I have picked up a number of female readers of the Sunset Saga and of my masculinity books. It has long been difficult for me to get a proof reader or editor from among the four women in my family and two acquaintances who have done such work professionally. They are willing to do this work for free, but cannot get past the content. The reasons for this aversion to proofing my work are numerous, but include an aversion to the violent realism and lack of happy endings, as well as my criticisms of feminism.

Most of all, in terms of fiction, is the presence of the Jay Bracken character, who has a high level of primal sex appeal. These modern women cannot wrap their head around an irrational sexual attraction to a man. And, being modern, cannot imagine having a non-modern female outlook and having a primal urge to be impregnated by a dominant male aggressor. Indeed, five of six of these ladies vehemently deny that chemistry has anything to do with female-to-male attraction; that such relationships are rational calculations [How much does he make? etc.]. Even when I point out that this guy is not even human by our standards, but is a 24th Century male escort/bodyguard designed for powerful female corporate executives and then augmented to be a time traveler and thrive in primal environments, they say, “No", no rational woman would have sex with such a man; a man so physical and inarticulate, and so lacking in material assets.

Below are some examples from interviews and history of the—to us moderns—often irrational nature of female-to-male attraction.

During an expedition up the Missouri River circa 1810 a black man accompanying the expedition was spotted by the Mandan women, who requested that they be permitted to have sex with him. The Mandan men negotiated the tryst and even seemed encouraging as the luckiest black man in Antebellum America knocked up a village. This could, among primitive people, be the simple expression of an instinct to avoid inbreeding. Records across the colonial world are chock full of examples of white men being sought as virtual sperm dispensaries among the natives, most notoriously Speke’s dalliance with the fat queen of Uganda and her attendants, and Melville’s pairing with Fayaway, apparently the most attractive woman in the Typee valley.

When I was 18 I worked for Brad, a former jazz drummer who worked as a high rise insulator and paid me and a crew of young men to rehab houses. He told me that he had to get out of music to ‘save his soul.’ He said that every day and every night, he would ‘have one in bed, one at the door, and one on the phone… Now that’s a jazz drummer. Could you imagine if I was a rocker?”

Becky was a girl I dated who openly admitted that she had had sex, "with every guy in Essex," in search of "the perfect cock." She also told me that she was once "gang banged" by an entire chapter of a biker club while she kneeled on a living room floor snorting coke off of the coffee table, and that she quite enjoyed it. I went directly to the clinic for a blood test and avoided her thereafter, even after her girlfriend called me up and suggested a threesome. She later confided that her attraction to me, her submission to a biker gang, and her search for some perfect sex organ, were tied in with a desire to be dominated by aggressive men.

Trish was a coworker of mine. I had previously—during altercations between coworkers and midnight shoplifters—expressed a willingness to protect coworkers, especially women. She confided that one of the snack venders had abducted her from the back dock and raped her in his truck. I asked her if she wanted me to break his leg. He was too big for me to fight so I was going to ambush him with a door pipe. She then asked me instead, how she could get him to call her back! As it turned out, although she felt humiliated and hurt, and the incident was painful [due to his large endowment] she could no longer enjoy sex with her husband after the experience and wanted this man to be her boyfriend even though he had raped her. I was horrified that this dude was getting a pass on a violent crime because he had a big dick! I did speak to him at her request—pretending not to know about his crime—and they did get together.

While training at a boxing gym next to a young handsome fighter I noticed that this young beauty was always there staring at him. When I asked our coach about this he shook his head and said that Stud’s only challenge as a fighter were the women that distracted him. He went on at some frustrated length:

“There’s one on the phone, one waiting outside in the car, and this baby doll. How do I compete against them for the space between his ears while he’s between those pretty legs?”

Dante is the young man who I patterned Jay Bracken after. All three of his girlfriends I have interviewed have confessed to an irrational attachment to him. The mother of his daughter cannot stand him yet still hooks up with him. The one girl—the one that looked like Angelina Jolie with larger breasts—admitted to thinking "he is an asshole," and said that she had been in a bar with her "cock blocker" teasing rednecks when Dante showed up, and that she decided to have sex with him immediately when he knocked out all 10 of her suitors in a bar fight inspired by her aloofness. Below is a link to one of a half dozen articles I have posted about Dante.

This is the moniker of a man I knew who worked as a male escort, upon which I based Sam Waterford, the male prostitute in Little Feet Going Nowhere. My sister, who reviewed this story from the Sacrifix collection, saw Sam’s sexual situation as an adolescent fantasy of mine, when in fact it was all based on the real life situation of a man who made a living providing female sexual fantasies. This is what he said about women being attracted to him on an irrational level:

“I’m convinced they can smell each other. First of all I’m married, which makes a side job like this a pain in the ass. The wife likes the money, but the stress of spending time with all of these women—because they all want you to engage them in conversation—and lying to her, burns me out. She thinks it’s seasonal work, and I suppose it is.”

“I whore for six months then stop cold. The only time she will have sex with me is when I’m whoring, and she does not know I’m whoring. When I stop and then try and patch things up and spend quality time with her she won’t let me touch her. The funny thing is, when I’m not having sex with her and the clients, women are totally un-attracted to me. I’m not the best looking guy, but I’m fit and engaging. On the other hand, while I’m nailing twenty women a week from college coeds to grandmothers then every woman I meet seems attracted to me. Women will walk up to me and put their card or number in my shirt pocket. And, when I say I’m married—they pour it on, want it even more. Then, when I resist, they accuse me of being gay and say stuff about all the hottest men being faɡɡots. I’m telling you they’re all insane!”

“I, of course, use condoms, so it has to be something we give off in the air chemically, or their pheromones clinging to me somehow.”

Tommy ‘The Duke’ Morrison, white heavyweight contender, and great nephew to John Wayne, tested positive for HIV at his peak. A helpline was set up for women in the Oklahoma City area who had had sex with him. It got thousands of calls!

I used to do my solo training at an upscale health spa frequented by wealthy women. During the course of this one year period three ladies approached me asking for boxing lessons. At a certain point these ladies all asked if I knew a male escort, stating that they had heard that fighters got into that line of work. They got Dope Dick’s phone number from yours truly. At the same time a lady who I was training at another location asked me the same question. I did not give her Dope Dick’s number, but gave her mine instead because I really liked her.

From antiquity until a few years ago boxing trainers believed that having sex made their fighters week and distracted and would go to crazy lengths to keep women away from them leading up to a fight, and then provide women after a fight.

Ali used to have up to 12 women lined up at his hotel room door for sex after a fight.

Evander Holyfield built a mansion for his wife and lesser houses on the same property for his numerous ‘baby’s mammas.’ Could you imagine what thanksgiving dinner is like at the Holyfield house?

Ancient Minoan priestesses used to have ritual sex with boxing champions before they were killed in sacrificial fights with younger fresher men. Modern African tribes have practiced similar kingship rites, with the king being ritually killed when he could no longer sexually satisfy his scores of sacred wives. [I’d be dead on the second day!]

One old trainer in the 1930s caught his fighter humping a girl in his hotel room and grabbed the horny pugilist by the hips and began pulling him off, shouting, “Don’t cum, for God’s sake don’t cum!”

That ladies and gents is just the tip of the he-man iceberg. Of course, any time I include such realities in fiction or cite them in nonfiction feminist sensibilities and the inability of leftward thinking modern people to understand or relate to the mind of less civilized people, brings about cries of sexism and adolescent male fantasies.

Ladies, you have not read the last posting along these lines, and no, I do not have Dope Dick Jones’ phone number!