There is an underworld hiding in plain sight.
We live in it all the time.
At the level of the collective, it is the divine feminine shadow: endemic self-hate learned by patriarchal rote; the marriage-of-death drive that rapes and kills the feminine, trains women to find completeness in romantic partnerships.
It is projection of the divorced monstrous feminine onto other women in whom we unconsciously recognize ourselves and lash out against.
It is the male gaze internalized, beauty and body standards we cannot (but still try to) live up to.
It is our ego defense narcissism; our insecurities played out as competition with other women; the study of our flaws in the reflection of those who hate women and themselves.
Persephone’s descent into the underworld is a marriage of death that rapes and kills the feminine. With the feminine destroyed, the underworld is not a place to which we must descend to comprehend.
To be born woman is to be stillborn in an underworld inseparable from our everyday reality. Our underworld is right here, wherever we are, as everywhere we are occupied by monstrous masculine imposition, The Dick Inside that fucks us and keeps fucking us.
The monstrous masculine + rapes and kills the feminine = The Dick Inside, the feminine’s all-in-one victimhood and victim complex, and monstrous in its own right.
The Rape of Persephone by Rupert Bunny
On Basic Whorology
How life makes masochistic, self-hating whores of us all.
Whores were strange people all right. —Iceberg Slim
The pimp and whore, before they are pimp and whore, are hot for each other, as equals, but the pimp cannot be seen as an equal. He resists, and she persists until he relents, then he regains control through aggression, dominating the whore who was a mark from the start.
She resists, but any whore is a True Masochist, and the pimp can read the anywhore’s self-hate and love of pain a million miles off. He knows she’ll be his if he roughs her up just right, to the edge of the maximum amount of pain she likes, a little past the edge of what she is willing to take, to let her know he means business and that’s what this is: business.
Whereas men enjoy the happiness they feel, women can only enjoy the happiness they give (Dangerous Liaisons)—all women, but most of all the anywhore. She is every woman. She is everyone’s type. Her pain is kink but deeper than kink.
The pimp knows: to instill fear is to thenceforth more easily control those who were born to love pain. The pimp knows: to induce trauma on the born anywhore means his happiness is her happiness, and her fear will keep matters from being otherwise.
True Masochists were born to die. You can hear it in the soundtrack of our lives: Lana Del Rey, Billie Holiday. All whores love Lana Del Rey and Billie Holiday.
The anywhore was born to die.
That’s what’s playing, in bed, the first time, when the pimp dominates her to exhaustion, and she relives the trauma she secretly craves. She has long turned trauma into a kink. It’s a survival thing. She secretly loves pain, secretly gets off on dying, no matter how much she denies it to others, to herself. But few know how to give it to her just right.
The pimp knows how to give it to her just right, how to degrade and objectify and dehumanize her in ways that say, I love you truly. He smacks her around with controlled force, treats her like the whore she likes to believe she isn’t but knows deep down she has never been anything more—a born anywhore.
The pimp knows where to find The Dick Inside, and he knows how to get it hard. He’s got one right there on the outside—The Dick Outside, the monstrous masculine’s archaic heritage, the primal network that implanted hers.
The whore tries to hide her Dick Inside like a preacher with fiery brimstone eyes taking up-skirt shots on the sly at Sunday service. But the hard Dick Inside shows, cross her legs as she might.
The pimp knows where to find The Dick Inside, and he knows how to jack it off, how to work from the shaft and twist up the top, balance slobber with friction for that blue ribbon head, first prize at the county fair.
He does it and does it to her, strokes and blows her Dick Inside, takes it by force, re-induces the primal trauma, the nucleus of neurosis, acts as a living memento of it. All pretense is stripped. She is in an advanced state of bliss, an adrenaline rush so exhausting she may never sleep again.
The next time—because the pimp knows the more traumatic that initial event, the more likely there will be a “next time”—instead of resisting, she begs.
She’ll do anything. She’ll peddle her little ass and hand over the money without even skimming off the top of the stack. She’ll spread it wide and make them cum all over it because a True Masochist, the anywhore, is a cum slut first and foremost. Any self disrespecting whore wants to drown in cum by the bucketload, in a cum dunking booth, do the dead man’s float in the nearest body of cum like the witch she is.
But she, the anywhore, can become the fully embodied whore, the Great Beast who does The Great Work. From terrestrial to celestial, the fully embodied whore has a degree in Basic Whorology—a PhD in Sacred Whoredom with a concentration in the Bovine Divine.
She knows she lives in a prison she did not build, a maximum insecurity dick prison. Monstrous masculine imposition, self-hate and trauma, the primal crime against the feminine, laid the foundation. The cell bars are literal penises. Should the prison remain a prison, it is one of the anywhore’s making.
But the anywhore wants out.
The anywhore wants out, and so awakens to The Dick Inside.
What Is the Dick Inside?
The pulp vamp vixen with stiletto heels and killer curves, laughing at laws of social conduct, the disciplined revolutionary fighter, challenging laws of the land, the true Bride of Christ, her moral rigor defying laws of nature…[she has] escaped the ghetto of female cowardice, guarded by men’s laziness, women’s fear, and the inertia of what has always been. —Zoë Lund, “The Ship with Eight Sails (and Fifty Black Cannons)”
All women have dicks “implanted” by virtue of the trauma of our very births and the extreme pain of being alive in the patriarchal world as such.
The Dick Inside occurs at birth and, before that, in the womb and, even before that, in an archaic heritage of our fucked-ness.
The Dick Inside is internalized misogyny, internalized male gaze, internalized male impotence.
The Dick Inside is part and parcel of the victimhood into which women are born and the victim mentality women therefore develop, which often lasts lifelong.
The Dick Inside is the making of a True Masochist. The Dick Inside made whores who we are today.
The Dick Inside unconsciously (death) drives the True Masochist anywhore into sexual and romantic oblivions.
The Dick Inside both sounds and answers the call of the void, the call of the little death.
The Dick Inside is the villain who victimizes and the victim who perpetrates and perpetuates victim mentality, sadist-victim and masochist-villain.
The Dick Inside traumatizes and re-traumatizes, inflicts the pain it romanticizes and eroticizes.
The Dick Inside is the very definition and epitome of cognitive dissonance, the double bind.
The Dick Inside is our inherent empathy with the very thing that oppresses us.
The Dick Inside is always the gonzo.
The Dick Inside is the thing that keeps fucking us after we’ve been fucked.
The Dick Inside is the thing we use to keep fucking ourselves.
Lula Fortune & Bobby Peru, Wild At Heart (1990)
Lula Fortune’s experience with Bobby Peru in the Big Tuna hotel room is the experience of a woman fucked by the monstrous masculine that becomes The Dick Inside. He instills fear and intimidates her, repeatedly demands that she say, “Fuck me.” Lula relents, the way all women do, and in doing so, she fucks herself.
Like having an orgasm while being raped, we cope by finding pleasure in disempowerment. We unconsciously teach ourselves to enjoy things that we do not in fact enjoy as a way of coping with the mundane reality of being alive as woman, and for the sake of survival, like capture bonding or Stockholm syndrome, the way we’ve learned to find erotic enjoyment in the internalized monstrous masculine and, at the same time, feel hopelessly victimized by patriarchy.
Like having an orgasm while being raped, we’ve learned to climax during the marriage of death that rapes and kills the feminine and every time we replay the memory like torture porn in our minds. We’ve taught ourselves to get off on both the monstrous masculine and its victimization of us—a double-bind, in double-bondage—the cognitive dissonance of womanhood in sadomasochistic action.
Bobby Peru is the Dick Inside, just as Frank Booth is the Dick Inside.
The Dick Inside Blue Velvet
Frank Booth, Blue Velvet (1987)
Frank Booth is a wilderness of feral instinct.
He is the monstrous masculine, Hades and his namesake underworld.
Frank Booth is The Dick Inside.
Pussy Heaven (Exterior), Blue Velvet
Ever been to pussy heaven? —Frank Booth
In heaven, everything is fine.
But in Pussy Heaven, everything is NOT fine.
In Pussy Heaven, a couple of homely women are knitting, and a few dumpy middle aged men are sloppily (not) eating (pussy).
In Pussy Heaven, a soft spoken, flamboyantly-dressed Dean Stockwell is lip syncing “In Dreams” by Roy Orbison.
In Pussy Heaven, there is a lot of talk about pussy, but no pussy to speak of.
Pussy Heaven (Interior), Blue Velvet
Pussy Heaven is, essentially, empty.
Pussy Heaven’s emptiness, filled with impotence getting off on crudely-drawn sex, like the “my child’s scary drawing” horror movie trope, except those creepy kids are man-boys scribbling all over our pornographic imagination.
Pussy Heaven is the Great Mommy goddess womb to which the monstrous masculine unconsciously wants to return but fears, infantilizes, and despises.
Pussy Heaven (This Is It) is a deeply closeted drama. It’s everything that has been repressed. It has little/nothing to do with pussy, and despite all the talking about fucking, there is no fucking, and there is definitely no intimacy.
Frank Booth, Blue Velvet
Frank wants to return to the Great Mommy Cum Cow but is emotionally infantile and intimacy-phobic, narcissistically insecure and self-loathing.
He covers it up with an extreme version of toxic masculinity, a wilderness of feral instinct denied by the ego and therefore fortified as pure ego.
He has the Charlie Sheen Complex.
He needs a tank of amyl nitrate and a cartoonish level of machismo to allow himself to become soft and vulnerable enough to approach the Great Mother; he tries to return to her via monstrous masculine perversion, within a monstrous masculine framework.
He becomes a loony toon—honking tits, humping fully clothed, toasting to fucking—proclaims he will fuck anything that moves, yet is terrified of intimacy and love.
I’ll tell you what a love letter is: it’s a bullet from a fucking gun, fucker! —Frank Booth
Frank Booth, Blue Velvet
Mommy…baby wants to fuck! —Frank Booth
Boss Baby can only get off if sex feels like absolute conquest and intimacy feels like being absolutely alone.
Mommy Issues: the Great Mother Wound (the Fall of the divine feminine) becomes a Great Mommy Kink. He can’t return without looking at the thing he doesn’t want to look at…the erotic shadow in the “deep river.”
He needs to feel alone to be able to cum (“now it’s dark”; “don’t you fuckin’ look at me”; getting high as balls).
Frank Booth’s erotics are emotional infantilism, intimacy phobia, and fear of love.
Frank is an infantile fascist: “The triumph of the will recreates as its Utopia the world of early childhood, and that is a world of nightmare, impotence, and fear in which the child fantasizes, out of its own powerlessness, an absolute supremacy” (Angela Carter, The Sadeian Woman).
Jeffrey: “Why are there people like Frank? Why is there so much trouble in this world?”
Sandy: “There is trouble until the robins come.”
There is trouble until fear is released and love is properly understood, until love is not feared, until the feminine is not feared and therefore mastered, domesticated, controlled, effaced, consumed, and destroyed.
Dorothy Vallens, Blue Velvet
I have your disease in me now. —Dorothy Vallens
Dorothy Vallens learns to love being hit and hurt by Frank, to the point that she asks it of Jeffrey, who would never otherwise hit or hurt her. But he gives her what she wants, what she thinks she wants. He gives her the “fuck yourself.”
“I have your disease in me now”—The Dick Inside.
She has The Dick Inside her now, having been consumed and destroyed by the monstrous masculine, having coped with abuse by eroticizing it.
The Dick Inside is what fucks us and keeps fucking us after we’ve been fucked, so when “baby wants to fuck,” we spread ‘em wide and say “mommy loves you.”
We fuck ourselves and keep fucking ourselves with The Dick Inside.
It’s time for that to STOP.
A robin, Blue Velvet
Femcel: TFW No Gaze Ever
Whereas men enjoy the happiness they feel, women can only enjoy the happiness they give. —Dangerous Liaisons
We cum last.
This is why we have no gaze.
The Dick Inside gets off when it sees The Dick Outside get off.
We internalize and assume the male gaze. We watch male gaze porn and get off on it.
We turn our pussies into bakeries, accommodating the male gaze, trying to live up to its contradictory, impossible standards in lieu of ever knowing what we really want, who we really are, what we would want and who we would be if men weren’t looking or we weren’t always looking at ourselves through their eyes.
We are always looked at, never looking. In our pornful and pornless realms of pure fantasy, we are both fucker and fucked.
Fucked, always fucked, I am the one who fucks. I am the one who spreads it wide, and I am the one who cums all over it.
I have to feel like I’m not enjoying it to enjoy it.
I have to enjoy it vicariously through male enjoyment; only then can I enjoy it first-hand.
The Dick Inside gets off on men getting off on degrading and objectifying and dehumanizing women. It’s a survival thing, a kink for coping with the pain of being alive as woman in a society that has a sick relationship to women, sex, and the body. It is the unconscious third path of choice, turning that which we can neither accept nor change into a kink.
I get off on being treated like a whore, being overpowered and having my power undermined:
Make those shiny cum cow balloons clap while they polish my knob. This is about me, not you. Give this dick a round of applause. I’ll give those titties something to shine about—crazy diamonds, minuscule bikini top holding the boobs together but barely hanging on, just barely clinging to reality. The beach balls clap like a big fat ass. Shake them titties yes, and shake them titties I dunno. The crazy diamonds ride up and the under-boob shows. I fuck those cum cow bags like the ass of a BBW, a PAWG, a big ol’ booty with nipples and areolae…(Externalizing the Dick Inside, Day 1)
The only men who like child’s-scary-drawing-level great big cum cow tits are pubescent boys or grown men having a closet drama. Like Charlie Sheen, star of Two and a Half Men, the half a man being Charlie Sheen.
Ineffectual males with erectile dysfunction and intimacy phobia are what mass shooters and serial killers are made from. It’s what Frank Booth and Bobby Peru are made from. It’s what Jeffrey Epstein was made from.
To be attracted to men is to have a rape fantasy and a death wish, to unconsciously accept a form of abstract masochism as a way of life and villainize other women in pursuit of satisfying the insatiable, impotent, involuntarily celibate Dick Inside.
We are masochist–villains. We are sadist–victims.
All heterosexual women are technically incels (femcels) because we fuck and fantasize according to a gaze that is not our own.
The sex we have is sex-negating because we live in an erotic world that was not made for us, that we ourselves did not create; therefore, we are “quite intact”—virgins repeatedly raped, like Persephone, queen of our underworld.
Femcel: tfw no gaze ever.
A lifetime of compulsory heterosexuality rooted in the intimacy phobia carried and spread by men makes us afraid of what we actually want, therefore constantly repressing what we actually want, to the point that we are strangers to ourselves, sexually and romantically.
We are always estranged from ourselves. We are born split off from ourselves and have to work to reunite the division, to become whole, else we remain divided, from ourselves and each other.
We teach ourselves to cope with the pain of being alive as woman by finding ways to romanticize and sexualize that pain, to the point that our attractions and desires cannot be trusted, as they are unlikely authentic.
We are forced into taking the unconscious third path of choice, which is the no-choice choice. What is lost is everything, including our sexual identity which never had a chance to develop, to say nothing of our gaze (literally nothing to say because it does not exist).
When left to our own devices, who are we sexually?
Without the male-influenced, male-inflicted trauma that made us who we are today, who are we?
Who am I when I am not seducing you, assuming your gaze, and prioritizing your happiness over my own?
Would I actually want a man to cum all over me?
Fuck no.
My cum fetish was 100% born of trauma.
But my trauma is fully integrated into my being. It made me who I am today, a highly traumatized person. Damaged goods!
But loving myself means loving my damage, Heather.
I feel a connection with Althea Flynt re: an internalized misogynistic imagination running wild in pursuit of liberation.
So I shan’t live in shame of the kinks I developed over the course of a lifetime of being subjected to misogyny, as a mechanism for coping with the pain of being alive in a body born dead and guaranteed-abused for life.
Women are too polite. Truly. Even with all the coming-forward about things in recent years, we are never saying half as much as we could. We are micro-aggressed upon every second we breathe, especially during sex, even sex with kinder, gentler Charlie Mansons.
But if I could go back to the beginning, at least half of the sexual proclivities I’ve developed up to now would not exist and never would have developed if I’d been allowed my own gaze, to feel my own pleasure and happiness instead of being a receptacle for a man’s pleasure and happiness and forced to assume his gaze in that process.
I am finding myself less attracted to men the more I am becoming less attracted to pain (Putrefacto, 07/08/26).
How ‘bout a female (non-cis-het-male) gaze?
A powerful woman’s power is not equal to a man’s power. What’s opposite is not equal.
What’s equal is creating our own system of systemic objectification and codified to-be-seen-ness, a female gaze, and privileging it.
I long for a toxic schematic of my very own.
I’m not saying let’s fight fire with fire, but I’m not saying let’s not.
I long for a female gaze that eroticizes men in ways that are legitimately erotic, not some silly Chippendales or Magic Mike shit, a female gaze that eroticizes men in ways that are hot for us, not them.
Female gaze = the to-be-looked-at-ness of men. Even more so, the to-be-expected-of-ness of men.
I wanna get champagne drunk at a dick show, and I don’t wanna laugh at the dick show. I don’t even wanna crack a smile.
We need and deserve a female gaze that objectifies men in the mainstream, that we can simply expect to see when we watch movies or see advertisements or play video games or anywhere else.
Show me a new sex show, a new porno, made for the female gaze, that defies anything we already know but is still hot as fuck.
Do you, cis-het-male, ever laugh at the titty bar?
I didn’t think so.
Externalizing The Dick Inside
Patriarchy splits a woman off from herself: doubling is in part a result of violent separation between the angel and the monster, until the speaker gazes into the mirror…hoping to deny that ‘I am she.’ A woman who is not split in that way would be defined as rebellious and a source of danger. —Theodora Goss
I can’t be expected to overcome internalized misogyny without externalizing it. The Dick Inside must first become The Dick Outside…and here we are, with cum cows, sacred anywhores, apple fritter pussies, Charles Manson sex toilets.
I can’t be expected to suck my own dick if I can’t give myself license to remove my Adam’s ribs and ouroborate myself, to become the celestial cum cow that suckles itself.
To integrate the divine feminine shadow is to make a playground for The Dick Inside while also exorcising it.
To Awaken to The Dick Inside, for the anywhore, means doing cognitive dissonance on cognitive dissonance. It’s double the bind, double the dissonance.
Externalizing the Dick Inside so that the Dick Inside does not grow twisted (corkscrew dick, duck rape style) in the dark and fuck us even harder.
Externalizing the Dick Inside, a masochism that, like sweetbrier, wounds to heal.
Fuck it, I’ll suck my own dick.
The Dick Inside, when made conscious, can do the work of alchemy, e.g. if I get off on being degraded and objectified and dehumanized, overpowered and actively disempowered, I can allow this kink to bubble up into the light of consciousness. I can allow myself to consciously enjoy and accept this about myself, giving it less power to control me unbeknownst to me.
It can help to love the parts of you that hate you.
If I externalize the Dick Inside, I can do something good (for me) with it.
How to Externalize the Dick Inside
A free woman in an unfree society will be a monster. —Angela Carter
To externalize The Dick Inside is to rewire the pornographic imagination and reclaim the sexual brain, a “master cleanse” of sorts, to let the sexual imagination roam free and see if something like our own gaze might emerge.
Externalizing The Dick Inside is a transgressive-art-as-therapeutic modality, allowing the imaginative world to be depraved, a deeply dirty place, but living in it consciously, intentionally—a thoughtful depravity, that purp of the imagination.
We’re all pretentious because we pretend we have no erotic shadow, no sexual perversion, no Dick Inside. Bringing these things to light is a move toward sexual authenticity and wholeness.
How to externalize The Dick Inside?
Proposed methodology: masturbate (ideally without porn) and write out the contents of your mind immediately afterwards. Sharing the ensuing erotica in its raw, base form can be a shame-busting, fear-releasing move.
No/minimal craft = maximized authenticity.
Writing problematic erotica because that’s what makes The Dick Inside cum!
“…savage,” he says, his cock in her fist, another man’s cock head bloating her cheek like a lopsided blowfish, “…savage,” he repeats, slapping the other man’s cock head through her cheek, near-splitting her mouth into an oblique Glasgow smile.
Yet another man kicks her right in the lucky horseshoe, sole to soul, a few drop-kicks right to the giggie. He picks her up and fucks her standing up while the others take turns in her asshole which accepts each one like an unconditional vacuum accepts all dirt and dust. Powerful suction.
“Oh wow…” she says, as though in the presence of something inspiring genuine awe, “oh WOW…” she repeats, as though giggling into the face of god on the day of rapture, rattling the Elysium gates, “I’m getting fucked dumb!” she says fizzily, transcending the flesh to become pure spirit while the others further descend into the carnal carnival that culminates with her on her knees, surrounded by six men, cocks in hand, her head thrown back, making hydrophobic moon eyes at the lot of them. She uses hooked fingers to stretch open her cheeks, a manual dental dam, the way a child makes a na-na na-na boo-boo face.
“Give it to me,” she says, in that same champagne-bubbly voice, “I want it, I WANT it,” she says, with even more carbonation in the voice. “Ask for more,” a man says, “give me more,” she says, “give me more of that fucking cum, drench me,” then, sing-song-y, “yes I’m-your-little-slut, I-wan-na-be FILLED with-that-cum,” with more demented sparkle, her tongue stuck out like the rolling tongue of Kali, rolled out like a red carpet for gods gone to seed.
“Oh THANK you,” she says with each anticlimactic drizzle of emulsion, faking orgasms with each nut crack until the fakery becomes erotic empathy and she may in fact be cumming. “Oh thank you, THANK you,” she repeats, in gratitude to the ingrates for their six cocks a-weeping, her face milk-white with mommy issues, like mommie dearest in her night cream on her knees scrubbing the floors that never get clean, scrubbing the floors till they bleed like the great mother gash from whence we all decease, sucking all the cock heads that never get clean.
“…savage,” she says, “…savage” (Externalizing the Dick Inside, Day 50).
Make yourself cum. Self-bless.
Femcel Rising
The resurrected Persephone is a Persephone who cannot be abducted by Hades. —Neumann, The Great Mother
If there is no way out of the underworld, then we must imagine Persephone happy.
The key to imagining ourselves happy is to become conscious of The Dick Inside.
The Devils (1971)
Like the orgy scene in The Devils: the Ursuline nuns are nude in the cathedral maniacally humping everyone and everything in sight, with the fabulous king of France present.
Except in my imagination, it’s not demonic possession or ergomania or even egomania expressed as sexual prowess and conquest. It is deep erotic love and conscious enjoyment of the collective shadow cast by the monstrous masculine. It is deep divine love of the monstrous masculine that has painted our pornographic imaginations as underworld waste places.
We can use the rage of the wounded feminine (VITRIOL) to solve/dissolve the collective shadow instilled in us by the monstrous masculine…by getting mad, really fucking mad, and then showing deep divine love to the part of ourselves that feels angry, wounded, afraid, defeated—the part of ourselves that has felt capture-bound, like the split Persephone, into unconsciously accepting a fate we did not choose, unconsciously finding empowerment in disempowerment, unconsciously feeling joy and erotic enjoyment in the wounded feminine, in the Great Mother Wound, in the underworld we inherited.
The Return of Persephone by Frederic Leighton
At the collective level, the divine feminine shadow is the divorced monstrous feminine, our Terrible Mother aspect masculinized as The Dick Inside and turned against us, that we then turn against ourselves. Hades re-feminized as Persephone is the monstrous feminine rising, the pomegranate with vagina dentata, the sheela na gig with sharp teeth.
We can get on the side of the Terrible Mother by consciously acknowledging her presence within us, allowing her to rise, like Persephone, into our awareness, and learning to love her so we may rise and reunite with the Great Mother, the Celestial Cum Cow, to experience the Divine Feminine Rising, from the underworld into wholeness.
When The Dick Inside breaks its own firmament, from the underground up, it ejaculates milky, motherly, dairy-dreamy celestial cum all over the world.
It is the Cum Punk Way.
“There is trouble until the robins come” (Blue Velvet)