Michael Mitchell: Archive

I've been trying to say this for two years. It's fucking altruism, a logical consequence of it. Immoral sex is the standard. Our idea of sex is good or bad within that standard. Most people can't even conceive of sex that's actually morally good.

When we think of morality we think of two false alternatives: sadistic assholes who take advantage of others and masochistic fools who let others take advantage of them, and who we are, how we "play" it, changes depending on the person we're engaging with.

What does this view of morality lead us to think of sex? How can we do it without shame? How can we enjoy it with shame? It's all bad. "Good" sex is being as degrading as possible and "bad" sex is being as restrained as possible. Satisfaction? Pleasure? That shit's evil. Good sex is "bad" and bad sex is "good" and no sex is "divine".

It's the perfect example of how our ethics doesn't match reality. It's the real dirty secret of humanity. Everyone wants to freely enjoy their life, especially sex, but no one thinks they should. You can fake that shit at work every day or when you're hanging out with your friends or praying at church on Sunday, but not when you're literally naked with another person. That's when you have to make damn sure you're with someone you trust won't expose what you know they'll see, that you've been unhappy every day of your miserable adult life and you fucking hate every second of it.

Sex breaks everyone. It's inescapable evidence that altruism, the code of good and evil we live by, is itself evil, incompatible with human nature.

That's what Dominique had to learn in The Fountainhead (and why readers either love or hate the book). She was the kind of person who could withstand any pain or suffering, but not pleasure or happiness, because it requires the opposite mentality. She hated the world, people, their meek self-repression and willful renunciation of their values, settling for the mediocre, whatever's "good enough", praising it even, but in order to survive in such a world, she thought she had to guard her own wants and desires to the point she couldn't withstand anything positive or good. She literally destroyed her highest values before the world could. They became the enemy to her just like they were to the people she loathed, but she knew it was wrong. In her mind, she was merely accepting reality, without pretense, doing the best she possibly could without betraying herself, purposefully sacrificing what she loved rather than standing against the world and inevitably failing pathetically due to the enormity of the masses of zombies who couldn't even understand her battle.

She was drawn to Roark from a distance, didn't even know who he was, but she knew she admired him because she felt hatred for him, rather than the constant feeling of indifference she felt for everyone else. He was like: "Fuck that." He wanted her and acted appropriately (while considering all the conflicts Ayn Rand brilliantly plotted). After he "raped" her, he wasn't like: "Wow. I can't believe I just did that. Are you alright? I don't know what could've possessed me to give you all that pleasure we both know you were desperate for. Please forgive me for saving your fucking mind. Let me know when you work that shit out. I'll be designing gas stations for your zombies." He just left her broken, lying in the floor of her bedroom in her world-renowned architect father's summer home like the spoiled rich brat she really was.