Hairy is not an option: attraction and revulsion

First, an excerpt from Travels with a Ladyboy, for your entertainment. We’ll get to the hairy down the page.

Christmas Karaoke

It’s Christmas Eve and we have come to a friend’s party in Ipil-Ipil. Much against my desire and better judgement I have funded the videoke machine, which lurks in the corner like a castrated Dalek — and is the more malevolent for its fate. This is blasting out at deafening volume, which is, I suppose, justified. It has to be that loud to drown out the neighbours on either side, whose own machines are threatening to trigger tsunamis.

There are eight adults in the company and I reflect that we make an interesting cross-section. Renz and Joanna are our hosts. He is a tricycle pilot and she is a housewife, but, technically, she’s actually his mistress, although they live as a couple. He already has a wife and three children that he supports. Occasionally Joanna works in a bar for extra money, but she has just had a baby — her first with Renz — and is fully occupied as a mother. Joanna is genuinely beautiful and is doing a remarkably sexy Filipina-Earth-Mother thing, her body still a little plump and luxurious from carrying her child.

Anti-clockwise next, me and Sam. I’m a natal man, heterosexual; Sam is a transwoman, though she calls herself a ladyboy. I get a bit annoyed at uppity Western mouthpiece SJWs saying ladyboys can’t call themselves that, by the way. Funny that it always seems to be the USican SJW types who engage in this particular cultural imperialism. They’ll be bombing us for it next; which would be funny were it not the standard USican response to any disagreement with their edicts, never mind the sheer irony.

To our left are Joyce and Ryan. Joyce is a pretty natal woman, mother to two of the urchins who are scampering about the shadows of the yard. Her partner, Ryan, is a transman. They’ve known each other since school, although obviously, Joyce has had other liaisons. I don’t know how the kids came about. This is not because I am reticent about asking or that she would be bashful; it’s just that I know that these stories can take an hour in the telling and we’d need a quiet spot. There is nowhere quiet within a lang Scots mile of here. The entire subdivision is jumping.

Opposite us, separated by a table groaning under the weight of food — enough to feed three times our number — are Tita Brian and a pretty youth called Kev. Tita — it means ‘auntie’ — is a feminine homosexual, thirty-five years old. He has already told me that he is a ‘woman inside’ and he only appears as a man because he is the public face of the family business, a chain of convenience stores. This afternoon, Sam permed his eyelashes with a special kit; they both look like surprised Barbies. He and Kev are causing some ribald hilarity, which involves frequent use of the words ‘bakla’, ‘pwet’ and ‘titi’. Since these mean ‘gay’, ‘anus’ and ‘cock’ respectively, I can guess what this is about, but I ask Sam for help anyway.

She doesn’t have to whisper; over the roar of the videoke, she has to shout. ‘Kev is Tita’s new boyfriend,’ she explains. ‘Third date.’ She raises an eyebrow and I nod.

‘So, Kev’s getting it tonight.’

Sam squeals with delight — she’s already a bit tipsy, Joanna has been surreptitiously feeding her and Joyce with extra shots of Red Horse to liven the party up — and her eyes are gleeful. ‘Yes, his first time too. Tita’s going to take his virginity.’

I look over at Kev, who is playing with his phone languidly and being decidedly coquettish. ‘How old is he?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘I’m amazed he waited so long.’ Remember, I know what they’re like around here.

Sam shakes her head. ‘It’s not so easy for them. Not like us.’ She flicks her hair with her hand. ‘Easy for a longhair, not for one of them. Not feminine enough.’

I know what Kev’s thinking, too. Every now and then, when he thinks Tita is engaged somewhere else, he gives me a longing look. It’s not just a ‘do you want me’ look, it’s ‘please want me.’ I am inured to it now; I’ve seen it hundreds of times, but it’s not my thing. He’s way too masculine, apart from the fact of me being attached to Sam and perfectly happy that way.

Dilemma

The point, however, is how this illustrates the dilemma of the short-hair bakla. Kev wants a real, masculine man to treat him like the woman he is, take him, destroy his virginity, make of him a woman. He’s probably been wanting that since he was ten, if other narratives are anything to go by. He must be absolutely gagging by now. But because of the way he presents, he can only date another feminine homosexual like himself.

Effectively, he has substituted Tita’s greater age for masculinity. There’s nothing about Tita that is anything but feminine, other than the superficial, though. He’s a woman, most decidedly, just like Kev is.

I don’t know why Kev hasn’t transitioned. His age is catching up but he still has time and with a decent hairdo and three months on the ‘mones, he would get by; I’ve seen far worse. Perhaps he comes from a rich family that has plans for him, or he is a student at a school where they don’t allow transition. So he will allow himself to be pedicated tonight by another feminine gay, in what will amount to a lesbian relationship, because the real thing is just not available to him.

It seems so unfair; I’ve met many of these boys now and they all do the same things. They brush against me, lean backwards in a queue so their buttocks are in my groin, put their hands on my arm, their touch as light as a child’s, press gently against me in a crowd, give me those smouldering, longing looks like the ones Kev’s been flashing at me all evening. They’re constantly fascinated by the front of my trousers. It’s clear what they want, as is the resentment they feel at not being able to get it.

Hairy legs

Once, years ago, I was dating — in between relationships, having as much fun as possible; and believe me when I tell you, a single man can have a lot of fun in Manila — when I was approached by a gay. A short-hair bakla, that is. He suggested meeting for coffee at a place near my condo so I couldn’t refuse. Jeff, he was called.

He said he was twenty-three but looked five years younger, round-faced with glasses. He was about five foot seven and very slender; short-sleeved shirt, tight jeans. Hair was floppy gay, not one of the radical styles, which helped to soften his features — though, to be honest, what he really needed was a decent shot of hormones. Despite that, with a bit of make-up, some hair gel and a dress he’d probably have passed. He was direct in his approach: ‘Can we go to your place?’ He hadn’t even touched the coffee.

I had to refuse. I just couldn’t, even trying my best to imagine him as a girl. I could not shake off the horror that he might possibly have hairy legs and a surreptitious glance at his ankles — he was wearing sandals — seemed to confirm that. Yeek! First impressions really count; this one was ‘no way’. I mean, what if it wasn’t just his legs that were hirsute? I mean, I have no objection at all to a cute hairy bush, but what if the hairiness extended around the back? There’s a place for hair, you know, and places it should not be.

Sexual attraction and sexual revulsion

Sexual attraction is only half the equation; sexual revulsion is the other half. I’m attracted to femininity but I’m also repulsed by masculinity. For the transsexual trick to work enough to get round that, the illusion has to be very good indeed, especially if she’s pre-op. It can’t be perfect because as soon as you get her drawers off, you have to deal with her cock — but that just means the rest has to be even better.

Jennifer Laude

This sheds light on what happened to poor Jennifer Laude. She was, tragically, murdered in the most savage manner by a US Marine on shore-leave, who thought she was a natal woman. He found out she wasn’t — presumably when he encountered her dick — and first beat her, then strangled her and finally drowned her in the toilet bowl (although he later claimed to have been trying to revive her with that; a likely story indeed.) Her killer was attracted to her femininity but repulsed by the fact of her penis. This caused sufficient Cognitive Dissonance for him to enter a Narcissistic Rage, probably aggravated by his alcohol consumption; he lost control and battered the unfortunate girl to death.

I would have been relaxed about her cock, as long as it wasn’t too gross and she had no plans to use it, but hairy legs I could not have countenanced — although I’d just have asked her to leave after perhaps a coffee or a no-hard-feelings drink. I should certainly have got her a taxi home; I wouldn’t have harmed her over it. Yet my reaction to hirsuteness and his to her cock are actually symptoms of the same thing, male revulsion at masculinity. For all I know, PFC Pemberton might have felt the same as I do about hairy legs.

End of Extract

And that, my friend, is why I have repurposed the above extract from my forthcoming book, provisionally titled ‘Travels with a Ladyboy’. Because today, in my morning trawl of the dailies, I came across a story that serves as a hook to hang this on.

Janu-hairy. Ugh.

It seems that the wealthiest, most privileged, most spoiled and loudest women in the world, USican ones, are so appallingly put on by the society that gave them everything they now have, that they have decided to create a month of protest, to be called ‘Janu-hairy’. They will stop shaving their body hair. No more depilation. Why? Because it is an unacceptable burden placed on them, apparently, by men.

Some hairy advice

I’ve had enough experience of these females over the last few years to be able to offer them some advice. First, you’re damn lucky any man would even want to look at you; so if you want fewer to, do please carry on. I realise that the nightmare death-cult of Feminism may have persuaded you that you’re not really a woman at all; that instead you are a species of man and, if men can be hirsute, then so should you. I get it, I really do. What about Minoxidil on your face to grow you a nice thick hairy beard? Or, hang it, get on testosterone and burn out your ovaries — you don’t intend to use ’em anyway. Hell, get under the knife, have your boobs and uterus cut out, a frankenprick installed and call yourself a ‘trans man’ — as if such a thing existed.

The hairy Queen of Sheba

Male revulsion at female hirsuteness is long-standing; it is not a modern thing. King Solomon, when he was visited by the Queen of Sheba, heard that she might be a demon. So he arranged for water to be spread before the steps that led to his throne; the Queen (Sheba was her country, not her name) delicately lifted her skirt to reveal her hairy legs, to the horror of all who saw, and the confirmation of the legend. This is by no means the only ancient reference to the repulsiveness of hairy women or to shaving being important for women in order to maximise the difference between them and men.

‘…in ancient Egypt, Greece, and Middle Eastern countries, removing body hair was important. In fact these women removed most of their body hair, except for the eyebrows. Egyptian women removed their head hair. Having hair down under was considered uncivilized.’

Women being hairy is actually a relatively recent, European phenomenon. It was only because most early immigrants to the USA were European that it became established there; but of course, that means it must be established everywhere, because America.

Contemporary feminism and its delusions

Contemporary feminism fundamentally believes that there are no differences between men and women; indeed, that even physical sex itself is a ‘social construct’. But there are such differences: sex and gender are real. Women exist for one purpose: to conceive, gestate, give birth to and nurture babies, just as men have but one: to impregnate them. Gender exists to attract men and women to each other, in order to make women pregnant, so they can perform their role as mothers. Smooth skin versus hairy skin are important gender indicators, feminine and masculine respectively.

We evolved a whole structure of social roles that maximise the potential for this arrangement to be successful and produce and nurture as many healthy young as possible. It’s likely this structure that saw off the Neanderthals, whom we know did not protect their women as modern humans do.

Modern feminism, which is just Communism with blue hair, no dress sense and a foul mouth, has persuaded women that they are not really women at all and so can dispense with all that messy, inconvenient childbearing nonsense and be men instead. So why not be as hairy as men?

How long do you think that can last? You really think, in your scandalous narcissism and ego-mania, that you can buck Evolution? Did it never occur to you that men might just decide to fuck nice cute non-hairy boys instead? Like they have done in dozens of civilisations for millennia? And what about transwomen — how long do you think you can stop men just saying, ‘Fuck it, I’ll ignore the dick, at least she doesn’t have ape-swatches down to her navel’? In case you hadn’t noticed, for your perennial perusal of your own hairy vagina, this is happening already.

China: a case in point

Which brings me to another story from this morning’s crop: China is now in crisis because of its ‘one child per couple’ laws, that have brought reproduction rates down to amongst the lowest in the world. Within 12 years, according to the report, the country’s population will be in decline. But far from being the boon that was once thought, this is catastrophe for its economy, which is already staggering under the burden of an ageing population. That is what happens when women stop having babies: their culture and society collapse.

But hell, just be hairy anyway

So please, go on, girls, forget shaving your legs. Why would any man want to be looking at a fat, blue-haired, entitled loudmouth whose resemblance to a woman is only taxonomic anyway? Feel free: make yourselves even more repulsive than you already are. It’s your right to be ugly as Auld Nick — and boy, are you succeeding. After all, if you stop having children, then, with a bit of luck, your type will die out and the rest of us can get back to being normal.

But don’t blame men when you are old and alone, starving in your garret on food stamps or the weekly dole, with only your cats for company. Dream instead of the grandmothers all over southeast Asia, their lives suffused with love and light, revered matriarchs, surrounded by the generations that they created — because they did not forget what they are, and the evolutionary role they play, in their jealousy and envy for the imagined ‘privileges’ of men. They know that women are privileged by this social system, not men, and they are not about to give it up.


Originally published at Rod Fleming’s World.