The Cure For Male Porn Brain Rot

The Rise and Fall of the Flesh Tower: A Modern Celebration Manufactured by Porn

Castration: The Porn Sickness Cure

New York, NY - My wife and I have been engaging in the sacred art of whispering misandry for quite some time now. You know, the kind that has to be done under cover of night, lest a stray “Not All Men!” warrior leap out from the shadows, armed with a podcast mic and an unsolicited opinion about Jordan Peterson.

With everything happening globally—child marriage, femicide, men explaining our oppression to us—I find “I loathe men” to be, quite frankly, too generous. A Hallmark card version of my actual feelings. No, what I feel is more like an existential allergic reaction to men that gets stronger and stronger every day.

Every lesbian space in NYC? Poof. Gone. Replaced with someone’s “girlhood journey” and a suspicious bulge in a thrifted miniskirt. Watching trans-identified males cosplay as 2013 Tumblr feminism—with lavender radical-feminist pins slapped onto trench coats like political Girl Scout badges—is a spiritual exfoliation I did not ask for. It’s not jealousy that drives lesbian disdain. It’s the sheer Olympic-level audacity.

We’re in an era where women who genuinely, wholeheartedly love women are reduced to supporting characters in a man’s masturbatory screenplay. Not because we want to, but because if we don’t, we’re “TERFs,” and the only thing standing between us and cancellation and job loss is a forced smile.

Let’s talk about the axis on which this whole charade spins: the mighty male erection. Civilization, war, capitalism—hell, even the space race—all moved forward by the blood flow to one deeply confused appendage. He makes money? Erection. He launches a war? Erection. He buys crypto? That’s a fetish too with these men. 

Speaking of fetishes, let’s dive into the deep sea of Male Porn Consumption™—where the average man watches about 100–300 minutes of porn per week, which is enough time to learn a new language, but sure, let’s instead watch "stepdads" screw their "stepdaughters" and fap away until new muscles are formed in their forearms. Over 74% of men aged 18–30 watch porn weekly, and a third admit their tastes escalate to weirder stuff over time. (Hint: If he owns a Fleshlight and a Reddit account, he’s probably deep into “vore” or “ballbusting” by now.) The last stage of prolonged pornography consumption is the move to a younger audience and we already see that with the various disgusting genres on PornHub with names like "Hot Sweet Teen and Daddy Go for a Picnic." 

Even worse? Boys as young as seven are now regularly exposed to pornography—often violent, misogynistic, and cartoonishly degrading—and not because they went looking for it, but because it’s a few taps away on a smartphone. It’s no mystery, then, why entire generations of boys grow up believing that slapping, choking, and humiliation are normal preludes to intimacy. Porn is raising them, and guess what? It’s not raising them into allies. And what happens when porn-induced delusion reaches its final form? Men genuinely believe they are women because their PornHub algorithms told them sissy hypno was an identity. Now, they’re guzzling estrogen-like it’s Soylent, signing up for medical meat sculpting, and bravely slicing off the very engine of patriarchy—their balls.

Honestly? I love that for them. Really. Nothing makes my heart grow three sizes like reading a Reddit thread where a self-castrated “girl” complains that his colon-vagina smells like a burning tire and no lesbian wants to date him. It’s the poetry of male entitlement meeting the sharp edge of reality—and I eat it up like popcorn. The fact that some are now learning that having a “neovagina” made from rectal lining can cause chronic yeast infections and lifelong odor issues? That’s karma wearing thigh-high boots. Let’s be real: the real “gender-affirming” truth is that some men’s deepest fetish is being the center of attention. Even in our spaces. Especially in our spaces. Women are forced to affirm, praise, and pretend, not because we believe it—but because not affirming is dangerous. And yet, the same dudes who watched one too many hentai tentacle clips are out here declaring themselves girl bosses because they bought a wig and a mesh top on Etsy.

But hey, silver linings: porn sickness has become a Trojan Horse for male self-extinction. If watching two hours of “sissy transformation hypnosis” a day leads him to self-castration and an $80,000 regret, who am I to interrupt that journey?

Honestly, ladies—let them spiral. Let them build their rot-pocket utopias. Let them chase the dragon of womanhood they’ll never reach. We’ll be over here, quietly building our own worlds, far away from the screams of “not all men” and the scent of Axe Body Spray mixed with despair. 

And speaking of spiraling, can we take a moment to appreciate the absolute fever dream that is male fetish culture? No seriously—sit with it for a moment. This is a demographic that has turned everything into a kink. Feet? Sure. Balloons? Yes. Crying? Somehow, yes. Being humiliated, ignored, feminized, diapered, or cuckolded? Triple yes. You name it, there’s a subreddit, a Discord server, and a poorly lit OnlyFans clip for it. You could hand a man a brick and within 30 seconds, he’d find a way to jack off to it. “Oh yes, the sturdy oppression of masonry.” The psyche of your average fetishist is so fragmented, that Freud himself would throw in the towel and just prescribe holy water.

And while we’re at it, let’s not forget the “feminization fetish”—a gift that keeps on giving. These aren’t men exploring gender identity out of introspection or empathy; they’re men who watched too much porn with subtitles like “Beta Male Sissy Loser Gets Turned Into Bimbo for Alpha Chad.” Their idea of womanhood? Fishnets, anime filters, and a rented personality disorder. It’s less gender and more performance art with a cum tribute.

These aren’t people joining womanhood—they’re colonizing it. They take our language, our struggles, our spaces, and rebrand them through the lens of erotic delusion. Then they cry “oppression” when we point out that they are, in fact, still men—just now with worse fashion sense and a GoFundMe for a surgery, they can’t spell. And as they invade lesbian spaces with the grace of a drunken moose in stilettos, we are told—no, commanded—to date them. To include them. To desire them. Otherwise, we’re “genital fetishists” or “transphobes,” because now even our orientation must orbit around their unmet needs. Imagine being so delusional that you confuse sexual boundaries with hate speech.

The irony, of course, is that behind all the online posing and mirror selfies is a man who is deeply, existentially miserable. They say transitioning will bring joy, wholeness, and inner peace—but the forums tell a different story. Regret. Isolation. Medical complications. The deep ache of realizing that womanhood isn’t a costume, and lesbian love isn’t a fetish waiting to be unlocked like a side quest. The truth is, porn has not only infected men’s minds—it’s completely rewritten their concept of identity, desire, and reality. And the earlier it starts, the worse it gets. What kind of world are we creating when boys barely out of first grade are being introduced to sex through violent, misogynistic porn clips on smartphones? When their understanding of women is filtered through facial abuse compilations and incest plotlines? These boys don’t grow up—they calcify into men who see women as either obstacles or objects. Often both.

So yes, I relish the poetic justice. I revel in the ironic tragedy of the modern man, curled in the fetal position with a healing neovagina and no one to call. It’s the only time he’s been truly vulnerable, and it wasn’t because he wanted to connect—it was because he wanted to co-opt. Meanwhile, we—the ones born into womanhood, into compromise, into closets and closets of trauma—are still expected to clap politely while this play unfolds. We are the audience and the unpaid extras in a fetish theater none of us auditioned for. But let them keep spiraling. Let them chase validation in increasingly bizarre ways. Because as they implode under the weight of their own delusion, we’ll be somewhere else. We’ll be in rooms they can’t enter, building futures they can’t colonize, loving women the way only women truly can: without delusion, without performance, and without the constant need for applause. Snip. Snip.