Fragments: The Misogynist

Sir Estabald de la Pancha, knight errant, and man of valor, one day, fell in love with a maiden so fair and so chaste, so graceful and delightful, that he had determined, within the deepest recesses of his heartful palace, to conquer that damsel and proclaim her to the world his lover and mistress. Her name he did not know. Her family heritage he cared not for. What mattered most was the glory and victory he could achieve for God and for country, if he were able to penetrate that unapproachable fortress, whose visage he doted upon with an undying passion and vigor. This, my dear friend, is not a story of some soy-boy or beta-cuck, but of a hero, with a lust to match his bravery. Nor is it a moral to be repeated at family tables, or church-gatherings, but to be imbibed as a peculiar sweet red wine, with joy and fascination; to be gurgled on the palette as any fine connoisseur would, and appreciated for its own sake.

Sir Estabald de la Pancha, a roguish hero, I must say, if any such thing existed, swore by Heaven, that his lust, which he labeled love, must find satisfaction. And to that end, that beautiful, pleasure-filled end, would mount any mountain, delve any depth, and fight off any contesting suitors to consummate his burning passion. He would walk barefoot, over broken glass, all the way to Syria, if his lover requested, so he mumbled to himself in the shower. He would die on his sword, or leap over a cliff, to proclaim his undying devotion to that mistress.

And all these things he would truly do, so I attest, narrator and quasi-notary to this tale.

Her eyes were golden; her hair made of supple silken strings. Her face bested the Greeks in their marble depictions. Her character virtuous to a fault. Some say she would sing to the birds to comfort them. Others that she nursed orphans in her spare time. What was certain was this lady, this nameless, objectified lady, caused Estabald de la Pancha to go stark raving mad with desire and hopelessness.

Dear reader, I hope in these pages you divine the male Psyche, and how it operates and works towards the fair sex. In truth, men are all pigs; some nobler than others. We want to fuck and go through elaborate, ornamented fantasies and fairytales to cover the sordid truth of our existence. But, lo and behold, look not too shocked fair madam who reads this, I know your truth all too well. Woman is a delicate thing, but she too has an exceeding sweet-tooth. Not for nothing do you paint your faces, and twirl your giddy locks; I have seen, nay, supped, on the enraptured gaze of a woman in love, and saw, yes, saw that insatiable desire which lives in the heart and mind of the fair-breasted. Desire, uncontrollable, unending. If man is a pig, he has a good partner in crime to his roguish ways. You ladies, you sweet, bashful ladies conceal a truth so plain, so obvious, and yet so misunderstood by my sex, that God almighty himself must laugh every now and again at his ingenuity. And I judge not! I commend you! I glorify you! I would have it no other way. You are the lodestar of my endeavours, the beacon of my hope in a dark, dark world. True love must be carnal, must be of the flesh. But I digress, let us continue with Sir Estebald de la Pancha.

The twist in our tale, so far from those chivalric ballads of old, is this nameless lady, while chaste in action and deed, was far from it in thought and desire. All she could think about was men. She was obsessed with them. She would imagine countless scenarios of prostrating herself, submitting to a stronger being. All she dreamed about was being swept away by some noble man, not some petty, groveling loser, and locked into marriage against her faux protesting will. All in all, she reveled and glorified in her weakness. That was her nature, and she accepted it gracefully and willingly, and wished to prove herself worthy of the name of woman.

Writer, poet, philosopher,

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