The Woman Question 5: LSD, Mind Control, The CIA

Or, simply, "What Women Want"

Sex

A young man comes to me asking about his girlfriend. I know exactly his position, I have lived through it.

You have fucked her “like in a porno”, in fact, you have fucked her better than one. Importantly, again. It was a little fun the first time when it was all novel, but now she wants to do it again and again.

Even if you have come far enough along the path to know that porn is evil, you can't help but make the comparison, because you grew up watching it. And this moment that was supposed to be ultimate victory and ecstasy, finally proving how big of a man you are, just leaves you feeling hollow. You have fucked her retarded, she is gasping and moaning like an animal, something less than animal, and you find to your surprise that instead of being turned on by it, you are revulsed. The fantasy came too close and s no longer at a safe distance, and you are overwhelmed by it - this was supposed to be your moment of victory, where you finally have value, and instead it appears the entire world has collapsed, and all systems that you derive meaning from, the entire symbolic order, are revealed as false. The one symbolic picture you have been chasing since you had your first erection, of total sexual value, is in your hands.

Is this what woman is? Is this what nature is? You thought nature was going to be sexy, but now when it finally here, you find it disgusting.

She doesn't arch and dance in pleasant shapes, but convulses randomly, she doesn't whisper seductively, but gasps and snorts like a pig.

Instead of being art, it’s merely work. Instead of ennobling and uplifting you, it is surprisingly degrading and humiliating, and you feel ashamed for feeling this - there must be something wrong with you, that you can’t appreciate this, right? You must be gay or some kind of failure of a man, that you don’t enjoy this.

You had expected to feel like a majestic lion standing proudly over it's slain prey, now instead you find yourself, a man. you have expected to be anointed, to be elevated, and now you find yourself disgraced and humiliated.

She has been fucked senseless, she acts brain damaged, to the point where you are genuinely concerned for her and worry you have hurt her.

If you don’t love the woman you do this to, I can only imagine that you go insane with grief.

Lord Vader, it appears that in your anger, you have make her orgasm solely by teasing her nipples for 15 minutes

My friend says he pulls out his phone to watch Instagram reels during sex. Every day I thank God I stopped having sex back when the worst thing people did was recording each other in secret.

He says he is worried that she is “catching on” to it, “when I push her head into the pillow”. I says to him I says, you fucking idiot, who do you think you’re fooling, of course she knows, you stupid idiot. You’re trying to get caught, and you’re dissapoitned that she thinks it’s fun. You were trying to provoke a response in her, a human response, you were trying to provoke her into acting like someone you could respect, and instead she created a sexual fantasy where she gets off on the idea of you being such a big incomprehensible sex dad, that you don’t even pay attention to her while you’re fucking. You idiot. You fool. You damned fool.

You thought you had to be Charles Manson for her, and now she thinks you want to be Charles Manson. And now you’re playing chicken.

The Fly

When I was maybe 16, I was back home from boarding school to housesit for my vacationing parents. My first girlfriend was visiting and we were fucking like rabbits.

We planned to go have sex outside, for the wicked thrill of it, because we were young and horny and the main thing that connected us was being perverts who wanted to “explore” and do weird sex stuff, but we told ourselves it was love. We packed a picnic.

I was obsessed with “pleasuring her”, because sexual validation was the only thing I had experienced in my young life, that felt like validation at all. It was the only source of meaning, the only thing that made me feel like I had a right to live.

Even though I'm no better than a beast, don't I deserve the right to live?

I was a broken, handicapped freak, I didn’t fit in, I was unloved and scary, a false man, an imposter. “Only when I give someone physical pleasure to the point of incoherence and full body spasms, do I have worth.”

She had had sex with one boy before me, in her words “just to get it over with”, with some guy she didn’t “love” or “was in love with”, which is representable of her attitude to these things. At the time it was the worst thing in my life, the most horrible thing I could think of. She would later provide a good deal of those for me.

In my head it was a terrible thing, that I, by being a good loving boyfriend, could save her from, a wound I could heal. By fucking her good and thereby making sure she loved me to the point of insanity.

She was a child of divorce. She lived with her mother, who was an utterly insane old spiteful woman. Her father was a pussy, who remarried another strong woman to walk all over him. He liked me. Her younger step sister flirted with me at the dinner table. She liked to eat salty potato chips with vanilla ice cream, and was embarrassed about it.

We went out through the forest, and in a small valley of open grassland, between a hill and the forest. It was deep summer, sunny, and humid. Miles away from other people, in the middle of nowhere. Naked in the sun, on a picnic blanket. I’ve since learned that in some places like America, couples can be so uncomfortable being naked with each other, that they unironically hide their genitals under blankets and such, when not actively participating in coitus, like they do in movies. We had no such pretentions. Having met at a co-ed boarding school, we had essentially jumped right from first kiss to living together. In some ways I think that was a good thing. We had a shot.

She became a proto-bluehair-freak later. Back then she was still human. Perhaps more so than I was.

When we broke up, and she fucked my best friend, before I learned that, she tried to get back together with me, asking me to take her back. She would presumably have been willing to live with that secret, because I only learned about it after I told her no. It was in fact the very next day after she had done so, that she came to ask me. Has anyone ever loved you enough to live with such a terrible burden? It's probably enough to turn someone insane, and shave their hair, and become a communist and a drug addict, out of guilt. Turn yourself ugly inside and out with tattoos and piercings and terrible experiences.

The whole thing was certainly enough to do that to me, several times over. I’ve been bald like 9 times. One time I bought a leather jacket, and took secret pleasure in fantasising about how I “probably looked like a skinhead” when I bought overpriced hash from my middle eastern psychopath pusher, who probably laughed all the way to the bank at me every time we met. Bank in this case being a casino where he burned all his drug money on slot machines, I shit you not.

Regardless this was all years in the future. For now we were young innocent lovers, more or less, enjoying edenic bliss, larping as adults, like two retarded monkeys stumbling on a human encampment in the jungle, looting it, and treating the most valuable gifts of human life like a plaything, the most precious medicines like a crude toy.

Obsessed with her physical pleasure, but still uncertain, I was hyper focused on her clitoris. At one such time, late in the day, when we were both sweaty and tired and sunburnt, I looked down at just the exact moment a huge, fat, country fly, the size of the tip of a human thumb, which had been swarming around us, landed exactly on her clitoris, and rubbed his little legs. And I was horrified.

Total death of the symbolic order. Total re-evaluation of all values. I have felt the presence of the much discussed on this blog near death entity of a great all consuming Nature, three times in my life. Once was in my near death experience. Another was on LSD while looking at a tree. The third was now.

She was embarrassed, flustered, and laughed. We both laughed, I think. At the weird absurdity, the sudden imposition of nature on our serene, sterile, pornographic fantasy space. But she laughed as if it was some small social faux pas, like she would be embarrassed about her childish ice cream potato chip eating, a minutia. While to me it was a profound symbolic apocalypse, a total destruction of the symbolic. Nature asserted itself and revealed itself infinitely greater than my symbols, the symbols I use to contain it.

It is in moments like these that you can be truly intimate with someone, if you dare. But it is not aesthetically pleasing. And you might be shocked to find that you react to true intimacy with disgust.

The question of how do we avoid becoming Charles Manson is forced on us, because it appears to us as clearly as a fat farmland fly on a clitoris, that women apparently want us to be Charles Manson. There is something terrifying in what women desire of us.

A dream

Last year I had a nightmare. I had met an aggressive man in a leather jacket and sunglasses at a bar, and he had tried to fight me over nothing. Unprovoked aggression, taking offence to me. We fight but I run away, because he is not sensible, he goes over the line, it’s a life and death fight not a play fight. As I escape, I happen to by dream logic end up in his home, where’s it’s night and perfect quiet. I am not being persued, but am perfectly safe to explore. I explore his house, to try to understand him. I discover a secret door behind a false wall, and enter into a horrible slave den, where he has imprisoned multiple women, who roll around naked in their own filth. They are malnourished and dying, and covered in shit. I am overwhelmed with otherworldly revulsion, and transcendental certainty that I must save them. There are no questions or argument or nuance, only this: “The human pigsty must not exist. It must be destroyed. This Must End.”

But when I grab one to free her from their chains, her arm crumples and breaks, like old paper. They are dry inside, bloodless. So fragile they turn to ashes at the touch. And they scream, like pigs, and they scream at me: “no, we want to live here and roll around in our own piss and shit”.

Charles Manson and mind control

I recently read Chaos, an investigative journalist’s decade long research into the Charles Manson case, in which he vaguely, circumstantially, links Charles Manson’s supposed hypnotism and manipulation of his followers to the CIA's mind control experiments.

I should clarify: formally mkultra is dosing someone with lsd and torturing them physically and mentally. Charles Manson dosed people with lsd and sodomised, tortured, and purposefully preached self destructive ego death nonsense at them in a suggestible state, and created a harem he used to pimp out to people for personal profit, but who were all deeply in love with him, presumably. There is no hard link or paper trail between the two, only conjectural connections and characters.

But more importantly than the factual states of who did what where and when, I think Charles Manson as a cultural symbol, is of great importance. The real mkultra isn’t just dosing someone with lsd and sodomising them, it’s making Manson a household name. The real mkultra isn’t torturing a couple of people into a state of compliance, it’s using the power of mass media to hypnotise the entire western world into thinking about Charles Manson and what it all means. The murders, sex and drugs are an insignificant micro level. It’s a tale as old as time: Mind control is nothing fancy or complex, but very ancient and very simple. It's the history of slavery and domestication - the breaking of the spirit.

Manson was a psychopath who used large doses of psychedelics combined with sex and torture, to break people. It's nothing fancy. The mind is not a computer and mind control is not installing a complex program into said computer. Mind control is just being tortured until you break, and cannot be put back together again.

I’m just gonna say, there doesn’t need to be a hard link to the CIA. It’s not rocket science. He probably just figured it out by instinct. But that’s not the real mkultra.

The real mis using the case to make a big media circus, that plays on the most primal fears of men and women. And today, living in a post-Manson world, even if you have never looked into it in any way, you are reeling in the aftereffects and cultural osmosis of it, to the extent that all men today at some point ask themselves: must I become Charles Manson, for a woman to love me? Even if you don’t even know his name. I didn’t know the first thing about it, until I read the book a couple of weeks ago, and look at the dreams I’m having dog. I’m out here manifesting.

Acid is a substance that burns, and mushrooms are an entity that eats, which is much the same thing. In consuming them we are engaging in a give and take - consume while being consumed, burn while being burned. Symbolically similar to the sexual union, or even just the kiss: I eat you while you eat me.

Manson was a sadist, a psychopath, a murderer, a torturer, a liar, a fraud, a false prophet, a satanist, a rapist, a pedophile, a sodomite, and a pederast - is this what Nature wants? Is this what Women want? Revolting.

Is that what I must become to be loved, a thing beyond love, something un-loveable? Must I be a liar and a fraud? Something wicked, beyond redemption? Evil? Can I only simulate a love she experiences in a stupor, a false hypnotic fata morgana, and only experience it vicariously through her, while I still now that it is a fakery? A Greek tragedy level bad deal.

My friend said, sex is like like she’s watching a movie, and I’m making the movie. Then he pulls out his phone and watches a movie, to take revenge on her, hoping to show her how much she hurts him. Then she enjoys it. Now THAT’s Chaos.

This is the fear that animates so much today. The much derided Internet gurus, their much derided blue haired enemies. You have fucked her into a state of hypnotic suggestion. Must you now become Manson? For her to love you? To be loyal and not betray you, and fuck your best friend? Do you have to have a harem and multiple wives, all mind controlled, to secure the loyalty of a single one, by showing her you have “high value” and is worth competing for? Is life a horrible nightmare?

No. You just need to have a talk with her and dare being naked together - dare being ugly and weak and wretched and exposed, and embrace each other. You just have to dare being naked in front of her without a flattering erection. Being Human, and not a symbol, or a pornographic fantasy. You have to look into her eyes while having sex in the missionary position, and not try to act out pornos. You have to actually want to be there, with her, and not just use her as a mere tool in some fantasy, or your own life story, or impressing your dad. All you have to do is actually want to have sex with her. And not use sex for some other reason you made up in your dumb head. It’s simple really.

The reason Manson became Charles Manson, is because he was a psychopath. You are not a psychopath. You don’t really have to worry about it. It’s fake.

It’s an irrational fear that was implanted in you culturally by the CIA, because a hypochondriac fearful population obsessed with sexual paranoia, doesn’t look into election results or assassinations. You fell for a demoralisation campaign, it happens to the best of us. Don’t worry about it. Life is full of beauty and wonder and love and trust. It’s all right there. The deep state just doesn’t want you to know this.