GreenasSky A gambol in the goodies by Sloan Nota

Low-Hanging-Fruit Basket – Men Assaulting Women

 

 

“A congressman grinding against a staff member on the House floor, while sticking his tongue in her ear.” This description is from an OpEd in the New York Times, not from a steamy novel. This is from reality. And the staffer felt, a) wildly aroused, or b) licked and ground against and YUCK. Have you taken a look at the Congressional line-up recently? The paunches, the postures, the absent once-were-buttocks? Really Congressman? What horny fantasy were you working off of? This, sir, is real life.

You think a Harry-and-David-in-the-Sky sends every man a low-hanging-fruit basket in the form of women? His for the plucking until it’s freshly and piquantly replenished next month with seasonal fruits? Each breast and bottom, paper-wrapped for you to fondle. The thrill of playing “How far can I go?” without some eagle-eye attached to a mouth squawking “I see you!” Because you have them trained not to look. Nor see. What goes on in plain view. What they do see.

Who do they think we are?  Theirs.

A bonus pack just for them.

 

Men see the obvious superiority that the Bible guarantees them. Depending on which part they choose to read. Depending on their familiarity, or lack of familiarity, with biology and ethics. And Christian charity.

The question for us is how to break men of this illusion. Women don’t flock to fill your fruit baskets. That’s a compete thing. A “I can pee farther” thing. We pee down, utilizing gravity, and don’t need to waste brain power on aim or force. We just do it and we’re done. No need to fondle the urethra, no feelings wasted on where it ranks. Imagine we start comparing urethras!

The Congressional staff member above felt helpless. Used. One-upped. The recipient of some gender joke. Har-har-har. Tell it in the cafeteria to other Congressmen, use her name and main descriptors. Dark, blond, redhead, short, long, and exaggerated breast size. The men laugh their asses off.

Men. They believe they’re superior.

 

So what will we have to do till that low-hanging-fruit basket illusion finally blows away —  with its smell of burning flesh?

   

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