The Manosphere needs more anecdotes, more stories, and more dramatic gravitas, says WF Price. I’m inclined to agree, so here’s the heartwarming tale of how 18 year old Frost evaded his first ever false rape accusation.
Our story begins on a chilly autumn evening in the residence halls of a typical North American university. The night was like any other Friday, Saturday, Thursday, Monday or Wednesday in my life at the time: Good friends, cheap drinks, and shenanigans galore.
At one point in the evening, I made the acquaintance of a lovely young lady. Within an hour or two, we drunkenly recognized each other as soul mates and made sweet sweet love in her dorm room. We exchanged numbers, I stumbled back to my own room as the sun came up, and all was well.
The next week, we repeated the exercise, but with a twist. The morning after, she asked me – or more accurately, she naively communicated her expectation to me – that, well, of course I was now her exclusive, monogamous boyfriend.
Eighteen year old Frost was, surprisingly, an even worsehuman being than the current version. Rather than let her down gently, I laughed in her face and said hell no, not a chance, not in this lifetime. She asked me to leave.
The next day, she discussed the matter with her “don” – basically a sophomore babysitter assigned to live among the freshmen, hug them when they miss home, and hold their hair back when they need to vomit out a gallon of boxed wine. The dons are generally the sort who are afraid to leave residence for their second year. But, mostly, they aren’t such terrible people.
Let me give you a clearer picture of this one though:
She was a stumpy, ugly, pasty little rat of a human being. She walked with a feigned limp, which we occasionally caught her forgetting to put on. She claimed to be a Native American, although she looked as generically European as they come. She claimed to be a lesbian, but how such a cold, bitter human could ever feel or receive love is beyond me. Her greatest achievement in life, as measured by how often she bragged about it, was that she was a member of five separate oppressed minority groups – woman, cripple, lesbian, minority, and apparently one other that we, in all our privilege, never discovered.
So my erstwhile lady friend went to have a nice little talk about her feelings with this fine specimen of humanity – let’s call her Jizz – and launched a lovely sequence of events.
Over the next month, completely without my knowledge, Jizz tapped into her network of on-campus Social Justice Warrior Harridans, Manginas and White Knights. Together, they repeatedly confronted the girl, and brought the full-court press on to convince her that she had been raped. They harassed her all year, brought in counselors, staged interventions, and basically did everything they could to convince this girl that, since we had hooked up and she had later come to regret it, I deserved to spend 20+ years in jail.
There is only one thing that saved me from that fate, and that is that this girl was a decent human being who recognized that while I was indeed a dick, I didn’t deserve to have my life ruined. A weak girl would have caved to the peer pressure. A stupid girl would have succumbed to Jizz’s solipsistic logic. A petty, venal girl would have capitalized on the opportunity to exact revenge on the man who had spurned her.
Fortunately she was none of these, and I’m a free man.
But how many eighteen year old girls have that kind of character? Reason and justice are male values. Women are social, emotional creatures. Surround them with people saying the same thing, and many will crack. The typical female western college student is immersed in a tight network of angry feminists who are all too happy to use them as a means of imprisoning men. I imagine this is a pretty common situation. Most colleges are full of professional feminazi social justice warriors. Most colleges are chock-full of drunken, regrettable hookups. In this case, my entire life came down to the willingness of the one person who had the power to do the right thing, doing exactly that. I wonder how many men weren’t so lucky.
So make no mistake, readers of a fornicating temperament, college students especially: The threat of a false rape accusation is real: Fortunately, by taking a few simple precautions, an intelligent man can greatly limit his exposure to this particular risk:
1) Send A Good Feelings Confirmation Text.
Ideally, the minute she walks out your door.
“Damn. Still thinking about (whatever).”
“Dayum girl you rocked that shiz last night.”
“(Reference to stupid inside joke that came up at some point in the evening)”
Not only is this arguably solid post-bang comfort-maintenance, buyer’s remorse-reduction game, a positive response from her will be a major chink in any bogus future hypothetical legal case against you.
2) Don’t Be A Dick
Banging a drunk chick, pressuring a reticent girl into sex, pumping and dumping a girl after promising her that you’ll love her to the end of time – none of these are in anywhere near the same moral ballpark as actual, legitimate rape. But they are still dick moves, like littering in a forest or double-parking. More importantly, by avoiding dick moves, you keep yourself safe. As fucked up as it is, the law is evolving to the point that regret = rape. Solution: Minimize regret. Don’t bang drunk chicks. Don’t bang chicks that give more than a tiny bit of last-minute resistance. Warm your girl up until she is literally begging you to fuck her.
3) Don’t Bang Feminists
There are so many reasons why this should be a hard and fast rule for every man. Most immediately obvious is that Feminists are ugly, but here’s another one: Decent girls do not make false rape accusations. Sick, evil, damaged, unloved dregs of society – i.e the sort that gravitate towards the social justice warrior mentality – make false rape accusations. If you are going dumpster diving and scraping ugly feminists off the bottom of the barrel just to get laid, you have no one to blame but yourself when you eventually lose that game of Russian Roulette.
Bottom line: As a man in 21st Century America, you are at risk. There is no way around that, save celibacy – a burden few of us would bear. However, if you’re smart about your dicking around – only sleeping with decent girls, being a decent person back to them, and taking a few other simple precautions – the odds of falling victim to a false rape accusation will be much, much smaller than they would otherwise.