Being an incel, fantasizing about a dream life is like a double-edged sword. It's a great cope, but you're always painfully aware of how unfathomably distant it is.
My fantasy is living in an older English manor house. I would wake up, the serene sunlight rays dancing on the faces of my wife and I. She tickles my chest with her hair, a soft moan escapes her lips as she strokes my cheek tenderly. Blessed by the faint scent of the roses wafting through my window, we would flip open the covers. My wife would slide on a silky sundress, she would tease me and express her affection with a delicate kiss, her lips swell like berries in the sun. We would waltz out into the verdant sprawl outside, with the dulcet birdsong interlaced with the distant hum of bees pollinating the litany of gorgeous petunias and lilies. Her hand clasps around mine desperately, we would face isles of ruby-red strawberries. We would pick the plumpest ones and take turns feeding them to each other, remarking about just how delicious they are. Plastered on our faces are bright grins, ear to ear. Everything is calm and beautiful.
We would stride back into our beautiful estate with a haul of glistening ripe fruits. She would wash and cut them up, and I would prepare the pastry for a delicious strawberry tart. As it bakes under the tender glow of a spacious oven, we would spend the moments in-between curled up in a grand, comfy chair. Her voice would lap against my eardrums - a tender melody almost as delicious as the aroma of baked strawberries and golden, blistering dough. We would dive into epic tales and scientific tomes bursting with interesting trivia. It would be something to reminisce over later.
After taking the dessert out of the oven, we would greedily gobble up all of it, feeling high from the rush of sugar. And then, as our insulin surges to subdue our heady rush, we would feel intoxicated, our inhibitions lowered. My wife would snuggle up against me, radiating warmth from her soft embrace. A moment of silence. A bashful blush flushes wildly on her cheeks, it seems like there's something naughty in that head of hers. Coyly, she begins trailing beautiful, wet kisses down my nape. Her breaths start hitching; they're hiking into little staccato whispers against my earlobe. What was once a playful and delicate peck has now turned into her intensely pressing her body and lips against mine, as if she's trying to consume me whole. We make love, a romp filled with romantic desire, but something in her eyes screams a longing for me far more carnal, too. Even after we finish, she just can't keep her hands off me. Shimmering wet trails of kisses line my jaw. Her arms clasp around mine, as if she never wanted to let go. And then we fall into a peaceful slumber, cradled in each other's arms.
There are no chads, no blackpills, no stacies, beckies, no thugmaxxing, looksmaxxing, mewing, cheating, hypergamy, whoredom, jealousy; no incels, chadlites, oofy doofy, mentalceldom, no Elliot Rodger or Alex. Alas, this is only a fantasy. It's not the real world. The real world is much more cold, unforgiving and bleak. For incels in the real world, it was always...
Over.
My fantasy is living in an older English manor house. I would wake up, the serene sunlight rays dancing on the faces of my wife and I. She tickles my chest with her hair, a soft moan escapes her lips as she strokes my cheek tenderly. Blessed by the faint scent of the roses wafting through my window, we would flip open the covers. My wife would slide on a silky sundress, she would tease me and express her affection with a delicate kiss, her lips swell like berries in the sun. We would waltz out into the verdant sprawl outside, with the dulcet birdsong interlaced with the distant hum of bees pollinating the litany of gorgeous petunias and lilies. Her hand clasps around mine desperately, we would face isles of ruby-red strawberries. We would pick the plumpest ones and take turns feeding them to each other, remarking about just how delicious they are. Plastered on our faces are bright grins, ear to ear. Everything is calm and beautiful.
We would stride back into our beautiful estate with a haul of glistening ripe fruits. She would wash and cut them up, and I would prepare the pastry for a delicious strawberry tart. As it bakes under the tender glow of a spacious oven, we would spend the moments in-between curled up in a grand, comfy chair. Her voice would lap against my eardrums - a tender melody almost as delicious as the aroma of baked strawberries and golden, blistering dough. We would dive into epic tales and scientific tomes bursting with interesting trivia. It would be something to reminisce over later.
After taking the dessert out of the oven, we would greedily gobble up all of it, feeling high from the rush of sugar. And then, as our insulin surges to subdue our heady rush, we would feel intoxicated, our inhibitions lowered. My wife would snuggle up against me, radiating warmth from her soft embrace. A moment of silence. A bashful blush flushes wildly on her cheeks, it seems like there's something naughty in that head of hers. Coyly, she begins trailing beautiful, wet kisses down my nape. Her breaths start hitching; they're hiking into little staccato whispers against my earlobe. What was once a playful and delicate peck has now turned into her intensely pressing her body and lips against mine, as if she's trying to consume me whole. We make love, a romp filled with romantic desire, but something in her eyes screams a longing for me far more carnal, too. Even after we finish, she just can't keep her hands off me. Shimmering wet trails of kisses line my jaw. Her arms clasp around mine, as if she never wanted to let go. And then we fall into a peaceful slumber, cradled in each other's arms.
There are no chads, no blackpills, no stacies, beckies, no thugmaxxing, looksmaxxing, mewing, cheating, hypergamy, whoredom, jealousy; no incels, chadlites, oofy doofy, mentalceldom, no Elliot Rodger or Alex. Alas, this is only a fantasy. It's not the real world. The real world is much more cold, unforgiving and bleak. For incels in the real world, it was always...
Over.
