Conversations with a young 'nazi' Pt 2

story time continues

Read Pt 1 here.

K found my substack. It was only a matter of time. He also follows me on Instagram and watches all my stories. I also watch his and screenshot every one of them for future reference. It is mostly fascist meme slop.

He reads through all of my free posts in one go. He says it sounds like exploitation of men is my thing.

He has a point.

I have long felt like writing about men the way I do is a bit like sexual harassment. I am not exposing anyone, nor am I being negative about most men appearing in these posts, but writing about your romantic interests is masturbation. You are getting all excited, but they are not participating. By writing libidinally about people who will read your writing, you are forcing them to take part in your self-pleasure without first obtaining their consent.

K concludes from my writing that I like boosting men’s confidence because I was a nerd in high school, so that makes me feel better. He calls me a power-hungry h0e who is thirsting after her career. This is the first time he has digested online information accurately.

He says it wouldn’t make sense for me to move to the US because it would mean leaving my muses in Parliament behind. </3

My mind starts wandering to fantasies of me announcing my departure from my adopted motherland. I would pen a heartfelt Adios letter for the Speccie or the Torygraph. Pall Mall street would be cleared up to accommodate parades of mourners. An anonymous benefactor would commission a 6-foot-tall painting of me in a floor-length red dress to be exhibited at Trinity’s college Mayball. Tory staffers, incensed with grief, would break into the rooftop of Portcullis House to fly the Hellenic flag. GBnews ratings would be in free fall. Nigel Farage would be prescribed anti-depressants. Local authorities across the Red Wall would be mystified by cryptic graffiti ‘when I said deport them, I didn’t mean her’. Eton reunions would never be the same without the drama of a shared Helen of Troy. My own party would breathe a sight of relief.

K interrupts my daydream to ask me what’s the American equivalent of my fetish if posh men is a characterisation reserved for the British.

I have found no American equivalent to deserve personal research. The closest any group has gotten to dethroning my British type is neurotic Jewish New Yorkers. Sad news for a young nazi from the Midwest.

K has told me he does drugs and at the party I first met him he was talking with the other boys about a barrage of substances my sheltered ears had never heard of. I learned a new word: ‘candyflipping’. It’s when you drop acid and take molly at the same time.

I am starting to believe that perhaps the combination of stimulants and psychoactive substances he has ingested throughout his young life might be behind his high-level verbal skills, memory recall and ability to synthesize information to create grand narratives.

He comes up with insights about me and my life that evade some of my closest friends.

He says it’s ironic that a self-declared sigma female aspiring to write a feminist book feels she can only go on a path that a shrewd man has paved. Classic red pill theory. He references a man I was infatuated with because of the concerted attention he gave me. Did I fall for him because I wished I was as attentive and caring as he was with me? Maybe I wished my personality could carry the relationships I enter and not my looks.

It’s a fair conclusion from a young man reading my blogs, but I would be unfair to myself if I concluded that men are attracted to me only for my looks. The person most impressed by my looks is almost always me. I am in love with myself, but I am not delusional. I am a personality hire in most areas of my life.

He rightly points out that I absorb men's knowledge to progress in my career. People who have heard me talk, struggle to match my speaking voice to my writing voice because so much of my writing style has been influenced by long texting sessions with striving English boys but also books by horny old men: Charles Bukowski and Henry Miller, who I read when still a virgin and never got over.

I fear I can never get a girl similar to you without college and a better job.

Most importantly, I remind him, without decent, civilised, pro-social politics. The trads were right about childlessness being an impediment. I have clearly never raised a teenager because I am not sure my strategy is working. He is feeling emboldened in the thing that makes him unique in my life rather than moved to reform.

I can see how he would think that if he had normie politics, I would not give him the time of day, whereas by LARPing Nazism like a dancing bear at a gypsy wedding, he has secured my attention.

Alas, he wasn’t picked for his politics, he was picked for his gob.

Like most women, I am the most interested in him when he is talking about his feelings, background and relationships to other people. Most women are humancentric. Most men want to talk about things; most women want to talk about people. This is why emotionally intelligent men successfully date despite their background or appearance.

If he was just a nazi who never told me he was born in a trail park with one grandad being a cop and the other being a drug dealer, I would have long blocked him by now.

When he starts talking about his racism, homophobia or sexism, I switch off. Not because I am offended or triggered but because the theories he leaps into are so out of touch with the world that I struggle to connect with them. They are repetitive and circular.

I am aware most people would question my willingness to continue talking to K long after my need for him as a journalistic source has collapsed, as does he.

We continue to chat daily, and his erratic sleeping schedule means our waking hours overlap quite a bit.

One morning, I woke up at the crack of dawn to take the cab to my media grift shift. Since he was the only person awake and online, I told him he could stream the show I was on live if he used a VPN. He obliged and sent me live commentary for the two and a half hours I was on air. I’d peek at my phone during the 3-minute ad breaks and enjoyed the fact I had someone on the other side of the screen to share my experience. Humans are simple things.

I am self-aware enough to know why I encourage this online entanglement. My social and personal needs are an endless well. I crave intimacy, to know and to be known. It is hard to get that in London and in my busy, busy social circles. It is rare to get genuine engagement from men. The attention I receive is mostly generic. People react to impressions of me like flashes in the pan. It is flattering, but ultimately, its nourishment value to my soul is the nutritional equivalent of a bowl of Cheerios.

What’s wrong with me befriending a crypto-trading, conspiracy-peddling American boy in Illinois?

K says he feels like a simp watching me. I assure him the very online right-wing boy to simp for telegenic Greek socialist girl is a well trodden path.

As is the opposite, of course.

TBC

Read part 3.

Read part 4.