The Red Pill "Other Woman"

Greetings…I must speak, and hopefully I am heard by those who need to hear. If not, I am freed from unsufferable imposed silence, and am deeply grateful for the opportunity.

I am a woman. I have taken the red pill. No, my brand of red pill does not involve accepting my imminent “hitting of the wall” and thus I must find the first beta I can latch unto in my 20s and live parasitically ever after. Everything I’ve been instructed to do as a woman (by society, and not my parents, interestingly enough) is a lie in the frame of my own personal value system. I believe we all have been lied to and refuse to face the uncomfortable reality of things, yet I cannot comfortably induce that everyone has similar values to myself, nor that they are similarly uncomfortable with the illusory nature of society, and thus cannot impose my beliefs on others no matter how deeply I am convinced of this fact.

As a woman I am constantly taught (again, by inescapable societal influence) that if a man loves you, he will do for you. He will give you things, he will provide at your every whim if he truly cares about you. He needs to be needed, he needs you to be a womanchild wholly dependent upon him because that is how he realizes his place in the world and as the head of a relationship. Being independent is bad, especially if you’re a black woman like me. I’m barraged by memes disguised as ways to be a better woman for your man that are merely empty ego strokes for women such as “support him, encourage him, inspire him” (to do what I want only, of course) or “cook for him, clean for him, do your womanly duties” (things I do as an adult living on my own, anyway). Such sacrifice, these trivialities that require no thought nor effort nor any even the remotest semblance of empathy are, that I deserve the world on an oyster and more.

Never am I told, you must love him for who he is fundamentally as a person. I am not instructed to learn to love his imperfections, because if he truly loves you he’d change and bend backwards and acquiesce to no end to accommodate you. If he doesn’t he has no use, and he is of no value to you, no matter what kind of beautiful person he is.

Honestly, though I was raised a tomboy, I was essentially raised by my father. A very proud alpha male, though in the black community we don’t really use or frankly, in my opinion, need these sort of terms. I am used to submission, in fact I know no other way. I am very feminine in both appearance and intimate interaction with the male. The world of men has been a curiosity of mine since a very young age, as I was raised with only older brothers and all male cousins. I am obviously not a man, yet I find them interesting and inspiring enough to learn from constantly things I don’t already know from my own studies and life experiences. I have no issue attracting men, keeping them very sexually satisfied, and even keeping them around for extensive periods of time….yet these very same men are willingly submitting themselves to the womanchilds of the world who appeal to their protective instincts. As a woman I can easily intuit the struggle in their eyes, the unspoken resignation and defeat, the unhappiness and boredom that enchains a once young and strapping buck oozing testosterone from every pore into pudgy, comfortable slavery. It presents a good, happy image to society that they have a “good” woman, who also only gets fatter and fatter and bitchier and bitchier as the days pass. The visual, illusory, world of appearance is what matters most in the world of men and thus, to the world, they are happy.

It crushes me. I see my own brother being used and abused as a workhorse, mere Facebook status idols to arouse envy and (covertly, her own) admiration by the grotesquely obese and thus essentially crippled woman he married. I see my other, single, brother, the quintessential omega male, naively volunteering to his own subjugation as a ticket to a free meal, free drink, free utility in exchange for only the mere idea of possibly coming close to a woman intimately. I see my lover of six years (an engineer, of all people), who is so full of zest and mental sprightliness and self-determination while in my presence, reduced to the lowest dog playing fetch, go, and sit with his head bowed and his tail perpetually between his legs in the presence of his chosen “girlfriend”. All the men I admire are immolating their souls on the pyre that is woman.

Perhaps it is a biological inclination that made me choose my lover. Yet, despite his unwavering refusal to see me as “wife material”, is it not the journey of man to transcend his animal nature towards an ethereal realm of virtue?

I understand he will never grant me the highest honor of intermingling our quality genetic material and bearing a son whom we can raise into a man who can, above all, think for himself. I understand he is indoctrinated to want the infantile, needy, strange quasi-mother/child chimaera to dominate his life, and honestly there’s nothing I can do to change this. I understand I am operating on the fringes of society by willingly committing my body, emotions, and spirit to only one man who will not give me what a man is supposed to give a woman (utility); a man who has never committed any ill will towards me besides treating me as a man would treat another man rather than a princess. I understand I will be called a whore, a slut, and most amusingly “riding the cock carousel” because necessarily, my status as a whore liberates me from any demand of fidelity and I am free to take, and dispose of new lovers once their novelty wears off as I so choose, with no immediate detriment to the relationship in which I am engaged with my lover, in an infinite loop of whoredom and irrelevancy. I understand because of this fact, my lover never says, and entirely plausibly never will feel that he is in love with me and surely not to the magnitude of which I am in love with him. I understand the connection I feel we share will be ultimately reduced to mere sex, that I, by all objective measure, am a living breathing masturbatory tool. I understand that even people reading this will attempt to shame me for even presenting an idea so ridiculous, so absurd, so prototypically woman of me to pontificate on the virtues of being a slut. I understand he and the rest of the world will never understand or appreciate the unending sacrifice I voluntarily submit myself to every day by eschewing all forms of legitimacy and emotional consideration in exchange for my own neurotic love of him. I understand no one will understand that I must die a daily death as he photographs and shares with the world that which, to him, is a legitimate love. I understand no one will understand the patience nor submission to will nor forgiveness I have necessarily cultivated knowing I can’t see him always when I want nor have my emotions, which come and go in the blink of an eye, pacified and legitimized. I have no expectations otherwise. I do not feel entitled to the changing of opinions, and I do not have a calculated shield against what I predict will be ridicule in this public forum.

This has been weighing on my spirit and I had to share, and obviously the anonymity of the internet provides a much more comfortable environment to do so. I am somewhat uncomfortable sharing my emotions in real life, and even moreso unable to do so. Women don’t understand and men don’t want, or care, to know. Nevertheless, I assure you I have no desire to engage any willing “beta provider” in my neurosis, knowing my heart is committed to whom I believe to be my soulmate, and thusly, who do I harm? A marriage is not what I want; the companionship of a man that understands that I am his different but equal, that I am equally capable of loving him unwaveringly for who he is not what he can do for me, is what I want. It is with great sadness that I must face my destiny. If the road I tread leads to a life of loneliness, I die contented knowing that it was a life that I, alone, chose for myself.