My trip to the bank about a month ago was somewhat unusual, and I knew it would require special attention from a teller...I couldn’t believe that this person was the person with whom I was about to interact. What I was seeing was a beautiful woman. She seemed in her mid-twenties, about five feet seven or eight inches tall. She had exquisitely smooth and lustrous brown hair, arresting brown eyes, and a classic movie-star beauty which reminded me of a young Ingrid Bergman. As I was preparing myself to deal with such a stunning specimen of womanhood, I asked myself, “Why is she here? Why is she not working for a modeling agency selling perfume or diamonds?”
I asked this because in my line of work and the circles in which I travel, you don’t often find jaw-droppingly beautiful women who are just standing there waiting for you to come up and talk to them. During our encounter I had to look away from her a few times because I didn’t want it to seem as if I, a happily-married husband and father, were mooning over a girl practically young enough to be my daughter. (The temptation was there, believe me.)One thing feminists didn't conjure entirely out of thin air is misogyny. Males experience evolutionary despair (felt as heartache) at being exposed to desirable females who are not available to them.
Anyway, she was perfectly nice and professional, and our entire transaction took about ten minutes. I left the bank satisfied that I had completed that errand and was free to run the next one. Yet as I stepped into the parking lot, I experienced a thoroughly unwelcome emotion, one I hadn’t experienced in a long time: heartache. A nice, jarring stab of it, too. And this wasn’t even mature, manly heartache, the kind no one could really blame me for having. No, no, this was a return of the angsty, juvenile heartache that everyone over thirty wants to forget. This was the heartache that plagued countless lonely nights throughout my pretty goddamn pathetic youth. I remember them well.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
Of course, I never once felt any resentment or anger towards the nice girl at the bank. But I knew she was the cause of this heartache. But how? Why? The answer came to me immediately: she never smiled at me. Not once. For me, she was nothing less than a vision, the epitome of what the human form can attain. For her, however, I was just another customer, deserving of prompt service and common courtesy and nothing more. This beautiful creature couldn’t even spare me a single solitary smile. Realizing this made me feel so mean.
Young men now are subjected to endless titillation in an environment, for the regular straight white guy at least, that must feel increasingly competitive and hostile, due to the ongoing migration of females into demographic alternatives.
Sexual liberation has only increased the risk of sexual violence for women in an environment saturated with suggestion. At the same time it subjects young men to a sort of protracted torture of sexual teasing.
Male sexual rage is a biological response to losing out in the evolutionary struggle.
It's evolutionary terror, a mortal fear. Just as you fearfully anticipate your own death you fearfully anticipate your genetic line dying off in the next generation. That feeling in your stomach is a physical epiphany.
Quinn sees in his reaction to the beautiful bank teller--a reaction we all know--the motivation for a recent online campaign against Lauren Southern and Tara McCarthy from some of the rougher corners of the alt right. The charges against the women are silly (I thought I saw someone confidently "exposing" her one eighth Indian ancestry somewhere); I read them, even of Ms Southern's swarthy sojourn, which is a shame don't get me wrong, and I think who are these young men going to hell over this? These guys are going to have to toughen up in the future, because their future is toughening up all the time.
One of the charges against the women is that they're overrated, as we'd expect attractive women in a movement with few of them to be. I don't doubt it; I think the praise premium by which men overrate the intelligence of attractive women (about ten IQ points) is exceeded in constancy only by white liberals' same application in favor of blacks (about fifteen).
But even if its true, the women are not overrated in what they bring to the movement in charm and grace. I haven't followed either closely, but as far as I can tell Southern has done some fairly brave reporting in the field and McCarthy's podcast is one of the better ones (I've only recently started paying attention to them).
You need women. It helps if they're attractive. Even if they are overrated they are not really; they bring something to the table no man can. They broaden the appeal of ideas only kept underfoot by being made to look unappealing.