The Post-Modern Meat Locker, From the Desk of an Alt-Right Woman, Part I

How the feminist left makes what is good and right about sex – all wrong.

The biggest lie I have ever been told is that sex is not a big deal. “It feels like it is freeing.” “You feel like you are the one in control.” It’s the same farce that drug addicts tell themselves – “I can stop whenever I want, I just don’t want to right now.”

It makes you feel like you’re in charge, “I get to go where I want and talk to who I want, and I get to decide who I sleep with, and who knows about it.” It makes everything seem like you’re the one calling the shots, but you’re not.

You have to play by a certain set of rules in order to participate in the meat locker game. You have to dress a certain way to get in, you have to show up at game time, you have to follow the rule book to let everyone know you’re here to go big, or go home. You have to make yourself available at certain times of day and in certain places, and you have to be willing to drop what you’re doing to go play the game if someone beckons (via text or otherwise).

And you have to put yourself out there to be rejected. It takes very little for him to grind his way toward you in a crowded bar, and rub himself on you until you express reciprocal interest. What does take a lot is getting your ass into your slutty dress and standing around waiting to be called on.

The whole charade only works if you’ve put on the uniform. When you have made yourself as overwhelmingly ready as humanly possible, and put yourself onto the market, and you’ve placed your signs and carefully arranged your cutlets, then someone gets to walk by and pick you up.

Who is making the effort here? It’s the lie that women have bought, that conforming to all this primping and posturing is actually putting them into positions of power. Like being available for somebody, anybody, to deign to talk to you is actually you making a power move. Your indifference is despair masquerading as freedom.

Like your decision not to care if he calls you tomorrow is any less of an acceptance that he was never going to call you.

This freedom farce is the propaganda created and disseminated by women who never have sex. The perpetrators of this narrative are 5s and 6s, who could, through the assistance of Wonderbra padding, control top squeezing, and face fixing lady magic, elevate themselves to modest 7s. In a traditional hunt for a spouse, she might have spent her college years developing other skills, while she waited for a husband, getting married slightly later than the rest of her peers, but married nonetheless. Except for a few spinsters, even the most homely woman could find a man to marry.

But the threat of spinsterism is real. Would it not be better to avoid the possibility of involuntary spinsterism, by volunteering instead? And would it not be destructively sweet if, in your martyred celibacy, you destroyed the bedrock of those traditional relationships that you will never have?

Recognizing that the floodgates to the bounty of feminine virtue could be undermined, these women eschewed all femininity in favor of self-inflicted status as 2s and 3s. You’ve seen their unwashed, asymmetrical bangs, their spotted and stained shirts, misshapen bodies and unkempt eyebrows. These are the mouthpieces for “shout your abortion”, a sex-positive lifestyle, and fluid sexual identity, as well as every sexual revolution against female chastity before this. In a seemingly backwards way, embracing sexual freedom for other women allowed those sexless, heartless leftist women to convince the rest of us that we actually enjoy the scam of the Post-Modern Meat Locker.

But we don’t, so we have sex and we end up here, with our panties in our purses, crying about the guy who got us to put down our homework, leave our offices, get up out of our apartments and go over to his place to have sex with him, by texting us the non-word “sup”.

Sierra Robertson