Chronology of Exposure to Gone Girl Feminism- Part 2

This is the second part of a three-part chronology of my exposure to a violent campaign by a feminist network. It would be best to read my about page to understand the Feminist network I am exposing. Whisper networks are no longer satisfied with spreading rumours/accusations about men, they are now taking vengeance in the form of systematic emotional abuse, harassment, drugging and sexual assault. As incredulously sinister as it may sound, the network houses their victim in a flat where he will be drugged for years. Indeed, the campaign can last decades, with the intention of putting the victim under such pain and suffering that he gives up his claim for justice. As a bar man I rejected sexual advances from activists that were intended to entrap me as a cheat. I also refused to drug people for them in the bar. They then accused me of planning to write about their network. The campaign thereafter intensified, and so did the smear campaign. Central to the smear campaign, is the claim that I cheated. I had never cheated on anyone and I was in my thirties. However, I would eventually cheat, on the second of two activists who played the role of ‘girlfriend’, in a campaign that had already been running for years.

[The chronology series are almost twice as long as my other posts, so you might want to start elsewhere for a taster]

It is not possible to give a detailed description of the abuse I suffered for the three years that led up to me cheating, on the activist playing my girlfriend. This three-part chronology will offer vignettes of how I was gas-lighted and emotional abused so that you get the picture. All this is a matter of interpretation. I should point out how I was directed to this interpretation. For one thing, the activists who harassed me in my workplace retrospectively described what had been done to me, to gloat. While this may have been intended to instil a sense of powerlessness over me, it was driven by a need for recognition from me. Every aspect of this campaign against men can be viewed as the attempt of women to get attention and acknowledgement from men. So, it is not enough for the man to be emotionally abused in a relationship for years and gas-lighted. The women need to make him realise what has been done to him. The activists boasted that lots of abuse will have an effect even if the man knows what is happening.

So, the activists themselves have thereby contributed to my interpretation of these events. Of course, even the act of celebrating past abuses of their victim, with their victim, is itself part of the ongoing abuse, and thus it also requires some interpreting. Not least because information about the campaign is sometimes divulged to their victim to intentionally mislead their victim, and set a trap, but I’ll get back to that.

Olga

Olga would allow men to put hands round her hips when we hung out with our friends. She denied that there was anything strange in this, even though we were in a monogenous relationship. Even though she believed me that they were standing grinning at me while they did it, and presumably thought I would be upset by it. She claimed that she did not know what to do about it. Indeed, she attempted to gaslighted me by saying that there was nothing she could do about it. She also thought she shouldn’t need to do anything about it, because it was nothing. She did not try to bring me to this opinion by claiming there was nothing between her and these men, rather she exclaimed that they would sometimes fuck. She also said that one of the men have always liked her and it was not just about sex for him. So, she felt bad for him. There was one night that we pilled into a taxi and the man grabbed her by the hips and pulled her down onto his lap. He had his hands around the front of her stomach while she sat on his lap.

There was another similar instance. It was unusual for her to put her sleeping clothes on for me to come round. It was a day at the weekend. There was part of me that wondered whether she wanted to go straight to bed. It wasn’t erotic lingerie, but the vest was thin, and see through, and it hugged her chest snuggly so that they revealed not just the shape of her breasts but her nipples. She wore thin pyjama bottoms which hugged her bum and around her crotch. They were only lightly held up by the elastic band over the top of her bum. I did try to progress from kissing to something else, but she shrugged me off. All this was fine. Then she deduced from the noise in the stairwell that someone might be moving in the flat across the hall. I didn’t hear the clamour of luggage or furniture outside the door. She looked through the eye-hole in the and opened the door. She introduced herself to the young man who was standing there without even a ruck sack. She asked if he was moving in and if he would show her around the flat. I sat their listening to them flirt in the flat across the hall. As I became accustomed to the pop-up theatre peace’s of Gone Girl Feminism I could read how these performances were designed to provoke insecurities.

There were a couple of ploys that were explained to me later by activists in the bar where I worked. These ploys would be replayed years later in other situations, with other activists. One such ploy was for the woman to play with a man’s dick in a peculiar way to make him self-conscious of it’s size. They should play with the flaccid penis as if it were not an erotic zone at all. Rather, like an inanimate object to play with. This not only objectifies the penis but erodes an erogenous zone of his body with repeated mechanical strokes of her splayed fingers. The mechanical movement ridicules the idea that his body has any erotic charge for her in their moment of intimacy. Essentially, making his penis an object to laugh at, rather than an intimate part of him that he is sharing. This would be repeated by one of the women that meets the British vicitms on a dating app, exactly as I was foretold in the bar by activists.

The second ploy that would be explained to me later, was for women to make a date with a man and then not turn up, or turn up much later. This happens after the man is already given reasons to think that he might be being cheated on. This is what happened with Olga. The activists would prep me for this ploy a year later in the bar. The explained that women do this so that they know where the boyfriend will be sitting waiting while they are hooking up with another man. This way the boyfriend doesn’t turn up at her door. The activists explained that this is done by prostitutes who do not trust their boyfriends to accept their vocation. This was to prep me for a woman who would be, or feign to be, a prostitute while dating me. However, this is years down the line, after I had been sexually assaulted and corralled into a flat set up to drug me. Long before this, there was Olga.

Olga would be very late a couple of times. The last time we arranged to meet, I kept calling on and off for about an hour, and then again later. I broke up with her after this. The last peace of staged theatre came after we had stopped speaking. I only started dating Ingrid 3-4 weeks after breaking up with Olga. Olga turned up on the tram as I was on my way to meet Ingrid for our first date. We were meeting in a neutral part of Berlin, where neither I, Ingrid or Olga lived. Strange then that Olga should encounter me on the tram and start talking to me, then get off at the same stop and tell me how upsetting it was that we didn’t speak at all anymore. She pleaded with me to sit down at a bench at the Tram stop with her. This was already bizarre, but then, while we faced the tram and as it pulled away, it revealed Ingrid across the street at an ATM. Strangely she went from the que of the ATM into the bank, so when she exited the bank she would be looking right at Olga and I. This is not where Ingrid and I were meeting, but it is where I would predictably get of the tram to walk there.

Again, it was a piece of theatre to put me under stress and make me squirm. The activists make sure that their victim learns of how he has been manipulated at every turn and played like a puppet. The idea is that he loses all sense of control over his life and is reduced to a predictable animal from which they can illicit responses and provoke emotional reactions. This is one way in which the information that the activists divulge about their campaign of harassment is also part of the harassment, because it increases the sense of humiliation and powerlessness.

This relationship lasted 6 months.

Ingrid

Mathius set me up with Ingrid as well. He corralled me into staying for an exhibition after-party in in a repurposed factory. He bought a large crate of beer, which I presumed would be for the both of us. There wasn’t a shop for miles so he had haggled for the only beer on site and ended paying over the odds. We hauled the crate of 24 half-litre bottles up the stairs together. I thought our friends were behind us. After dumping the beers, he suddenly went to leave, “No No, I was never staying. I bought them for you.”. I said I wasn’t staying on my own. He told me others were coming up. While he went to see where they were I looked after the beers. I waited for some of my friends to follow, but they never came. I thought others were finding their way to the top floor of the factory, but no one arrived. Hiding the crate of beer the best I could, I went to find my friends, and whoever else- someone had a set up the DJ decks upstairs for a purpose. When I got back down to the studios everyone had gone. Eventually 6 or seven people would come to the party from nowhere. This was well after all the public transport was finished for the night. I was in the arse of the world. Perhaps this was Mathius’ way of making a fool out of me, by taking off with our friends. I decided I would make what I could of the night to spite them.

This was after Mathius had asked my girlfriend to move in with me, and I had to asked her to move out, which was only the prelude to out break up. As you might remember from the last stack, Kasia and him had then tested my fidelity by coaxing me to a party in our building to see if I would cheat on Kitty. Mathius had now broken up with Kasia, who was dragging her heels about finding a flat with me and Laura. I didn’t know that my friends had no intention of moving in with me. They just wanted to give Mathius a reason to kick me out, so that I could be set up in a hostile flat share situation devised by the Gone Girl Feminists. Mathius had also set me up with her Olga. So, when I went to this exhibition, I was already alienated from the people I felt were my good friends in Berlin.

Something else was afoot. The woman who Mathius had allegedly fallen in love with, was sleeping around behind her boyfriend’s back, and Mathius’s back, and she wanted a threesome with Olga and me. She never intended of leaving her husband for Mathius. I was led to believe that Olga was cheating on me. Kasia had asked me for sex behind Mathius’s back. While I walked a friend home one night when her boyfriend was away, she told me he couldn’t get an erection because of the amount of weed he smokes. She was desperate for sex. Mathius and Kasia insisted she wanted sex from me. This pattern would continue. A mate hinted that he had slept with our mate’s girlfriend, and when she came over to Berlin alone, she talked about enjoying casual sex and wanted to come back to my place. I was in my thirties, and none of my mate’s girlfriends had asked me to fuck them. After the gossip about me cheating on Kitty, every friend’s girlfriend or ex-girlfriend was asking me to fuck them. Whether any would have gone through with it, I don’t know.

The only sense I could make of it, was that people believed I had cheated on Kitty and humiliating her at parties. I guessed that this performance was to make me think that women were doing the same to men. That, by extension, I was being humiliated. It was another way for feminists to destroy the self-esteem of men. I wasn’t sure how serious I should take this. After all, they were not causing so much harm. I wondered if I should grudge them that. Or, whether I should cut ties with them all for talking and plotting behind my back. If I was right, then my feeling of friendship with them was somehow unreal, but then the pretence of friendship on the part of my friends suggested that my feelings of anger were irrational. Feelings are added to reality, they are surreal in the sense of the French [“reality” “plus”]. Feelings are attuned judgements about the world, judgements which bestow value on reality and give meaning to life. They are not opposed to objective Reality, or rationality. This is a myth about passions that is exploited by emotional abusers who tell their victim that their own personal emotions are irrational and unreal. Although worse was to come, I was already experiencing the intensified surreality of emotional abuse.

I didn’t realise how sinister this would all become as I made my way to the exhibition that evening. I was still living with Mathius, but I had made my own way to there. I kept my self to myself as I meandered around the studio spaces. People have subsequently made fun of the photo of me from the exhibition. I am purposively standing slightly off from the crowd- trying to look mysterious and cool they said! I remember seeing Mathius at the back of the crowd with his baseball cap watching a punk band play as the photographer was shaping up behind him. The photo would serve to remind me of where I stood with my friends.

Ingrid was wearing a pair of faded slate-coloured jeans, a pair of black boots, and a navy Breton Jumper with white stripes and buttons on the left shoulder. She was on her own as she took in the exhibition and this was probably part of the appeal. I wished I was on my own and I wanted to meet new people. However, it was only at the after party, on the top floor of the factory, that we spoke. She came in on her own, long after the exhibition had ended, long after the straggling party goers had gathered in front of the DJ decks. She didn’t look for anyone as she came in. She didn’t have one of my beers which people had discovered underneath some plasterboard in the hall. Quickly picking a spot on her left, she stood askance the dancefloor with her back against the wall. I knew she was stranded like me until the transport recommenced in the morning. We talked for hours. I discovered she didn’t drink and she lived nearly on the other side of Berlin. In the first light we kissed at the bus stop and she came back to mine.

The morning after the exhibition she hung around for breakfast. Afterwards I explained that she had met me while I was going through a rough patch. I told her about the situation with Mathius because he was kicking about the Kitchen with us. I was trying to move out, but I had fallen out with other friends about the flat move. Realising how bad this sounded, I admitted that I was the common denominator in all this animosity. Perhaps it was down to the way I communicated, and I planned to read some books on negotiation tactics. I didn’t mention any of my friends to Ingrid, again but I did gradually share some of things going on at work, which is the topic of Part 3.

Ingrid downplayed the harassment, so I just thought I should suck it up. As the harassment got worse, I found Ingrid’s non-reaction stranger. I began asking her about her feelings. Some questions were related to the harassment, ‘why did she burst out laughing at me in front of someone, what was the in-joke?’ Another was, ‘don’t you find what is going on at my work strange?’. Some questions were more mundane than that. Even then, she would not reply and leave me hanging. I noticed a concerning pattern. The silence she kept would make me feel awkward, or anxious even. So, I would try and help her by giving her options, ‘Did you feel like this?’, or ‘Did you think that?’, but she would not reply. I would then let her think on it, because I didn’t want to make a big thing of it. When I got round to raising the topic again, she would repeat, word for word, one of the answers that I had offered her. Once I recognised this pattern it seemed a clear conscious manipulation, but the idea was almost too scary to comprehend. Who would be so calculating as to contain me from behind a cold exterior. I felt guilty for even thinking it.

I would eventually realise that certain conversations I was having at work coincided with me talking about my harassment with Ingrid. I started the first conversation by mentioning how my girlfriend was repeating my words back to me, as if by conscious manipulation, whenever we talked about our relationship. The activist-colleague response was that she knew a lot of girlfriends who used negotiation tactics to ‘manage’ their dates, or even their boyfriends. She shared one from ‘How to Turn a No into a Yes’, namely, just repeat the last three words someone says. After another discussion with Ingrid about my harassment at work, and her lacklustre response, the women at work attacked me, coincidentally I am to suppose, for being the kind of guy who offloads on his girlfriend. The two activists in the bar, whose harassment I will describe in Part three, led to the conversation together. Men and women cannot be friends because sex gets in the way. I begged to differ, because I had many female friends, as they knew. They claimed that this is only the case for men who use their female friends to offload their problems on, like men do with their mother. Men would never do this with their male friends, but for some reason women are supposed to accept this. Some men even behave this way with their girlfriends, which is such a turn off for women. They could imagine me doing this.

This kind of coordination continued to make me feel ashamed about complaining about my harassment. The next time they talked about the book Quiet, which is about the power of introspection. Apparently, sensitive people have thinner skin, long faces and blue eyes. The book said many philosophers had this physiology and were sensitive people. There would be many references to my sensitivity from these activists to preface their abuse in the bar. I was being trained to absorb the abuse and not try to talk about it to friends or to Ingrid. They were convincing me that I was the problem, that I was weak and sensitive. This essentially worked, and it prolonged my exposure to the abuse while I denied it was influencing me.

I eventually got angry with Ingrid and started being more accusative. I found it very strange that my girlfriend didn’t care that the same two women were coming in every time I was working a shift in the bar. They would stay until it shuts, often harasing harassing. Even women workmates had shown concern when they heard about it and offered me support. I would have thought that my girlfriend would be suspicious, if not concerned. I got a response, but not one I had expected. “I just thought if it was that bad you would get another job”. I was surprised at the escalation of going from no support to ‘quit your job!’. However, I would start looking for other work. Later it struck me that it wasn’t right that I should have to leave my job because of the harassment. I could not imagine telling a woman to quit her job if she were being harassed by men in a bar. This was no longer gas-lighting, but it seemed like a way of deflecting from the months of gas-lighting she had been doing up to that point.

As things escalated in the bar, I mentioned the harassment again, more by the by, without expecting much from it. This time there was a prepared answer. She had suffered from depression before, and she thought she was starting to suffer from it again. She hinted that if me confiding in her about the harassment at work was not the cause, she certainly felt it was too much for her. This is a classic tactic of Gone Girl Feminism. Again, it is hard to justify my cynicism about Ingrid without divulging more about the harassment in the bar by activists who boasted of such tactics. Their preference is to use cancer to allay suspicion and make the victim feel guilty. One of the Tinder dates that target and abuses British men pretend to be suffering from cancer. Going to the extent to keep her hair closely shave, as it was when she did really suffer from cancer years earlier. When I encountered her, years later, she played the part according to the script. The victim of emotional abuse can be made to feel selfish for being concerned about himself, and guilty for not offering his abuser more support, but I will save more examples for my next post.

It was clear that if Ingrid was managing me with negotiation tactics, it was not to keep me around for the sex. The women in the bar suggested another reason. I had stupidly mentioned how Ingrid’s best friend had told her that she should have been a nun. Ingrid didn’t drink alcohol because she doesn’t like not being in control. Although she was very good with people, socializing exhausted her. More than anything else, Ingrid told me, in the words of her friend she didn’t need anyone and was happy on her own. I wondered why she didn’t think I would take that personally. As she found cause to mention this a few times, and as the emotional abuse became more regular, I would later include this remark on the register of abuse. Unfortunately, I gave the activists-colleague a chance to interpret this for me. She thought it was a way of saying she did not need sex from me. She planted a seed in my mind by saying that women sometimes keep one man for a relationship, or the weekends, but have others for sex.

I swung from believing the activists at the bar were attacking me and so I would try talking to Ingrid, to thinking that Ingrid was intentionally manipulating me and talking to my colleagues, including the one who was an activist and not a friend. By the time I was ready to believe they were working together to emotionally manipulate and abuse, it was all to late and, besides, I had no one else to talk to anyway. The idea that Ingrid only wanted someone to accompany her on regular weekend day trips seemed probable. I tried testing Ingrid’s feelings about me by saying that I could only see her at the weekends. I hoped she would be disappointed, or it would provoke some sort of reaction. She was fine with this, and this is how we continued.

She did suggest that she didn’t need sex either. That she had gone without it long enough. However, she did enjoy it with her last boyfriend. In fact, she compared me explicitly and unfavourably with her last boyfriend in bed. While her complaints about in me in bed may have been fair, there was no need to make that comparison while making her point. While the comment seemed more careless at the time, later it would seem an obvious attack on my self-esteem. This seemed more obvious when she carried out a ploy in coordination with the activist in my workplace.

After guiding the conversation of the body types that women of different countries like, from an article in the Guardian, to an article on the average size of penis in different countries, from an article in the Guardian, the two activists moved on to talking about how women deal with the situation. The British body type was thin and scrawny and not conforming to the more modern LA muscleman. The size of the average British penis was smaller than that of many, of American and Germans, for instance. Like many conversations about Britishness, I could only suppose that the conversation was staged to implicate me in these shortcomings. The worse was yet to come. One way a woman can deal with the situation, I was told, was the women pretends that it hurts when the man withdraws his penis to quickly. This subtly gives the impression that he has a sizable prick. Within ten days after this discussion at work, after Ingrid and I had been having sex for over a year, Ingrid made out that it hurt her when I withdrew my penis to quickly. Of course, now that I knew she was doing it to make a man with a small penis feel larger, it was intended to make me feel like I had a small cock.

From very early on, there was a difference in how Ingrid was when others were around. This was easy to overlook because Ingrid didn’t have many friends in Berlin, and I had cut ties with mine. Ingrid would burst out laughing at me in a way that made me uncomfortable. Then she would gaslight me, when I pulled her up on it. Her workmates would laugh at me when I picked her up. This didn’t happen often, and I thought I must look like a hipster to these old school Ossies (East [Ost] Berliners). When made a mistake with the declensions in German, she burst out laughing with her boss, but the Brits and Americans are stereotypically bad at German, so I let it slide. Then one Friday night her flatmate’s mum came to the door just. Ingrid stood to the side, so the mother was standing in the doorway where she looked straight at me sitting on the couch. I felt ignorant just sitting there. I knew we would be sharing the kitchen with her that weekend. So, I went most of the way to the door and introduced myself, just as their brief conversation was closing. They both looked at each other knowingly and laughed at me. Strangely, when my girlfriend came to my coffeeshop, the same thing happened but with my workmate.

I would leave it a few days before I asked Ingrid about these incidents. I wanted to mention them as if they had just come to mind, and they were not a big issue, but Ingrid would only claim she didn’t remember. So, I would make a point of raising the issue just the day after. “No I didn’t. I can’t remember that”.

Concluding remarks

I hope that you can recall the emotional abuse and abandonment by my friends from part 1 which preceded these two relationships I have described above. While I have mentioned the harassment at the bar, by two activists, this will part three of the series on my abuse. Part two and part three coincide with one another, with my experience with Ingrid overlapping my first year and 9 months in the bar. Once you have a read part 3, you will begin to understand how I came to behave differently. I have not included any experience out with my relationships and my workplaces. My flat situations were also arranged, and I would have encounters in cafes and bars. Indeed, this is where I would meet the woman I would have a one-night stand with, someone who was also an activist. It is impossible to note down everything over three years. Consider what it is like for me now, over 12 years later, while the drugging continues.