socially outcast. I said once that if you left me alone long long enough I could convince myself Hitler was right out of boredom but now I see the opposite is true. Psychological osmosis. I am who I am with. And the nazis clearly have known or thought this a lot longer than I.

Yet I still think, feel and have agency. I may be a sponge, soaking up other people’s thoughts, feelings and ideals but I can still construct logical frameworks within my mind and use them to determine the best of presented outcomes. I rage at the angry, vengeful, sadistic side of the left because those emotions being so present in the right are why I side with the left and yet I understand the left. I always understand. Which is why identity politics and the “Well I am x demographic and you aren’t so shut the fuck up because you will never know more about this than I.”
All I am is empathy and the desire to learn and if that bullshit identity politics ploy ever actually meant a damn then it would be entirely self defeating because I’m sorry all non-cis non-white non-straight non-males but the cis white heterosexual men have been running the world far longer than you have and you will never be able to understand them so back in your boxes. People’s perspectives can be understood by others with empathy and an understanding of the facts.
Your social identity means bullshit when it comes to your capacity to be understood and know the truth of a situation because you are a person and capable of being stupid and selfish and biased like all of us. If it meant a damn then we would have to respect the nazis and the trump supporters by the same logic. And if you ever for one moment think that I am unable to understand your perspective and suffering because I have never felt your level of rage...

I could be a monster and I know it. I am not beholden to morality because I am some snotty nosed elite liberal. (Well okay I am snotty nosed but that’s rhinitis and if you believe in identity politics...)  I do not think I am better than you or holier than thou because I refuse to beat the fuck out of those who despise me. I think I am worse than you because I long realised the need for these rules.
Morality is a cage that protects me by protecting society. I know people or at least I have the capacity to greatly understand them. I have a lust for knowledge and a brain that desires to construct mechanisms for different purposes. Someone else I know on the autistic spectrum understands almost instinctually now how machines and computers work but the fuzzy logic of people and society overloads the ram in his brain. Not me. My empathy lets me understand the fuzzy logic and the computer stuff can be learned.
With my rage, ambition and sadism combined with my adaptability, empathy and intellect I could be a terror upon society if I wanted. Except the same intellect that is capable of theoretically giving that a shot is capable of thinking so many moves ahead and realising that it would only end badly for everyone. So I don’t. Instead I forbid myself from revenge, lies and invading other’s privacy along with all the basic do no harm stuff.

I’m actually very glad that I have already done a lot of very  embarrassing, stupid and arguably oppressive and monstrous things. With my increasing interest in politics and adeptness at games of war and strategy, plus the moral blank cheque that is the rise of nazis across the world I can feel myself being drawn down a path towards coordinating political activism and/or revolution. Fortunately however a vore enthusiast who has greatly insulted the trans community, feminists and nazis, who has licked his tit on video and talked in graphic detail about the unpleasant issues that come from having a small penis is not likely to gain much traction or respect politically. Granted these things probably also greatly impede my capacity of even getting a job so as to not die or be a burden on society but the needs of many outweigh the needs of the few and it is better to die a pathetic weirdo who achieved nothing than a pathetic weirdo who tried to be a modern day Caesar.

I can already feel my super ego, that rational critic that tries vainly to keep me seeming normal, reacting with disgust at what I have writtyen and I have this deep impulse to purge this particular document because I can’t so starkly let the world know of my faults or at the least that I admit to them if they already know as is probably the case with the trans community and feminists. They probably learned how to identify the warning signs the same way I learned to identify sadistic assholes.

Except I need to write this and I need to let the world see this because sometimes I lose myself or at least I can feel myself starting to lose myself. I write with such stark honesty about myself because when I am lost I find myself again by looking in the mirror these writings present. And if I need these then surely future scholars and academics on autism can make some use of them so as to better help the autistic, wor whatever the fuck I am.

So lets conclude with a little reminder:
Alexander Gordon Jahans is not a nice man. He enjoys the suffering of others, good and bad alike. He is filled with rage from every scorn or slight he can remember and he has more than mild inconveniences in his past and past to fuel his rage. He has a particularly warped and unsavoury view of women and a greed and selfishness that would make the most extreme straw man of a conservative blush. Yet he tries to be better. He chooses to try and be better.
He forbids himself from partaking in revenge or forgetting that his persecuters are human too and deserving of love, respect and happiness. He is disgusted by his own views of women and wants women and all genders to achieve true equality with men and tries to fight for the cause of feminism even as his desires undermine the attempts. His greed is balanced out by a rationalistic desire for the good treatment of the majority and his selfishness by a desire not to become like those who caused him to feel rage.
Alexander Gordon Jahans is a nerd. His favourite games are Warioland III, Lylat Wars, Pokemon (all variants), Minecraft, Skyrim, The Assassin’s Creed series, Civ 5 and Rome Total War. His favourite writers are Douglas Adams, Iain M Banks, Terry Pratchett, Ben Aaranovitch, Paul Cornell and Steven Moffat. His favourite series are Doctor Who, Farscape, Blackadder, Game of Thrones and In The Thick of It, with special mention for The West Wing and Goodnight Sweetheart for having dull plots but characters that matter. His favorite films are Jaws, Withnail and I and John Carpenters The Thing but he doesn’t really like films
Alex is a writer, review and political pundit. He would also be a letsplayer but his compuuter isn’t up to it and anyway Many A True Nerd, Chuggaaconroy, Ethoslab and Zisteau already exist.
His favourite foods are chicken and potatoes served basically any damned way with special mention to roast chicken and fried chicken. His favourite pizza is pepperoni. His favourite cheeses are Red Leicester and Stilton. When he orders a curry he has a chicken tikka masala with pilau rice, saag aloo, onion bhajis and garlic naan.
His favourite tea is Tetley Redbush with two teaspoons of sugar and no milk. His usual drink is one part apple and blackcurrant squash to 7 to 9 parts water. He has sugar free redbull or off brand equivalents when he needs to rush out an essay. He drinks mountain dew because despite tasting like snot (you don’t wanna know how he knows) he appreciates the sweetness and it reminds him of Gallifrey One 2013.
He like white port when mixed with squash, whiskey neat or with Diet Coke and Jagermeister neat because he bizarrely likes the taste and the kick. Diet Coke is the drink he is actually addicted to however, with ginger beer being the drink he turns to when he needs to quit.
Sticky barbecue ribs and candy floss are too foods he now loves greatly but originally spurned thinking them disgusting. Candyfloss because it looked too girly as a boy in deep denial of his developmental issues and it looked like it would have the consistency and texture of hair. Barbecue ribs because long before vore and vegetarianism were things he dabbled in the idea of eating internal organs squicked him out. As though eating just the flesh were somehow more moral or less disgusting. He always eats ribs with a knife and fork.
He loves to cycle and to swim though engaging in these pursuits is general impractical. He also likes to play basketball, football and cricket but his poor coordination, stamina and hatred for the kinds of people who would give him hell for these self same failings mean he doesn’t bother pursuing these passions.

Anyway, that’s me and I feel reassured in my identity again. After a long winter and a long week I am back to who I need to be. I can smell the duty and I see the jobs in front of me. Onwards.

Oh and if you are a silly little nazi hiding behind your silly little proxies and silly little alts and sock puppets and you ever for one moment think that any of this gives you ammunition to use or a weakness to exploit then you are more stupid than I had previously given you credit for. If anything what this should tell you is that I am more than capable of outwitting, outflanking and outlasting your every pathetic attempt to get at me. You will see this as a challenge and if you are especially stupid you will not heed this message and try to use this information against me anyway. Well you should know that I forbid myself from using abilities offensively against my enemies and from using my tactics offensively but I am more than willing to use every trick at my disposal to waste your time on someone as insignificant as me and thereby save those who will go on the offense from what little pathetic strength and intellect you have to muster. The feminists will march and they will win and maybe I’ll go down when they do but every second you waste on me is another second they have to plan, prepare and get organised

Tuesday, 17 January 2017

Project MIRTH

Project M.I.R.T.H

Project M.I.R.T.H

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


Now that we have established that I am in this war against the Alt-Right and the Nazis whether I like it or not I think it’s time I started pulling my weight.

Please note that since the vast majority of my followers subscribed when I made a video called Racists Unsubscribe Now this article and video is written in code.

I am not the most wily or cunning of individuals but I have had plenty of sleepless nights over my run-ins with feminists and the trans community. In so doing I have learned some tips from the great masters of debate. I present them to you now with my own amendments.

So welcome to Project M.I.R.T.H
Making Irritating Racists Think Healthily

Step 1. Learn your shit. It isn’t enough to scream racism. You need to be capable of dropping an essay perfectly encapsulating your argument and countering theirs before they have even stated it. This is the fundamental difference between the left and the right when it comes to debating online and why I cannot stand debating those on the left. Exploit it.

Step 2. Exploit their weaknesses. Racists have developed their own terminology that they and only they actually believe is insulting. Use it.  Call them all cucks and congratulate the biggest bigots on how immensely tolerant they are. Let the morons tear each other to pieces over things that don’t bother you.

Step 3. Build up your defences. If you go on the attack then they will go on the attack. It is all to easy to rage empty threats when you think you have nothing to lose. You want them to attack you, you want them to waste their time and energy screaming at “sjws” on the internet instead of lobbying congress or parliament.

Step 4. Work in teams and coordinate. This is another reason I can’t stand the left having a go at me. The right will dog pile blindly like a wave crashing against a cliff face but only the left will team up and alternate attacks. As one attacks relentlessly on one argument, another attacks relentlessly on a different argument. You want them tired, you want them making mistakes.

Step 5. Invade their safe spaces. Root out 4chan, 8chan, wizchan and all the other anonymous message boards. Create alternate accounts and sock puppet accounts. Have accounts that just exist to document what’s being posted so it may be exploited later. Have accounts that exist to be moderate and neutral, able to nudge in the right direction. Have accounts designed to flare out and be blocked immediately by apparrently being the lefty assault they will surely know is coming now. Have accounts that are in deep cover, designed to encourage people to admit to saying worse things.

Step 6. Make propaganda. Have writers who aren’t involved in the message board incursions use data gathered from them to write up articles on them. The intent is not to change public opinion but to create an atmosphere of fear and paranoia among the image board users so that they will lose what little coordination and kinship they have. You want them to lash out somewhere less anonymous where their words will have consequences.

Step 7. Learn self defence. If you are successful they will be angry and they may come for you. You won’t need any weapons because you aren’t going to fight unless they make you but be ready.

Step 8. Live a good life with good friends. If this ends badly you’ll want good memories to look back on.

I will be enacting this plan myself. Good luck everyone.

Sherlock The Final Problem Review

Monday, 16 January 2017

Batten Down The Hatches

Batten Down The Hatches

Batten Down The Hatches

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


I’m scared. I’m really damned scared. A storm is coming and I can’t stop it.

It’s almost funny in a way. To me The Oncoming Storm and The Bringer Of Darkness refer to a great wise healer who teaches people how to be better, nobler. To me the only things that dread The Oncoming Storm and The Bringer Of Darkness are the daleks. Grotesque degenerate freaks manipulated by a madman into being the perfect army as they hide behind their machines and wipe out all other life from the wrongful belief that they are the superior beings and all other life persecutes them just by existing and being impure. In their tongue the healer is the Karshtakavarr or the Ka Fariq Gatri.

Now I’m one of millions, billions maybe, who is dreading the storm, except this storm is no great healer. The Xenophobic Megalomaniacs are the storm now and they have a new name, not Nazis, nor Daleks. Hail, the Alt-Right and their God Emperor Trump. I dread their very existence.

I’m a coward. Never claimed to be anything else. I am a man cursed with an overactive imagination that is not keen to behave and loves to torture me. My entire life I have been the outcast and I have been hassled by sadistic fools and every little insult has gone to stoke the furnace of my imagination’s torture chamber. I didn’t want to pick a fight with a bunch of nazis, they picked a fight with me and they are not letting it go.

Maybe I’m weak, maybe they can smell that or maybe I’m so autistic that my every move further ensnares me in their manipulations but I don’t think they are that clever or that the answer is anywhere near that simple. I don’t believe in fate and I don’t believe in conspiracy theories. I am a historical marxist and a quantum mechanics fanboy. I think the Alt-Right are snowflakes. Sure there are broad theories to explain their origins as streams and vapor but each is an in individual unaware or and unable to cooperate with the whole. This isn’t a personal attack, this isn’t a directed attack. I am just the first of many to experience a shower off these special snowflakes upon them.

So what do we do about this? This shower of oh so special snowflakes? I don’t want to be attacked, I don’t want my family to be attacked but I am and they have been. I don’t want to be a soldier in this war but like it or not I am a part of this. Even if I ignore them, as I still intend to do, the Alt-Right are going to continue throwing themselves against my defences. I’m tanking in this war even if I choose not to compete.

Do we think this ends just because of Brexit and Trump? That the xenophobes are just going to fall quiet because they’ve won? Well we know that isn’t true. The xenophobes are savaging people because they now feel like they have the vindication of the populace. Heck I’m being attacked and I’m a middle class white boy.

I don’t like lying. I don’t like pretending everything is okay when really I feel the urge to personally strangle every last member of the Alt-Right. I don’t like being someone I’m not. And that’s why I am cutting back on the videos and stepping back from politics. Because the Alt-Right are the ISIS of western politics, and if you believe certain people they were trained by ISIS. They attack targets because they want retaliation.

The Alt-Right want rioting in the streets, death threats in the mail and politicians assassinated. They want every last excuse to clamp everyone who isn’t straight, white English speaking and Christian in chains. Because their power amounts to nothing if the politicians they elect and policies they pass don’t amount to anything.

Brexit is a failure to the Alt-Right if the free movement of people is maintained. Trump is a failure to the Alt-Right if all he does is follow the Republican policy book of tax cuts for the rich, crackdowns on abortion and shitting on the poor.

The Left are angry and they are desperate. Some want to fight, some are fiercely trying to steer politics to the right so someone sane can implement the fucked up shit the people seemingly want and some, me included, think we need to shift politics radically to the left to counter the populism of the right.

Whatever happens Trump’s in office, the conservatives are in power as Brexit hangs  in limbo and we have one great mother fucker of a storm coming. I don’t know how this is going to go down, I don’t know what strategy will be used, what will work or how we will ultimately beat this but I do know that we will beat this.

I am scared, I am so scared by the Alt-Right that for once I’m not hating myself all the time but the Alt-Right are morons. They have force but it is poorly applied force. They lack coordination, they lack the weight of evidence, they lack basic fucking tactics. Trans people scare the fuck out of me because if they’re out and arguing then they are practised enough to have to figure to hand, the conviction to force and the tactics to destroy. The Alt-Right scare the fuck out of me because Trump’s a moron, Climate Change will fuck us all and technologically unemployment will see us all without jobs. I reckon we can outwit the Alt-Right.

Anyway, batten down the hatches because a storm is coming and we have got to be ready.

Friday, 13 January 2017

The Appeal Of The Submissive Female, Microphilia And Vore Fic Part 4 Vore NSFW

The Appeal Of The Submissive Female, Microphilia And Vore Fic

Part 4 Vore

Not Safe For Work

By

Alexander Gordon Jahans


Into the Belly of the Beast

Vore is the fetish for fictional depictions of being eaten alive or eating others alive.

I don’t think I have to explain why this is problematic do I?

I will not be speaking for other vore fetishists because I’m not sure if I know any and this really is not the sort of fetish you want to be mistaken as the spokesperson for. Actual cannibalism is bad.

So this is going to be me explaining why I personally write vore and what I get out of it.

Before I begin I want to make clear that for me to be enjoyable vore has to be consented to be all participants in the fiction, enjoyed by all participants in the fiction and the prey has to be able to recover from the experience. Hannibal is not vore, sharkploitation is not vore, World War Z is not vore, vampire fiction can be vore but it obviously depends upon the story.


So why do it? What do I get out of it?

Well there are some pragmatic reasons. The first is that I am a lapsed vegetarian and the only way I can justify continuing to eat chicken when I believe the practice of farming chicken is morally abhorrent is if I preach against eating meat. I know the jokes about vegetarians and vegans so here I am as a meat eater sexualising the slaughter, butchery, cooking and eating of women because I want to put you off your dinner.

The irony of course is that the way I write it is far more moral than how we actually go about farming animals. The prey I pick for my stories have been through college and university, lived a good twenty or so years without bars, free to do more or less as they wish. They consent, enjoy and recover from the experience. Free range chickens by contrast live about 16 weeks and they’re the lucky ones. In some farms the chickens peck each other to death, have barely a foot of space to their own and live in their own filth.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Free_range

The second reason I write it is that stories revolve around conflict and good sex is actually pretty boring for reader and writer. Vore is an activity with a dominant and a passive that by virtue of its transgressiveness can retain interest because even when all parties consent, enjoy and recover from the experience it reads as conflict.

The third reason is that once you have established that a character has such an ability it seems odd to ignore it when it would make pragmatic sense to exploit it. A wereshark sylph can recover fully from a single heart and they have three hearts. So if the characters run out of food and supplies and there is a wereshark sylph in the party it only makes sense to me that they would take advantage of the resource that wereshark sylph represents.

That’s the pragmatic reasons out of the way. Time to admit to the stuff that will hurt my already tattered reputation.

I didn’t like vore originally, I hated it, it was my no yay. It disgusted me. Utterly. I wrote it because of vampires and Hannibal Lecter, the three reasons I gave above and because Jaws taught me at a young age that being eaten alive was an utterly fucking terrifying concept. I wrote it because I wrote dark angsty monster characters. Then something happened.

There’s this episode of Star Trek Voyager where their Doctor, a holographic program run by the computer, starts freaking out because he saved someone’s life over another out of selfishness. He replays the decision over and over on a loop, getting angrier and angrier at the impossibility of it. I mention the episode because I get like that.

Around the time the Fifty Shades Of Grey film was coming out cracked.com wrote an articles on BDSM. They related one story of someone who had been doing a project for a club and had to give a speech that would drain them emotionally and asked for aftercare for a woman by being allowed to dominate them. My brain imploded and I still get the chills just thinking about it. Not because someone could ask such a question but because this unknown woman said yes.

What does one story of BDSM have to do with vore? Well like I said I had been writing about it for ages from the predators perspective with the prey as victims, even when they consented and enjoyed the experience. That story blew my mind because I have been fighting against my anger and the urge to destroy my whole life, that story told me very occasionally someone really can genuinely want to experience that anger and to be destroyed. You see Wereshark sylphs already existed in my fiction but the emphasis was on them being Weresharks, not being sylphs. Hence Weresylph Dawning a book/series about the dawning of a demographic that likes to be predated but will still fight for equality. Except I’m getting ahead of myself.

Predation at its core is a very simple an easy thing to understand the thrill of. Any time you stub your toe on the edge of a table, step on a plug or a lego brick, get called out stupidly from the opposite side of the political spectrum, the impulse is the same. A flare of anger and rage.

For 10 years in primary and secondary school I kept my head down, worked hard, got good grades and was relentlessly bullied, with my every attempt to find a solution by the book failing. I told the teachers, told my parents, saw a counsellor, joined the student council and wrote to the Prime Minister and apart from once in the school toilets that succeeded in getting my head kicked in I never once fought back. I know rage, I know it very well and I also know that while you must always contain it you must never make the mistake of trying to bottle it up forever. It will get out one way or another and it is always better that you let it out in a safe controlled manner than you keep control until the very last moment and have no strength left to manage the outburst.

I am a big fan of controlled destruction and controlled venting. I have smashed up old cassette players before, dismantled old shoes that were falling apart already, I have turned old trousers into hankies, I rant online and I love violent video games. You see a videogame provides excellent catharsis. I get the thrill of being the badass hero killing bandits or commanding an army to eviscerate a bunch of rebels, my anger gets vented , nobody gets hurt and if I ever am in a stressful situation my body isn’t programmed to vent catharsis my swinging my fists but by sitting down, listening to a podcast and swiddling my thumbs.

A victim of rape and fan of BDSM described the stuff I write, upon hearing a brief description, as violent and harmful. I respectfully disagree. Men are violent, humanity is violent but fiction and video games are not violent because they take our violent impulses and seek to satisfy them through abstraction.

Our bodies evolved to keep us alive in a time before policemen, armies and politicians, before safe words and safe spaces and content warnings. What we do when we get stressed programmes our biological reflexes because for millions of years it kept our ancestors alive. Human culture and the human mind has evolved but the fight or flight reflex is still there and I would rather be in a room full of panicked and out of control videogame players or vore readers than half a dozen boxers or experts in martial arts. Not because I think video game players and vore readers are calm reasonable people but because their instincts have been programmed to do a lot less harmful things than the most calm and controlled of boxers or martial artists.

So yes I like the idea of seeing beautiful women hurt, I like the idea of being convinced by a beautiful woman that I should hurt her for her sexual pleasure but I know that I will always be safe around even the most beautiful and submissive of women because my impulses when the bloodlust rises are to write.

However all this is getting away from the point I was making about what marked the turn. Of course I want to destroy beauty, of course I want to savage and dominate. Those are not acceptable or nice urges and I manage them very well but they are human urges. The desire to lash out against a beauty that is not your own to enjoy, to punish for making you feel bad about yourself. Sick, disgusting and quite frankly boring urges. Misogynistic frustration. What’s fucking new?

That cracked article I mentioned early blew my mind because it introduced the idea that someone could want to be dominated and I think the reason it still chills me so much is that I know what it is like to want to be dominated. I never actually clarified did I but while, like in so many things, I retain a preference for submissive women when it comes to vore, this is most definitely not something that relies upon gender or role. That’s the beautiful thing about writing you get to experience the role of the passive even if you are explicitly writing about the thrill of the dominant.

There’s this spider species where the male throws himself into the mouth of the female as they’re having sex and helps her chew him, as they’re fucking before finally climbing in entirely to be eaten alive. It’s to increase the chances that the female will take the progeny of his seed to term. That was another of those brain implosion moments. An utterly horrifying thing for a man to think about and makes you almost glad for male privilege.

Except the last two years I was suicidal and I was grappling with the impact of being diagnosed with Kallman’s Syndrome. I hate my flesh and in my darker moments I have wanted to slice my tits off. I am effectively a graduate of pretentious media studies, I have autism, tits, a nazi hate cult and a reputation as a transphobic misogynist, my chances of finding a job wouldn’t be great even if we weren’t in the middle of Brexit limbo, the start of Trump, austerity, a recession and technological unemployment. I am staring down the barrel of a gun wielded by the baby boomers and it is only a matter of time before it gets fired and I am homeless.

Faced with such great prospects the idea of being eaten alive honestly doesn’t seem so bad. Oblivion might not be a thing I want to face now I’m out of my depression but if I was sheparded into it by a good looking woman or man who promised me a fantastic night before the end then it really wouldn’t be such a turn off. An end to aggravation and frustration. An end to trying to manage a social life when it takes so much energy and I have so little. An end to wondering if I’ll be able to get another week’s worth of food. An end to eating the same shit day in day out. An end to hiding in my room from a world that is too expensive and too crazed with a desperation to shaft others to survive.

The truly disgusting thing isn’t that I fantasise about doing bad things to good women. The truly disgusting thing is that in this climate I envy the woman who get eaten alive in my fiction because even in Weresylph Dawning, a story designed to be a horrific dystopia where women are slaughtered daily, I find myself thinking them lucky that they have a roof over their heads, good food, good drink and noone ever once discussing taking it away.

My scare stories became my fantasies because at the start of 2016 I’d rather get slaughtered daily than live with the uncertainty of a world on the edge. Ultimately that’s why so long as it grants me the slightest amount of satisfaction I won’t stop writing vore because in this fucked up world we all need to do what we can to keep going.












Monday, 9 January 2017

9117

9117

By

Gordon Jahans


So I have a problem, a rather absurd problem. I am a misogynist, at least symptomatically with regards to my fiction, and at the same time I am broadly speaking on the side of the feminists. The reason I could never quite kill the Farsh-nuke is that I am the Farsh-nuke, literarily. As the Farsh-nuke is the monster fighting for the heroes, so I am and have been trying to be the misogynist fighting on the side of the feminists. By writing about the Farsh-nuke I am functionally speaking trying to fulfil the same role.

In politics there is this idea of the “moderate”. That in a two party system the true believers and the radicals are a useful work force for campaigning but that to win the election you need the moderates. Us Corbynites call these people blairites, the general left calls them neoliberals and the new far right call them the cuckservatives. I am the shit stain in the political system trying to work for the cause I really believe in and support eve if they see me as far too contaminated by the other side.

Except there’s a solution and it’s one I’ve known for a long time.

I don’t have to publish.

You see I need to write. Writing is what I am, it’s what I do. This is my purpose in life. Only I’m moving house and I don’t have the time or the energy to write as my political leanings would rather. Lust and hunger and envy are much easier motivators when good intentions are being used up just trying to function in a world gone mad. But then I used to need to scream into the void on youtube. I figured out to stop that when the nazis found my address.

Alex Jahans was the pacifist who survived. Gordon Jones was the deeply broken man who pretended to be normal. Alexander Gordon Jahans was the man who kept his promise to avoid killing himself.

I don’t need a promise to remind me not to kill myself. Not any more. I have far too much to live for now. I do however have a fucking hard fight ahead. I am moving house. Not quickly but slowly. It’s going to take four months at least. I need to be functional. I need to be able to cope with the mountain of bullshit that will rain down. Also I know the Alt-Right are going to make another big attack against me.

Now the Alt-Right are not the SS, they are not organised, they aren’t clever and even if they were I am very sure I’m a low priority target but they are a large collection of trolls who like to strike so as to cause a reaction when it occurs to them as a funny thing to do. Donald Trump is now President it is only a matter of time before he triggers them to attack, entirely unknowingly of course. Maybe a victory, maybe a defeat, maybe when I next put out a big video against him. The point is it’s coming and i have to be ready.

So I need to survive and I need to be normal in the face of overwhelming bullshit. I can’t quit writing but neither can I afford to worry about being attacked from the left as well as the right. I won’t remove my fiction because I don’t want to give my critics control over how they are presented, and because Catster’s comics have shown me the folly of trying. I can’t walk away, not now, but I don’t have to continue pissing into the wind.

A storm is coming and I will be ready to fight for feminism, trans people, the poor and the non-white. Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to tidy my room.

Sunday, 8 January 2017

7117

7117

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans

Written on the 7th January 2015 CE

So I’m doing this whole self -criticism thing at the moment. Analysing why I write the things I write. Don’t worry this isn’t a prelude to vore. That series is it’s own thing. Rather at the end of a long day I’ve had cause to think about the great literary technique of mirroring and how my own mirrors can educate me about myself.

You see I recorded this long rant that I’m not sure you’ll see before a fractious rest allowed me to recover from the long day. I noticed upon reflection that I was angry at the wrong people and at the wrong things.

I write story after story and have fantasy after fantasy about getting the girl but that isn’t what I really want and crave. Just friendship, simple easy, deep friendship. I have friends like that. Truly awesome friends, friends I don’t deserve, but distance means that when the internet is down I am alone. And having Virgin Media that is a depressingly regular experience.

The truth is I am not fine. I’m not fine at all. I am a wreck of a man but I have to appear strong. I have to smile and chat and listen. I have to put on an act designed to cater to everyone I speak to just to be in public. It is a common criticism made of me that I am defensive. Hell yes I’m defensive because I know just how thin the ice really is that I allow others to skate right over.

I have Kallman’s Syndrome and Growth Hormone Deficiency and there is no cure for either. I take things to keep my body ticking over, to try and function as best I can but I am still fundamentally broken and as trans people are so keen to remind me, my problems do not grant me the small mercies others get. There is no micropenis pride march, there are no fucks given for a man with a shortened lifespan requiring testosterone injections to be a man because I’m cis. I mean to cis men I’m a freak but whose going to stand up for me, to fight for me? I stand at the point where I am outsider to my own demographic and a priviledged example of the enemy to those outside my demographic.

My family is broken and breaking further. Everyone is mad or dying or trying to cope with someone who is. Oh and skint. You know that joke that was going around that breaking bad could never happen in a country with a national health service? It turns out a joke on the internet was not an accurate representation of reality as if you have money it helps to go private and soon you don’t have money anymore but the cancer’s still there. I don’t know the details and I don’t want to know the details but good people I care about are fighting a struggle that is getting depressingly familiar.

There is another issue caused by my Asperger’s Syndrome, the way I remember certain things a lot more effective than for other people. I had to try very hard to forget school. It’s why I bare a good grudge and why I am so against the idea of revenge, BECAUSE I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. Every slight fuck up, every little lie, every pathetic attempt at changing the subject. I remember it with perfect clarity. That doesn’t stop people trying the same tricks over and over though. It gets very fucking boring. I can’t stand repeats, tv adverts drive me nuts and some people just drone on and on and on, repeating the same shit over and over and over AND I REMEMBER WITH PERFECT CLARITY.

It echoes in my head if I don’t let it. My brain has a great memory, a twisted imagination and an old impersonator’s knack for mimicry of style. Sometimes I’m not sure if I’m really speaking or if a voice heard far too often has begin to be simulated by my subconscious and is now speaking for me. To be clear it’s always my words, my thoughts but sometimes filtered through the simulation of someone else’s voice. It’s really quite disconcerting and why I like to be alone, why I like the sound of my own voice. I feel it is important to remind my subconscious sometimes as to who I am.

Okay that sounds a whole lot worse than it is. I mean my mum’s a former psychiatric nurse with anxiety. I think she’d notice if I started going all Donnie Darko. The whole reason I am writing this is that these are the things I never talk about, never allow myself to acknowledge are playing on me, Moving house, that’s obviously going to pile on the stress and being stalked by nazis is never good but these are the little things playing on my mind where even I refuse to acknowledge them most of the time.

The truth is I do worry about just how comfortable I am getting with my fetishes. There was a time when Amy Pond getting roasted alive would be a nightmare and now it’s part of an uplifting and heart warming fantasy of a loving family. I know that’s not right. I mean I still trust myself when it comes to the separation of fantasy and reality and that I’m not actually fantasising about rape, torture and murder. I’m not worried yet but I do know that’s not right.

There was a time when I would write worse stuff, genuinely sadistic misogynistic stuff, and I felt cleaner as a person because I didn’t like these horrible things. I just liked writing while the characters were this horrible. The problem is I stopped feeling the need for an excuse and the more I wrote and got to know my characters the more I found myself genuinely feeling like in their world with their abilities it wasn’t horrible.

I mean, and bare in mind I am an awkward imbecile, BDSM is basically the idea that if two or more parties want to engage in activities and they are being safe that it is not a problem. If someone wants to get bound up, whipped, sat on, hunted, humiliated or even wants to live as a slave then they can so long as everybody understands that at any moment anybody involved in the charade can break character and call a halt to the proceedings. So what if one party can regrow their entire body in a day and is exceedingly masochistic?

There are issues I grant you depending on just how far, to be delicate, proceedings go. I mean I suppose it would be like if someone wanted to be be bound and gagged taken to a ludicrous extreme and so therefore beyond a certain point the individual concerned can’t revoke their consent. It is thus bad form to pretend the, ahem, practice conforms to BDSM standards. I do however have two counters to that. 1. Unlike Fifty Shades Of Grey nobody is going to come away from my stories thinking that it’s safe to act out what I write. People are stupid but they aren’t that stupid. 2. We’re talking about people who a regrow their whole body from a single beating heart and can turn into monster shark beasts. If something happened beyond the point of no return that they weren’t happy about then it would not happen again.

Still not good that I fantasise about this stuff though and I know it. As I said at the beginning, I’ll cover vore in its own part of the series but my point in mentioning it is that I can’t afford to give it up yet. It makes me happy, ridiculously happy and calm and right now I need that. I’m being safe so fuck it. I’m moving house, I live in the middle of constant arguments and I have so much crap on me at the moment. So no it’s not good. I know it’s not good and I do need to take a good hard look at myself in the mirror and figure out how the heck I’m going to be normal again but for the moment I need to be okay and functional fare more than I need to be normal and have strangers on the internet not think I’m a creepy misogynist.

Friday, 6 January 2017

The Appeal Of The Submissive Female, Microphilia And Vore Fic Part 3 Microphilia

The Appeal Of The Submissive Female, Microphilia And Vore Fic
Part 3 Microphilia

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


Now that we have delved into the shallow end of the quasi-misogynistic fetishization from from the male’s perfective it’s time to delve deeper into the abyss and see what horrors lurk there in.


There is little point me point by point what is it, why does it suck and why don’t I give a crap because this is not something that is ever on mainstream media (more’s the pity says my selfisdh impulses), and the misogyny is fairly self evident as I describe it.  Indeed this is why I aborted a textual analysis of the microphilia genre after my elation at completing my collection of the webcomic Diary Of A Shrunken Woman (where I got the term sylph from) and wrote the Shrinkening (http://farsh-nuke.blogspot.com/2016/09/the-shrinkening-nsfw.html).

So what is microphilia?

Well bare in mind that it is a strange fetish that evidence can only be found of deep underground so it’s not like there are tons of academic papers on it like with submissive women in general. That means I am sticking my head above the trenches and am very likely to get shot at but that’s okay 2000 nazis already want me dead so what’s a little extra dead for science and the grand feminist cause?

Well the first thing I can tell you is that Microphilia is in its broadest term the fetishisation of the shrunken person with Macrophilia being the counter fetish for giants and giantesses. This obviously has overlap with the BDSM and Vore areas of fetishism. With Microphilia more typically being for those of the dominant or (and boy does saying this term remind me that discussing Vore is going to be fun - where fun means bloody terrifying) predatory persuasion while Macrophilia tends to overlap more with the submissive or prey persuasion. I will be discussing Vore later because at least for me Microphilia has been for many years very distinct.

The next thing to make clear is that the type of microphilia can vary. Size obviously is variable depending on personal preference with some wanting close to normal size but short enough that the subject is at a disadvantage in life. Others like their subjects ant size. For some its all about the shrinking, for some it’s just about the size difference alone, which is where there is overlap with narratives about fairies and sprites. For some the shrinking must be consensual, for some the fetish is about forcing the shrinking about a subject. For some the subjects aren’t transformed by the shrinking but rather are seen in the narrative to have meant to be shrunken to begin with, for others the shrinking is very much a transformative experience. Are you starting to see why a section pointing out the misogyny is a tad redundant?

Now I am not going to talk about what others see in the fetish because at 24 I am just wise enough to know that I only know what I think and it wouldn’t be fair to tar a whole fetish with attempts at generalizing from my own perspective. None the less a sample size of one is better than a sample size of none so here goes.

The typical Microphilia narrative that appeals to me (puts head in noose) involves a successful woman. She’s smart, in some way privileged good family, car from a rich boyfriend or father. She could be doing more with her abilities but she’s having fun and being a bit of a dick to people. There is a man in her life that she feels something for, at least enough of a connection that neither has quite stopped bugging the other yet. The guy doesn’t matter, his role is just to sound nice but put upon, like he really cares for this woman. Then the shrinking happens. (kicks stool out from under my feet)

It doesn’t really matter for me how the shrinking happens, what matters is that it is slow. Maybe a few hours, maybe a day, perhaps even days. Maybe she consents to the shrinking but once it starts she realises she’s out of her depth and it’s too late to stop. She has time, as her excess matter burns slowly away into the air, to think about her life and realise the good things she had and the great things she could have done. That’s when she chooses him. She doesn’t know what’s going to happen now but she knows she wants him. The shrinking is a transformative experience that drains away her power and privilege leaving her submissive before him until she is a foot in height, maybe half that, and ready to become his pet. At this point my preference is that she stop ageing as well.

I haven’t actually written this particular fetish into my fiction many times before. There didn’t seem much point when the great Catster had told the perfect narrative, pictures included.

You can see why it’s misogynistic. This is a fetish, at least for me, about the loss of agency and power of a woman, about her being reduced to a pet depending on a man, tiny plaything who can sass and complain but is ultimately under another’s control. There really is not excusing it.

Well except for the small point that it is literally impossible. Even if you could rewrite the laws of physics to make a full size person shrink so small you’d then have the issue that oxygen particles are too big to pass through the blood stream and how do you get enough food to keep them alive? At this point I am sounding like I have put way too much thought into this but I am a pulp scifi writer who likes things to have a ring of plausibility. Shrinking makes no sense. In the end I had to go with basically “A wizard did it.” So unless we encounter any wizards who know the secret of letting humans not need to eat, breathe or defecate I think the chances of microphiles going around shrinking people without their consent are pretty damned slim,

I will raise my hand and admit that microphilia is, at least for me, a misogynistic fantasy but since it it is literally impossible I won’t lose sleep over being criticised for it. I mean it’s not like you can even say it’s part of rape culture since practically noone knows about the fetish.

As to why I personally hold such a fetish, even to this day. Well when I was going though puberty with less testosterone than the average woman I discovered this genre of porn comics and it got a reaction where it counts. Since I was so desperate to tell myself I was heterosexual and thus ‘normal’ I clung to this fetish in fierce desperation, even if I did try to water it down to something less actually impossible like BDSM, And now I actually have testosterone enough to try growing a beard this stuff is like nitrous oxide for my libido. That is a kick you don’t let go of easily, even if you do have to consume it responsibly.

Speaking of consumption, join me in Part 4 for Vore. The part that I am most dreading writing about but perhaps most needs light shed on it.

Wednesday, 4 January 2017

The Appeal Of The Submissive Female, Microphilia And Vore Fic Part 2 Submissive Women

The Appeal Of The Submissive Female, Microphilia And Vore Fic
Part 2 Submissive Women

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


Now that we have established that I am a homunculus of shit, lets begin analysing why.

So to briefly explain the order of business I will cover microphilia and vore in their own parts and for the sake of sanity I shall be covering each topic in the following order. What is it/What do I write, Why this is problematic then Why I write it. With both a literary explanation and my own attempt at a death of the author style psychological and sociological explanation.

In case you couldn’t tell amid the sheer bitterness of the first part, the intent of this short series of articles is to add the perspective of the male writer of such problematic fiction to feminist discourse so that it may more properly encompass and counter the issues caused by such stuff. It is also unfortunately a biased as fuck attempt to save my head from the shit storm I believe is heading my way because of feminism. I will try to counter this but fair warning.

What is a submissive woman in fiction?

I will address this first as an enjoyer of examples in fiction, then as a writer of examples in fiction.

For my enjoyment a submissive woman in fiction needs to choose inferiority to another and actively enjoy it. There are works of feminist academia pouring scorn over the perceived fetishisation of women in distress or the fetishisation of women as inferior to men but this isn’t either of those. This is about a smart capable women who is out of her depth and exhilarated by it, trusting to an older, stronger or otherwise more powerful man when we as the audience know they really shouldn’t. This doesn’t have to include conventional sexual submissiveness such as bondage or masochism, just a willingness of a woman to place herself in the power of a man who will put her in danger.

Examples include Clara Oswald and Amy Pond in Doctor Who, both of whom repeatedly placed their faith in a much older and more powerful man who manipulated them and put them in harms way.

Mattie Storin and Sarah Harding from the British House Of Cards, both of whom fell for, were manipulated by and eventually killed by the much older Francis Urquhart. They get bonus points for his Wife Elizabeth’s complicity in the arrangement of the affairs as I’ll explain later.

Felicity Smoak from Arrow arguably qualifies for continuing to idolize Oliver Queen after he drugs her and apparently leaves her for dead though that crosses the line into NoYay by having a despicable act against her played down with Oliver Queen still painted as the good guy. At least the Doctor is shown narratively to be a dick for the things he does and Amy and Clara do occasionally call him out on it. Even Mattie Storin and Sarah Harding are given enough agency to try to bring Francis Urquhart down before they are killed.

There are surprisingly few examples of the trope in Game of Thrones as rarely is anyone given enough agency to choose to to anything let alone be submissive.

Will Graham from the Hannibal series is that rare example of a male submissive in the typically female mould and even rare for managing to appeal in the same ways to me as a bisexual.

In my fiction there are two principal types of submissives with two defining masters.

The sylphs are a preexisting artificially created superspecies intended to survive through means of exploitation. Their very origin as a species is consenting to exploitation, submissiveness and oppression. This is explored for drama and cool factor in multiple ways but where it is relevant here is how it can make otherwise sapient and sentient beings into domesticated beasts in need of a carer.

The Farsh-nuke is the master acting out of love and good intentions. He is a monstrous character and can be portrayed as a villain but his role as iot pertains to this trope is being the typical example of the man who tries to protect and care for the delightful beauty he sees in the world by offering it immortality and pledging, by implication if nothing else to take care of it. Character development and plot can mean this trope doesn’t apply but as far as the kink is concerned the Farsh-nuke is the benevolent reaperman come to take women who are ready to become sylphs and guide them into their new lives as pets.

The toy girls are a blatant take on rape culture and how society sculpts women into objects for society to fetishize. Barbie meets the Pygmalion. Toy girls think they have consented of their own free will and maybe some of them have to a certain extent but all are remade from individuals with their own lives into products to be bought, sold and given away. They are the women overwhelmed by a more powerful force and used to service another’s end but are glad of it. Obviously this most frequently ceases to satisfy the trope and exists largely to display the Toy Maker’s power and villainy but I would be lying if I said it wasn’t included here because the idea of a woman volunteering herself to become property to be bought and sold didn’t satisfy the trope enough for me at least occassionally.

The Bam-Kursh is the Toy Maker and more often nowadays a woman. The Bam-Kursh is a cold capitalist who sees people as resources to be used and exploited but I found myself unwittingly charmed by the way she offers the illusion of choice to further ensnare her prey and secure that her ends are met. The Farsh-nuke honestly cares and tries to do what he thinks is best for people and society however monstrous. The Bam-Kursh does not care most of the time for the people in her care and is only ever out to help herself but she will do genuinely kind and helpful things for her toy girls to ensure they are more effectively remade.

Why is this sexist/misogynistic?

There is this idea in feminist discourse of Rape Culture. The idea that culture in general, and media as part of it, is effectively raising women as victims and men as rapists. Obviously I recommend doing your own research into how feminist academia defines the term but that’s the long and short of it. Things like blaming the victim when there’s a rape (“Well what did she think she was doing going out at night dressed like that?” etc...), constantly putting pressure on women to conform to a certain standard of beauty while training men at the same time that women who look like that are pieces of meat to be salivated after and attained.

By presenting women in fiction as smart and capable but still willing to put their lives in danger out of deference to men and women who will use and abuse that trust, particularly in a sexual manner then that is playing into the idea behind the god awful “Blurred Lines” song. That sex and love is really just a game you need to master. That women want to obey and be put into danger if only you are powerful/charismatic/nice/clever/strong/good looking enough.

It may be that there actually is nothing inherently wrong with the relationship in-universe or even when criticised in isolation, indeed since some women genuinely do like BDSM and fantasises about being commanded such a relationship may be embraced by a sizable female demographic but viewed as part of wider culture even the most self aware, critical and least problematic work is still playing into a wider theme of women as willing victim in society and thus arguably accountable for raising rapists.

The sylphs and the Farsh-nuke are every bad portrayal of the submissive woman iin fiction turned up to 11. Sylphs imprint upon their masters, they are impossibly beautiful, resilient, nigh immortal and obedient. They take on the submissiveness willingly and become pets before the male Farsh-nuke who is shown despite his villainy to be kind and compassionate. Perhaps most damningly the way one becomes a sylph is by imbibing a substance, be it a pill or a liquid, the implications there are unfortunate and explored as such in places where someone has access to the technology and a lack of morals. Also, as I learned to my cost, it is never a wise idea to call a thing which alters one’s biological state a “cure” which the counter to turn a sylph back to their native species is called.

The toy girls and the Bam-Kursh are practically designed as a representation everything feminism hates, with toy girls under going quite literal objectification. It is intended to play on how the female form is exploited by capitalism today, and that is probably very stupid given I tend to lose whenever I have a disagreement with a feminist. That would be bad enough if it was just straight up presented as villainous exploitation but the fact that it is on this list is because I as the writer feel some of the toy girls have enough agency to genuinely consent and I genuinely don’t think it is possible to consent to slavery. Though obviously sex workers and people in BDSM slave relationships may disagree.

Why do I write this then? What do I like about this?

From a literary standpoint I find submissive women (and submissive men in the case of Will Graham) help to establish and explore the moral complexity of a manipulative trickster character like the Doctor, Francis Urquhart or Hannibal Lecter. Not that you need a submissive woman or man to give such characters this depth. Doctor Who achieved this very well for decades before Moffat took over, Francis Urquhart was already a magnificent bastard and Sherlock manages to almost perfectly match Hannibal for moral complexity and magnificent bastardry without the need for Watson to be the submissive.

With my own fiction I’ve talked at length about the evolution of the sylphs and the Farsh-nuke and the toy girls and the Bam-Kursh are fairly self explanatory for why I think they work narratively.

So psychologically and sociologically then, why do I like and write about submissive women?

Well what you must first understand is that for me this is very much fetish about a diversion from the norm. I am not some knuckle dragger who wants to go back to the good old days when men were real men and women made sandwiches. I make my own sandwiches damnit.

More seriously my dad was massive cunt when I was growing up, only showing his love through money when he wasn’t scaring me shitless, my mum, for all her faults, has never been anything other than a commanding and wise figure in my life. The majority of my teachers in school were women, my sister was the only sane person in our house, blessed with the amazing power of social skills and even my girlfriend, as sweet as she could no doubt be, would knee me in the nadgers for fun, The essential tenet of feminism, that women are equal to men, has never been in doubt for me. Indeed my interest in genetics and darwinian evolution led me far more naturally to regard women as biologically superior since they are the gatekeepers of reproduction. Though I expect I’ll talk about that more in the vore episode.

The next thing to consider is that I suck at being a man. My Asperger’s Syndrome means I fuck up talking to people at the best of times, never mind women I fancy, and my Kallman’s Syndrome means I am, by rigid patriarchal standards of masculinity, less than a man. Something I have been in denial about all my life. Among the worst insults a man can receive are to be told he’s got a small cock, that his sperm don’t work and that he does something like a girl. Having less testosterone than the average woman while growing up as a cis man then is not fun.

Also while I am bisexual, for a long time, because of the Kallman’s syndrome I was desperate to cling to perceived normality and with it heterosexuality. When you have so little testosterone and testicles the size of baked beans it takes powerful stuff to get any kind of reaction. And when you’re a fucking weirdo desperate to feel normal you will turn to dark corners to get any kind of reaction that indicates normality. Like “See, I nearly came at the idea of a woman being a pet, that means I like girls and am thus normal.”

Culture says lusting after women is normal for a man so if you crave normality you chase after attraction to women. Now I’m on testosterone I don’t need my fetishes any more but stuff strong enough to get a reaction with so little testosterone in the blood is a hell of a drug to kick when normal levels of testosterone are in the blood stream.

For me, whilst there is clearly a sexual reaction the fetish of submissive women and trope of it is not about sex. Indeed as I will cover in later parts I try never to actually write sex on the page as it were. For me this is about the fantasy of someone so sweet and loving that they would sacrifice themselves just to make another happy. It’s about an beautiful, adorable, wise and clever friend who will never leave you, no matter how much you fuck things up. And yes it is about the male heteronormative fantasy of the princess as reward. It is the fantasy that someone would sacrifice so much for me when I hate so very much of myself.

It is a fantasy that I can’t actually find myself quitting because in order to get a job, in order to apply for jobs, I need to somehow convince myself that someone out there will want to hire me when I hate myself. Because I am a wreck. I have been through so much shit and am still going through so much shit so the fantasy that someone would accept me and love me and want to be mine is something I can’t afford to let go of and I don’t want to let go of.

To me women are superior and feminism will win. I love women and I adore them and they scare the crap out of me and I can go to a million lectures on rape culture and how poor representations of women in the media genuinely affect women, cry myself to sleep and still find myself coming back to the fantasy of submissive women. To me this isn’t about sex or subjugating women, it’s about love and friendship and the idea that someone will still accept me despite the flaws I see in myself. So I will never be able to stop having this fetish, nor writing examples of it and if that means my life is destroyed one day as a misogynistic bastard then that’s just how this particular cookie is going to crumble.

Though I remain hopeful that the submissive male may save me from the feminists in time.


The Appeal Of The Submissive Female, Microphilia And Vore Fic Part 1 Preamble

The Appeal Of The Submissive Female, Microphilia And Vore Fic
Part 1 Preamble

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


In which I perhaps most thoroughly assassinate my character since I first showed my man tits on youtube.

This is stupid. This is ridiculously completely unbelievably stupid. The words I write now, once published online, will haunt me for the rest of my life. I know this. I accept this. I am a moron. I am probably pleading with myself desperately right now to close focus writer, step away from the keyboard and chill the fuck out because if I was worried about all the reasons making me want to write this then this post is like throwing gasoline on that fire. I am an utter fucking idiot.

You see I have a confession to make. Not much of one since this channel and my youtube video are full of the evidence but it’s a damning confession all the same.
This is an easily portable confession and display of evidence as to exactly what a homunculus of shit I really am.

I, Alexander Gordon Jahans, being of sound (ish) mind and body do herebye swear before all that matters that I am a cis white English male who enjoys the portrayal of the submissive female, microphilia and vore in fiction.

You’re not supposed to do that. Fetishes and kinks are supposed to be kept quiet behind closed doors. It makes people angry you see. I mean when 40% of Americans still believe god created Adam and Eve and people are finding the idea of marriage between people of the same gender difficult to stomach then suggesting you like to whip or be whipped by another consensually is seen in some circles like vomitting up while somebody is eating. Even if they understand that the vomiting hurt nobody, that it had to be done and wasn’t your fault they’ll feel sickened and annoyed with you all the same.

Except I’m not sure I’d be writing this if I was just interested in a bit of consensual bondage or only looked at porn of this stuff. I write fiction, fiction about women being kept as pets, turned into toys, shrunken and, yes, even eaten. Much of it is on this channel (farsh-nuke.blogspot.com) and on my youtube channel. (https://www.youtube.com/user/farshnuke) Already I’m anticipating this going viral in a bad way, may as well link back to the sources, let people research on their own once this gets free booted.

I have another confession to make now, again that people already know, perhaps worse than the first and the reason the first is published.

I am terrified of feminists.

There is a saying the left and feminists love to share around in response to any asshole whining about movements towards equality:

To The Privileged, Equality Feels Like Oppression

It’s used smugly and patronisingly and often it is deserved but there is a dark truth within that phrase. Be on the right side of history or face its wrath.

Now don’t get me wrong I know Nazis, the Alt-Right, Republicans and Conservatives are the more immediate threat. The Alt-Right know where I live and have sent enough things through the post that the police are ready to swoop in if there’s trouble and have already made one arrest. I am scared in a very literal way about the safety of myself and my family because of the rise of the Alt-Right. I am genuinely concerned that in the next 8 years a new Nazi regime will have to be fought back.

I will never make the mistake of calling feminists feminazis, even the radicals that are most likely to do what I fear, because feminists are smarter than Nazis. They don’t use force and they don’t try to brainwash the weak with appeals to ego that risk fracturing the power base. Instead they use intelligence and wisdom facts. The feminists have one core tenet that is fundamentally impossible to disagree with. They win because they are right and only a fool thinks otherwise and it takes a bigger fool to see that tidal wave of change approaching and think that if they hold firm it will pass them by and won’t utterly swamp them, uprooting many of their friends in the process.

The nazis may kill me but the feminists could destroy my reputation, tattered as it is, and ultimately make me hate myself so much I have nothing left to live for. One of the reasons I used to identify as an anti-feminist and embrace egalitarianism.

You see the feminists are coming for me, I’ve known it for a while and I’ve been in denial for a while too. I thought I wasn’t misogynistic, that I could write what I liked without it coming back to bite me on the arse. Or at least no matter how many times I angsted about feminists I would always return to that perspective before I continued writing. Then in 2016 I was branded transphobic because of my writing and because I refused to give trans people the right to enact mob justice on a facebook group I was temporarily moderating and in one fell swoop everything I feared about feminism came true. Reputation ruined, friends lost, a mob intent on revenge to feel safe disgusted that I opted for painless silencing of the shit mongers and ultimately excising me from a part of society I felt I belonged in.

Of course then the Alt-Right smelled weakness and used an imitation of my writing to piss of transpeople even more. Because it never rains but it pours.

Once that happened it was like I couldn’t run away from my fears anymore. If it came to it. If the feminist revolution comes, like the French Revolution that the trans uprising was so in awe of and keen on copying, if a gun is placed to my forehead for having written what I wrote, would I stop writing? Was my fear of the coming tidal wave enough to make me stop? No. No, I don’t think it honestly ever will be.

Because that’s the thing about fear, it’s only really palpable if you don’t know what you’re afraid of. 2016 was the year I stopped seeing suicide as something I deserved or an end to my pain that I wanted, and started seeing it as an escape hatch. 2016 was the year my feminist nightmares were realised by the trans community, the year the Nazis decide to make it very clear they had me by the bollocks and were going to have fun hurting me. 2016 was thus also the year I decided I no longer gave a flying fuck if I died, was gassed as a race traitor or destroyed as a misogynistic scumbag.

So with a new year and a new political group, in a moment of weakness I asked whether the writing I wrote made me misogynist. I didn’t really care about the answer, I was never going to stop, I was just curious. I did get one interesting answer though. That whilst my writing wasn’t necessarily bad enough to make me misogynistic it was clearly violent and problematic and I should be very self critical to ensure that I am not misogynistic. I fear I convinced her I was misogynistic because I wanted an exodus from angst not a justification for my constant angsting but never the less her words have sunk home.

So, on with the analysis...

In Part 2. Because I don’t want your eyes to glaze over.