THE MALE CHAUVINIST - An Erotic Autobiography

Intro and Part One - I

Warning!

This book is for adult readers only as it contains sexually explicit scenes as well as offensive and sexist language which might be considered disturbing and discriminatory of race and sexual orientation.

As far as I am concerned, I am against any discrimination, but when it comes to stories and literary characters, I admit no restrictions and categorically reject the new "fascism" of political correctness that today imposes thematic and linguistic limits.

My personal view is that today there is a tendency to take everything too seriously. This is dumbing down society, which instead of reflecting, understanding, and learning, merely "cancels."

Pier Francesco Grasselli

Part One

I

At forty, I started attending student bars for three reasons: first, because they have Wi-Fi; second, because you can monopolize a table for hours by just ordering a single coffee; third, and most importantly, because it allows me to ogle female students, who drive me crazy with their perfect asses squeezed into denim shorts or leggings—oh, those blessed leggings, both a curse and delight for us men.

By the way, I'm an openly straight man. In Reggio Emilia, that's not taken for granted, and it's considered quite a brave act to show an interest in the "fairer sex." I use quotes because the women from Reggio are among the most frigid in the world. Take a stroll around here if you have any doubts.

Of course, I'm also a bachelor. As someone pointed out, the Italian word for bachelor, scapolo, comes from scapolare, which means to free oneself from the noose, to escape danger, a difficult and risky situation. The bachelor has escaped the boredom, monotony, and stress of family life. A bachelor who has gone through a long and "significant" relationship without leading it to a happy ending, as I have done beautifully three times, is practically a miracle. It makes sense that he should live life as if each day were a splendid gift.

And now a warning: this is a story for men. If you are an overzealous feminist or an LGBT activist, if the "Weinstein affair" deeply outraged you, do me (and yourself) a favor: close this book and put it back on the nearest shelf. I tell you this with all my heart: it's not for you, and reading it will only upset you.

Just as I am refining these lines, I learn that Blanco has been "groped by a fan during a concert" and that a bunch of brainless people on Twitter have accused the poor girl of "harassing the singer," if not outright "sexual assault." This episode is indicative and cannot but outrage and amaze us, solid heterosexuals of Generation X, raised with the myth of Jim Morrison flashing his dick at Doors concerts, about how soft and feminized today's youth have become.

Well, this is a book where men are men and women are women. It might not even be a proper book, just pure ballsiness. A spit in the face of art, good taste, and decency. A regurgitation of the most vulgar machismo. A kick in the ass to political correctness, tolerance, and mutual respect. A gauntlet thrown at the hypocritical dictatorship of niceness and the unbearable bon ton that you find in today's bloodless books. So, let's just clear the air right now to avoid complaints later. Let's move on.

For me, women are a pastime. I can't stand having them around during the day because I would very much like to get something going, and they just blabber on and on. But I need them available at night. As I've gotten older, I've come to prefer slightly slutty girls, the ones who let you have it without making you sweat buckets because I can't be bothered to work hard just to get laid anymore.

You might think I'm some kind of misogynist. Nothing could be further from the truth: I adore women to madness. Women are better than men because they are calmer and more thoughtful, even if they tend to latch onto nonsense. To put it briefly, you're way off base if you think I'm a crass male chauvinist. I'm a die-hard feminist, if anything, because I treat women with kid gloves—I say this without any double entendre—and I place them on a pedestal, by God.