PROPR!ETY (BRO P!ETY):

Now that I have established my moral, metamoral, and epistemological framework, hopefully beyond reproach, drawing upon a cornucopia of sources spanning the arts and sciences, you should share a laugh with me about the Cosmic Irony that I have remained single for so long, forced to the occasional drunken kiss every few years or so. Don’t let those girls who acted like I “stalked” them scare you. You should know by now that such a breach of propriety is beyond my ethical capacity, even whilst intoxicated. It’s quite funny how it happened, since it always MUST happen this way. Were it not for our codes of conduct, just imagine what a barbaric world we would inhabit.

To spare you the details, let me assure you of my tact:

If even a glimmer of arousal flickered in my viscera, I would tell no one. Seldom one to presume upon a first impression, however palpable, beautiful, and tantalizing, I would set about my research, never right away, but before long I’d have availed myself of all she wanted the entire world to see. Before long, I’d make my presence Known ambiguously. She would see me around more often, most probably because I had obtained employment in her neighbourhood, though this was hardly ever the only factor. Little by little, I might have made some tentative allusion to her, but NEVER at the expense of her character. You can imagine how intimidated women were by my extreme restraint, forced perpetually to guess at my thoughts and feelings. Rumours eventually arose, though of course I expected better of my colleagues, so I absolved her of my suspicions; I would never accuse a love interest of gossip.

Never would I make a sexual advance except by way of a joke, and only if I saw that she responded well to such a grade of humour. No one would ever Know; no one COULD ever know, and if her bashfulness would spike about me, at first inexplicably, then I’d suspect she liked me back. My gestures would become more suggestive then, but only enough to warm a hopeful heart in an often hostile and unforgiving environment. I only ever solicited sex and dates from those who were established friends; some of those girls I met with as many as EIGHT times WITHIN A SINGLE YEAR.

How could they call me into question? You are right; it’s California. It must be. I was but a man. Did I pursue my own interest? Yes. But do not say that I pursued it callously. Most of these women, had they known, and had other formalities not held them back, would have eloped with me. The Social Order did not permit it, but I was a maverick: a ghost in the machine. A Master of Both Worlds. And I knew it.

Some women THINK that they love men, but it’s not men they love, but walking phalluses. One of these perverts walks into a bar, starts flirting, and you smell him right away. You know the kind. No tact, no situational awareness. He has “sociopath” written all over his face, in letters made from the word “sex”. I know that it’s not quite as hard to picture as I make it out to be. Kresten knew Alanna for only three days. SOME of these parasites think to get lucky even sooner. MOST women know to turn him away.

After all: what can one expect? This guy cannot claim to KNOW them, as you’ve fathomed. By seeking them out, he says one of two things. The one who persists says that he feels entitled to you by default. The one who shrugs you off says something even baser: that you are Expendable. Considering that most women are wise, he will go through dozens before he finds one gullible, desperate, or perverse enough to abscond with him and to be CONSUMED.

And what becomes of all the rest? Nothing but disregard. HER value is bought at THEIR expense. Each one of them may celebrate the moment that he leaves, but can any one of them celebrate HIM for HOW he leaves? He can delude himself that how he leaves is what they celebrate. How convenient for HIM!!!

But, clearly, a rejection is all he’s good for; it’s all he can “handle admirably”: leaving. Yet even if more women tried to love him, and far fewer of them would reject him, just as many, I think, he’d pursue, as means towards self-entitled ends. Even the ones who satiated him would be expended with revulsion and overt disdain. 
This is the classic summary of the immoral male, and it is the contemporary psychological portrait of a sociopath. Praising him for the manner of his exit, rewarding his clones for the manner of his entry, does nothing but encourage more clones to follow in his wake after he expends you. Even the thrill of sending him away is fleeting, for so many come to take his place. Rape culture, any one?

And how would you discern which clone was most deserving of your gifts? You would have to be one of them.

I must not ever be one of those men.

Psychology leaves me no recourse, so she* cannot judge me.

You understand me now, I think. I’ve spoken as a woman of your dignity and standing would.

I am not sick. And I remain a Gentle Man.

*Psyche Herself.

It boggles my mind. At first, *I* felt disturbed for my confession.

But it was no confession. I was boasting. And the only ones disturbed are those who conspired to empower the deeper evil.

Really: this is all so self-evident that it makes me feel rather boring. My love life is tame, and I’m not trying to spice it up by harassing any one.

I just want you to think WELL of me. I’m not a Men’s Rights Activists. I’m an egalitarian at heart, like you. And boundaries are such an artifice that I’ve resolved myself to my wave of prolific insight. Every heartache ends like this; breaking a heart unleashes its Pandoran contents. I’m not hitting on you. I’m throwing the ball, if anything. You get my drift.

[({Dm.A.A.)}]