Archive for Table for One

Straddling several lines

In Vent #1120, I tossed out some ideas about possible adjustments to one’s presumed desirability, and how this could be done through body modifications. At some point, I said:

Novelist Francis W. Porretto has a series of stories in which a small percentage of proper biological females somehow emerge from the womb with boyparts.

FWP sent me a long, detailed response; I incorporate sections of it here, along with my reactions, mostly because his ISP’s spam filters suck out loud.

[F]ew persons are aware that there’s a significant sex trade in “tgirls,” largely centered in the Indochinese and Asian Archipelagan countries. Large amounts of money, and a number of charter flights per year, are put to that purpose. It has an outcropping here in North America as well, though much smaller than the mass it’s acquired in Thailand and the Philippines.

I was generally aware of the Southeast Asian market, though I’m pretty sure I’ve been underestimating the size of it. Photos of “ladyboys” are easily come by in the States; as is the case with born women, some are quite lovely, others, um, less so.

Here in the U.S., transsexualism is currently “faddish,” but as I’m sure you’re aware it’s been going on for several decades. The current foofaurauw over it tends to occlude its lineage. Transsexuals who transitioned prior to the emergence of the sociopolitical contretemps have generally lived very private lives; they haven’t gone looking for publicity, if we omit a few exceptional cases such as Tula Cossey and Andrija Pejic. The ones I know — two transwomen — are unhappy about the current state of things. They would like to see a return to discretion and an ethic of personal privacy.

I’m figuring one of them is Blaire White, whom I’ve been following for some time. She takes no crap from those who would set themselves up as Trans HQ. One I follow is Meghan Chavalier, who was active in the porn industry around the turn of the century but has since retired. Her politics and mine are more or less diametrically opposed, but while she describes herself as an “LGBTQ activist,” there’s little to distinguish her Twitter feed from Kirsten Gillibrand’s, though admittedly I have no photos of the Senator with a candy cane dangling from her phallus.

The stories and novels in my Futanari Saga are attempts to explore the transsexualism phenomenon as if it could be divorced from its faddishness and its political components. They’re almost entirely sexual-behavior free. My focus is on the difficulties such persons must face: both the born futanari and the transwomen who elect that state of their own free wills. Like any human being, they seek acceptance, respect, and love. Those things are hard enough for us regularly configured types to find. When one’s coupling gear is nonstandard…?

Sex scenes can be, and too often are, amazingly tedious, and changing the hardware specs won’t make a bad scene less bad.

Oh, and one of those two trans women I admitted to knowing well is a Second Amendment hardliner; she runs a nonprofit called Operation Blazing Sword, which began after a massacre in a Florida gay bar. Their function: to offer training in self-defense to the various letters in the LGBTQ community who have figured out that they can’t count on the authorities to protect them in their time of need. She’s fun to talk to.

Addendum: The very first photograph I ever saw along these lines was back in 1996, with a nude couple strolling the beach. I noted with amusement at the time that her dingus was larger than his. Eventually it dawned on me that it had to be a fake: protrusions notwithstanding, their pubes, when blown up several sizes, proved to be utterly identical.

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You got to use what you got

In the sexual arena, this isn’t as true as it used to be. I think. These days, I can’t be sure.

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Shortcut to her heart

The last time it occurred to me to utter excessive kindnesses to a woman waiting tables — at least one “Will you marry me?” came up — I was about twenty years younger. (I suspect she was twenty years younger than that, but I can’t be sure.) Nothing came of it, of course. But were I less decrepit and the circumstances otherwise favorable, I can see trying this:

The only bit that comes close, I think, is Tristan Prettyman’s pickup line in “The Rebound”: “I lost my number. Can I have yours?”

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Llamacorns!

As you might have guessed, they’re half llama and half unicorn:

(Apparently those unicorns get around; I’ve also seen pandacorns and kitticorns and pugcorns). So I decided to get one. Because they were pink and have sparkly hooves.

Not totally set on the name but am leaning towards either Sparkle or Twinkle.

On an unrelated (but sparkly) note, my psychiatrist, an utterly lovely woman who finds me occasionally incomprehensible, was trying to focus me on retirement, and she asked: “So what are you going to do in your twilight years?”

The regular reader knows what happened next. Over the next twenty minutes, she got the functional equivalent of an audiobook version of The Sparkle Chronicles. She praised my storytelling ability, but I suspect that she thinks I crammed all my romantic notions into a single novella so I wouldn’t have to deal with them in real life.

Which is, of course, true.

Oh, you wanted a Twinkle reference? Will do:

Twinkle’s two biggest hits, “Terry” and “Golden Lights,” did next to no business in the States, but were big in England, despite a BBC ban on “Terry,” a teenage-death song along the lines of “Leader of the Pack.” She died in 2015, felled by liver cancer.

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Absolute zero in real life

And deservedly so: How can I get a list of all those ladies, known and unknown, who fantasize about me? I am a 38-year-old attractive, athletic male.

Had there been any in the first place, they’d have bailed on him the moment they read that.

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The elevator stops here

Earlier this week, I tossed out this reference to a past experience:

And yes, I’ve been turned down for lack of height — and I was about 6’1″ back then. It would never have occurred to me to take it personally.

If you’re keeping score, this happened in the summer of 2005. The lady in question pushed just about all of my vast array of WANT buttons, but it wasn’t happening: she was quietly insistent about wanting someone she could look up to, and the one-inch height differential between us was insufficient to trip some of her WANT buttons. I thrive on rejection, so I accepted the situation, and then we went off to dinner. (Yes, “we.”) And eventually she met someone who did push those buttons, they were wed, and they lived happily ever after.

Then there’s the exact inverse of accepting the situation:

And there was another thing making the rounds — I am not going to link the video at all, because frankly I found it upsetting to watch and I don’t want to subject y’all to it — but of a man who was apparently upset because someone turned him down because he was short? Or who had said in her dating profile she preferred taller men? I don’t really know because I couldn’t get past the angry tone of voice and the f-bombs he was dropping. And he was doing it in a bagel place, right out in public.

And okay, this is where I admit I’m a bit of a coward (or maybe prudent, hard to tell these days): If I were somewhere like that and someone started screaming and ranting and giving “F-yous” and the like … I’d nope out of there. Even if I’d paid for food already and hadn’t got it yet. Even if it was a grocery store and I was leaving the food I needed to buy and I’d either have to go back later, or go hungry. Because I never know how to interpret anger. When I hear someone using a particular tone of voice and hurling “F yous,” I’m afraid that fists will be the next thing thrown. Or worse. And I remember reading some security expert (this was at a time when people were more fearful of things like terrorist bombings than now; that fear seems to have died down a little) making the comment of “don’t go to places that are stupid.” Meaning, don’t go places with large crowds that could potentially turn fight-y, don’t go places that seem like a “soft target” if you can avoid them. And also the idea of “leave a place if it becomes stupid” and I think my noping out of a restaurant or bookstore or whatever if someone starts raging on a curse-filled rant is the definition of a place becoming stupid.

Somewhere in the weird in-between with Then at one end and Now at the other, I caught a glimpse of that young lady’s dating profile, which listed her as five foot eleven. This, I reasoned, was something of a concession to Dating Reality; she was clearly five foot twelve.

But she never once backed off from her admittedly somewhat idealized preferences, which I consider a Good Thing: one of the worst things you can do to yourself — and, inevitably, to someone else — is to take whatever comes along and hope for the best.

A decade or so later, I had the unsettling experience of watching someone actually say goodbye, though not for height reasons. I’d known for a while, and I’d almost persuaded myself that this was the best of all possible outcomes. Still, with time running out and the door too close at hand, I put up the old Hail Mary: “Did I mention that I love you?”

She, too, eventually found the one she was looking for. Which was, by any reasonable definition, the best of all possible outcomes.

And as for that dwarf in the not-to-be-linked video? He’ll never live down being an asshat.

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But we’re so in love

That’s the claim, anyway:

More than you wanted to know:

This can’t possibly end well.

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Keeping up appearances

Guys will say with a straight face that they really don’t like all that makeup on a woman.

They lie through their Dorito-stained teeth.

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Beautiful bodhisattva

We open, as we often do, with a Wikipedia passage:

The Dalai Lama figure is important for many reasons. Since the time of the 5th Dalai Lama in the 17th century, his personage has always been a symbol of unification of the state of Tibet, where he has represented Buddhist values and traditions. The Dalai Lama was an important figure of the Geluk tradition, which was politically and numerically dominant in Central Tibet, but his religious authority went beyond sectarian boundaries. While he had no formal or institutional role in any of the religious traditions, which were headed by their own high lamas, he was a unifying symbol of the Tibetan state, representing Buddhist values and traditions above any specific school. The traditional function of the Dalai Lama as an ecumenical figure, holding together disparate religious and regional groups, has been taken up by the present fourteenth Dalai Lama. He has worked to overcome sectarian and other divisions in the exiled community and has become a symbol of Tibetan nationhood for Tibetans both in Tibet and in exile.

He knows from exile; he fled Tibet during the 1959 uprisings, and settled in India. As his 84th birthday approaches (next month), he has no doubt given some thought to his successor, the fifteenth Dalai Lama, who presumably would carry on his work. And there’s this:

“If female Dalai Lama comes, then [she] should be more attractive,” he said with a laugh.

I think I’ve just been handed a reason to vote for Marianne Williamson.

(Via Ed Driscoll, who quipped: “I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of ‘Free Tibet’ bumper stickers suddenly cried out in terror as they were scraped off of Subaru Outbacks.”)

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I beg your Parton

She dumped him because he’s a frigging moron: My girlfriend sang the song “I Will Always Love You” to me last year. She broke up with me yesterday. Can I sue her for breach of contract?

There are hints in the thread that he’s underage anyway, but that doesn’t affect his moron status in the least.

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When we actually had home economics

You couldn’t sell this film to a school today; you’d be violating the standards of individuality that everyone observes whether they ought to or not.

My mom was 18 in 1946, and she had, according to contemporary photos, exactly the same hair as Mrs Stuyvesant.

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In stereo where available

This is perhaps a little jolting to watch: a trans woman who, having learned the techniques that go into sounding feminine, offers advice to trans men who don’t want to sound like girls.

Perhaps there’s an element of cynicism here, but I submit that it’s easier to become “passable,” and yes, I hate that word, if you sound something like the way you look. That said, there’s something fascinating about being able to deliver mixed messages, or straightforward messages at odd angles. I remember a clip of porn star Bailey Jay in conversation with someone, and she threw me for a loop when she said “I have a penis” in purest Valley Girl uptalk intonation.

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Renewing the world’s oldest profession

I’m reasonably certain no one is actually surprised by this:

Apps like Facebook and Tinder are fuelling the “soaring industry” of online prostitution and sexual exploitation, according to a worldwide study published by a French anti-prostitution group on Tuesday.

Prostitution has moved “from the street to the Internet,” where pimps recruit young girls via Snapchat and Instagram before prostituting them in apartments rented on Airbnb, said anti-prostitution group Fondation Scelles.

“Here’s the DUH! statement: every time technology improves, one of the first beneficiaries is nookie. Always.” — Kim du Toit, last week.

“Shopping, sex, and shopping for sex propel all new technology.” — Penn Jillette, early 1990s.

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Lots of sex where he’s going

And if he doesn’t like it, well, tough noogies:

In January 2018, Christopher Wayne Cleary of Denver posted a disturbing message to his Facebook page:

“All I wanted was a girlfriend, not 1000 not a bunch of hoes not money none of that. All I wanted was to be loved, yet no one cares about me I’m 27 years old and I’ve never had a girlfriend before and Im still a virgin, this is why I’m planning on shooting up a public place soon and being the next mass shooter cause I’m ready to die and all the girls the turned me down is going to make it right by killing as many girls as I see.”

Cleary already had an extensive history of cyberstalking. His Facebook threat was reminiscent of “incel” (involuntary celibate) killer Elliot Rodger. Last month, Cleary was sentenced to prison.

In fact, the little prick seemed to spend all his spare time issuing threats:

Among the complaints against Cleary in Colorado were reports that he threatened to bomb a grocery store in 2013 after an employee refused to cash his check; that he threatened to slit the throat of a Denver city employee after his car was towed; and that he threatened a mass shooting at a mental health facility during a 2016 phone call.

Apparently he never did figure out that being a douche does not mean you automatically gain proximity to a vagina.

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Nice backend there

Being the analytical soul that he is, Francis W. Porretto points to a plausible enhancement to today’s rather rudimentary teledildonics:

I predict the emergence of a new industry: the sex worker behind the sexbot. Such positions could be extremely remunerative, though obviously they would demand a certain kind of personality … and the ability to multiplex conversations (and shopping trips) among many [customers] simultaneously, as a one worker per sexbot ratio would be cost-prohibitive. The preferred applicant would be sexually knowledgeable although not necessarily deeply or widely experienced, would possess a convincing female personality, and would be just as incapable as a typical young woman of saying exactly what she means.

Hm. It seems the personality behind the sexbot would have to be a young woman (or a really weird guy). Well, at least she wouldn’t have to do the “icky part,” which, after all, is the reason sexbots have been developed. So young women of America: get into training! As there will surely be intense competition for these new, demanding, but probably highly lucrative positions, prepare yourselves early for your place in this new and challenging field. Among the spinoff benefits, that way you won’t need to maintain your figure or develop expertise at any other positions. That part, we can confidently leave to the engineers.

First thought: Would these, um, assistants have to work in a so-called “clean room”?

Second thought: How hard would it be to implement a system of, um, hot-swappable appendages and such? I have to figure that some customers will have wilder imaginations than others.

Side thought: In my pony story The way she used to be, there’s a scene in which it’s revealed, far outside canon of course, that changelings, being the world-class shape-shifters that they are, might make a living on the seamier side of Equestrian cities by assuming exactly the appearance the customer might desire. (Our protagonist is no angel, but he gives the idea a hard pass.)

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Swipe this, pal

Have you seen a profile like this before? Of course you have:

If you don't match then it's a deal breaker

And there’s going to be some question in your mind as to whether she stands half a chance of finding someone:

Richard Cooper called attention to this woman’s online dating profile: A 22-year-old unmarried mother who demands that any guy who contacts her must be 6-foot-3 with “stable housing and income — open to the idea of marriage — intelligent,” etc. Beggars can’t be choosers, ma’am.

The average height of U.S. males is 5-foot-9. At 5-foot-11, a man is in the top 25%, at 6 feet, he’s in the top 10%. The man who is 6-foot-3 is taller than 99% of men in the United States.

Thus, the woman begins by eliminating 99% of all males from her search, and then adds numerous other qualifiers, as if such men are so numerous that they’ll be lining up for the opportunity to date this not-very-attractive woman who, by the way, has another man’s child in tow.

I’m a U.S. male, ’cause I was born right beside a Great Lake on an autumn morn, and before shrinkage started setting in, I was a legitimate six-footer, with maybe a few millimeters to spare. For the record, only once has a woman told me she was looking for someone at least 6-foot-3, and she was a legitimate six-footer, with maybe a few millimeters to spare. (Let the record show that she found the guy, that they were subsequently wed, and that they now have two kids.)

As for those choosy beggars, well, Amy Winehouse has their number:

Boy, do we need her now.

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No more, Mister Nice Guy

Where are the nice guys, anyway? “Over there, in seventh place,” said Leo Durocher, and in those days there were only eight teams in each league. The fact that this location is also correct outside of baseball, we’re not supposed to think about:

Every observant man knows that there is a yawning chasm between (a) what women say they value most in a man and (b) the kind of man women actually go for. Listen to what women say, and you’d think they are magnetically attracted to “sensitive” guys. Watch what women actually do, and you can see that women obviously don’t actually care about “sensitivity.” Women want men who are tall and muscular and, ceteris parabus, rich, although no amount of money is going to make a short chubby guy sexy. As for the claim that women go for “sensitive” guys, anyone with two eyes and a brain knows this is nonsense. You don’t see throngs of lovestruck college girls chasing after guys who major in sociology or English literature (unless, of course, these guys are also tall, muscular and rich). No, it’s the jocks and frat boys who get the best action on campus, and if you pay attention to the choices women make, you’ll begin to suspect that their professed preference for “sensitive” men is the exact opposite of truth. That girl who was lecturing you about your need to be more “sensitive” will, with surprising regularity, end up falling head-over-heels for some selfish creep or dimwit brute who can’t even spell the word “sensitivity.”

There’s a small but measurable chance that I retain some vestigial quantity of sensitivity. However, it is also a matter of record that my prime — okay, subprime — dating years were also the years during which I maxed out my Douche Card. Whether this data point supports this premise, I couldn’t say, inasmuch as I never quite understood why anyone would look my way in the first place. My jock and/or frat-boy credentials, you may be certain, are minimal at best.

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Mama don’t allow

Some people fantasize about the damnedest things:

There is a general push in our culture to accept pornography as a part of a healthy sex life, and there can be harsh opposition to anyone who sees porn for the relationship harmer that it is. Considering that one survey revealed 60% of students in the UK turn to porn to learn about sex and that porn is known to affect and even change sexual tastes, the content of the pornography maybe should be something that the public cares a little bit more about.

Producers of the stuff have long since given up on what George Carlin called “man on top, get it over with quick”, and some of their current tropes are just slightly bizarre. For instance:

Though incest is not taken lightly when it occurs in real life, in pornography, it is among the most popular categories.

In a survey of the most female roles in film titles, “MILF” was number two, “Daughter” was number six, and “Sister” was number 10. Sex with family members is seen as a “kink” of sorts in porn, with the taboo surrounding it making it all the more tantalizing for the porn industry to exploit to no end. Though the incest displayed is fake (“fauxcest”), the concept remains the same.

This one in particular perplexes me, since there have been several gestures toward normalizing incest in recent years:

In an article titled “This Is What It’s Like to Fall In Love With Your Brother,” Cosmo recounts the tale of the troubled “Melissa,” a woman who didn’t know she had a brother for 40 years, until one day she learned she did.

I’ll keep the story short here so you don’t have to read it, but the gist of the article is that Melissa was so attracted to her brother, Brian, and he to her when they first met, that they ended up having sex after one drink. Both were apparently married at the time.

Brian left his wife, and Melissa is still married to her husband — apparently, her husband is okay with her sleeping around — though she says her heart is with her brother. According to Melissa, the end goal is eventually to move in together, and marry.

Which ought to be enough. But no, today you must double down on your vices:

It doesn’t stop there. Cosmo tries to normalize this with science by trying to pass their incest off as a perfectly natural phenomenon called “genetic sexual attraction.”

One wonders if there are prerequisites for buying into this shtick. I’m guessing some of us are immune to it: younger sister and I had no particular qualms about being naked in each other’s presence, but never once did either of us get touchy-feely with it.

A small core of amateur porn writers occupy a corner of Quora, and this is a common theme among them, though truly, I find their stories less plausible than those in the old Penthouse Forum, which were almost entirely fabricated.

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Hit the road, Jill

“Adventurous,” says Stephanie, “is the new pretty,” and she’s prepared to prove it to you:

I guess I’ve never worried that I’m too short (5′ 1½” + heels), or too brunette, or too whatever to be beautiful. This is mostly because I’ve assumed that my bubbly personality, strengths in leadership, and a heart bigger than my butt is what makes me attractive. I don’t feel intimidated by women who look Photoshopped because I’m too busy being inspired by women who climb mountains, start businesses, and are billboard examples of how to treat others.

This piece has been sitting around for four years or so; it’s time I did something with it.

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You have to really want it bad

Oh, all right. “You have to really want it badly.” That better?

Anyway, this is supposed to be a Really Good Thing:

With consent at the forefront of modern conversations about sex, one company is highlighting its importance in a unique way. Argentinian company Tulipán has created a “consent condom” that requires four hands to be opened, intending to raise awareness about consent in the bedroom.

“If they don’t say yes, it means no,” the tagline on a video demonstration says. “Consent is the most important thing in sex.”

Spoken like a true 19-year-old virgin.

Now it should be obvious that the sort of asshat who is blithely unconcerned about consent is even more blithely unconcerned about condoms; it seems unlikely that this product’s message will be heeded in those quarters.

Members of the Anti-Spontaneity League duly clapped on cue.

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This old man, he played none

As opposed to some others we could name, who possibly never stopped playing:

To accuse an old man of making an “unwanted sexual advance” is redundant, because any sexual advance made by an old man is “unwanted.” The number of people — male or female — who want to have sex with David Boren is exactly zero. Certainly there was no reason for him to imagine that his sexual advances toward a 21-year-old college boy would be welcome. Rumors about Boren’s sexuality have circulated for decades; during his 1978 Senate campaign, he quite literally swore on a Bible that he was not gay. This latest accusation is perhaps not completely surprising, and the question is whether it will trigger a #MeToo avalanche of accusations by other men with whom Boren has been intimate, “unwanted” or otherwise. And I suppose some people will blame this situation on “homophobia,” arguing that if it weren’t for the repressive and intolerant forces of hate, David Boren never would have been forced to conceal his attraction to men, blah blah blah.

Except that’s actually irrelevant. Society never forced Joe Biden to conceal his heterosexuality, and yet Biden is now having a #MeToo moment because he was too stupid to realize that the number of women who want to be groped by an old politician is exactly zero. And having seen photos of David Boren in the 1970s, I’m not sure that anyone — male or female — ever found him sexually attractive. Maybe when Boren was in his 20s or 30s, he could have scored with a college guy, but probably not. However, if he did, it would have been easy for Boren to keep it secret, because no guy would ever want to admit that publicly.

There was a brief discussion on Twitter yesterday about some article or other that described Biden as “touchy,” which to normal people means “the equilibrium of the apple cart is constantly threatened.” Perhaps they meant “handsy.”

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Hardware adjustments required

This Quoran is quacked up: Can I be legally identified as a female to lower my car insurance rates?

I was going to mutter something untoward about genitalia, but fortunately, an actual insurance agent beat me to the punch:

If you are a man, asking that if you put down that you are a female, could you get rated as a woman? Possibly, but if you then have an accident, the company will probably say FRAUD, and not pay you for your claim (won’t stop them from paying the other party if you were guilty) until you paid them all of the BACK PREMIUMS.

I say possibly, because for instance, if you give me a Florida Driver’s license number, without the name of the driver, I CAN TELL WHETHER YOU ARE MALE OR FEMALE. A typical Florida License # looks like this X123–456–78–901–0. That 901 section tells me your Birthday AND whether you are Male or Female. Men’s birth dates are from 001 to 499 and Women’s birth dates run between 501 & 999.

So there is an EXCELLENT likelihood, that you won’t get away with it. OH, and when your Driver’s License Record comes in saying Gregory not Georgia, it might also tip off the insurance company.

Something fake-ID users in Florida need to consider, I guess. And now I’m curious, inasmuch as I have a real-life trans woman friend in Florida, and … never mind, we shouldn’t go there.

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Flirting

I have long suspected that everyone’s definition is just a little bit different — and I’m not entirely sure I have one at all. Perhaps it’s just as well.

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I can’t get no

Whatever “progress” we’re making otherwise, true intimacy seems to be getting farther and farther away:

The tech-savvy children of modernity clearly have problems relating to the opposite sex, a phenomenon traced in part due to their immersion on social media and access to internet porn. As social media becomes increasingly pervasive, and algorithms more sophisticated, more people appear to be exchanging human contact for that of a machine. According to Amazon, half of the conversations with the company’s smart-home device Alexa are of non-utilitarian nature — groans about life, jokes, existential questions. The Institute for Creative Technologies suggests that people are less scared about self-disclosure when they believe they’re interacting with a virtual person, rather than a real one. “By 2022, it’s possible that your personal device will know more about your emotional state than your own family,” suggests Annette Zimmermann, research vice-president at the consulting company Gartner.

Am I the only one perturbed by the idea that Amazon is keeping track of these things?

Those who grew up in the shadow of Paul Ehrlich’s “population bomb,” or amidst the wanton sexuality of the 1960s and 1970s, now confront an unimaginable future. There may be some good out of these trends — for the environment, reducing abuse of women and the threat of mass unemployment. But in the end the prospect of an ever more sexless, and family free, world seems a grim one, and slightly less than human.

Glenn Reynolds comments:

Well, machines get better every year. People are not showing similar rates of improvement. Indeed, there’s a good argument that the same society that’s giving us better machines is giving us worse people. And Ehrlich’s book was a lie, and an immensely destructive one.

Fortunately for Ehrlich and his assigns and heirs, Americans will always honor prophets of doom, so long as they’re not overtly Christian.

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Japan has incels

Only more so: not only do these fellows not date, sometimes they never leave their bedrooms.

At least there’s the chance of a happy ending.

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Tick-toxic

Erin Palette has posted six points which seem like they ought to be obvious:

Toxic masculinity does exist, although it’s nowhere near as pervasive nor as powerful as people think.

Toxic femininity also exists, and in greater concentrations than people are willing to admit. I’m prepared to argue this, just not here and now.

The existence of toxic masculinity does not mean that all masculinity is toxic and all men are abusers unless they prove otherwise.

The existence of toxic femininity does not mean that all femininity is toxic and all women are manipulative unless they prove otherwise.

Masculinity and femininity are gender expressions which exist outside of biological sex. It’s not only possible to for a man to be very feminine or a woman to be very masculine, I guarantee that you’ve met at least one of them in your lifetime.

So basically, “People can be toxic — which ought to come as no surprise to anyone — and how they express their toxicity is part of their gender expression.”

Britney Spears, at least, will tell you that toxicity is not necessarily a bad thing.

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The buck stopped there

I mean, this can get you in serious trouble:

Game warden Cannon Harrison probably wasn’t expecting to make his latest bust on a dating app. But that’s what happened after he matched with an Oklahoma woman on Bumble.

As they struck up an online conversation, the woman immediately shared that she had just killed a “bigo” buck — “obviously not knowing Cannon is a game warden,” wrote the Oklahoma Game Wardens in a Facebook post.

Uh-oh.

Harrison asked if she had shot the deer with a bow, as bow hunting is still legal in Oklahoma through mid-January. She said she didn’t want to discuss that, but Harrison innocently pressed further, prompting his match to reveal the details. She shared with him the location where she killed the deer and sent him several photos of the dead animal, including one in which she can be seen holding up its antlers.

In the process, the woman, whose name was not released, revealed to Harrison that she had committed two illegal acts — shooting the deer with a rifle outside of rifle season and using a spotlight at night to help her shoot the deer.

And from there, it got worse:

Oklahoma Game Wardens went to the property the next day. Further investigation showed the woman had committed a third illegal act — harvesting only the head and back-strap meat of the animal. The woman and an accomplice pleaded guilty and paid $2,400 in fines, according to the Tulsa World.

A “romantically challenged poacher,” quipped Peter Grant.

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Who else is there?

It is necessary not to take things like this too seriously, lest one become despondent:

And if not despondent, perhaps “enraged” will apply.

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I know the feeling

Tony LaHood admits to something I could admit to, but won’t:

I am an idiot in any situation involving a woman. One hundred percent of the time, I will follow a great pair of legs into hell (or a Mercedes dealership, as the case may be) with both eyes open.

Then again:

It doesn’t happen too often, but when it does, I get to teeter on the edge of sanity for just a few moments and contemplate things that can’t possibly be, before the real world reasserts itself and gives me a dope-slap.

And, well, the circumstances were right: a sunnyish (for March) afternoon, traffic crawling at 25 mph, and in front of me, a beautiful (this is my delusion, and I say she’s beautiful, so back off) blonde in a Benz.

Not just any Benz, either; this was the SL55 AMG in Arrest Me Red, the first one of these I’ve seen in the city, and for a moment I had a flash of “Am I even allowed to drive around here?”

After about two blocks, I’d gotten to the point where we’d negotiated the prenup, and after two blocks more, we were flying to Stuttgart to pick up some AMG accessories Mercedes had unaccountably forgotten to include in the car’s $124,020 price.

She veered off after half a mile, which at 25 mph takes longer than you’d think, and I wound up a few blocks later inhaling the diesel fumes from a Metro Transit bus. Back to reality.

It always ends that way.

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She has a roof over her head

Which is better odds than you get with him:

A new report by the online loan marketplace LendingTree has found that single women own far more homes than their male counterparts. The study revealed that in the nation’s 50 largest metropolitan areas, single women are almost twice as likely to be homeowners as single men. Single women in New Orleans, for example, own 27 percent of all homes compared to only 15 percent for single men. Multiple cities boasted disparities of over 10 percent. Interestingly, there were no cities in which single men outpaced single women.

And if you know lots of single guys, you’re already nodding your head.

The decision to marry and have children has a profound impact on earnings. Though the average man makes more than the average woman, the disparity is reversed when looking at unmarried women versus unmarried men. Based on data compiled from 2,000 urban communities, one study found that the median salary for young, unmarried, childless women is about 8 percent higher than men with the same characteristics. Other cities experienced pay gaps in the double digits, sometimes reaching as high as 20 percent. Further research has shown that unmarried college-educated women between the ages of 40 and 64 earn an average of 17.5 percent more than their male peers.

And probably a better credit risk, I suspect, having spent rather a lot of time at the wrong end of FICO.

(Via Stephen Green.)

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