gigatard
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Dec 13, 2022
Micah E. Martin, better known today by his chosen troon name Gretchen Felker-Martin, is an American transgender self-employed "film critic" who rose to internet notoriety last year when he published a
MANHUNT
The story in Martin's debut print novel is set in a post-apocalyptic world in which a mysterious virus has transformed all men into unthinking, unfeeling rape gorillas who roam around in packs, searching for women to impregnate with their cannibalistic demon offspring. The two main characters are Beth and Fran, two transgender women who must eat the men's balls raw to keep their testosterone levels down lest they, too, succumb to to virus; they make their way through what is left of society with Robbie, a tough trans man who enjoys shooting guns and crying about various things, and the creatively-named Indi, an obese Indian-American medical doctor whose primary character struggle lies in finding new ways to air out her sweaty fat folds in their post-industrial world.An attempt at a read-through of this book can be found in this thread; this noble effort was eventually abandoned as volunteer readers dropped like flies due to disgust at the graphic sex and rape scenes, irritation at his butchery of the English language, and just plain boredom at the lack of any kind of substantial or engaging plot line. I won't repeat the entire book review in this OP, but I'd like to highlight a select few nuggets of gold from that thread in the spoilers below.
Fran’s eyes widened. She stared at the thin, long-haired woman currently sorting through the contents of Beth’s bike basket. They called her Teach, she’d heard, because she’d been a psychological consultant at Guantanamo before T-Day hit. She was a medical doctor too, according to the rumors at the Fort Fisher trading post up near Seabrook when they’d gone to find a buyer for their excess E. Whatever her deal, and wherever she’d come from, there was no doubting she was hardcore. She got her hands on them and they were fucked. Dead. Done.
The tattooed woman said something that made her retinue laugh. Fran watched her lips move, watched the play of muscles under her smooth face as she smiled. A cold thrill went up her spine. God, you don’t need to have a wet dream about a fucking gender-essentialist neofascist. She squeezed her eyes shut, nipping in the bud her imagination’s little spurt of latex tight against pale skin and thighs divided into lickable quarters by garters edged in delicate black lace, of a hand on the back of her neck squeezing tighter and tighter until—
The tattooed woman said something that made her retinue laugh. Fran watched her lips move, watched the play of muscles under her smooth face as she smiled. A cold thrill went up her spine. God, you don’t need to have a wet dream about a fucking gender-essentialist neofascist. She squeezed her eyes shut, nipping in the bud her imagination’s little spurt of latex tight against pale skin and thighs divided into lickable quarters by garters edged in delicate black lace, of a hand on the back of her neck squeezing tighter and tighter until—
No air. Men screaming. Knife. Yanking it free of its sheath with sticky fingers. Stabbing fast and desperate at his breast and neck. Like top surgery, she thought, and a braying, phlegmy laugh burst from her mouth along with a bubble of blood. She was on her back. There were bodies all around her and warm dead flesh beneath her; one of the men she’d shot must have broken her fall. The one on top of her had his hand over her face. His claws found her bandaged cheek, pushed under it and into the half-healed fissure of the scar left by the crossbow bolt. She moaned. His blood dripped hot onto her tits. Her throat. Her mouth. He shuddered, caustic bile drooling down his chin, and she jerked her knife out of his neck and squirmed out from under his convulsing bulk. She could hear Fran screaming no-no-no-no-no like a scratched record speeding up. Claws tore at her hoodie. She got up into a crouch and her bad leg gave out the second she put weight on it. Then they were on her. Slavering and pawing. Sniffing at her crotch. Exhaustion broke over her in a towering black wave. Her chin in the dirt, her body crushed under the weight of the snarling men, she watched a small brown mantis pick its way along a blade of grass. Clawed fingers slid through her hair and pressed down, forcing her face into the wet earth. Her arm and the knife were trapped beneath her body. She thought that if she could just find a way to keep the mantis in her field of vision she might slip out of herself, dissociate completely from the hard cock, barbed like a cat’s, scratching at her inner thighs, from the clawed hands tearing at the seat of her shorts and the frantic, stupid flash of embarrassment that she hadn’t shaved her legs in months...
There was a flat, hard crack like someone slapping bare flesh with an open palm and the man atop her spasmed. Hot fluid coated Beth’s thighs and taint as the man tore free of her, the barbs of his penis ripping her open inside with a pain so hot and clean and overwhelming she could hardly feel it even as her anus clenched in terrified retentive reflex. He let go of her scalp and fell across her legs, thrashing and screaming. One of the others scrambled over her, a shriek boiling up from deep within his chest, his weight forcing the air out of her lungs in a great wheezing exhalation. Another followed. Claws scored her back just above her ass. She heard herself scream.
There was a flat, hard crack like someone slapping bare flesh with an open palm and the man atop her spasmed. Hot fluid coated Beth’s thighs and taint as the man tore free of her, the barbs of his penis ripping her open inside with a pain so hot and clean and overwhelming she could hardly feel it even as her anus clenched in terrified retentive reflex. He let go of her scalp and fell across her legs, thrashing and screaming. One of the others scrambled over her, a shriek boiling up from deep within his chest, his weight forcing the air out of her lungs in a great wheezing exhalation. Another followed. Claws scored her back just above her ass. She heard herself scream.
He squirmed closer. The heat of him blew over her, harsh and dry, raising blisters on her lips, reddening her skin. She tried to scream, but her chest was tight, her throat constricted. Only a faint croak emerged. Her hands twitched limp and boneless at the ends of her trembling arms. She tried to sob, but no tears came. He reached out and took her face in his flickering hands. His fingers seared her cheeks, melting her scars, opening red fissures in her flesh. He kissed her. White tongue sliding over her teeth. The sting of lemon on an open cut. It felt so good.
He wrapped himself around her, sliding an arm under her waist and another over her side. Pulling her flush against him. His leg sliding between hers, his thigh pressing hard against her stiffening cock. Tears of molten fat ran down her cheeks. The little things in the dark under the cabinets withdrew into the shadows, covering their eyes. Beth’s hand scrabbled of its own volition down between her legs, pulling itself spider-like along the ravine formed by their twining bodies. The flesh of her thighs and pubis was wet and sticky to the touch. Beads of thick fluid welled up from her pores and she knew without looking that the same substance was dribbling from her cock.
He wrapped himself around her, sliding an arm under her waist and another over her side. Pulling her flush against him. His leg sliding between hers, his thigh pressing hard against her stiffening cock. Tears of molten fat ran down her cheeks. The little things in the dark under the cabinets withdrew into the shadows, covering their eyes. Beth’s hand scrabbled of its own volition down between her legs, pulling itself spider-like along the ravine formed by their twining bodies. The flesh of her thighs and pubis was wet and sticky to the touch. Beads of thick fluid welled up from her pores and she knew without looking that the same substance was dribbling from her cock.
Indi knelt on a blanket beside Mackenzie’s snoring bulk, trying to jerk him off. She wanted to do it before the Temazepam faded—she had no idea how potent it was after three years in storage, or how his metabolism would handle it. She’d strapped him down just in case. The hardest part was handling the barbs, the dozens of short, bony protrusions growing from his cock. Only with thick rubber electrician’s gloves and enough Vaseline to make getting any kind of grip on him at all a nightmare had she been able to start working his shaft without fear of getting snagged and cut....
He came, ropes of thick yellowish cum filling the sample canister Indi held at the slit of his cock. His huge frame shuddered with release, muscles going slack, the raw fissures in his skin oozing cloudy fluid where they’d torn in his spasm. Indi capped the tube, peeled off her glove, and let Mariana help her up.
He came, ropes of thick yellowish cum filling the sample canister Indi held at the slit of his cock. His huge frame shuddered with release, muscles going slack, the raw fissures in his skin oozing cloudy fluid where they’d torn in his spasm. Indi capped the tube, peeled off her glove, and let Mariana help her up.
Fran swallowed and reached up to fiddle with the topmost button of her dress, a fitted black challis with half sleeves and a high collar. “Oh, I’m just not much of a partier.”
“But you’ll dance with me, surely, if only to avoid the appearance of rudeness?”
“Sure.” She gave her best approximation of an easy smile, the thought of her body close against a TERF’s both exhilarating and disgusting. “Just keep your hands at ten and two, officer.”
“But you’ll dance with me, surely, if only to avoid the appearance of rudeness?”
“Sure.” She gave her best approximation of an easy smile, the thought of her body close against a TERF’s both exhilarating and disgusting. “Just keep your hands at ten and two, officer.”
“Wait,” said Fran, reaching down to take Viv’s hand off her thigh. Ramona’s heart flew up into her throat. “Wait, wait. I can’t do this. Stop.”
Viv grinned. “Please. I can smell how bad you want it.”
“I have a … a girlfriend.”
Viv snorted laughter. “Oh fuck you,” she purred playfully, leaning forward to kiss Fran again, to lick the arch of the other woman’s neck. “You’re really gonna leave me with my cock in my hand? After the eyes you’ve been making at me all summer?”
Her fingers slipped into the fork of Fran’s thighs. Beth saw the trans girl struggling, heard her hissing, no-no-no, and then the sound of a zipper. Viv jumped back as though she’d been burned, clutching the hand she’d forced into Fran’s lap against her chest. “You bitch,” she squeaked, her voice high and tight. “You cunt piece of shit. That’s rape. Fucking tranny. Fucking monster. Undisclosed fucking genital rape.”
Viv grinned. “Please. I can smell how bad you want it.”
“I have a … a girlfriend.”
Viv snorted laughter. “Oh fuck you,” she purred playfully, leaning forward to kiss Fran again, to lick the arch of the other woman’s neck. “You’re really gonna leave me with my cock in my hand? After the eyes you’ve been making at me all summer?”
Her fingers slipped into the fork of Fran’s thighs. Beth saw the trans girl struggling, heard her hissing, no-no-no, and then the sound of a zipper. Viv jumped back as though she’d been burned, clutching the hand she’d forced into Fran’s lap against her chest. “You bitch,” she squeaked, her voice high and tight. “You cunt piece of shit. That’s rape. Fucking tranny. Fucking monster. Undisclosed fucking genital rape.”
Before she could psych herself out of it, Beth reached back, grabbed the other woman by the ankle, and yanked her leg out from under her. Sylvia went down like a Looney Tune slipping on a banana peel, except Sylvester the Cat’s skull had never made a sound like that—a sickening, gravelly crunch—when it hit the floor, and Porky Pig had never groped weakly at his murderer’s throat and face while being strangled, had never let out a ghastly, rattling whimper as her thumbs crushed his trachea.
This is a fucked-up thing to think about while you’re killing someone, Beth reflected, squeezing with all her strength against the thundering pulse in the sides of Sylvia’s throat. Thufferin’ thuccotash! Thith ith theconddegree moider!
She started laughing just before the light went out of Sylvia’s eyes. The other girls—the other daddies—were screaming, and someone was running. Beth laughed and laughed until her stomach hurt, ignoring the shouting voices, the cries of terror, and then something pierced her back and she pitched over on her side, current roaring through her body, and pissed herself. Someone kicked her in the kidneys. She saw white. Red. Ah-buh, buh-duh, th-that’s all, folks!
This is a fucked-up thing to think about while you’re killing someone, Beth reflected, squeezing with all her strength against the thundering pulse in the sides of Sylvia’s throat. Thufferin’ thuccotash! Thith ith theconddegree moider!
She started laughing just before the light went out of Sylvia’s eyes. The other girls—the other daddies—were screaming, and someone was running. Beth laughed and laughed until her stomach hurt, ignoring the shouting voices, the cries of terror, and then something pierced her back and she pitched over on her side, current roaring through her body, and pissed herself. Someone kicked her in the kidneys. She saw white. Red. Ah-buh, buh-duh, th-that’s all, folks!
Ramona stuck the knife into the side of Viv’s neck, and the rest of the older woman’s sentence, whatever it was, gurgled out through the ragged slit as she jerked the blade back toward herself through muscle, skin, and tendon. She tore it free and stabbed Viv again, this time in the chest. The taller woman took a double fistful of her shirt and hung on grimly, jaw set and eyes bulging, as blood sheeted down her throat. Ramona twisted the knife. Viv’s grip went slack. She folded up and fell.
“I loved my sister,” said Corinne. She walked a yard or so ahead, hauling every now and then on the rope she’d tied as a crude collar around Beth’s neck so that Beth had to lurch forward clumsily over the exposed roots and treacherous deadfalls of the forest floor, without her arms for balance, or else strangle. Dawn had just begun to break. “I loved her more than anything in the world. This fucking wasteland, this pit, scuttling around after my ex-boss’s psychopathic teenager so I can be sure I’m right there to tell her how important and special she is while she gets stoned and watches cartoons and screams at us because the hard drive with her favorite cached YouTube videos got corrupted. I did it for Sylvia. So she could have a place to live. So I could see her. Touch her. Now I have no one.” Her voice broke. “Nothing."...
“You know she came to see me a few times,” Beth rasped, spitting bloody mucus. “Got herself a little daddy fix. What a fucking ass she had. I mean I guess you’ve got it, too, but I can see the appeal. You two ever, you know, I don’t have my hands free, but you remember Game of Thrones, right?”
Corinne’s little black wedge toe hit her square in the mouth. The back of Beth’s head bounced off the tree trunk and she saw stars, strobing points of black and red and green, in the moment before the smaller woman threw herself on top of her and began raining blows down on her face and shoulders. “Easy!” Beth shouted through a mouthful of blood. “I’m not into the rough stuff, baby! This how you used to fuck [your sister]?”
“You know she came to see me a few times,” Beth rasped, spitting bloody mucus. “Got herself a little daddy fix. What a fucking ass she had. I mean I guess you’ve got it, too, but I can see the appeal. You two ever, you know, I don’t have my hands free, but you remember Game of Thrones, right?”
Corinne’s little black wedge toe hit her square in the mouth. The back of Beth’s head bounced off the tree trunk and she saw stars, strobing points of black and red and green, in the moment before the smaller woman threw herself on top of her and began raining blows down on her face and shoulders. “Easy!” Beth shouted through a mouthful of blood. “I’m not into the rough stuff, baby! This how you used to fuck [your sister]?”
She slept, and in her dreams she lay on an operating table while Indi and her father stood on either side of her. Her father was naked, and though she wanted to look away her eyes were glued to the dark, curly hair between his legs, the curve of his circumcised penis.
Indi was at the foot of the table. Had she been there the whole time? People watched them from the shadows, whispering to one another. “Hold still,” said her friend, pushing her skirt up around her hips. “If we’re going to make them match, I need you to hold very, very still.”
Indi was at the foot of the table. Had she been there the whole time? People watched them from the shadows, whispering to one another. “Hold still,” said her friend, pushing her skirt up around her hips. “If we’re going to make them match, I need you to hold very, very still.”
Context: A woman yelling at a rape-zombie who used to be her husband and is now revealed to be her brother
“No, no, no, no! Down! Off! Please, Kenzie! Please!”
And then, in a voice that scaled up and up until it was a barely intelligible shriek that could have cut a straight line through a pane of glass, “What if Daddy sees? What if Daddy sees? Get off me! Get off me or he’ll make you go away again!”
“No, no, no, no! Down! Off! Please, Kenzie! Please!”
And then, in a voice that scaled up and up until it was a barely intelligible shriek that could have cut a straight line through a pane of glass, “What if Daddy sees? What if Daddy sees? Get off me! Get off me or he’ll make you go away again!”
Beth lay against Fran’s cold body as the sun began to set, her head resting on the dead girl’s shoulder. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to fill in the grave, or to go get Indi and the others. To put dirt on Fran’s still face, on her white dress and freckled shoulders. “I don’t know what’s going to happen next,” she whispered. Fingers of shadow moved over their skin. Jags of light and dark. “I’m scared. I wish you were here.”
She kissed Fran’s pallid lips and pulled the body closer, pressing her face into the hollow of the other woman’s neck. “I love you,” she breathed in a voice that trembled at the weight of all the different ways those words were true. “I love you so much, Fran, you stupid bitch.” She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut tight against the acrid tears that burned at their corners, wrapping her legs around Fran’s to be closer, to touch her one last time. Every breath was a hitching, desperate sob. Fran in her sundress in the door of her room at Indi’s house. Fran screaming at her in back of the high school. Sucking her dick in a mossy clearing they’d found one day while they were supposed to be hunting. Fran laughing. Fran crying. Fran in her arms.
She kissed Fran’s pallid lips and pulled the body closer, pressing her face into the hollow of the other woman’s neck. “I love you,” she breathed in a voice that trembled at the weight of all the different ways those words were true. “I love you so much, Fran, you stupid bitch.” She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut tight against the acrid tears that burned at their corners, wrapping her legs around Fran’s to be closer, to touch her one last time. Every breath was a hitching, desperate sob. Fran in her sundress in the door of her room at Indi’s house. Fran screaming at her in back of the high school. Sucking her dick in a mossy clearing they’d found one day while they were supposed to be hunting. Fran laughing. Fran crying. Fran in her arms.
Ego Homini Lupus
Summary: "Joan is wed without a dowry to a knight without a household. In the cold and dark of 12th-century Northumbria she struggles under the burden of life as his servant and wife, mother to his children, keeper of his hall, and tanner of the wolf pelts he must render to the king in tax each summer. Alone at the end of the world with her husband and his cruel, mercurial sister-in-law, Joan gradually descends into a netherworld of filth and madness as the demands of her new life crush her mind beneath their weight. "KF user @Niggaplease graciously read the first three chapters of this atrocity and summed them up in the same thread mentioned above; I've summarized the most notable passages from her summaries. Both of them are incest fantasies, because of course they are, and you need to know that both of these instances are from the first fucking chapter.
The singing of the wolves grew louder as the sun sank behind fat, dark clouds. Joan looked out across the heath at the shadows of the trees. Worry for her brother grew in the pit of her stomach. Beautiful Godfrey. His babyhood was over, his plump cheeks and strangely serious expression, his soft blond curls and the smell of milk that clung to his skin. Sometimes she didn’t recognize the quiet, long-limbed youth who tilted at rings in the courtyard under the watchful eye of the master at arms. A month ago she had caught sight of his back as he washed himself in the baths below the keep, all that was left of the great Roman fort that had once stood upon the cold and solitary hill. A strange desire had moved her, a need to hold him as a babe again, to give him her nipple as she had seen the wet nurse do. Flushed and suddenly ashamed, she’d left the swirling steam and the flat mineral smell of the baths and stolen away to walk the castle walls awhile in the clear spring air. The memory of his high, sharp shoulders, of the lean muscles of his arms, brought back that shameful ache. She felt her cheeks color and her breath quicken and catch in her chest. Sir Arsène might look like that, she thought. Older, with a man’s shape, but not so different. She thought again of the scullery girl, Elaine, and her soft arms and fat belly and thick golden hair. She let the spindle fall to the floor. Her feet scuffed over stone as she squeezed her thighs together against the heat building between them, as though she could hold it inside. The rain beat quick and hard against the window. He might… He could… It doesn’t count with servants. Her fingers found their way under her skirts to squirming warmth and wetness, rooting through coarse hair for the bud of her cunt and the shivering innervation of release.
Her mother’s bare shoulder, smooth as soap in the wan light falling through the window. Moths beating themselves like rain against the glass. Joan bent and pressed her lips against it. Warm skin to cold. “Are you dirty, Joan?” She’s going to see. “No, mama.” A cool hand settled on her thigh as she feathered her mother’s neck with kisses. It crept to the fork of her legs, raising gooseflesh in its wake. “I’m clean.” “What will I find when I look?” A terrible, wriggling joy rose up from the roots of Joan’s privates like a tree mapping air with new boughs. She felt her cheeks redden as blood suffused her face and she hid her shameful smile against her mother’s slender throat. “Nothing, mama.” There was a dark and distant thrill of fear and the smell of bile filled Joan’s nostrils as her mother’s nails slid into her. I cried, she thought, but she didn’t stop. The moment of lucidity went as 11 fast as it had come. Her mother’s hand burned cold inside her, first two fingers, then three. Joan ground her teeth and clung tighter to the older woman, pressing her face into the sweetscented hollow of her throat. The ache of fullness built. A fourth finger slipped inside and she felt as though she would tear, as though her body would come apart along some as yet undiscovered seam. “Muck inside you,” said her mother. “Filth.” “No.” Joan shook her head, pressing her face harder into the older woman’s neck. Her thighs trembled. Spasms tore at her belly like scrabbling fingernails. She could feel thick discharge oozing out around her mother’s wrist, but she dared not look. To look would be to make it real, to fall back down the shaft of time and kneel trembling and naked in a puddle of her own vomit, skinny shoulders hunched against the blows of her mother’s willow switch. Her mother’s thumb slid into her. The pain was unbearable. She clung like a child to the other woman, begging in breathless, whining gasps for an end to it. It seemed the hand crept farther back in every breath Joan took, scrabbling like a spider up into her belly, finding purchase among coils of gut. 12 Tears streamed down Joan’s cheeks. She cried out, retching as a horrible sucking noise heralded her mother’s withdrawal, some vital flesh clutched in her grasp. I will tear, she thought wildly. I will tear. She will tear me. Her mother’s free hand seized her hair and jerked her head back, forcing her to look up into the gnashing teeth and dripping lips of the cunt that bloomed in the center of her the other woman’s empty face and the threadlike tendrils of flesh that squirmed within that orifice. A ring of white fire blazed like a crown behind her head and mucoid juices ran from her cleft to hang in strings from her chin like an old man’s dribble.There were no eyes, only teeth and the feathery caress of the tendrils as they uncurled, fronds dripping with nameless slime. The sullied hand emerged, intestine curled around its wrist and squeezed in its grasp, a new cord to rebind what had been cut, and Joan felt herself begin to empty out, to implode in a tide of unmoored flesh. Skin ripping free of bone as her skeleton swung loose in the flaccid wineskin of her meat. Closer to her mother’s face, to the cunt-thing drooling and champing, and from the corner of her eye the sight of that blood-smeared claw 13 dragging its fleshy garland under her the older woman’s skirts, up to the dark from which it had sprung. Outside, beyond the window where the moths still circled, dashing themselves against the light, the wolves were singing
No End Will Be Found
Summary: A young wet nurse is arrested, tortured, tried, and executed for witchcraft in 17th century Germany.This story is short, the pdf is around 70 pages, but that includes blank pages and cover. He calls it a novel, but to me it is barely a novella.
It is dedicate to Halina, whoever that is. I wonder how people feel to be dedicated a rape porn story
Review:
TLDR: this story is nothing. Not horrifying like Manhunt, but creepy enough to want me to have someone check his hard drive. It's not clear whether he wants to write a deep-mature story about the witch trials, a rape porn, or torture porn. He brilliantly succeeds at doing none of these things.Reading this story left me empty. Not shocked, not horrified, just left me wondering "why?". Although I did not read Manhunt, I followed most of the Kiwifarm Reads Manhunt thread, so I am fairly familiar of the depravity level Micah is capable of. This novel hints at his perverted thoughts, but it far too mild to leave me shocked.
The summary is the following: "A young wet nurse is arrested, tortured, tried, and executed for witchcraft in 17th century Germany. " (From Gumroad where one can buy this book).
Here is the problem - this is the book. This is all that happens. The characters are not compelling, interesting, or really have a personality. Two characters make actual choices in the whole story, and they are not explained or make any sense to the reader. You don't get attached to them, feel sad, or get angry at them. Their intentions are unknown and their feelings are irrelevant.
This is how the protagonist is introduced - she is young, but readers are have no idea how young.
There is also no room for horniness or shock, because the sex and torture are very very brief. Those scenes are horrifying, partially due to how badly they were written.
And this (she has just been arrested and being transported to prison)-
Micah is also supposedly a history geek. Yet the torture comprises of a beating, using the rack (or something similar), and taking out fingernails (just mentioned, not described in any detail). I have been to a museum showing torture devices, mainly medieval ones, and those plaques had more of a description than this 70 pages book. [Fun fact - I nearly passed out in that museum (I know, I know ...)].
There are torture devices of a sexual nature that I think could have been used in this book, or at least he could be more descriptive of the pain felt by the girl. Again, every scene in this book just feels empty. The girl is in pain, but not excruciating pain like one would imagine from the torture, or to create a "horror-like" atmosphere. She has broken ligaments and bones, but also she just rests in the cell after the torture. I believe she is able to walk days later. And taking out fingernails could make anyone shiver, but not if you are a terrible writer.
Another aspect of bad writing is how Micah attempts at this more profound style, where he included interludes describing a witch rituals. I found those too boring to read and only skim read those parts - I strongly doubt I missed any gem. Furthermore, one can feel he tries to give more from this novel. He inserts transition scenes and dialogue that is supposed to be interesting and hinting at something more. It fails; it is just bad.
Bonus --
Breastfeeding fetish:
Breastfeeding is a theme of the whole story. I will say that it could make sense with a wetnurse as a character, and given the historic period this is set in. Still...
Men being stronger than women:
Dreadnought
Summary: At the end of the world, three broken girls entrusted with the piloting of biomechanical monstrosities known as Dreadnoughts are all that stand between humanity and annihilation at the hands of the Lilim, a race of monstrous giant women from another world. As sanity and civilization teeter in the balance, Leah, El, and Kelly struggle to reconcile their hated minds and bodies with the perfect engines of destruction with which they must bond to survive.
Porn Kinks in Mainstream Media
You may be noticing a trend here that Micah is a bit overly fond of, ah, "non-traditional" forms of sex. In fact, Micah has made it his life's work to advocate for the increased normalization of things like incest, rape, sexual coercion, and pedophilia in media.(Archive)
(Archive)
It's not just that movies should have more horror; movies that deliberately keep scenes of sexual violence out are actively committing a hate crime against him.
(Archive)
He's even written several articles about this topic:
I Don't Wanna Grow Up (And Neither Can You)
You can't show women being hurt. You can't show child abuse. You can't show rape. You can't show incest. Pedophilia, self-harm, intimate partner abuse, necrophilia, violence against children; if you're going to so much as talk about any of these things you need to do so at a 5th-grade level and behind the dual firewalls of safe, pastel-colored animation and explicitly education-based presentation. [...]
But what's left in art once you scour away the things that make you uncomfortable? What's left for the people who make their living and/or maintain their sanity by approaching our own suffering from a place of skill, assurance, and safety? What's left for readers and viewers trying to grow as people, to find empathy for those they've been taught to despise, to understand their own sexual shame and fear? What's left for people struggling with the isolation of abuse who have no support and no words to help them name it? Art is the lifeblood of human connection and introspection. It is the foremost way in which we can confront our own weaknesses and failings. Sanitized and focused solely on the comfort and entertainment of its audience, it's no more meaningful than a halfhearted handjob from an indifferent lover. [...]
I stand with sex workers, with pornographers, with artists of all kinds struggling to make something hot, something vulnerable, something raw and sickening and terrifying. If they fuck it up, well, at least they're a person, not some faceless sea of suits trying to get their arms down my throats to pull out my organs. Enjoy your popcorn movies, your Steven Universe and your X-Men comics, but ask yourself, what are you immersing yourself in by not reaching beyond those things? What is prolonged and overgrown childhood doing to your mind and to your moral sense of the world? Growing up is painful, yes, but if you want to learn to love, to open yourself up to others, to touch the deepest, rawest parts of your psyche and your sexuality, you're going to have to suffer.
But what's left in art once you scour away the things that make you uncomfortable? What's left for the people who make their living and/or maintain their sanity by approaching our own suffering from a place of skill, assurance, and safety? What's left for readers and viewers trying to grow as people, to find empathy for those they've been taught to despise, to understand their own sexual shame and fear? What's left for people struggling with the isolation of abuse who have no support and no words to help them name it? Art is the lifeblood of human connection and introspection. It is the foremost way in which we can confront our own weaknesses and failings. Sanitized and focused solely on the comfort and entertainment of its audience, it's no more meaningful than a halfhearted handjob from an indifferent lover. [...]
I stand with sex workers, with pornographers, with artists of all kinds struggling to make something hot, something vulnerable, something raw and sickening and terrifying. If they fuck it up, well, at least they're a person, not some faceless sea of suits trying to get their arms down my throats to pull out my organs. Enjoy your popcorn movies, your Steven Universe and your X-Men comics, but ask yourself, what are you immersing yourself in by not reaching beyond those things? What is prolonged and overgrown childhood doing to your mind and to your moral sense of the world? Growing up is painful, yes, but if you want to learn to love, to open yourself up to others, to touch the deepest, rawest parts of your psyche and your sexuality, you're going to have to suffer.
The Innkeeper's Daughter: Rape and Sexual Violence in Game of Thrones
understatement. Every year, fans and critics produce countless thinkpieces, tweets, and blog posts detailing the manifold ways in which HBO’s fantasy juggernaut degrades and objectifies women with its depictions of sexual violence. The show’s investigation of rape’s ugliness is routinely classified as a prurient preoccupation, sometimes of the show as a work of art and sometimes of the showrunners themselves, David Benioff and Dan Weiss. [...]
Cersei’s rape at her husband’s hands, Daenerys’s on her wedding night, Gilly’s entire life up until her departure from Craster’s Keep, Sansa’s long and terrible road through various forms of sexual violence and humiliation, Shae’s tragic death at her lover’s hands, ser Meryn Trant’s (Ian Beattie) sadistic predilection for young girls. It makes up a mosaic of misery and pain which holds true to one of the most painful lessons life has for rape victims: closure is a myth. You’ll carry scars to your grave and live as a different person than the one you might have been. Even bloody revenge, which a few of the show’s women obtain, only hardens and embitters. [...]
In a world where noblewomen are stripped, carried aloft, and raped on their wedding nights and peasant girls are little more than wineskins to be sucked dry and discarded, ser Gregor’s irresistible stature and life-crushing whims are a perfect metaphor for the vast edifice protecting and enshrining rape as a tool used by men against their wives, their children, and their enemies. In another book it might ring hollow, a woman’s life discarded to heighten the stakes, but in A Song of Ice and Fire and Game of Thrones the relentless focus on life after violation textures Layna’s story with a deeper meaning. The laughing men, the flippant transformation of an entire life into a joke; that violence is the foundation on which all else is built.
Cersei’s rape at her husband’s hands, Daenerys’s on her wedding night, Gilly’s entire life up until her departure from Craster’s Keep, Sansa’s long and terrible road through various forms of sexual violence and humiliation, Shae’s tragic death at her lover’s hands, ser Meryn Trant’s (Ian Beattie) sadistic predilection for young girls. It makes up a mosaic of misery and pain which holds true to one of the most painful lessons life has for rape victims: closure is a myth. You’ll carry scars to your grave and live as a different person than the one you might have been. Even bloody revenge, which a few of the show’s women obtain, only hardens and embitters. [...]
In a world where noblewomen are stripped, carried aloft, and raped on their wedding nights and peasant girls are little more than wineskins to be sucked dry and discarded, ser Gregor’s irresistible stature and life-crushing whims are a perfect metaphor for the vast edifice protecting and enshrining rape as a tool used by men against their wives, their children, and their enemies. In another book it might ring hollow, a woman’s life discarded to heighten the stakes, but in A Song of Ice and Fire and Game of Thrones the relentless focus on life after violation textures Layna’s story with a deeper meaning. The laughing men, the flippant transformation of an entire life into a joke; that violence is the foundation on which all else is built.
Besides, who cares? What's so bad about rape?
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He swears up and down that these opinions aren't a reflection of his own sexual interests...
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.... but a quick search of his Twitter TL suggests otherwise:
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Sex in Public/In Front of Children
Amidst all these conversations about where people's kinks belong, Micah can't help but weight in on the age-old debate: is it okay to express kink in public?Unsurprisingly, Micah believes this thoughts on this important topic are valuable enough to be shared in the form of, again, numerous essays and public Twitter arguments. Perhaps the most disturbing essay he's ever written on the subject argues that kids need to see adults having sex so they can feel "safe and loved" while exploring their own sexuality.
Our History Is Written in Both Cum and Blood: Modern Rejection of the Queer Grotesque
It has become fashionable to disown things, to disown people, to write off social and artistic movements, artists of all kinds, and whole periods of history along with the people who lived through and helped to form them. Nowhere is this practice more in vogue than among the youngest members of the gay community. "Cancel culture" as practiced in online fandom and other artistic communities demands a constant culling of both artists and art deemed morally objectionable as well as the public repudiation of both by members who wish to keep their loosely defined "good standing."
Central to this ethos is the idea that evidence of sexuality in public spaces -- and even in controlled and moderated ones -- is inherently harmful and in violation of consent. The wellbeing of children is routinely invoked as a reason to keep sexuality private and to separate art with sexual content from art without, or even to bar it outright. [...]
The idea that children ought have no awareness of sexuality as anything beyond a procreative act carried out behind closed doors is self-evidently a cornerstone of modern straight culture. While the political Right is more vocal in its condemnation of sex education, no one is eager to discuss sex or sexuality in a context which places it on a continuum with other central experiences of social life. In fact society coercively assigns sexual meaning to acts and images (breastfeeding, the photography of Sally Mann) which have none in and of themselves. It's hard not to see the shadow of the archetypal straight father in this behavior, a powerful guardian not just able but compelled by morality to "protect" his daughters until their transfer to another man's authority through marriage. The question of how children are to explore and grasp their own sexuality is left unaddressed, relegated to the netherworld of topics unfit for the dinner table.
But what happens when you hide all sexuality but the packaged, airbrushed meat market of straight advertising and popular culture from children? Imagine never teaching a child about preparing a meal, or about art, or conversation, or love. By withholding knowledge of sexuality and treating it as poisonous and dangerous, society creates unstructured, unprotected space in which the very predation and sexual dysfunction they fear can more readily occur. [...]
All this is the fruit of sexual repression, of the belief that non-normative sexuality belongs behind closed doors or even lock and key. Any sex worker could have told you the same. Many did. Tumblr's porn ban, Facebook's rules about soliciting or offering sex, it all contributes to a world where sexual knowledge and experience exist in a kind of lawless hinterland. And for what? So kids don't see pictures of the brothers from Supernatural kissing? Children walk in on their parents during sex (???????), endure the constant bombardment of pop culture's sexual elements, and get their hands on sexual art regardless. The decision culture has isn't whether or not they learn about sex, but how safe and loved they are while doing so.
Central to this ethos is the idea that evidence of sexuality in public spaces -- and even in controlled and moderated ones -- is inherently harmful and in violation of consent. The wellbeing of children is routinely invoked as a reason to keep sexuality private and to separate art with sexual content from art without, or even to bar it outright. [...]
The idea that children ought have no awareness of sexuality as anything beyond a procreative act carried out behind closed doors is self-evidently a cornerstone of modern straight culture. While the political Right is more vocal in its condemnation of sex education, no one is eager to discuss sex or sexuality in a context which places it on a continuum with other central experiences of social life. In fact society coercively assigns sexual meaning to acts and images (breastfeeding, the photography of Sally Mann) which have none in and of themselves. It's hard not to see the shadow of the archetypal straight father in this behavior, a powerful guardian not just able but compelled by morality to "protect" his daughters until their transfer to another man's authority through marriage. The question of how children are to explore and grasp their own sexuality is left unaddressed, relegated to the netherworld of topics unfit for the dinner table.
But what happens when you hide all sexuality but the packaged, airbrushed meat market of straight advertising and popular culture from children? Imagine never teaching a child about preparing a meal, or about art, or conversation, or love. By withholding knowledge of sexuality and treating it as poisonous and dangerous, society creates unstructured, unprotected space in which the very predation and sexual dysfunction they fear can more readily occur. [...]
All this is the fruit of sexual repression, of the belief that non-normative sexuality belongs behind closed doors or even lock and key. Any sex worker could have told you the same. Many did. Tumblr's porn ban, Facebook's rules about soliciting or offering sex, it all contributes to a world where sexual knowledge and experience exist in a kind of lawless hinterland. And for what? So kids don't see pictures of the brothers from Supernatural kissing? Children walk in on their parents during sex (???????), endure the constant bombardment of pop culture's sexual elements, and get their hands on sexual art regardless. The decision culture has isn't whether or not they learn about sex, but how safe and loved they are while doing so.
As it happens, he actually has a lot--like, a lot--of opinions about young children's sexuality, and they're all in the direction you'd expect from a porn-addicted troon.
THE THING IN THE DARK: HOW ART CONFRONTS CHILD ABUSE
As King himself has remarked, the uproar over IT is typically confined to reactions to adolescent sexuality and does not stretch to the book's many graphic depictions of violence against children. Why is it more offensive, more taboo to see a child express themselves by claiming their sexual independence than it is to see them murdered or raped? In a way, admitting that a child has an identity, a sexuality, a will of their own, is admitting the deep and fundamental wrongness of taking those things from them. To see a child as an innocent to be shepherded into adulthood by caretakers is to make that child a sort of extension of those caretakers, to remove the child's own wishes and personhood from the equation. Children are vulnerable, fragile, incapable of making good decisions for themselves in many ways, but they are also undoubtedly people in their own right, and whether or not we wish to admit it, many of them discover their sexualities before the world is ready to accept that. [...]
Horror's interrogation of our fear at the idea of children growing up is one of the genre's most valuable facets. Not only does it invoke our own childhoods and use those experiences to foster empathy in us for children going through the same things today, but it reminds us that our emotional obligation toward children is more than just caregiving, more than just keeping them safe. As adults, we owe them our respect, our understanding, and our support as they navigate the emotional turmoil and physical strain of their journey into independent personhood.
Horror's interrogation of our fear at the idea of children growing up is one of the genre's most valuable facets. Not only does it invoke our own childhoods and use those experiences to foster empathy in us for children going through the same things today, but it reminds us that our emotional obligation toward children is more than just caregiving, more than just keeping them safe. As adults, we owe them our respect, our understanding, and our support as they navigate the emotional turmoil and physical strain of their journey into independent personhood.
His advice to minors who don't want to see sex: Just grow up.
Don't you dare call him or any other brave and stunning woman a pedo, though!
Consent Who?
Micah strongly believes that his desire to coom overrides others' consent (or lack thereof) in many cases.Here he is calling for someone to leak footage of a famous actress accidentally discharging breast milk during a scene:
Don't want to be a part of someone's exhibitionist kink in public? Too bad.
Notable Twitter Slapfights
Crusade Against J.K. Rowling
Being trans, Micah has a special hatred is his heart for J.K. Rowling and even wrote her dying in a fire into his most popular book, Manhunt.Strangely, he has a problem with people saying she died in a fire in the book.
Let's settle this by checking the text in question:
The amount of coping and seething this particular tranny does over Rowling is actually insane.
Predictably, he's mad she won't pay him any attention.
I'm sure Rowling would be very sad to learn that Micah here isn't a big fan of her books.
Anyway, here are some interesting posts I found on his Tumblr from a few years ago, when he was well into his twenties.
Anyway.
Jesse Singal Harassment
Jesse Singal is is a journalist who has written articles critical of gender-affirming surgery for minors, despite generally being supportive of trans rights, pronouns, and transition care for adults. Because anything other than full-throated, uncritical support for all things trans is entirely unacceptable to today's left, his criticism has caused him to be branded a genocidal Nazi fascist by the trans activist movement, and our buddy Micah is no exception to this sentiment.Micah obsessively tweeted graphic death threats and grotesque sexual fantasies about Singal for nearly four years, leading Singal to finally write an article addressing the harassment and demanding that it stop.
I’d Like Gretchen Felker-Martin To Stop Tweeting Violent And Sexual Things About Me (Updated)
Because Micah is a dishonest coward, he subsequently purged all tweets referencing Singal from his timeline after the above article was published.
Nicole Cliffe Affair
In a series of now deleted tweets, last Summer (2022) the Gretch revealed that he’s in a polyamorous relationship with non other than Nicole Cliffe, wife of mysterious hedge fund billionaire Steve (who is so rich, it is difficult to find photographs or much info of him online, though occasional references have surfaced, see Lavery/ Ortberg thread for more.) Cliffe is particularly attracted to Ole Felcher-Martin’s “acres of creamy skin,” a phrase the Gretch also is fond of using in his written work. Cliffe is responsible for thrusting Felcher-Martin into the spotlight by helping him land his deal for Manhunt, & garnering support for him in pozzed magazines & troon literary circles. Proof of these claims from the Gretch himself.
Source | For more details on Cliffe, see this concise summary via @Trianon below:
(emphasis my own.)
Glamour shots:
Acres of creepy moobs.
Source | @Potatis Salad
In a rage, Felcher DFE’d, but not before giving a shout out to Kiwi Farms:
Violent as usual, typical troon. It’s worth mentioning that Nicole Cliffe has significant crossover with other cows on this site, she’s been a major orbiter of the Joe “Grace” Lavery/ Mallory Daniel Lavery née Ortberg thread, linked above. Cliffe was also written about by Jesse Singal, who this group of polygross troons absolutely loathe. Singal exposed Cliffe’s propensity to lie about celebrities and others she dislikes.
Link | Archive
It’s worth mentioning that in the Lavery thread linked throughout this post, Felcher-Martin debued as an orbiter around page 214, and Nicole Cliffe from the very first post. Cliffe is a main orbiter in the Lavery thread as she & gal palalmost but not quite lover, Daniel Lavery aka Mallory Ortberg, used to run the site The Toast together, with Cliffe’s hubby’s money. Special thank you to all contributors & posters from the Lavery/ Ortberg thread for much of the info presented, and the archives. Made this as brief as possible, feel free to edit or use what’s needed in this highly anticipated thread on the Gretch, coomer at large, size.
More Coomerism
Micah really, really enjoys being a coomer and posts nonstop about how sex is the most important thing in his life. I've spoilered a few pics below that aren't really morally repugnant in any way, just hilariously disgusting.
I'll end this OP with what might possibly the funniest tweet in the history of Twitter
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Accounts and Info
Twitter: https://twitter.com/scumbelievable
Tumblr: https://nonameinanytongue.tumblr.com/ (Proof)
FanFiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/~veriform (Proof)
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/gretchenfelkermartin/?hl=en
LiveJournal: https://iamdemandred.livejournal.com/?utm_medium=endless_scroll
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