I’m sure many of you are aware of the men’s rights and “anti-misandry” movements. While it might seem like reasonable position to take (equality regardless of gender; recognising that men are also disadvantaged in certain social situations), the reality is that nearly every men’s rights group is filled with the kind of hateful misogynistic assholes that feminism was designed to combat. Take the Artistry Against Misandry group, for instance.
Welcome to the first pro-male artist activist network. Within these pages you will find music, poetry, prose, graphics, cartoons and additional links, all of which are here to a cathartic release to men who are bombarded with misandry in their daily lives. We bring attention to and counter institutional, as well as social misandry in Western society, and are highly critical of those who instigate and/or perpetuate fallacious male-bashing.
Like the popular social inference that men are inherently lesser beings, the backlash to it isn’t always cordial. Many of the artists here have suffered misandric injustices and we only hope you walk away with a better understanding of our plight.
What kind of cathartic release, you’re wondering? Well, this:
Comfort Girls is a self-published ebook by Rick Westlake. It details the revolt of men against the matriarchy (since, of course, the patriarchy is a myth). Once men have established control of the world, they set out to build a newer and better society… by teaching women their place and executing dissidents. The luckiest female criminals are turned into sex slaves, but it’s OK: naturally, they come to love their new role in society as the bad ideas are raped out of them.
This is really one of the worst things I’ve ever read. So, naturally, I had to share it with the rest of the internet.
Be warned that the ebook is very hard to read: Rick Westlake is not much of a writer, to put it nicely, and he loves writing about rape. I’ve cut out some of the text in these excerpts to highlight the best parts but I’ve otherwise left it true to the original. If you want to read the unabridged version, once again you can find it here.
So let’s start reading!
Linda Mayhugh stared out the narrow slit of the window at the grey scudding clouds, the streaming rain, the rough waters of the bay. Her hands clutched at her elbows, her thin shoulders trembling under the baggy orange prisoner’s jumpsuit. She stared and stared, conscious that this would be her last gaze at land and sky for years…
Maybe forever. She might die at Conshelf Station 6-D, a research and industrial outpost fifty kilometers offshore and a hundred meters deep. Why did men persist, insist, on going into such danger, even for the sake of the mineral riches they’d found on the lip of the Continental Shelf? Couldn’t they have let well enough alone, and worked to achieve the enlightened goals of the new woman President and her New World Order?
“New GIRL Order!” she remembered hearing some of those first rioters shout, in the beginning of the Misogynist Revolt. She thought she was massively lucky that night, managing to escape – she was a geneticist, not a politician, and her work on Project Y had been in the background. But when the Riots turned into open rebellion – and the police and the military threw in with the Misogynists – the Feminist State collapsed, and its hidden mechanisms of control were suddenly, almost instantly, unearthed and shattered and sterilized. And her key role in Project Y had earned her … what?
The bastards hadn’t even given her a proper trial, with a sympathetic judge and a jury of her peers. She had a military tribunal, and the hard-faced officers who heard the case had no patience for her fear and grief and pain. They had no appreciation for her skills, either, when they sentenced her to “ten years of penal servitude, in the Comfort Detachment of Continental Shelf Station 6-D…”
This is the opening of the novel. As we saw from the blurb, Linda was working on a genetic project to eradicate the Y Chromosome and kill all men (lol), thus freeing women from male tyranny forever. The irony of men using this as an excuse to force women into sexual slavery is completely lost on the author. It’s clear that we’re meant to see Linda as a whiny man-hating bitch with selfish views on the world, so I’m not sure why Rick leads with a description of how she has been inhumanely treated, unfairly sentenced, and has low prospects of surviving the next 10 years of imprisonment. It’s possible he thinks that this is how the justice system should work.
The door closed behind her. It had no inner handle. No doubt she was under watch in here, and they would burst in if she did “anything stupid.” She blushed to think of what the watchers would see … but there was no way out of this; and she remembered having “shown it all,” some years before, in the Naked Slutwalk Festival that the Sisterhood held with the first-ever, mandatory for all men, Walk A Mile In Her Shoes event at her college. She knew she looked good naked, because the boys teetering in their high-heels had gotten visible erections in their pants when she pulled off her C-string and shown her all, taunting them with her shouts of “You can’t touch this! It’s rape! It’s wrong!”
This is the message that men like Rick get out of Slutwalks: not “rape is never OK even if you think she’s asking for it by dressing in sexy clothing”, but “these fucking sluts should never have flaunted their bodies to us, they deserve everything they get”.
Linda has a heartfelt reunion with a doctor who worked with her at her genetics lab.
The speculum was cold, and he seemed to take a bit of pleasure in opening it too wide for her comfort. “At least you’re not a virgin,” he declared. “Some of us on your Project wondered about that. Your attitude.”
“Get down off your high horse, Linda. This is NOT your project. You know that.”
“DOCTOR Nguyen, please.” He withdrew the speculum. “Or just Doctor. You don’t seem to know your position here … ‘Doctor’ Mayhugh. Okay, you can sit up now. And put on this garment.”
What he handed Linda Mayhugh was … a shirt. A body-suit, actually, as she inspected it. It was made of a stretchy, shiny material, swimsuit material. It had long sleeves, a collar like a man’s dress shirt, and a long zipper down the front. It closed with snaps at the crotch. She wriggled into it, zipping it open just enough for her head, and tugged the crotch of it down so she could snap it closed. It fit her curves like a gleaming coat of wet red paint, and the bottom end of the front zipper reached below her navel. She tugged the zipper up to her throat.
“Why this, instead of something practical like a coverall? And what are these zippers for, on the sleeves?” She looked down at the two zippers, actually half-zippers that reached from elbow to wrist on each sleeve.
“The zippers. Yes. It’s a good time for me to show you.” Deftly he caught her right wrist, brought it to her left elbow, and zipped the sleeves together in front of her waist. Then he zipped the other two half-zippers together, leaving her arms secured in front of her and quite helpless.
He drew down the front zipper to her waist. Then he took a long piece of webbing out of a drawer and wrapped it around her, over her forearms and behind her waist, so the straps crossed on center in front. He tugged its tail through a square loop and lapped it back on itself, where it closed with a wide patch of velcro. “You might have tried to pull the zippers open with your teeth. Not now.”
“This is like a strait-jacket,” she whispered.
“Very much so. This is your uniform, as a member of the Comfort Corps. It is completely practical, for our purposes. It covers … enough. The sleeve-zippers provide us the means to secure your hands out of the way, when we choose. And …” He drew his fingers lazily from her collarbone to her crossed arms. “We can uncover you in an instant, for our pleasure. Make a fist, here.” He put a small bag over her balled left hand and secured it with a Velcro cuff, then did the same for her right hand.
Yeah, that’s right. It’s a RAPE SUIT.
“The name has been around for a while. You might have heard of it if you’d learned real history – not the “her-story” that you were spoon-fed in school.” He smiled, but it was the smile of a wolf. “The Japanese Army used it, during the Korean and Chinese conflicts that led up to World War II. It was their name for the special groups of Korean and Chinese women, Vietnamese women too, who were used to provide … comfort … to their troops. Put your feet in the stirrups.”
I’ll just leave it to sink in for a moment that a Vietnamese man is gloating about Vietnamese women being forced into sexual slavery by Japan. Also, “her-story” is the first of many Westlake-isms you will see in this awful excuse for a novel.
Shortly after this, Nguyen reveals he was at that naked Slutwalk and has dreamed of raping Linda ever since then. He takes the opportunity to explain the new status quo to her.
“This is where you start to learn,” he said, “about the only role that Men are going to give to you, any more. We’ve learned your poison. We’ve learned your tactics, and your strategy. We’ve learned how to overwhelm your strengths, and take advantage of your weakness. And we’ve learned the role that you must be put into, for the future.
“You have to be our chattels, our subjects, our slaves. We won’t trust you with any trace of power, or authority, or privilege. You’ll have to learn to be just a woman, and nothing more; a servant in Man’s house, a mother to his children, and a wide-open slut in his bed.”
“Now kiss me again. Open your lips to me. Open your soul to me.”
A very Gor-like rape scene follows:
He could feel the spasms of her coming. “Slave!” he said as her orgasm overwhelmed her.
“No!” she declared as the spasms eased enough for her to breathe again.
“Slave!” he said again, as yet again she came.
“No!” A declaration less definite – as her gasps, her struggles, were somehow even more inclusive of orgasm – of helplessness – and of that mixture of orgasm, helplessness, craving and hunger that Enlightened Womyn decried as “bondage to the Patriarchy.”
Enlightened Womyn fucking hate orgasms. Actually they hate everything; it’s pretty much a prerequisite for being a feminist.
“You can skip lunch,” Dr. Nguyen said. “Maybe a bottle of Ensure, later, if you’re good. … Did you feel your ears click just now, when you were swallowing? We’re starting to pressurize this space. Keep working your jaws and tongue and throat like that, as if you were swallowing, every few seconds – it’ll save you a burst eardrum.”And one last bit of advice, now, that will probably make your stay here easier. It will certainly help you survive it. And old Chinese saying – When rape is inevitable, relax and enjoy it.”
She heard the door open, but she didn’t hear it close.
And that’s Chapter One! Until next time, stay safe, and please try not to bring down the Matriarchy.