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Slutcon (Apropos of Incels, White Male Millennials, Gen Z Nihilism, #MeToo, and Declining Birth Rates)


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https://slate.com/life/2025/12/women-sex-men-dating-california-trip.html

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Touched for the Very First Time

Can “slut camp” cure America’s stunted young men?

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Deep in California’s East Bay, on a mild fall night, a 32-year-old we’ll call Simon told me that minutes earlier, for the first time in his life, he had felt a woman’s breasts. The two of us were hunched over a firepit on a discreet wooden terrace while he recounted what had happened: The woman, with a charitable smile and some gentle encouragement, had invited his hand to her body. She let him linger there for a spell—sensing her contours, appreciating her shape—before he pulled away. Now Simon was staring into the embers, contemplating these intrepid steps out of the virginity that had shackled him for so long. He seemed in a bit of a daze.

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It’s a dangerous game that Slutcon plays. The organizers entertain the idea that to rehabilitate our decaying norms about intimacy, men need to shake off their fears about sex—with the help of women willing to grant leniency to their erotic forays. Almost a decade removed from #MeToo and the astonishing reckoning it unleashed, it was difficult for me to completely sign off on that. It wasn’t that Slutcon was a reactionary project or was concocting a backward tradwife fantasy. But the event did unambiguously assert that men alone are unable to fix our ailing sexual culture. At Slutcon, masculinity in itself was not toxic. Women too, people here argued, had a hand in this unraveling. And if these men and women could spend a weekend committed to radical empathy between the genders—blurring the line between sex education and sex work—maybe we’d relearn a skill that feels crucial to our survival. As the weekend wore on, I started to see their point.

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On the first night of Slutcon, Aella—the pseudonymous blogger, escort, and internet eccentric who is one of the event’s primary organizers—took the stage at the main pavilion for something of a keynote address. “We are pro-men here,” she said, outlining what the audience could expect from the days ahead. The attendees were reminded that the “flirtees” had consensually opted in to the weekend’s affairs and all were adept at interfacing with clueless suitors. Aella implored the crowd to release inhibitions, to breathe freely, to dig deep within their souls and excavate their inner vixen. Yes, she reminded the room, the women would maintain their personal boundaries, which were always to be respected. (“Some of you will find out in brutal detail that you are giving a girl the ick,” Aella said.) But also, she said, the men here shouldn’t fear bumping against those boundaries—and ought to receive the feedback that resulted graciously, with an open heart. As she wrapped up her remarks, she left the men with a homework assignment: At some point in the next three days, they should ask a woman if they could touch her boobs.

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“I was talking to one of the guys about his time on the incel forums, and another guy about his time in Afghanistan. They seemed to get emotional about it. It was a good talk,” Baca told me later on. “I was honored that they were willing to tell me about that.”

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Among those most in need of help was Gerald, a 34-year-old dressed in a neatly pressed blazer, who told me that for as long as he could remember, he had fantasized about a woman swallowing him whole. It’s not necessarily the idea of being bathed in the saliva of a gargantuan maw that turns him on, though that’s not to say that the idea doesn’t turn him on. Instead, Gerald explained to me, he wants to become one with a digestive system—disintegrated in fizzy stomach acid, squeezed through rubbery pink bowels.

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Chesed, a pseudonymous associate of Aella and one of Slutcon’s chief organizers, told me that possibility represented by far the most stressful element of planning the event. “The most obvious failure we could have is if a girl had a really bad time here or, God forbid, got assaulted,” she said. That’s why the grounds of Slutcon were heavy with reflective vest–donned security personnel, and why the venue’s location had not been disclosed to the public. But maybe the best preventive measure Chesed had put in place was how she screened the flirtees.

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zmyth responded with a story about what she thinks Slutcon stands for. A few years ago, she hit it off with a guy at a party. At the end of the night, when she went to hug everyone goodbye, he slid his hand down her back and touched her butt. “I clenched; I shut down. And I drove away thinking about how I didn’t like that,” she said. But when she recalls the incident now, she wonders what would have happened if, rather than retreating inward, she had immediately spoken up and told him not to touch her that way again.

“I know he would have said, ‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry.’ The night would have moved on, and I wouldn’t have held it against him,” she said. “Essentially, I want to build a culture where we are speaking up for ourselves. We’re so afraid of it—I’m afraid of it—but that reinforces a world where we’re scared to reject someone. It doesn’t mean it’s going to be comfy, but it’s important to encourage that behavior.”

Azmyth was gliding over some important caveats. Politeness is just one reason someone might fear rejecting a man—violence and personal or professional retaliation also come to mind. Nevertheless, the other flirtees in the building had taken up her charge, and some had found it uncommonly invigorating. Rather than making themselves small and relying on the typical evasive tactics when an attendee violated their boundaries—excusing themselves to the bathroom, stepping away to receive a fake phone call, enduring the interaction through gritted teeth—the volunteers were encouraged to slam the door on a prospective suitor, no questions asked. It connected back to Slutcon’s foundational thesis: Ideally, this is a pro-man environment defanged of manospheric tendencies. Whether they liked it or not, attendees would learn to weather the rejection. And more importantly, after being curtly dismissed by a flirtee, they might realize that it wasn’t so bad after all.

  • Drool 1
Posted
17 minutes ago, chainsaw said:

Rather than making themselves small and relying on the typical evasive tactics when an attendee violated their boundaries—excusing themselves to the bathroom, stepping away to receive a fake phone call, enduring the interaction through gritted teeth—the volunteers were encouraged to slam the door on a prospective suitor, no questions asked

“Slutcon” sounds like false advertising 

  • Hook 'Em 2
Posted (edited)

WTF?   Anyone who’s met me IRL (Immamac, Bolverk holla) can truthfully testify under oath that one Gatorubet is not a handsome man.

And yet, even my pathetic self convinced 30 or so females to be willing sexual partners when I was a yute. 

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What the hell is going on?

After our company Christmas party, I wound up in the French Quarter that, as always, is filled to brim with holiday partiers.    There were lots of really attractive younger women roaming  around.  But I noticed they were all in groups of five or six, and there was never any man with them.    It was weird, just a huge number of really attractive women and no men to be seen.  They were decked out in their cocktail dresses and wearing their Christmas finery.   If I was 30-40 years younger, it would’ve been an amazing target rich environment. 

Again, what the hell is going on?

Edit: having said that, literally hundreds of evidently smart women told me to go fuck myself…

Do we have a generation of snowflakes that are so sensitive that after being shut down by some women, they just refused to swing the bat again?

Swing. The. Fucking. Bat!!!

Edited by Gatorubet
  • Hook 'Em 3

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