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A Crumbly Woman Scorned's avatar

Hayton isn't the only one; there's another in Britain, dressed like a granny, all pearls and twin-set, but with uterine implants for men as his day-dream. The more sheepish the sheep's clothing, the deadlier the wolf. Manipulators use the good cop, bad cop formula; or the Jekyll and Hyde personalities, to confuse us and thus get their own way. It's gaslighting with a sugared coat, and I won't fall for it; nothing new under the sun.

These men are all megalomaniacs, but some have elevated themselves even higher above us mere mortals than the rest, by proclaiming themselves to be a voice of sanity amid the madness. and these are the worst of the lot, oozing hypocrisy. The BBC's Radio 4 interviewed three people a while back on the subject of men invading women's sports, and all three were men, one of whom was Hayton, condemning it as a woman would do, had they bothered to ask one, yet whilst wearing woman-face. There are plenty of us here in Britain who find him insufferable.

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Lida H.'s avatar

Heya Karen,

I tried to copy something that I found on my travels this evening to your Community tab/page to no avail, but I'd really like to share it so I hope you don't mind me trying here. Thanks! 🙏🤞

1984

“Do you remember,” [O'Brien] went on, “writing in your diary, ‘Freedom is the freedom to say that penises are male sexual organs?”

“Yes,” said Winston.

O’Brien held up his left hand towards Winston, and pointed at his crotch.

“What are penises, Winston?”

“Male.”

“And if trans activists say that penises aren’t male but female — what are they?”

“Male.”

The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot up to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over Winston’s body. The air tore into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he could not stop. O’Brien watched him. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only slightly eased.

“What are penises, Winston?”

“Male.”

The needle went up to sixty.

“What are penises, Winston?”

“Male! Male! What else can I say? Male!”

The needle must have risen again, but he did not look at it. The heavy, stern face and hallucinations of biology books filled his vision. A male sexual organ appeared before his inner eye like an urechis unicinctus, weird, blurry, and seeming to vibrate, but unmistakably male.

“What are penises, Winston?”

“Male! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Male! Male!”

“What are penises, Winston?”

“Female! Female! Female!”

“No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think they are male organs. What are penises, please?”

“Male! Female! Male! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop harassing me!”

Abruptly he was sitting up with O’Brien’s arm round his shoulders. He had perhaps lost consciousness for a few seconds. The bonds that had held his body down were loosened. He felt very cold, he was shaking uncontrollably, his teeth were chattering, the tears were rolling down his cheeks. For a moment he clung to O’Brien like a baby, curiously comforted by the heavy arm round his shoulders. He had the feeling that the trans activist was his protector, that the pain was something that came from outside, from some other source, and that it was O’Brien who would save him from it.

“You are a slow learner, Winston,” said O’Brien gently.

“How can I help it?” he blubbered. “How can I help seeing what is in front of my eyes? Penises are male.”

“Sometimes, Winston, sometimes they are female. Sometimes sexual dimorphism doesn’t exist. Sometimes they are just a feeling. You must try harder. It is not easy to become a submissive supporter of identity politics.”

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