Does The “Office Nympho” Actually Exist?

The other day I came across the phrase “Office nympho”. Never mind how wrong it is for anyone to say this nowadays – the reflection it provoked in my own so wicked mind was to ask whether I had ever met such a thing. I have, after all, spent a certain small fraction of my life working in offices.

I quickly realised that it would be a matter of definition. Assuming for the sake of argument that there were something we should call a “nympho” – or sexually liberated/aggressive woman, if you prefer – was there any reason to think that every office would have one? Certainly I had never observed the phenomenon, but then again, if I had been at an office supplied with an office nympho, she would not have looked at me. I might not even have noticed that there was one. Anyway, I had not worked in enough large organisations, which reduced sample size.

At a larger workplace, could I envisage a social dynamic that created this title? Well, yes. The office is the modern village, and so we must expect there to be a ducking-stool. Now, it suits women to pretend that the policing of female sexual behaviour is conducted solely by men, whereas in reality it is (in Shaw’s phrase) female trade-unionism.

It should be blindingly obvious that if the Office Nympho exists, she is a bigger threat to the women than to the men; the latter can hope for a cheap fuck and thus have no reason to suppress her, but for the other women there are no upsides. The promiscuous woman is both driving the price down and generally undermining claims to the superior moral “virtue” of the sex. In addition, Jung’s theory of projection is highly relevant; seeing someone else live out your own secret fantasies is upsetting.

What would drive the behaviour that gets a woman stigmatised as the Office Nympho? It has nothing to do with offices per se, but many people suffer from a pathological need for validation. A man with that need might be the Office Casanova, or waste a lot of time trying to be; in a woman, the thirst seems to be for attention. One rarely meets a female who entirely lacks that craving, perhaps because such a person might be a complete recluse. The judgment call that must be made by all other women is how much attention to purchase with how much sex. The Office Nympho, then, is making a particular call that others do not, either because they have a smaller craving for attention or because they are more aware of the downsides of being awarded the title.

Posted on March 23, 2021 at 10:05 by Hugo Grinebiter · Permalink · Leave a comment
In: WHAT WOMEN WANT, Keeping Score

On Elves And Smartphones

I have read a fantasy novel by Sarah J. Maas, an author who, according to the shop, had previously achieved great success in the Young Adult market without my having heard of her. This marketing distinction often eludes me; for example the Discworld series is for grown-ups while the Tiffany Aching sequence set in the same place is supposedly for Young Adults, but I enjoyed the latter equally with the former.

The Maas book in question is a strange hybrid of High Fantasy with policier and chicklit, and I am not sure that the investigative aspect sits well with the absolute power of the dominant non-humans. In the same way, I am uneasy about the blend of ancient magicks, shapeshifters, the Fae and so forth with a ruthlessly 2020 technology and social sensibility: movie streaming, e-mail, smartphones and selfies. Here the gods do not stage theophanies, they phone you. This could be a design choice, intended as a break with the clichéd joinder of sorcery and demons with cod-medieval technology and cod-medieval manners, an originality that I would applaud. At the same time I have a worrisome feeling that the largely supernatural denizens of her world preen in front of their smartphones solely because Maas, being of her generation, is honestly unable to imagine a universe in which people (broadly defined) do not preen in front of their smartphones.

In support of this suspicion is the heavy emphasis on clubbing. Whether this lifestyle is regarded as a good thing or not is a little ambiguous, but on the whole I think she counts getting wasted and having quickie sex in the club toilet as heroic, at least when indulged in by females. And this brings us to another point. While by no means following the “two legs good, three legs bad” mantra of much of a previous generation, and wholly ignoring the issues of transsexuality, Maas seems unusually prone to referring to a character as “the male”, and, slightly less intrusively, as “the female”. She is almost the opposite of Patricia Briggs in that she loathes dominant males, whom she calls “alphaholes”. This is a fine coinage, which I intend to steal, but is never applied to power-crazed females. Of which she portrays several, but never under that name.

Being “sassy” has long been regarded as a virtue in women, but Maas’ “party girl” characters seem to take it a bit further and into what I would call fratboy territory. Moreover, her emphasis on male beauty sits oddly with how women used to describe themselves as motivated solely by the inner person, whatever that is, while her “if you’ve got it, flaunt it” attitude is definitely a violation of one of the earlier waves of feminism. These beings, both human and other, positively welcome ocular harassment! Again, this may be a generational difference.

An even sharper contrast would be between on the one hand Maas and other chicklit authors, and on the other hand the worlds of my childhood and maturity. In the first, no middle-class provincial girl would ever come close to admitting that she had genitalia, and indeed had probably never seen her own. I have dealt with my consequent culture shock before in these essays, but what I wonder about now is how such sexy authors fit together with the puritanical feminism I remember from the Eighties. Is this a deliberate polemic against the misandrists of her mother’s generation, when the response to any criticism of a specific individual’s actions was “You hate all women!”; or are they completely different people; or are we talking about quite different rules for the novels someone writes and the conversations the same individual might have in mixed company?

I have the impression that such authors are letting cats out of bags as if they are writing solely for their own gender, forgetting that there is as yet no mechanism for preventing (boo hiss) males from reading them too. Perhaps this will soon become a technological possibility; one could lock books (which by then will only exist electronically) to a retinal scan and a database, thus allowing only females to read a woman’s description of her character’s zipless fucks. Folks, you saw it here first.

We Don’t Want No Plant Investment

In a history of Hungary I read how the nobles believed in extorting and spending, but not in investing. By this I was reminded of how the British pioneers of the Industrial Revolution had neglected to invent or even adopt the Realschule, but instead sent their sons to Eton in order to become gentlemen – that is to say, at best conscientious servants of the Empire, at worst utter parasites.

Well and good, but then it occurred to me to wonder whether finance, that is, the manipulation of unreal fortunes, now plays the same role as land used to, namely sidetracking merchant classes from the business of manufacturing? On the other hand, we do have the modern breed that I call the “techno-sociopaths” (you know who they are). While these are undoubtedly innovating and sometimes even making tangible things, there seems to me to hover an air of unreality over what they do. Should selling new ways to demonstrate status in the monkey hierarchy really count as “goods” in the same way that the Enlightenment had in mind? Or perhaps the singularity-wallahs are right, and when any object can be printed out of thin air, then the only game in town will indeed be preening.

Let us just see the selfie-sharers have to get to grips with the physical world after some civilisational collapse, with Afro-Asian slave labour no longer doing it all for us Eloi.

Posted on January 21, 2021 at 18:45 by Hugo Grinebiter · Permalink · Leave a comment
In: MONKEY BUSINESS, Robber Bands Great And Small

In The Shade Of Financiers

Some English writers become infamous for anti-Semitism, when what they really are should better be described as anti-plutocrats. Chesterton falls into and perhaps leads this category. They do not necessarily seem to think anything about Jews other than that they are rich, acquisitive and ruthless. Chesterton did not, for example, display the sexual anxieties that so dominated Der Stürmer. If one could collar these writers and point out the great number of equally harmful gentile plutocrats, they might even be convinced. I hope so, anyway.

Another example is Ford Madox Ford, who does seem to have a little more generalised animus than Chesterton, but whom I fancy might be brought to recognise, there in the asphodel meadows, that the men of whom he disapproves are not necessarily Jewish. When, for example, he describes England at the end of the Great War as “taken over by a class of shady financiers”, he does not use the J Word at all. Might this be because he was thinking of “shady financiers” of all backgrounds, or he because he took it for granted that that his readers would understand the phrase as code for Jews? I simply cannot say.

I am left, however, with a question of whether Ford might have seen something that we have subsequently suppressed. Suppose that what Ford reports is true, that around 1918 a new class came to the fore, “shady financiers” insinuating themselves at the expense of the previous ruling caste of the landed gentry who otherwise dominate Parade’s End? It would not take a high proportion of Jews among them to make the post-Holocaust generations unable to talk about this new class, or even to talk about Ford’s contemporaries talking about this. In other words, it would be no good pointing out that many of these “shady financiers” were not in fact Jewish, as the whole subject would remain off-limits. We would thus be missing out on an important aspect of English economic history.

Another question is whether such “shady financiers” were indeed as new to the scene as Ford suggests. They probably weren’t. But even in that case, we should still take note of Englishman of traditional backgrounds and manners thinking that they were. Yes, Ford Madox Ford himself does strike me as to some degree a general-purpose anti-Semite, though Jews are not a major subject of his; but suppose that this view of “shady financiers” were to be shared by those who were not anti-Semitic? In that case, I repeat, we are missing out on important data about what people thought had been the result of the war, and a long way from Germany.

This is perhaps all the more important because we have seen another wave, nay a tsunami, of “shady financiers” – starting with the S&L scandals as a trial run for the Great Bank Robbery of 2007 and onwards. You don’t have to be a radical leftist to have noticed that banks are there to be “bailed out” at the taxpayers’ expense, that telecom companies, regulators and everyone else are losing the battle against cold-calling investment scams, and that the ideal is now a totally atomised workforce, without rights or benefits. The Nigerian 419 swindle could only entrap the crooked, but the next generation is after the naïve pensioner. Jews? Not at all, if we are going to hate any particular groups for this it should be Indians and Britons. But that “shady financiers” are supplanting the old ruling classes, oh yes.

Cosmic Millennials?

This is just a wild idea, and I myself do not know how seriously I mean it. Wrinklies have been complaining about the young for about the last million years or so, but I am seeing a phenomenon that seems to be radically above and beyond the usual run of complaints. It is noticeable certainly among the young, but not all of them, and yet is not confined to the young.

I have a sense of there being a particular date on which the Earth seems to have passed through some interstellar cloud or other that had the effect of reducing human intelligence. Possibly in interaction with genes or environment. My best guess is 2000, but I am open to alternatives.

Posted on December 17, 2020 at 18:32 by Hugo Grinebiter · Permalink · Leave a comment
In: MONKEY BUSINESS, The Anatomy Of Stupidity

On Not Standing Out

I originally wrote this during a heatwave – nothing much by the standards of the Continent in 2018, but by Bergen standards enough to have all the women under 50 displaying their legs, backs and breasts. I am now old enough for this to make me philosophical rather than excited, and so what struck me was how many such semi-bare women there were. I took to wondering what it would feel like to be showing off what thousands of people around you were also showing off, to such an extent that it was doubtful whether you would get noticed at all. And this is a very small city; so what would it be like to flaunt the flesh in a world metropolis where the just-as-nice-as-yours legs number in the millions? For obvious reasons, I am never going to find out.

The same wonderment has often occurred to me in connection with the new-rich mainland-Chinese tourists in which we were knee-deep in all weathers until the 2020 lockdown. What does it feel like to be the ultimate in “being one of the crowd”, owing to the sheer numbers the ultimate in not standing out? It then occurred to me that the main driver of social media was probably a desperate thirst for non-nullity, in an overpopulated world that may fatuously call itself a village but is actually the very opposite of our evolutionary heritage, namely a group of about 120 in which everyone can be known.

I once touched on the former theme in conversation with a young lady who was extremely intelligent yet had her generation’s attitude of “if you’ve got it, flaunt it” and its unconcern with the evils of being looked at that so bothered her mother’s generation (or should that be grandmother’s?). I made the point that I could not begin to know what it felt like to have a millimetre here or a millimetre there of your costume sending a sexual signal. About my costume, nobody cares; I can no more imagine being looked at with concupiscence than I can imagine seeing in the ultraviolet. She countered that a woman does not always arrange those millimetres consciously. True, no doubt, but men have no idea when the woman is thinking about the skin she is showing and when she is thinking about mathematics. It is not as if the mathematician can take her boobs off and hang them up.

The term “objectification” is misleading; the problem is not so much that you are an object of desire (which a woman wants to be when it suits her and not otherwise) as that you are taken for a player even when you are not playing – either because you never play, or because right now you are taking a break. It must be really annoying when other people keep right on playing. How dare they!

The Party Programme

In one way we can understand why in its manifesto a certain Green Party called children “our most important resource”. They just wanted to say that our children should be valuable to us, represent our future, should be secured a decent life and so forth. What our society is actually doing, namely consuming the very basis of their survival, is obviously a very bad thing. When I pointed out the nasty implication of their formulation, namely that a resource is something you use in your own interests, and often use up, they got it immediately.

The very casual and unthinking use of the word “resource”, however, itself let this particular cat out of the bag. The horrible truth about the human species is that we use children as tools, above all as economic and emotional tools, as various forms of slave labour. Often (though not always) they are deliberately brought into being to serve these purposes. I have done many bad things, but I am quite proud of never having done this particular bad thing.

Posted on August 25, 2020 at 17:40 by Hugo Grinebiter · Permalink · Leave a comment
In: AGAINST NATURE, Breeders And Thinkers

One Drop Of Rain …

Elsewhere in this body of work Hugo has made the point that the oppressor invariably perceives himself as the victim, indeed as fighting for his very existence under the threat of extinction. Weird as it may seem to those on the wrong end of their struggle for survival, this applies to the Nazis, modern white supremacists, and many homophobes. Even short of the spectre of extermination, it is surely a general principle that one does not understand how vulnerable one’s opponents feel. Louis-Ferdinand Céline has a startling line, which in double translation through Danish (never a good idea, but I have no choice) goes something like this: “Women, whose sexual ability is never lost, fail to comprehend that for men, despite all their priapism, one drop of rain and everything shrinks in upon itself!”

It is certainly true that men are sexually fragile creatures, and the more a man’s sense of self-worth depends on his ability to get it up, the more dangerously he is living. I think Céline is correct also in pointing out how little aware women are of this. But suppose we turn it around. When men are paralysed by female beauty, sometimes resenting its possessor, are we sufficiently aware how precarious the Girl from Ipanema feels? Those who know beautiful women as something other than sex objects, know that none of them feels beautiful. They may have noted the reaction of others as a bizarre fact, which they then milk for all it is worth, but nobody actually feels it. They may think themselves only average and be interested in other things, but it is commoner for them to yearn desperately after beauty without being aware that they already have it.

That yearning is very profitable, in a way not limited to the beautification industry itself, already vast though never counted properly; we must include “shopping therapy”. Without female insecurity the global economy would immediately collapse. The Man knows that unhappy women spend more money, and therefore seeks to make them unhappy through advertising. This is often condemned in terms of “unrealistic ideals”, which is often true but not the whole story. Because most women feel, by nature or indoctrination, that they have already fallen short of even objectively realistic ideals. Nobody has the right boobs, or nose, or hair, or whatever – nobody. In this way, therefore, women share in what Céline describes as a male vulnerability: one drop of rain and whatever you have, shrinks to nothing.

Posted on June 14, 2020 at 11:19 by Hugo Grinebiter · Permalink · Leave a comment
In: BEAUTY AND THE BEAST, The Life Unbeautiful

Cultural Odds And Ends, Fortune Cookies

The purpose of the entertainment industry is to distract you while your pockets are picked.

Is it a coincidence that we talk about “staging” a coup d’etat? After all, the best coups are pure theatre, with no casualties. We might also say that the audience contributes its suspension of disbelief, and comes away purged of pity and terror.

Is it merely a satisfying linguistic coincidence that other products “make” or “earn” money, while Hollywood films “gross”?

Some men have claimed that women can never be comedians, because they are intrinsically not funny. This is ridiculous, because there are such things as female comics, and perhaps there would be more on a level playing field. If being a comic demands a certain black view of the world’s follies, plus good timing, they can certainly do that. On the other hand, the relative scarcity may be due, not to discrimination, but the fact that too many women are much too busy being intrinsically right to be funny or indeed anything else.

Once upon a time the kitchen of a middle-class home was relegated underground or to the back. The master never set foot there, the mistress came only to supervise. But the servants cooked, uncomfortably. In the 1950s the kitchen migrated to the front, so that the housewife could welcome hubby home. It then became the social centre, although the French and Iberians persist in having a dining room. The terminus of the trend may be found in Germany and Scandinavia, where people spend vast amounts on the appearance of their kitchens and then buy the cheapest possible processed food to microwave there.

One-liner ideas for films:
* Three hundred liberals hold Thermopylae against a million knuckle-dragging rednecks.
* A film from the point of view of Ernst Stavro Blofeld – or his cat.

In another life I should like to write a Bildungsroman about a young girl who wants to explore the real world as opposed to fishing for attention and hand-me-down moralising. It might be interesting to explore the forces that would be opposed to her becoming a rational adult.

Douglas Adams pioneered robots with Genuine People Personalities™. This might be closer than we thought. The place to start would be add-ons to Siri, for nagging, boasting, guilting-out and passive aggression.

The last scene of Woody Allen’s All You Wanted To Know About Sex… is a conceit about the interior life of a man on a date and getting laid, with the actors playing body or brain functions and in Allen’s case a spermatozoan as parachutist. I propose that the scene be remade with the woman instead. We might learn something from her “control room”.

Hafez Meets The Modern World – A Pastiche

Thinking lakes and Alps as seen from mountain trains are simply boring;
No, I won’t do it.
Texting instead my pal to ask what beauties he is ignoring?
No, I won’t do it.

To travel around the world and not offer anything a glance
Because blogging about nothing gives me a better chance;
No, I won’t do it.

To leave my lover’s arms the moment my smartphone starts its beeping
And turn my back upon her, unsatisfied and not yet sleeping;
No, I won’t do it.

I’ll never understand myself, I’ll never really know me
Until I’ve joined some trendy website, and that alone will show me;
I have to do it.

To accept that in any foreign city I will never find my way
Because no one can hear me asking, with their headphones on all day.
No, I won’t do it.

If I keep my treasure only as strange symbols on my phone,
The sultan can take it all away by his will alone;
And I won’t do it.

To give my rival poets reviews where just one star appears,
Pretending to be an independent jury of my peers;
No, I won’t do it.

Hafez, real life is back in your own time, and I am sure
I’ll never cease to miss my lover’s world of flesh and blood, and more;
No, I won’t do it.