Men have a penis and women have a vagina. They are the two kinds of person that exist in human nature. This is the most striking external distinguishing feature, but not the only one. So Hollywood millionaires might understand it: It’s the difference between a Bugatti Mistral and a Rolls-Royce Phantom. Both are expensive and spectacular, but the former is a convertible, and the latter is not. There are more differences, of course. In fact, women have prominent breasts (the Bugatti does not), and men, with the exception of those who spend too many hours at Burger King, do not.
And then there’s what you don’t see. Both bodies have a different hormonal cocktail: Women’s bodies are more like a Daiquiri, while mine, for example, is more like an Old Fashioned. All this stuff that happens on the inside, along with all the other wires and chips, has external consequences. Men are hairier, and women tend to have finer skin; men can’t do two things at once, except with the controls of a console in a racing game, and women have wider hips; men are almost always defensive against unidentified external dangers (a skill acquired and honed thanks to American soccer), and women can spend hours analyzing intentions, thoughts, gestures, and hidden emotional warning signs. All of this, in the end, so that Dad can knock out the teeth of any thief trying to steal his baby, while Mom is able to detect in less than a tenth of a second that her teenage son has been dumped by his girlfriend and needs affection just by looking into his eyes.
All this starts with sex but does not stop there — it shapes the differences between both sexes, and its function is the reproduction and survival of the species. If the act of making children were not pleasurable, if there were no sexual, hormonal, complementary, and spiritual communion in the act, if millions of happy hormones were not released in the meantime, if we did not have a natural instinct to push us to the issue, we would have become extinct before the first pages of the Book of Genesis could be written.
A brief lesson in sexual mechanics: In order to perform the act, when the time comes, the man’s little worm grows into the arm of the Incredible Hulk, and the woman’s vagina turns into a Hawaiian swimming pool. God designed this whole mechanism for dummies so that even the dumbest guy would be able to figure out where, when, and to whom he should stick his USB to have little backups bouncing around the house nine months later. What happens in between takes place inside the woman, but deep inside, and detailing it exceeds the purposes of this brief compendium of sex education for young people who learned all they know about sex from Netflix during Pride Month.
On the other hand, the fact that men like women’s boobs was not a Playboy invention but is related to motherhood, to the instinct that pushes us to reproduce. The fact that women like strong, young men (hey, girls, don’t disregard this writer) is related to the instinct to protect the offspring. That a guy can hormone himself to have breasts like a girl is a choice, I suppose, but it’s not unlike what the orchid mantis (Hymenopus coronatus) does, which is to simulate the petals of a flower with its body to attract prey before eating them.
If a man loses his penis, for example, for arriving home late and drunk on his wedding anniversary, he is still a man, because his hormonal and genetic cocktail remains masculine. Obviously he must give up his reproductive capacity, unless he manages to develop quality spores to fertilize a goddamn tulip. God could have done with the penis as with fingernails or hair — make it so that it could be cut off and then would grow back — but then He would have sent a dangerous message to mankind about the vital importance of sex to the proper functioning of the human organism (and not exactly what is called for in the age of porn addiction). It’s important, but it’s not what defines us.
All of these very basic lessons can be discovered at puberty by a child living in isolation in the jungle, with no contact with civilization and, most especially, no contact with the sexuality lessons taught in progressive Sunday magazines. However, the Left is dedicated to questioning daily everything I have just told you, and since nature does not cater to their stupidities and remains the same, new legislation has been deemed necessary: that is, to force us to live in the lie of thinking that Richard Levine can now be Miss Rachel Levine and not some guy who came home late and drunk on his wedding anniversary.
I know the conclusion is a bit sordid, but as a neo-amateur sexologist I must say it. In the end, a postmodern leftist is someone who is unclear about where, for what, and to whom he should introduce what when his instincts call. Wokists invented sex-education classes to avoid having to take them.
* Article From: The American Spectator
