Matt Forney
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Letters from a Heartbroken Pervert: While You Were Speaking

This is a guest post by Nameless Writer.

She says her name is Kodi, and that she’s a Political Science major.

My God, this girl is beautiful, maybe the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.

She’s talking about the “neoconservative invention.” She says there is no such thing, just a bunch of anti-Semitic Alex Jones-type dudes who think so. She notes the silliness of claiming that an isolationist and somewhat libertarian inter-war right was the purest American conservatism of all time. She brings up that Harding, Coolidge, and Hoover all involved the U.S. in military engagements in the Caribbean and Central America. That a strong foreign policy had always been part of the American right; just look at T.R. and McKinley. And they were way before tiny cabals of ex-Commie Jews started taking over New York and all that. She brings up Adams, both John and Henry. She’s just going on and on.

She’s wearing this really nice blouse. It’s white with blue vertical stripes, and it is very form-fitting—which is not to say tight in a lewd way—there is a big difference. I don’t know how exactly to put it, but this blouse really shows off her shoulders; it’s almost like the blouse is cupping them while bolstering them. It’s a sexy blouse on a sexy girl. I want to unbutton it really slowly, handling each button with care. Once it was undone, I would leave it on her, just open it up in the front. I’d put my money on Maiden Form for the bra, but who knows; maybe Agent Provocateur.

She brings up how Irving Kristol, the supposed granddaddy of neoconservatism, rejected Francis Fukuyama’s Hegelianism on Aristotelian grounds. If neocons can vary that much in their philosophical views of historical progression, she says, can they really be considered a monolithic school of thought? David Horowitz is allergic to libertarians, while Charles Murray more or less is one. And aren’t they both neocons, she asks? Also noteworthy, says she, is that Francis Fukuyama studied under and deeply admired conservative Democrat Samuel P. Huntington. Does that make the late Huntington a neo? Of course not, and there are a million other examples just like that, she says. Or how about the inverse? Everyone thinks Alan Keyes is a nut—not some distinguished AEI researcher—well, he studied under Harvey Mansfield at Harvard, don’t you know. And under Bloom at Cornell too!

Regardless of the brand, it would clip in the front, and I would undo it and push the cups to the side. She doesn’t have very large breasts, but they are very perky and well-formed. I imagine they would be a lovely cream color as well. I would grab her right one very firmly with my left hand and pull it forward. I would keep my right hand on her left shoulder to be sure and keep her in place, and I would stare straight at her right nipple, soaking it in. I would stare for just a short time, all the while squeezing her breast harder and harder. Finally, I would take my right hand and strike that breast with all the force I could muster. I would hit it so fucking hard she would start crying right then and there from that single blow.

She says it is super annoying how many right-wingers have embraced the term. She’s basically ready to kill Douglas Murray over it. After all, Irving Kristol championed the term as a way of reclaiming it, since it was being used somewhat pejoratively to describe him by those weirdo Michael Harrington-style socialists. What a world we live in, she says. Some socialists call some Republicans a name, they try and re-appropriate it, only to discover that all of the Buchananites now use it for name-calling too. The Buchananites think they are so pure, but they learn their dirty words from fucking socialists, no less. No wonder they always flirted with the anti-Americanism of Eugene Genovese and William Appleman Williams, she says.

I want to see those beautiful hot tears roll down her face and neck and then all the way down to her perfect little breasts; one still creamy, the other now hot red. I’d be sure to take off her glasses to get a better look at her tears, and the way they would well up around the amazing blueness of her eyes. She’s wearing just a bit too much mascara now, and those tears would bring plenty of it down with them. With any luck, she’d tremble a little. Like an old car doing 85, I’d want her whole body to be shaking just a bit, in time with those tiny teardrops and quieted sobs that make would make her breasts (one red, one cream) rise and fall; rise and fall.

Of course, she starts delving deep into the matter of anti-Semitism. She goes through all the obvious shit first. That Pat Buchanan hates the Jews. Then that Justin Raimondo and Richard Spencer hate the Jews. Then that Taki hates the Jews a whole bunch, damn near to how much David Duke hates the Jews. Then she says that even though Paul Gottfried is a Jew, you can go on to The Occidental Quarterly website and see all of those writers saying Gottfried is a genius. And everyone knows that Kevin MacDonald and William Regnery hate the Jews a super bunch.

She’s wearing the most stereotypical hipster skinny jeans you can imagine. Not one detail about them is exceptional in any way: they are the perfect hipster skinny jeans. I’m trying to come up with a ceiling number for how much I would pay to be able to take a big fucking knife and cut them open. I really don’t want to take them off of her, I want to cut them open and rip them off of her. It’d probably be impossible not to pierce her tasty looking thighs in the process, but she would look gorgeous in red anyway.

She comes up with this big convoluted rhetorical question/hypothetical situation that’s all about which nations T.R. would have invaded and reconstructed, and whether or not he hated the Jews, and if he secretly was a Trotskyite and all that jazz. It gets a bit tangential and she conjures up a conspiratorial revisionist scenario in which neither Trotsky nor T.R. were killed, but they actually ran away together and came up with an epic plan for the U.S. to invade Iran in 2017. Naturally, she jests, Charles Krauthammer has the original copy, and is the only one who knows where all the reprints are. She giggles at her ability to cleverly mock her enemies in their absence. But then she gets all riled up about how the Weekly Standard needs to do more outreach to minorities and women, so that in a generation, their editorial board can be as diverse as America.

If those scrumptious thighs were sliced wide open, I really don’t think I’d be able to contain myself. I would have to fuck those thighs right then and there. No more foreplay or teasing or any of that shit, I would have to fuck those perfect, open, and bleeding thighs until I came deep inside of them. No doubt. But if they weren’t sliced all the way open and just left tasteful streams of blood down her bare legs, that would be fine, too. The trouble is that thinking about fucking those thighs has completely enveloped my mind. I want to shove my dick through those layers of perfect-yet-torn flesh and feel her inner blood flow. I try thinking about anything else, but I really can’t. My mind is in so deep I can’t even think about her clit, or wonder what shape it is, or even try and imagine what size gape I could give her with just my tongue.

She’s moved on to the topic of foreign policy, like Syria and Ukraine and all that. She says “decline” and “strength” a lot. In the middle of a sentence about the brilliant mind of Robert Kagan, she pauses and tells me I look really concentrated, she asks me what I’m thinking about.

I remember that old piece of graffiti I saw in Paris once that said, “Revolution is the active passage from dream to reality.” I take it to heart and I say, “I want to take a big fucking knife, and split both of your thighs open, then I want to fuck them; the wounds in your thighs, I mean.”


“While You Were Speaking” is an excerpt from Richard Power’s new memoir, Letters from a Heartbroken Pervert. You can purchase the book from Terror House Press here.

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