Tag Archive | sex

My Words Are Mine

There was another Super Ma’am freak-out this week, and this time from a black trans woman mocking a “no neck bitch” after she was called “sir” in a place of business. As many who follow me know, I spend a fair bit of my time attempting to refute the common anti-trans stereotypes that are so often thrown around, and it’s frustrating to see “my own people” willfully playing into those stereotypes instead of challenging them.

We do a great disservice to children by not teaching them the proper place of emotions, as they can be used for good or destruction. The power of raw emotion, and the critical importance of tempering them, is something that I discuss frequently, and will always discuss when the opportunity rises. An emotion can be either a fire that burns or a piece of steel to be forged. Isolating that emotion to a concrete building and letting it burn itself out is certainly a valid choice, but it isn’t my preferred one–instead, use the anvil of reason and the hammer of creativity to turn the lump of steel into a sword. Don’t let it be a fire that engulfs you; use it to create, like the song above, “Your Fall From Grace,” which I wrote while in the throes of anger–and it shows, being the most angry song I’ve ever composed. 

But more to the point, we need to discuss perceptions, word choice, and human interactions, because the “Learn your pronouns!” stuff has to stop. 

Anyone with even a passing interest in psychology or economics (the study of human action) will realize very quickly that words like “he” and “she” are selected by the user automatically, with little or no cognition put into them at the time of usage. From very, very early ages, we are taught when to use “he” and when to use “she,” just as we are taught when to say “please” and when to say “thank you.” No one has to put any thought into it to determine whether to say “please” or “thanks” when the occasion comes up; it happens automatically and without deliberate selection. When making a request, one says “please.” When receiving something, one says “thanks.” 

The power of the human brain is that it’s capable of shifting much of our interactions into auto-pilot like this. We don’t have to think about whether to say “hello” or “goodbye” when we run into someone, which frees our brain to think about other things (while it also controls our breathing, movement, heartbeat, and other necessary functions). Just ponder for a moment how exhausting it would actually be, when faced with any person, to have to dedicate any amount of thought to whether you’re supposed to say “hello” or “goodbye.” This is a useful feature, and one would hope that everyone would be aware of it, but this doesn’t seem to be the case.

Whether to say “sir” or “ma’am,” or to refer to someone as “he” or “she” is similarly automatic. When we ask someone to call us a different pronoun, we are asking them to dedicate part of their conscious thought to casual conversation–we are asking them to do work. We are asking them to throw a wrench into an automatic process in the course of a conversation and to instead deliberately ponder whether to say “hello” or “goodbye.” This is not an easy task, even for the most “woke” person out there, and we should never be upset when someone slips back into auto-pilot in conversation. Neither should we be upset when someone does it intentionally, of course–at least, we shouldn’t simply allow that emotion to burn uncontrolled in the forest of our life. 

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it many more times: I get called “sir” every single night at work, most commonly over the phone. Sometimes, though, people do it in person. As accepting as my co-workers are, and as visible as they are putting aforementioned deliberate effort into calling me “she,” the truth is that if I got bent out of shape and went on a wild, emotional tirade every time this happened, I wouldn’t still have a job. No one wants to work with someone so unpredictable, unhinged, and uncontrolled, nevermind that it would also mean that I regularly lashed out, chastised, and drove away paying customers. I work as a female and live as a female, and my coworkers are among the most accepting people I’ve ever met (realistically, probably more accepting than I am), but a lot of this acceptance is due to the fact that I’m not an insufferable cunt. 

That’s what this is really about, of course. While “he” and “she” are programmed into us at very early ages and are selected automatically and unconsciously, this doesn’t change the fact that the other person’s perceptions of me are what their brain uses to determine which to use. Rather than forcing that person to put in the work to consciously choose which pronoun to use, if am the one who wants to change their speech, then the onus falls onto me to alter their perception of me. If their brain determines I am more masculine than feminine, they will say “he.” If their brain determines that I am more feminine than masculine, then they will say “she.” Why does this need to be pointed out to any adult?

I am not entitled to make them think about me a certain way, or to make them use certain words when referring to me. This is true in general, but it must be recognized in particular with those people who intentionally use the non-preferred pronoun. 

An ordinary occurrence, to be honest. Also of note: there is no chance I’m going to be kicked from LRN.

But, as mentioned previously, why would I give “Pussy ass leftist” the power to make me upset? This would require that I care about his opinion, and I don’t have the energy to care about the opinions of random dipshits. Who does? There are a few people who could genuinely hurt me by intentionally misgendering me, and they’re the people least likely to do so. They may still slip occasionally, but if they can make the effort to call me “she,” then I think it’s only fair that I make the effort to adjust their perception of me, and to overlook any accidents. It’s generally called “being an adult.” 

I firmly believe that the greatest threat facing western society today is that we have stopped teaching people how to temper their emotions, or the value of doing so. What else can I think when congressional officials talk of being “morally right, but factually incorrect?” What else can I think when a person sees a photograph of coal miners, acknowledges they are coal miners, and then writes a lengthy article about how upset they are about the “blackface,” despite acknowledging that it isn’t blackface? What else can I think when, following the election of Donald Trump in 2016 on largely jingoist slogans and emotional appeals, there was an onslaught of people recording videos of themselves crying and flipping out, and sharing them for all the world to see? This is the Era of Unbridled Emotion, and that’s dangerous, because emotion has not ever been a valid pathway to truth. Feeling something is true won’t make it true. Emotion doesn’t keep the jet in the sky, or the automobile moving. 

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” they say, and we similarly see this playing out in New York following its Minimum Wage increase, with restaurant owners forced to raise prices, and customers shocked at how much more expensive it has become to eat out. The result was both predicted and expected: fewer people eat out, so some of the wait staff is fired. After all, the Minimum Wage is a direct price floor on the cost of labor, and price floors always create surpluses; a surplus of labor is called “unemployment.” When you raise that price floor, you simply get… more unemployment. This is basic economics, but many adults today simply don’t want to hear it, and instead truly believe that their feelings on the matter, that “everyone deserves a ‘living wage,'” will somehow make all this work out. 

I digress.

An emotion is nothing more than an internal reaction to external stimuli. It is our own proclivity and inclination that determines our reaction to the external stimuli, and even if we can’t actually change how we feel, we can and absolutely should limit the scope of those feelings in our behavior and beliefs. It isn’t easy, but I don’t know why anyone thinks that it should be. It’s supposed to be more difficult to resist animalistic impulses and overcome them. But it isn’t just for “the good of society” that we need to relearn this art; it’s far more important than that, because…

Controlling one’s animalistic tendencies is what it means to be human. 


Solving the Transgender Bathroom Thing Once and For All

First, I’m tired of hearing discussions about how transgender people will deal with restrooms, and how wider society will deal with transgender people dealing with restrooms, because the much more serious problems of how police deal with transgender people needs to be addressed first. Seriously, on the scale of priorities, “bathrooms” is way down on the last from “prison” and “jail.” Right now, transgender women are locked away in men’s cells and being treated as men by police officers, meaning that they’re regularly being molested and strip-searched by male officers, not to mention being placed–as women–into cell blocks filled with typically violent, horny men. And we’re discussing bathrooms. Again.

So I’m going to propose a solution that will decide the matter once and for all. It’s easy to implement, and it will permanently solve the problem. However, you’ll have to bear with me, because what will strike you as an extremely radical, possibly insane, idea will take some time to adjust to, but I think you’ll agree it’s the only way. So let’s not beat around the bush. What is the answer?

Co-Ed bathrooms.

I’m not joking.

First, it must be pointed out: what business does the state have recognizing anyone’s gender and forcing them into segregated areas based on that gender? We’ve done all this before, when people whose race was black were segregated off from people whose race was white. It’s just accepted still that it’s okay to do this in regard to gender, but it actually isn’t, and I think you’ll agree with me by the end of this. Just as governments, businesses, and people have no moral authority to segregate people based on race, neither do they have the moral authority to do so over gender. And here is where we meet our first hurdle:

“Ah, but boys and girls can have sex… You put a bunch of naked boys and girls in a bathroom together, and there’s no telling what will happen.”

And… No. That’s wrong.

In the 1890s, a psychologist named Ivan Pavlov did an experiment where he rang a bell each time before he fed his dog. It did not take long–a few weeks–for the dog to begin salivating any time the bell was wrong. It is called Classical Conditioning, and it is the phenomenon that we come to associate one thing with another. In the case of Pavlov, the dog associated the bell with food, and thus hearing the bell caused the dog to salivate.

I hate to break this to you, but we’ve all been conditioned to associate nudity with sex. Now, I’m not a nudist, and though I do enjoy wearing only a bra and shorts, I’m not comfortable enough in my skin to just run around naked all the time. This, too, is conditioning–I’ve been conditioned to think that there is something about my body that must be hidden, and in time I’ve become so accustomed to wearing clothing that not wearing clothing feels unnatural. In fact, there are generally only three instances during which a person isn’t wearing clothing:

  • When about to shower.
  • When changing clothes.
  • When about to have sex.

I would hazard the guess that the average person becomes inexplicably 25% more likely to masturbate or feel the urge to masturbate while changing clothes, but that is just a guess. The sound of running water and the location–the place where we, you know, use the bathroom–being a not-very-sexually-appealing-place surely override the other associations, so it often feels rather natural to stand naked in the bathroom while waiting on the shower to warm up or the tub to fill with water. Again, these feel normal because we’ve been doing it that way for twenty to sixty years. It would be weird if we did it some other way. I live alone, and it still feels weird on those occasions when I’ve removed all my clothes, am waiting on water to run, and have to run into the kitchen because I forgot my lighter or something. On a few occasions, I’ve even put some clothes back on before doing so, simply because it feels weird.

But why should it feel weird? We enter the world naked. If anything should feel weird, it should be wearing clothes. But we begin wearing clothes almost immediately, so any discomfort we experience from it happens when we are three months old. By the time we are old enough to really think about these things, we’ve become more comfortable, simply out of habit, with wearing clothes than not wearing clothes.

It’s my guess that the entire clothing thing began not because our species needed to keep warm–since we originally hailed from the plains of Africa–but because men with “lesser packages” wanted to hide that until after some sort of marriage or mating ceremony had been performed. I’m serious. Because clothing began with the loincloth, and between men and women it’s men who have something dangling out there with something to see. Is it really that hard to imagine that the entire trend began because a select group of men on the smaller side felt insecure, and so began wearing loincloths? I don’t think it’s that hard to imagine; in fact, I really do suspect that is how the entire ordeal started.

I mean, if you were a man in 150,000 BCE with limited machinery, wouldn’t you be quietly seething, angry, and thinking, “We should cover these up! It’s not proper! No one wants to see Big Jim flopping around all the time during his dance around the drum circle!”


My point is that there isn’t anything inherently sexual about nudity. In fact, it’s just the natural way for a human to exist: naked. We could make the case that we wear clothes because of cold weather, and there’s certainly something to that, though it wouldn’t have been a problem in the very, very beginning.

However, the only time you’re likely to see a naked person is either when you’re about to masturbate or when you’re about to have sex. At all other times, you and the other person are fully clothed. Think of “being naked” as the ringing bell, and think of sex as the food. We hear the ringing bell, and because we only hear the ringing bell when we’re about to eat the food, we’ve become conditioned to associate the ringing bell with about to eat. So any time we see nudity now, in almost any context, it brings up sexual thoughts. Don’t believe me?

Don’t even try to say that you felt no arousal whatsoever when you saw the above picture. I did, you did, everyone did. There might even be some 15 year old kid reading this and masturbating to it right now, and why? Because we’ve been conditioned to associate nudity with sex.

So of course, yes, if you took three naked boys and three naked girls and put them in a closed room together, they would almost certainly end up having sex. Because even seeing the other sex naked will make them excited, and the next thing you know, yes, they’ll be having sex. But, again, these people have already been conditioned. We have to think of a world where that conditioning doesn’t exist. We have to think of a world where nudity isn’t automatically associated with sex.

And, thankfully, nudist colonies and beaches provide us with those examples.

I’m not going to find any links because many of these sites show a lot of children and teenagers in completely non-sexual images, yet they do appear naked. But even a fourteen year old girl and a fourteen year old boy who find themselves alone on a nude beach don’t have sex, because that conditioning has already been broken. To them, it’s just like seeing the other person in clothes; it’s not sexual.

So what bathroom should transgender people use? The same bathroom everyone else uses.

Schools across the country should implement co-ed bathrooms on a curve, year by year: the first year, it’s kindergarten. The next year, it’s kindergarten and first grade. The next, it’s kindergarten, first, and second grade. Then, it’s kindergarten, first, second, and third grade. And that should repeat until those kids who broke the association of “nudity = about to get laid” in kindergarten would be college students, and colleges would adopt the same policies, starting with those once-kindergarteners who are now freshmen, and continuing until they graduate. Within only 16 years, we will have completely solved the problem, and done society a tremendous amount of good in the process.

For example, as Jim Sterling points out in one of his videos, penises are considered okay to appear in popular media. There is a game on Steam right now called “Floppy Penis Attack” or something like that, where your goal is to play as a floppy penis putting your head in another floppy penis’s anus while avoiding getting a floppy penis in your anus. It’s considered funny. Haha, floppy penises.

Yet at the same time, Watch Dogs 2 explicitly apologizes and issues a patch because one of the female NPCs in their game actually had a vagina that, if you killed her in the right way, players could actually see. The moral of the story? Penises are okay, vaginas are not. Breasts face the same kind of crap. Men can go totally shirtless and it’s no problem at all, even if they have manboobs that make me feel insecure about my boobs. But a woman with even the smallest cup size isn’t allowed to go shirtless. Again, it’s because of classical conditioning: we’ve been conditioned to associate vaginas and breasts with sex.

If you want to talk true egalitarianism, then this is how it is implemented. It’s not implemented by laughing at the floppy wieners and frothing at the mouth over a poorly drawn vagina.

This is an artificial vagina.

Just like Jim uses artificial penises in his gags quite often, the artificial vagina is perfectly normal, and perfectly acceptable. There’s nothing more sexual about the vagina than the penis. And there’s nothing explicitly sexual about either; it’s only because we only bring them about when we’re about to have sex that we’ve come to associate them solely with sex.

So if you really want to fix the transgender bathroom thing, the double standards on nudity, and all the other silly crap that should really take a backseat to the transgender women thrown into male prisons where they are raped a reported two thousand times, then this is the way you do it. That’s the plan. Co-ed bathrooms, starting at kindergarten, and going up each year until nudity is normalized.

I’m not saying that we should accept people running around naked in the streets. But hey, if they want to, why shouldn’t they be able to? By that point, no one would care, and no one would think, “Oh my god, there’s a naked chick jogging! She must be looking for sex!” because that association will have been broken.

And that association needs to be broken, because we’re talking about freaking bathrooms, where people go to piss and shit–bodily functions that are gross, unappealing, and unavoidable. No one is thinking about getting laid when they’re squatting over the toilet or standing at the urinal. No one. And no one wants to have sex with someone who is squatting over the toilet or standing at the urinal. We would know this, if we hadn’t gotten so far wrapped up in our conditioning that we’ve simply come to accept it as truth and as the way things naturally are.

But things naturally aren’t that way. Break the conditioning, and all of this crap stops being an issue entirely.

I realize that you, the person reading this, have similarly been conditioned to associate nudity with sex, and this may very well make it extremely difficult for you to separate the two things even theoretically. But I promise you that it’s possible, and that we have countless examples of people doing exactly that. Again, I’m not going to provide links, but fifteen minutes on Google will teach you everything you need to know about nudism. And, once more, I’m no nudist, but they’re correct. We only associate sex with nudity because we’ve been conditioned to, just like Pavlov’s dog only associates the bell with food because the dog has been conditioned to.

So just stop conditioning the dog.

Pulling a Kidney Stone From the Bowels of the Internet: Transgenderism & Transsexualism

Now given that this guy might as well have trollface.jpg as his profile pic, we don’t have to pay much attention to what he has to say. He’s just trolling–clearly–using loaded language on both sides of the issue to ignite flame wars on the update. Who cares. Reading through the comments, though, is an interesting experience. Not interesting enough for me to share the comments one by one–besides, there are at least seventy right now–but it did make it plainly obvious that the average person has no idea what we’re even talking about.

stupid-dickI’ll leave to your imagination the comments that this received.

First, there is a difference between transgenderism and transsexualism, and it’s actually more than splitting hairs. I once criticized someone for using the word “transsexual” and said they were likely out of touch with mainstream society, because it is no longer widely used. I was incorrect, and hadn’t given the matter sufficient thought. I was still correct about the person, because it’s not like he knew the difference, but I didn’t, either. “Transgender” seemed a more palatable version of the deprecated “transsexual.”

It gets murky, because there is a difference between gender and sex. After all, gender is a social construct; sex is not. This gets even more opaque because we tend to use words like “male” and “woman” in both contexts, often without even realizing it. For example, in a single paragraph, a person might say, “A man is someone with a penis [thereby referring to the sex of male], and someone with a beard who drinks beer and eats steaks that are almost raw. If your steak is cooked, you’re not a man.”

It should be readily obvious that we’re talking about two totally different things here. One is a sexual organ–a certifiable, verifiable fact that a person either has or does not have. The second part deals with social roles and stereotypes that are not universally applicable. Although it’s becoming increasingly politically incorrect to say, if you have a penis, then your sex is male. At least, that’s how it used to be–I would argue that’s no longer the case, seeing as I’m a non-op transsexual, but I also think that “having a penis” means that I can never refer to my sex as female.

See how complex it gets?

Gender is all about archetypes and stereotypes, conditioning, and societal expectations. “Girls play with Barbies, boys play with G.I. Joes” is a statement referring to gender. These are human social constructs without objective form–they are, to borrow from Shakespeare, our attempt to “give to airy nothingness / a local habitation and a name.” It is almost completely arbitrary that skirts are feminine and jeans are masculine, that women wear makeup but men do not. Of course, we can look through history and find socioeconomic reasons for why these things are adapted by or forced onto one gender or another, but that doesn’t really change anything. Why didn’t men decree that skirts were masculine and that jeans were feminine, that way they could see all those delicious butts in jeans throughout the eons?

Well, for one, denim wasn’t invented in the age we’re discussing.

“Because they didn’t,” is the answer to my question, though. Why didn’t men decide that it was their role to attract women, and thus that men needed to wear makeup and doll themselves up? Again, “Because they didn’t” is the answer.

Now, again, we can go back to the ancient stages of human history and reflect on the fact that men are innately stronger than women, and so men naturally fell into the hunter role better while women were better suited for the gatherer role, but we’ll still ultimately find that it was arbitrary and mostly about power. I’m not preparing to launch into a tirade about female oppression throughout history–it’s not relevant. That’s exactly my point: none of it is really relevant. How these things came about is meaningless today–they are because they are, and they aren’t because they aren’t.

The anthropic principle applied to gender, as it were.

What about bras, though? Surely, it’s not a societal construct that women wear bras while men don’t. Indeed, it’s not, because the sexual dimorphism of humans is most prominent in the breasts. This is a real, sexual difference between the two. We can talk about bra burning and stuff, but that’s not the point. Again, the point is that women have boobs, and men don’t, so if either sex was going to wear protective–or oppressive, for the virulent feminists out there–clothing over their boobs, it would obviously be the sex that has something there to protect.

We could easily ask why men wear jock straps and cups, but women don’t.

“Because having something in that region to protect is a characteristic of the sex,” we would answer, and we would be right to give that answer.

Now, what happens if someone’s sex does not match their gender?

A lot of people would call it a mental illness. This is, strictly speaking, referred to as gender dysphoria, and it’s presently considered a mental illness, though the reason for that is explicitly given that it’s the only way to ensure that Hormone Replacement Therapy and Sex Reassignment Surgery are covered by medical insurance plans. We can get into whether or not that’s beneficial or harmful. It’s also not relevant to our discussion. Gender dysphoria is simply what it’s called when a person’s sex doesn’t match their gender.

Since “gender” is a social construct in the first place, it’s impossible that it could genuinely be a mental illness.

It would be like saying that a white kid has a mental illness because he wears Fubu and listens to Kanye West. In this analogy, the kid’s skin color (an objective, verifiable reality) does not match his cultural identification (he has adopted black culture as his own). Is this a mental illness?

What a stupid question. It’s obviously not a mental illness.

But when we alter it slightly and we have a white boy who wants to wear dresses and play with Barbies, suddenly we do have people crying that it’s a mental illness.

This is what being “transgender” means. It means there is no change to the person’s sex, yet they adopt the other sex’s gender roles and stereotypes as their own. Yes, this involves acknowledging and even embracing gender stereotypes, one of the many examples of liberals’ hypocrisy. You literally cannot be transgender without being sexist. Saying–even if not directly–something like “I don’t want to play with G.I. Joe! I want to play with Barbies, because girls play with Barbies!” is quite obviously sexist.

Under most circumstances, the liberal would reply, “Girls don’t have to play with Barbies! That’s an outdated way of thinking, you chauvinistic pig!”

But if the person is transgender, they’re like, “Awe, and you should do whatever empowers you!”

Being transsexual entails being transgender, but “transsexual” means that there are changes to a person’s sex organs, and there are a few types of this. There is Pre-Op, Post-Op, and Non-Op, depending on whether the person is going to undergo surgery of their primary sex organs. The difference between a Pre-Op Transsexual and a Non-Op Transsexual, then, is one of intent: the pre-op intends to have a sex change operation–to have their penis replaced with a vagina, or their vagina replaced with a penis. A Post-Op is someone who has had this surgery, like Caitlyn Jenner. A Non-Op is someone who is fine with their primary sexual organ, but does make changes to their body that exclude surgery (excluding cosmetic surgery of the face or breasts).

Realistically, a non-op transsexual is a mix of the sexes.

I’ve been criticized and told that I shouldn’t call myself a shemale because it underscores the idea that we aren’t “real women.” I agree and disagree. I agree that, when we’re talking sex, yes–not having the primary sexual organ of a woman does, in fact, mean a person isn’t a “real woman,” at the very least sexually. I realize this offends people. I also don’t care. If you don’t have a vagina, then your attempts to sell yourself as sexually a woman are either disingenuous or delusional. Take your pick. But I don’t think it’s your prerogative to demand other people to acquiesce to your delusion.

Sex is a matter determined by the person’s sexual characteristics. My sex is shemale. I don’t care if that bothers you. It is shemale–you can use “non-op transsexual” if you want, but I prefer communication over political correctness, and “shemale” conveys more to the average person in a single word than this entire article will–and saying “I’m offended” isn’t going to change that. I’m not a pre-op or post-op. I have made the deliberate and conscious decision to keep my penis. It would be the height of absurdity to proclaim that my sex is female and to demand that other people grit their teeth and pretend like it is female. It’s not–it’s S.

For “Shemale.”

My gender is female. With the recent changes to my eyebrows and increasing changes to my face from the estrogen that I take (which is causing the bodily changes I addressed previously), I’m increasingly “passable.” While many people would also get upset that I’d dare use such a word to describe a transsexual rather than a Drag Queen or crossdresser, it simply is the case that I, as any transsexual person does, want to be able to simply exist as an ordinary woman. It’s not until we get into the bedroom with the door shut that my primary sex organ would matter, so no one ever needs to know that my gender–female–doesn’t quite match my sex–shemale. As I currently stand, it is obvious, primarily because of my eyebrows and cheeks.

While the liberal would argue, “No. There’s no such thing as ‘passable’ when it comes to transsexualism or transgenderism. You are female because you say you are female. So you are, by definition, passable, because you are female,” the reality is, of course, murkier.

We don’t live in La-La Fantasy Land.

The word “passable” refers to whether a random stranger will notice anything odd about my gender identification. I can insist to this stranger, “No, really, I’m a female” all day long, but it’s not going to stop me from getting this look:

skeptical“Passable” simply refers to whether or not I get that look.

Strictly speaking, no, “passable” doesn’t have anything to do with me. I’m not a drag queen or a crossdresser–I’m transsexual. So the liberal is, in a sense, correct–I’m passable by definition because I identify as a woman and thus am a woman. Strictly speaking, it is irrelevant whether I conform or break this stereotype or whether I have or lack that feature. I am because I am because I am.

Yet the liberal is still wrong to say it has nothing to do with me, because no transssexual person wants that look.

Caitlyn Jenner, for example, is one of the least passable transsexuals that I have ever seen. It’s seriously jarring to me, to see Caitlyn Jenner. I do feel bad for the girl–that enormously square jaw and countless amounts of money spent on cosmetic surgery. And I’ve spent very little money and yet am far more “passable” than she is. That makes me sad for her–it does.

But that doesn’t really change anything.

So, to summarize, sex has been, through most of human history, a binary matter, and because of that, gender became a binary matter. I would suggest that it’s probably true that gender remains a binary matter to this day, but sex is no longer a binary matter. After all, I would put “S” under my sex, but “F” under my gender. I do get that a lot of people think that I should put “F” under both, and I’ve had people chastise me, insult me, and block me for refusing to put Female as both my sex and my gender.

If you ask me, that is the mental disorder: refusing to accept that your sexual organs do determine your sex.

We can have disagreement about whether the sex of “Female” means “has boobs and vagina.” But we can also find plenty of examples that break that mold–breast cancer survivors, and some girls are just flat-chested. We can have a disagreement about whether the sex of “Male” means “has penis, no boobs.” And we could also find plenty of examples that break that mold–men who have had irate waves perform improvised surgery with butcher knives after finding them cheating, or men who have what we call “man-boobs.” There are exceptions to everything, and a rejection of black and white thinking is prevalent in my work.

So I’m not willing to say that it’s universally true that women have vaginas and boobs, and men have penises but no boobs. But I am going to say that if you’ve made the conscious decision to have a penis, then you’re expecting other people to bow to your delusion when you say that your sex is female. Maybe this means we need a new sex for people who willfully operate between the sexes by having a penis, curves, and boobs while identifying as the gender of female.

What do you know! We have one.

It’s “shemale.”

Stop being offended by it. It’s the next step of sexual identification.

A quick note: I would tentatively suggest–without having put a considerable amount of thought into it, hence why it’s tentative–that if you experience “gender dysphoria” while touching your primary sexual organ, then it is probably evidence that you are identifying as the wrong sex. People are often surprised to learn that my penis doesn’t bother me. This appears to come from a general confusion on the matter–I’m a lesbian. My penis is rather useful for that. If I experienced “gender dysphoria” by having my penis stimulated, then I’d have major problems. I’d also say that this is “sexual dysphoria” and not “gender dysphoria.”

But my sex is shemale. Shemales have penises. There is no discrepancy there, so there is no conflict that would cause dysphoria. Again, people would understand that more easily if they could get it through their thick skulls that there are some very goddamned good reasons that I identify my sex as Shemale rather than Female.

Transgenderism: Who Needs To Know?

It wasn’t terribly long ago that I unfriended this transgender girl on Facebook, and I did so for a number of reasons. First among those was that she was extremely derivative of myself, essentially following in my footsteps with her online presence, but was exploiting her sex appeal and the fact that she performed shows and gained a fanbase that way. I found that to be cheap and tawdry, but that wasn’t the reason that I removed her.

No, the reason that I removed her is because of this long “Oh, poor me” post about how hard it is being transgender, and how she had once been beaten and raped by this guy when he found out that she had a penis. Her excuse was that it never occurred to her to point out that she was transgender, non-op, and that she didn’t think it was her responsibility to go around telling people that she had a penis. And while I agree in many ways, there’s certainly a grey area there, and the point at which she should have told the guy that she had a penis was long before he was taking her pants off.

People like that who think it’s everyone else’s responsibility to cater to them piss me off, because it’s that ultra-liberal, anti-progressive bullshit, and it’s much simpler than that. So let me just say for the record: Yes, if you don’t have the sexual organs that the person who you’re sexually involved with expects you to have, then it is your responsibility to inform them. I know we’ve seen shemale porn where the guy pulls off the girl’s pants and is delighted to find a penis staring up at him, but this isn’t porn; this is the real world, and you’re an entitled moron to put yourself in that position.

I’m not justifying that the guy attacked her and raped her–two pieces of information that don’t quite fit if you remember that the reason he became angry was that he did not want to have sex with what he felt was a guy. And she can argue that with him all she wants, but it’s not going to change how he feels about it. That conversation should have happened long before that point when they were getting naked. People like what they like, don’t like what they don’t like, and aren’t interested in what they aren’t interested in. There is very little someone could do to persuade me to put my dick in a dude’s ass. And while I would absolutely have sex with a shemale, I don’t consider shemales to be men–hence myself. But there’s also a wide range of people there, and it would depend more on the individual than any simple, universally applicable statement.

However, if I was removing a girl’s clothes in between drunken kisses and suddenly felt a hard dick, it would absolutely give me pause, and it might even be an enormous turn-off. It certainly wouldn’t go down like in porn; I wouldn’t grin and moan and bend down to slob on it. I don’t know if this is what the girl I’m talking about expected, or if she just expected that the guy would ignore her penis, but one thing is certain:

He wasn’t expecting to find a penis there.

A lot of men out there simply aren’t willing to have sex with another guy. This does NOT make them homophobic. Being unwilling to have sex with a non-op transgender woman, or a pre-op transgender woman, also does not make a person homophobic. People like what they like, and they have their own inhibitions. I wouldn’t want to have sex with a guy–does that make me homophobic? If I removed a girl’s clothes only to find a penis, only to find out that she wasn’t even transgender but was just a cross-dresser, I would feel both betrayed and unaroused. I have very little control over that–I’m not attracted to the male form. I like curves. I’m not going to apologize for that. And removing a girl’s clothes to find out that the curves weren’t real would ruin her sex appeal for me. This does not make me homophobic; it is simply my preferences.

If you think it’s unreasonable for a guy who is removing a girl’s clothes to expect to find a vagina there, then you should probably re-evaluate what you think is reasonable and unreasonable. People have expectations, and one of those expectations is that women have vaginas. If you knowingly go against that expectation that is shared by pretty much everyone on the planet, then it is your responsibility to let someone know that before you become sexually involved.

Does it have to be the very first thing you say? Do you have to tell every random person you see that you have a penis? Absolutely not.

My dream is to be able to just live as myself, to have a job as myself, and to just be able to exist as myself. To everyone who saw me, I’d just be a woman, and they’d know nothing more than that. My co-workers, employees, colleagues, friends, whoever–would see only a woman, and that is all they would know. They would never need to know more than that. However, the girl that I was dating? Yes, she deserves to know, and it is my responsibility to tell her. Letting her pull off my clothes and find a penis there when she expects a vagina would be betraying her entirely reasonable expectation.

I unfriended her when I saw her attempt to gain sympathy about how hard it is to be transgender, because she can get attacked and beaten “just for being transgender.” This wasn’t even remotely what happened. She was attacked and beaten for betraying someone. Whether she intended to or not, she knew that the average guy–even 99.9999% of guys–expect that removing a girl’s clothes will reveal a vagina. She knew that she was going against that expectation, and she knew that the guy expected her to not have a dick.

Her defense that “Being transgender is just normal for me, I never think anything about it” is utter bullshit. If you “never think anything about it” to the extent that you’d let someone have sex with you without telling them that you don’t have the organs that they expect you to have, then you are being wholly irresponsible, reckless, and ridiculous.

Things are no different for me. Just because it would be a girl undressing me and finding a penis doesn’t mean I have no responsibility to inform them–there are plenty of lesbians out there who wouldn’t be interested. But it’s humorous for me to note that it has only become easier for me to find interested chicks, when I imagine that the opposite would be true for a non-op transgender man who was into men. God, this terminology is so sloppy. You have to stop and think too much about what “non-op transgender man” means–what sexual organ does that person have? A vagina. This terminology is far too clunky.

That’s why I love the term “shemale” and will continue using it no matter how many transgender women tell me that it is somehow an insult to them that I use this word to characterize myself. It’s even better when they try to tell me the connotations of “shemale” like I don’t already know that it’s tied to porn–in fact, it’s rather important to me that I break that connotation, and it was an important milestone for me to see that “anarchist shemale” has me as the #1 result on Google search, beating out a fair bit of porn to get there. Breaking how “shemale” is tied to porn is a major part of the reason I use it. But do people ever ask about that? Nope. They just assume that I don’t know that shemale is tied to porn, and that I’m not aware of how I’m offending them by calling myself a shemale.

Just think about the absurdity of that, and how it so obviously requires group-think. I can’t even call myself something without it somehow being applied to all non-op transgender women. What kind of madness is that? I didn’t say you are a shemale, lady. I said that I am a shemale. If your ego and narcissism are so out of control that I can’t call myself something without you somehow making it about you, then you need a serious reality check and a firm reminder that you and I are different people. I would suggest such people remember that, first and foremost, they are individuals; they are not the characteristics they happen to have.

What do they want me to do, call myself “The Anarchist Non-Op Transgender Woman”? God, that’s so catchy! Of course! Why didn’t I think about it before? It’s so obvious! I was originally going with “The Libertarian Shemale,” of course, but swapped it out for Anarchist. I did this for two reasons. First, because I am an anarchist, and not a libertarian. Second, “Anarchist Shemale” sounds a whole lot more memorable and awesome than “Libertarian Shemale.”


You don’t own me. I can call myself any goddamned thing I want, and it has nothing to do with anyone else. I hate to belabor the point, but it’s an important one, and it has happened multiple time. I’ve been chastised several times for calling myself a shemale, told how “offensive and insulting” it is to other people, and lectured on how the word is tied to porn. I’m well-aware of the last bit, and anyone who spends any time listening to the things I say will conclude that I’m obviously well aware of that. But the notion that it can do injury to other people (because to offend them is to commit some offense upon them, to make them a victim and injure them in some way) by calling myself something is patently absurd.

Well, I got completely off track. I apologize for that.

Hey, but if you like what I have to say, you might enjoy my latest video:

Or if you’re more interested in things that pertain to transgenderism:

You could also check out my podcasts at www.ariadimezzo.podbean.com–there are 37 or 38 episodes there, most of them are Rantings & Ravings, about 1/4 of them are Food For Thought, and another 1/8 of them are Transgender Frustrations, which are mostly just me bitching about things here in the real world, not creating my own problems and then bitching because I landed myself in a horrible situation and faced disproportionate consequences.

Transgender people face real problems in the United States, and especially here in the south. I went into Wal-Mart today to buy a new microphone (I have no shame shopping at Wal-Mart), and while there I walked by the flip-flop aisle and saw a few pairs that would actually fit me. Since I wear a size 12.5W/11M, it can be hard to find flip-flops that fit. And these were adorable! But it was mid-afternoon in Wal-Mart. I couldn’t just buy a pair of women’s flip-flops. So I whipped out my phone, took a few pictures of the aisle, and sent them to a friend on Facebook, pretending that I was picking them up for someone else.

That’s the kind of real issue that a transgender person faces in Wal-Mart. I’m thrilled that this transgender chick in freaking Michigan has no problem going to Wal-Mart, and that no one will follower her home and burn her house to the ground. That’s fantastic. But what does she do with that wonderful ability? She creates her own fucking problems, and then screams and cries about them like her self-created problems are even remotely on par with actual transgender problems that people have to face all over America. I would sell my soul to be able to just walk into Wal-Mart and shop for clothes, but I can’t. I wouldn’t make it home, and I probably wouldn’t make it out of the parking lot. In fact, I would probably have the police called on me.

Oh, yeah. For sure. Some old Christian woman with her young daughter would be “creeped out” and would notify the manager. Without doubt–I mean, really. That would happen. If there was anyone else shopping in that area, that would happen. And the manager would immediately think “Pedophile” not “Transgender” and would call the police. Then, after extensive searches of me and my phone to verify that I wasn’t taking pictures of little girls in the changing room and repeatedly demanding to know why I was in the girls’ clothing area in the first place, I’d probably just be banned from the store.

That’s my reality.

So I’m not going to cut some stupid bitch slack when she creates her own problems.

Game of Thrones is Smut

Here’s a soundtrack while you read. 😀

I hate Game of Thrones.

I also have very good reason to hate Game of Thrones and George R. R. Martin, so I apologize if you’re a fan of the show, because I’m about to offend you. But before I get into that, a bit of background.

The very first novel I ever owned was called something like The Crystal Shard, and I got it during the summer between the 2nd and 3rd grade. It was, of course, a Fantasy novel, but my love for Fantasy had already started by that point. When I was four or five, my father bought a game at Wal-Mart that he was [incorrectly] told supported 4-players, and that game was Ultima: Exodus on NES. That was when my love for Fantasy began. To call it a lifelong love would be absolutely correct.

I wrote my first fantasy stories, roleplaying adventures, and so on shortly after my dad introduced me to tabletop gaming. He didn’t so much “introduce” me to it as he did “made me aware of its existence,” and it simply was never going to fly for me to have actual Dungeons and Dragons materials in my grandmother’s house. This was before she heavily screened what I could read and listen to, but D&D would never have flown; this was right smack in the middle of the allegations that it was Satanic, and she believed whatever the pastor said. The pastor, of course, called it the devil’s work.

Around the 4th grade, she came upon one of my stories where, according to her, the main character died and brought himself back to life. While I never wrote anything like that, it didn’t matter. She launched into a tirade about how only Jesus could bring himself back to life (because, evidently, it’s normal when Jebus does it, but not normal when a different made-up and fictitious character does it), and that was the end of my exposure to most fantasy. Any future reading was done under the radar; I had to sneak books in, and keep them hidden, or let friends take them home and read them only at school.

That didn’t deter me, however, so strong was my love for these fantastic worlds of mages, dragons, orcs, and elves. I created my own settings. Folders upon folders full of archaic rules based on the set of 6-sided dice I’d snatched out of the RISK boardgame, where all damage and attack rolls used d6s. Entire notebooks filled with details of worlds, characters, mysterious trinkets, magical objects, wondrous secrets, gigantic landscapes… Like anyone under the heel of an extremely oppressive parent, I sank into these fantasy worlds that I created and lived them as completely as I could, because it was just a matter of time before my grandmother found them and destroyed them.

So that’s the context of my love for Fantasy. Fantasy is the reason I am still alive, no question. That I had my own imagination, built from these scraps of stories I’d never actually gotten the privilege of reading–who was Dalamar the Dark? I didn’t know, but I imagined Dalamar the Dark. Who was this Raistlin, this gold-skinned mage? I didn’t know, but I imagined him. Drizzt the Drow–who was he? Elminster? Waterdeep? Ravenloft? Over and over again, I had only slivers, little scraps of passages I’d glimpsed before the wicked claws of my grandmother snatched them away, and from those I built my fantasy.

This is, to be fair, what makes my fantasy unique and new. Let’s not mince words: there is a “standard fantasy,” which is an oxymoron so great that authors throughout the world should be ashamed. There are many traps that Fantasy as a genre fell into, and that there is a standard fantasy is one of those traps. It is not, however, what killed the genre in the early millennium.

No, what killed the genre were the Moral Guardians who forced Fantasy to remain squeaky clean. No references to sex were allowed. No swearing. No outrageous acts of violence. Fantasy, more than any other genre, had to be absolutely clean. If it contained anything that even hinted at non-Christian imagery, it was going to be pulled from the shelves by the Moral Guardians. Weis and Hickman, two of the best fantasy writers of the 80s and 90s, remarked in one of their annotated trilogies that they had to come up with a nine-pointed star, because the publisher would never have allowed a 5-pointed or 7-pointed star at the time. There was constant censorship, and an overarching need to present solid moral values. Nothing less would be tolerated by the Moral Guardians.

In case it took you as long to read that as it did for me to write it:

Fantasy never evolved past that, even after the Moral Guardians turned their eyes onto video games and forgot about literature. R. A. Salvatore, Terry Pratchett, Douglas Niles, Margaret Weis, and Tracy Hickman–these prolific, mighty authors, fallen into obscurity. What happened? There are just as many nerds today as there have ever been. There are as many Magic: The Gathering and Dungeons & Dragons players as ever–where is the literature?


There is no literature.

Fantasy committed suicide because it never removed its pristine white coat, and people lost interest in these simple worlds of moral black and whites, these clear archetypes of heroes and villains, these bland, dry, and immaculate characters who were all celibate, apparently. It was so bad that even characters like Jarlaxle and Artemis Entreri refrained from sex–two rapscallion thieves and assassins who just lived the good life. Never had sex with anyone in any of their books. C’mon. I’m not asking for a sex scene by any means, and don’t want one, but the books make it a point to say that they refrain from sex. It’s ridiculous, and it was true across all fantasy, with very few exceptions. If a character did have sex, then they did so indiscriminately and it was a character flaw, such as Tanis Half-Elven and Caramon Majere.

I finished my first fantasy novel when I was in the tenth grade. If I’d had more guidance, either from a parent or by the teacher who had more or less taken me under her wing, then it would have been published. But I had no guidance. There I was, 16 years old, shoving the entirety of my unedited 276 page manuscript into a manilla envelope without even a cover letter, and sending it off to Wizards of the Coast. If they’d known a 16 year old had written it, things probably would have different, since that’s such a marketable thing, but c’est la vie.

The road not traveled.

Then life hit. My dad was caught stealing–embezzling, technically–and we lost our place to stay. I had to drop out of high school. My car, a 95 Camaro z28, broke down constantly. I delivered pizzas for a living, paid rent with my sister and her boyfriend, and smoked a lot of weed. Started doing rolls, and just kinda got mildly off track, but with distant thoughts of eventually going to college. Then my girlfriend moved in with me, and I decided I owed it to her to get off my ass. I scheduled to take my GED, and a week before the test got into a fight in the parking lot with the person I’d used to take all those rolls with because he was jealous of her and threatening her. I got fired, things got derailed, and I had very little time to write during all of this. What writing I did was non-fiction–fleshing out my thoughts on religion and the like. And playing a lot of chess.

But I took my GED, I got a new job, and my girlfriend and I got married. I supported us while I worked a full-time job and was a full-time student, and just 6 to 8 weeks before my graduation, I was pulled over by a Tunica County sheriff for not wearing my seatbelt. That tardy caused me to be fired a month or so later, when a “negative point” (a reward of -1 to your point total for employees who go 90 days without a tardy or absence) came off my total. 365 days after something is added to the record, it comes off the record. So I had a -1 come off my record. You know what 9 – -1 is? It’s 9 + 1. It’s 10. And 10 was the point of termination.

I’m fine with having poor attendance. I was supporting myself and my wife while working a full-time job and being a full-time student. That my attendance is as good as it was is something I’m proud of. That shit was exhausting. It was 7 days a week for two solid years. I got one week of vacation during it, and I was in school that week so it wasn’t even really a vacation.

I’m not complaining. Really, I’m not. It’s all good. I’m proud of what I did.

But it did keep me from writing. I was just too busy. I spent my Tuesdays off playing music with an old band, and that took the place of writing for a while. I didn’t have time for both writing and music, and music looked a lot more likely to lift me out of that hellhole. It was also a way of combining social interactivity with leisure. We partied, drank, made music. It was great. And my wife usually played World of Warcraft while we did it. Life was good. I didn’t mind.

I did get back on track, finally coming to work for the colleague with whom I am now associated (but not employed by), and I almost immediately began writing again. He was stunned when he RDP’d into the server late one evening and saw that I’d left my book open. He knew I wrote, but he never expected to find 100 single-spaced pages of text staring back at him. I’ll never forget his statement. “Oh. You’re like, actually serious about writing. That’s awesome.”

I finished that manuscript some time ago. And I thought it was something to be proud of. Reception varied from lukewarm to absolute disinterest. After the critical period of putting it aside and losing my emotional connections to it, I looked again, and it was shit. It was terrible. It was 300 pages of talking about stuff that had happened, not stuff that was happening. The Gaithin War that takes up about 1/3 of the final version–it “had happened years ago” in the previous draft. Queen Selena and Kyle Xenethil didn’t even exist. Calliope and Falrin didn’t exist. The story was weak–exceptionally weak, and I immediately saw why.

I’d crafted too much backstory over the decades, and utterly failed to craft the actual story. Last January I put the bullshit aside. I said “If I’m ever going to be a professional writer, then this ‘Writing when I feel inspired’ crap has to stop.” I swore to write a minimum of 35 pages a week–3 each day, 10 each weekend day. That soon changed to 5 each day, but there were some days when I only got out 3. I still always made up for it on the weekend, even if it meant I had to write 10 pages in one day, because I never went under 35 a week. I didn’t skip a single day. There were times when I was so thankful for dialogue because it made the 3 pages so much easier to hit, and there were times when I literally had to stop myself from writing too many pages in one day.

But I did it.

The Anvil.

450,000 words in its first draft form.

The length of the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy.

I knew immediately that it was going to be a tough sell, but I also don’t care. People have suggested that I divide it, but I refuse to. I don’t refuse to because I’m being stubborn; I refuse because it would hurt the story cohesion. This is an epic tale of more than 25 characters, all woven together, with events in one part of the world impacting events in another part, threading in and out and coming together only for the third book of the trilogy. I will not apologize that it is an epic tale. Whether it’s a good epic tale or not, it is epic.

After flying through the agents I could find, it became apparent that it’s simply not going to work as a debut novel. Agents are terrible, and I have no respect for them. Stephen King wrote in his book On Writing that the first story he ever submitted to a magazine was returned back with only a sticky-note on it that said “Use paperclips. Don’t staple.” King never stapled another submission.

You don’t get that kind of feedback today. 90% of the agents simply won’t reply if they’re not interested. It’s an absolutely disgusting mentality, that people don’t deserve even a rejection letter. Busy, busy, busy! Gotta get that bottom dollar! And there’s no dollars to be made in sending someone a rejection letter. This also means that I have no idea–literally no idea–why these agents have passed up on my novel. The three that have replied (out of well over 30) have all said something like “It’s not for me, but I do wish you luck.”

Which is the literary equivalent of “It’s not you, it’s me.”

I imagine that if Stephen King knew about this, given his position on the value of agents and editors, then he would be repulsed, and he has the sway in the industry to do something about it. I’ve sworn that when I become successful, I will change this system that is damn near impossible to penetrate because the young aspiring writer has literally no idea what they’re doing wrong. Did I do the digital equivalent of stapling? Do they dislike the genre? The length? The style? The word choices? The writing? Who the hell knows?

But that’s another matter. My aim was only to explain why I’m not a currently published fantasy writer. I finished the first draft of that version during March of last year, put it aside for about two months, and then began the laborious process of editing 450,000 words–or more than 1300 pages. This was time consuming, tedious, slow, and exhausting. It was not until September of this last year–a mere 7 months ago–that I even began submitting it to agents. With the way the agent system is and how it is demonstrably stacked against new authors (even those who are already professional writers and who are already published in three different places), and with the fact that this novel is a tough sell, regardless of its merits, it’s no surprise that I didn’t find an agent. And I’m not going to until Aria DiMezzo has published a novel in some other way, and that’s where Dancing in Hellfire, now being edited, comes in.

So that’s my love for Fantasy. It’s a lifelong love of extreme value and depth.

And I’m watching it be cheapened, tarnished, and destroyed by an uncreative hack who peddles smut. Remember I’ve been reading fantasy more or less my entire life, though most of the earlier years were unstable and sporadic. Yet I’d never heard George R. R. Martin’s name before Game of Thrones.

Game of Thrones is cheap and tawdry. It idolizes rape, violence, and everything that is disgusting about humanity. It takes the absolute lowest of what humanity has to offer and engrandizes it, dresses it in a suit made of political intrigue, and tries to prevent it as something more than a cheap whore in a moderately expensive dress. But it’s not. It’s just a cheap whore in a moderately expensive dress.

It is the Fantasy equivalent of Hostel or Cannibal Holocaust. It is lewd for the sake of ratings and solely for the sake of ratings, and the same is true of the novels. If you want political intrigue, rape, and violence while still maintaining class and taste, then you need look no further than Ken Follett and his masterful works Pillars of the Earth and World Without End. They were both adapted into mini-series (and the mini-series are what introduced me to Follett), and they are phenomenal. If you can find them on Netflix, Hulu, or <insert website of dubious legality>, they are well worth the 8-9 hours they take to watch.

They masterfully craft villains, and they establish gigantic moral grey areas, yet it is always clear who is the good guy and who is the bad guy. They build the villains up into people that you, the reader or viewer, will absolutely hate. By the end of the books and series, you’ll be damned near frothing at the mouth, angry, irate, desperate to watch these scumbags get what is coming to them. And then they do get what’s coming to them, and the pay-off is just…

There’s nothing else like it. It’s some of the best storytelling I’ve ever experienced. And even when the witch lifts up her skirt and pees on a chicken in front of a priest (it makes sense in context), it never loses class; it never becomes tasteless. There is no rape scene simply because a female character needed to be degraded.

That is Martin’s biggest problem. He relies so much on rape that I wonder if he’s aware that not all strong women endured rapes in their past. He seems to think that any strong woman must have been raped at some point. Female characters start out strong, in command, and then Martin has them raped. Then they despair, and then they build themselves back up to being strong and in command. For that alone, fuck you, George Martin. Rape is not character building.

If it only happened once, it might have been understandable. We could have shrugged and said, “Well, yeah, rape was more common during the Middle Ages.” But it happens constantly. Martin appears to know no other way. And if it’s a male who has to be degraded, what happens? If his dick doesn’t get cut off, then the guy has to watch his sister/wife/girlfriend be raped; it again falls right back to this deplorable crutch of the untalented hack who dresses smut up in fine clothes.

It also doesn’t help that he has no idea how to build an actual hero in this world of Grey and Gray Morality that he has created–this generic Low Fantasy world that could just as easily have been called “Ferelden But Without Mages.”

When the colleague I’ve mentioned heard me ranting about what Martin has done to fantasy, he replied, “Woah. I never even thought of that. I guess it is fantasy, isn’t it? For some reason, I just never considered it fantasy…”

That is what Martin has done to the genre. It’s not even recognizable as fantasy. While he has undoubtedly introduced tons of people to the genre (Has he? I would argue that the overwhelming majority, if not all, of these people had been introduced to the genre by the Lord of the Rings movies by Peter Jackson), he has butchered and tainted the genre to such an extent that it’s hardly recognizable, even to aficionados.

One aspiring writer (allegedly–I’m not sure he ever wrote more than a few pages) told me that he’d handled it by cranking up the Raunch Dial on his “book” and added more sex and violence. Oh, have no doubt–I have no intention of continuing in the footsteps of the squeaky clean writers from whose ashes I am rising. But I will add nothing for the sake of pandering to people who get off on movies like Hostel. I don’t want their attention. There is rape in my novel. To be precise, there is an allusion to rape, and the strongest allusion is that the woman’s name is Persephone. It is neither described, nor is there a “tasteful” cut to black. The woman is attacked, and we revisit her later with her clothes in tatters; no details about what she endured are ever given. Because there is no need.

None of the female protagonists in my story were made strong by enduring traumatic pasts, either. They were all strong already–the same way that men are allowed to be strong without being required to first endure a ton of bullshit that makes them strong. Queen fucking Shadow is basically a goddess by the time the novel takes place, and while she does have a traumatic past, her suffering was a direct result of things she did in pursuit of power. They were not things that happened to her; they were results of things that she did. Queen Selena might be the strongest female character in that world, and other than Kyle usurping her throne after her father’s death, she endured no bullshit. Drusilia did, but like Shadow also caused her own bullshit. Aradiant–no bullshit past. Calliope, no bullshit past. Vera, the valkyrie who basically gets adopted by one of the groups of protagonists, endured a tragic past (but one that’s only tragic in hindsight; she was happy all the years), but she’s not a symbol of women in fantasy–she is there for the reader, because an ignorant and naive character was necessary in order to drop some exposition.

George Martin knows nothing about any of this. He thinks “I need a strong woman character. So let’s have her start out as idealistic. Then she can get raped. Then she can rebuild herself, and then she’ll be strong!!!!11!!11!1one1!”

Game of Thrones is the glorification of everything ugly in humanity. It is an absolute debasement of the goodness of human beings and violates the most basic principle of literature that the human spirit must always endeavor. In Game of Thrones, the human spirit does not endeavor because it has never existed. It is an anomaly that might appear, quite by accident, here and there, before Martin gets in over his head and screws it all up because, frankly, he doesn’t know how to craft a story.

Martin destroyed the genre that I’ve loved my entire life. He cheapened it and attempted to add in the sex and violence that were needed to pull it from the grave, and he did so in the most tasteless, and classless way possible. He is not interested in good storytelling. If you want good storytelling, read or watch Pillars of the Earth. Seriously–it will show you exactly what good storytelling looks like. If you want smut, read or watch Game of Thrones.

And yes. I’d put the quality of my storytelling against Martin’s any day of the week. As long as the judges aren’t people who beat off to Cannibal Holocaust.

Everything has been said before
Nothing left to say anymore
When it’s all the same, you can
Ask for it by name.
Babble, babble,
Bitch, bitch
Rebel, rebel,
Party, Party,
Sex, sex, sex,
And don’t forget the violence.
Blah, blah, blah, got your
Lovey dovey sad and lonely
Stick your stupid slogan in,
Everybody sing along.”

The Golden Age of Grotesque, indeed. Nothing encapsulates that as much as Game of Thrones.