Milo and the Manosphere

This got another big laugh and some men clapped. Jack looked out over the room.

'A man isn't born to need love,' he said. 'He's born to give it! And one of the ways men give their love is through sacrifice. We sacrifice our time and energy, and sometimes even our health, to provide for the people we love. But all too frequently, women don't respect us for this. Many don't even notice or they turn it around and make it as though they are the only ones making a meaningful sacrifice. How many of you here recognise this?'

Almost all the men in the room put their hands up. Jack nodded.

'You see, this is why I believe this Bible quote is so pertinent,' he said. 'It instructs us men to love our women because it knows that women are inherently difficult to love. How do you love a person who believes the world should revolve around her? How do you love a person who responds to an uncomfortable truth with verbal abuse and emotional meltdowns? How do you love a person who harps on about our selfishness while being utterly blind to her own? Isn't the entire existence of the Manosphere due to the fact that we men find women so damn difficult to love and so easy to hate?'

There was a murmuring in the room, a feeling of discomfort.

'As for the quote's injunction for women to respect their husbands,' went on Jack. 'Well, doesn't that reflect an understanding that women find it difficult to respect men? First, there are plenty of men whose behaviour doesn't deserve anyone's respect. But it also suggests that in order to respect a man, a woman needs to make a conscious effort. She needs to drop her subconscious belief that women are more important than men--that a woman deserves a man's respect--and to see him as a being of equal importance.

'Therein lies the irony. While women accuse men of not respecting women as equals, they do exactly the same thing with men. Where is the woman who admits that women can be equally stupid, equally mediocre, or equally incompetent? It doesn't happen. So the best you can do as a man is to perform at such a high level of accomplishment that the woman realises if she doesn't give you the respect you have earned, some other woman will.'

Jack stood still, letting his words sink in. Then he turned to Milo.

'So, to get back to your situation,' said Jack. 'It's pretty clear that you love your wife--and let's assume it's a high-quality love, as opposed to neediness or co-dependence. But if your wife doesn't respect you back, then you only have half the equation. Which means, yes... you do need to do something about it.

'But here's the thing: you need to begin by earning your own self-respect. How you achieve that is up to you. But remember this: the goal is not to see respect in her eyes. It's to look in the mirror and see it in your own.'

***

Jessie had just turned twenty when she first met Carl. She lived a bus ride away from the Puss 'N' Booty Club and her local gym was full of yuppie types. Maybe that's why Carl got her attention. One afternoon, she walked into the fitness room and there was a big man with a shaved head and tattoos on a running machine, his feet pounding the rubber treadmill as though trying to break it.

The running machines were directly before a wall-length mirror and Jessie took care not to make eye contact in the reflection as she chose a cardio machine in the row behind. These machines had feet pads and handles, so Jessie got into position and began that slightly dyspraxic striding which toned the whole body. She kept her eyes front, but kept stealing glances at the big man running in the row of running men. He was muscular without being bulky and the triangle of his back under the sports vest--from broad shoulders to narrow hips--made her hot between her legs.

But he also kind of scared her. His face wore an expression of cold determination, a killer's face, and he moved like a fighter. But more than that, Jessie saw that the running machines to either side of him were vacant despite the gym being busy. A man with a hand towel around his neck reluctantly stepped onto one of those machines, nodded to the man on his left, but studiously avoided eye contact with the running man on the right. He programmed the machine and began to run himself, his gaze fixed ahead, his face a mask of studied neutrality--an expression Jessie knew only too well.

Jessie smiled as she worked her machine with arms and legs. Anyone who thought that only women had intuition had never watched men dealing with other men. Even on-stage at the club, Jessie could spot the man who would be trouble, not because she knew the signs, but because of the way the men around him behaved. Even men who clearly didn't know each other had an uncanny ability to size one another up. Until they got drunk, of course.

The cold-faced man stopped running. He took a swig from his water bottle, wiped his face with a hand towel and then went over to Jessie's cardio machine and stood staring at her. Jessie's face went red, her heart started racing and her throat went dry. Slowly, she stopped walking.

'What's your problem?' he said.

'I don't have a problem,' she said.

'Yeah, you do.' Pause. 'If you were a bloke, I'd deck you.'

'But I'm not a bloke, am I?'

'No. You're not.'

The man looked her up and down.

'You are most definitely not,' he said. 'How long before you finish?'

'About an hour,' she said. 'I've only just got here.'

'Make it half an hour. I'll see you in the coffee bar downstairs.'

Jessie looked him in the eyes, trying to read his expression. Was he joking?

'Half an hour,' he repeated. 'All right?'

Jessie would experience that moment many times--the direct look, the question, and then the ensuing silence during which you had to decide whether you were going to say 'no'. Even at the beginning, it was crystal clear that Carl was a man who did not like that word.

'Sure,' said Jessie with a shrug.

And that was how they got together. Two days after that meeting, they fucked for the first time. Carl fucked like a warrior on the eve of battle and what he lacked in sensitivity, he made up for in intensity. Jessie had not yet got addicted to cocaine, but she got addicted to hard sex that very night. Within a month, she had given up her dingy bedsit and moved in with him. After two months, she talked her boss into hiring Carl as a doorman.

Sex wasn't the only reason Jessie got hooked on Carl. He was the eldest of three brothers who had grown up being terrorised by their drunken shit of a father. Carl's mother suffered more broken bones than a stuntman, yet she never stopped protecting the man. When Carl once suggested telling someone at school, she told him she'd put bleach in his little brothers' orange juice if he ever breathed a word. By the time he was twelve, Carl came to the conclusion that his parents deserved each other.

He was sixteen when he came home one day to see the younger of his brothers on the floor with a bloodied face and their father screaming at him. Carl was big for his age and he managed to beat the older man to a pulp, knocking out his front teeth and leaving him crying on the floor. His father was a broken man after that, never again lifting his hand for fear of his eldest son's punishment. He ended up drinking himself into an early grave.

Jessie and Carl were together at the time his father died and she went with him to the funeral. Carl's mother had not spoken to Carl for years, claiming she only had two sons, but Jessie met his brothers who were now young men. She was surprised at how conservative they were, with neat haircuts and ironed shirts. They clearly loved and respected Carl, while still being a little wary of the tattooed warrior he had become.

But one person who was not wary of Carl was his maternal grandmother. She gave him a hero's welcome every time she saw him and Jessie got to know her quite well. Indeed, most of what she learned about Carl was from his grandmother. The old woman was the only one in that fucked up family to take photographs of the three boys as they grew up and looking at pictures of Carl as a boy, Jessie was struck by how sweet he looked. The tenderness he showed to his little brothers as babies and toddlers was heart-breaking to look at, all the more so because--every now and then--she would see it in the man. The way Carl went bashful when his grandmother hugged him or the look on his face when one of his brothers called him out of the blue--it was beautiful.

That's why Jessie stayed with him even after he started knocking her about. She knew there was good inside him and she felt that if she loved him enough, maybe she could undo some of the damage that had been done him. Besides, most women she knew had partners who slapped them around, especially those who were strippers or sex workers. At least Carl only did it when he lost his temper and he was always genuinely sorry afterwards.

After eighteen months together, Jessie missed her period. She was supposed to be on the pill, but her taking of it was sporadic at best, mainly because she was off her face half the time. A home pregnancy test showed a positive result and, with her heart in her mouth, Jessie shared the news with Carl. To her surprise, he was delighted and for a couple of glorious weeks, she thought they might even make a happy family together.

Then one night, she got stomach cramps on-stage and had to rush off to the bathroom. She passed a lot of blood and realised that she had miscarried. Shireen, the only other girl Jessie trusted with news of her pregnancy, had seen her rush off and suspected what might have happened. She was comforting Jessie in the bathroom when Carl barged in, demanding to know what was going on. There was an ugly scene where he shoved Shireen against the wall and dragged Jessie out of the club.

Once outside by the car, parked a little way down a side-street, Carl started railing at Jessie. He blamed the miscarriage on the drugs and her refusal to stop pole-dancing like he'd told her to. He called her a junkie whore and Jessie responded by calling him a 'drunken fuck', which got her a few slaps across the face because those were the precise words Carl used to describe his own late father. With a bruised face and blood streaming out her nose, Jessie screamed at Carl that she was glad she lost his baby and to leave her the fuck alone. So Carl obliged, calling her a vicious cunt, getting into the car and driving off. Alone in the street, Jessie sat down on the kerb, clutching her stomach and crying her eyes out.

All these memories came crashing over her like a wave, as Jessie stood in the alley and watched Carl oversee the beer delivery to the club. He still had his back to her, the triangle of shoulders to hips still captivatingly masculine under its tight army-green T-shirt. He was still the tattooed warrior.

The two deliverymen had noticed her and Carl turned around to see what they were looking at. Jessie felt her face go red as his gaze fell onto her. Still the same cold killer's expression.

'Auditions are on Tuesday,' he said.

He turned back to the deliverymen and gestured for them to carry on. Jessie knew she was dressed differently and had a new hairstyle--well, new for him--but seriously? She opened her mouth and said:

'You really don't remember me, Carl?'

Her voice did the trick; she saw his whole body shiver. He turned and, for a moment, there it was, that little boy look--a genuine joy at seeing her. Then the eyes narrowed, the expression became masklike and he regarded her with a kind of professional disdain. He put his hands on his hips and tilted his head, as though looking at a disobedient child.

'Well, fuck me,' he said. 'Look who came back from the dead.'

'And it's lovely to see you too.'

'What do you fucking expect?'

'How about: "Hi, Jessie! How are you?" '

'You disappeared! Shireen called the fucking police on me!'

Carl began walking towards her. Jessie reflexively stepped back. Carl saw the move and threw up his hands, his expression puzzled.

'What you doing?' he said.

'Are you kidding me?' cried Jessie. 'The number of times you fucking smacked me!'

'But that was years ago.'

Carl seemed shocked that Jessie could think such a terrible thing of him. Then he noticed how quiet it was behind him and he turned to see the other men all watching the scene.

'What the fuck you all standing around for?' he shouted.

The clanking of metal barrels resumed and Carl turned back to Jessie.

'Well, as you can see,' he said, 'nothing's fucking changed around here.'

'You're manager now,' she said.

'Yeah, true.'

'Shireen still work here?'

'Nah, she left a few months after you. I hear she has a baby.'

Jessie felt a fluttering in her stomach and loins. She swallowed and said:

'So what happened with the police?'

'They found you, told us you were okay and refused to tell us where you were. "Family only," they said. Shireen went to see your mother to--'

'So you're manager now!' cut in Jessie. 'How did that happen?'

Carl gave Jessie a look that, while not warm, was certainly less cold.

'Tony was too much into the magic powder. The owners decided they needed to protect their investment. You know how it goes.'

'Yeah,' said Jessie. 'I know exactly how it goes.'

'How about you? You used to be partial to the magic powder yourself.'

'I'm clean. Been clean for two years now.'

'Fuck,' said Carl. 'Respect.'

Jessie looked away, brushing back her hair and trying to hide how moved she was. Carl so seldom said anything nice that when he did, it was like getting the keys to Heaven. Carl nodded towards her hand.

'I can see gold on your finger,' he said. 'You married?'

'Yeah.'

'What's he like?'

'He saved my fucking life, that's what he's like. Took me in, trusted me, stood by me throughout my recovery, got me back on my feet.'

'Fuck me, he sounds like a saint.'

'He is compared to me.'

Carl opened his mouth to respond when he was interrupted by a shout from behind. The guy from the cellar was talking with the two deliverymen and there was some issue with the number of barrels. Carl told them he'd be there in a second.

'I need to take care of this,' he said.

'Of course,' said Jessie.

'Look, Saturday is always chocker, as you know, but why don't you come by tomorrow? It's always quiet at eight when we open and we can talk properly in the office.'

Jessie hesitated. Carl raised his hands.

'Up to you,' he said.

And he turned and walked away, already calling to the men waiting for him. Jessie watched him being the boss and she had to admit--it suited him. More than that, it turned her on. She sighed and left the alley, retracing her steps and heading for home.

***

Milo went to another talk in the afternoon and also sat with three hundred others to watch a panel discussion in the ballroom. It was a bit of a mixed bag. He enjoyed the male versus female psychology stuff, but there was also a lot on pickup and seduction which made Milo vaguely uncomfortable. Even when he was single, he never fantasized about being a 'player', but he had the strong feeling that he should keep this to himself. This was borne out by something he witnessed during a Q&A.

It followed a seminar on how to get multiple women to sleep with you, given by a pickup artist with spiky, dyed black hair who bragged about bedding over nine hundred women. During Q&A, a guy on the microphone asked the question that was also on Milo's mind: 'What's the point of having sex with that many women?'

The audience reaction shocked Milo. There were jeers and shouts of 'Fuck off, soyboy!' and some of the men seemed ready to eject the interloper. The guy on the microphone turned white, but he stood his ground--an attitude which seemed to inspire derision rather than respect. Eventually, the pickup artist got people to quieten down and he looked at the questioner.

'I'll give you two good reasons for having sex with nine hundred women,' he said.

He clicked the remote and on the giant flatscreen appeared a topless blonde with big tits. There was a roar of laughter and a round of applause. The pickup artist wore a smirk which said, 'Need I say more?' Meanwhile, the questioner handed the microphone back to the volunteer and quietly sat down. Milo kept his poker face, but he felt sick inside, knowing it could just as easily have been him.

This queasiness lingered on long afterwards. Milo went to buy Jack Tarrant's books from the big hall, but wandering around the stands, he began to feel like a gatecrasher at someone else's party. He got the impression that to be accepted by the Manosphere 'tribe', you had to spend hours in the gym, earn fuck-you money and have combat training. Everything outside a traditional expression of masculinity was considered 'soy' and this extended to the music you liked and the movies you watched.

The day's activities ended at six. Harry was having dinner with his Manosphere peers in the hotel restaurant, so Milo found a pizzeria in town and ate there alone, reading The War of Sex at the table. On his way back to the three-star hotel where he was staying, his phone pinged with a message. Harry was going out to a pub with some of the 'boys' and Milo was welcome to join. Milo texted back that he would be happy to come along.

He showed up at about half-nine, showered and changed. The pub was a huge place with an upstairs section, which was where Milo found eleven men sat around two tables pushed together. Harry waved him over and a big guy next to him made room so that Milo could sit between them. There were two pitchers of beer on the table and Harry poured his friend a glass.

'Cheers!' he said.

Milo half hoped to see Jack Tarrant again, but apparently he was making a podcast with his team. However, to Milo's chagrin, the pickup artist was there, with his spiky black hair and sleeveless leather waistcoat. He called himself Gary Garrulus, although Milo later found out from Harry that his real name was Percy Tippett. His pale, unremarkable arms were covered in tattoos and he was telling a story about how one of his girlfriends caught him in bed with another woman and he managed to talk her into a threesome.

Milo sat squeezed between Harry and the big guy and politely listened. When Gary finished, another guy started picking his story apart and a debate began on the relative merits of honest promiscuity versus secret cheating. Harry added his opinion and the discussion became pretty contentious. Milo was content to just listen as these guys poked at one another, but after a while his silence was noticed.

'Hey, you! Harry's friend!' said Gary. 'What do you think?'

'I don't have an opinion,' said Milo.

'Bollocks, you haven't!'

'No, really! I'm a married man.'

There were chortles around the table, but Gary looked at Harry with a frowny face.

'Hey, is this the friend you were talking about at dinner?' said Gary. 'The one married to a stripper?'

Milo was mortified. All the men were now looking at him, some with their beer glasses frozen halfway up to their mouths. Harry looked like he suddenly needed the bathroom. Gary turned to look at Milo.

'Have you got a photo of her?'

'Gary!' cried Harry. 'For fuck's sake!'

'I don't mean pole-dancing or anything!' said Gary. 'Just a normal photo. I mean... what's your name?'

'Milo.'

'Right, Milo,' said Gary. 'You may not realise this, but your story and the discussion it spawned was the highlight of the dinner conversation.'

There were several nods and noises of assent around the table. Gary went on.