Men Have Totally Messed Up Their Role as Conquerors

‘Nice to meet you, I am Stela.’ And from the guy, forcefully like water from a hydrant, laughter bursts out: ‘Nice to meet you, I am… Tuborg,’ and he raises his thumb to the other guys at the neighboring table. That’s how clumsily they conquer!

Written by Stela Jelinčić

Among other things, I think: screw an unconquered man. And here you have it, the first sentence, and it’s already paradoxical, at least as much as an honest parliamentary representative or a smart blonde or a free Warsaw street, or as much as Mišak, a non-scientific expert whom the scientific ignoramuses package as being on the wrong side of the edge of science, while they are, like, in its thickest part, not to say in the ass… It’s approximately as paradoxical as winter summer vacations, mental skiing, slalom in emmental… Moreover, it’s a true lie that in the land of Croatia everything is packed with cool guys and that when the land says ‘yes,’ Croatia says! Besides, I think screw outings without conquest. Namely, like this in spring, when I wake up, June seems just ideal for flirting where men’s every move comes off as if they are seducing… And although it’s not always clear where that leads, I console myself that the future is good precisely when it’s uncertain.

Teletext Guys
Again a paradox: you are safe when you are uncertain. Maybe a jump without a parachute could end happier than the dreamed Bando-Kero-Glavonjine lottery combination. That’s why I am excessive in ‘clubbing.’ I go out today so I don’t have to tomorrow. And I could… So since everything I can I want, here I am outside again tomorrow, and thus spring drags on. I was elbowing the bar the other day when, like a weather forecast, a flashy guy crashes into me. He sneaks up to me, approaches me from the side. Dangerous like the Pink Panther, he took a deep breath three times, probably in the desire to scare me so that I would spread my wings like those pigeons from Animal Planet and fall on my back and play dead… He asks me: ‘What’s your name?’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and swayed awkwardly, and then not waiting for an answer, he suddenly grabs my butt. I gently remove his hand, damn, I think: does it say on my forehead?! For those teletext guys, betting is their favorite ugly business, and they never bet on foreplay. And I, among other things, think screw a woman who doesn’t like conquest, permanent fishing (again a paradox), but never to extinction because, among other things, I think: screw a state without enemies.

Play Dead
This time, in that club, although I would most like to rip his hand off his shoulder, I feel sorry for him, I pity him… Probably all that immense ignorance surrounding me paralyzes the will, a person easily gets lost in that chaos of signs… Because, in our land, when you say that dangerous word ‘conquest’ or God forbid ‘conqueror,’ the pigeons play dead so they wouldn’t be conquered, and the doves become even deader so they wouldn’t be called conquerors. I’m not surprised by that, all this with conquest is even internationally punishable… So, I pity that guy, because I’ve already scared so many with brutal rejections, I get scared, because what do I have from their defeats, who will then push them to conquer again? And so, I act tame, sweetly available, and say: ‘Nice to meet you, I am Stela.’ And from the guy, forcefully like water from a hydrant, laughter bursts out: ‘Nice to meet you, I am… Tuborg,’ and he raises his thumb to the other guys from the same herd at the neighboring table. That’s how sloppy and clumsy they conquer! Like, we’ve divided the roles, it’s known who does what here, who will hit whom on the head with a club. It’s still good while I nurture the illusion that they would immediately drag me, the enemy, into their bed, but I don’t reconcile with the miserable fact that for them, in fact, it’s only about fun…

Spoiled Boys
It’s still good while I romantically see conquest as a ritual sharing of the space that has come between us, like seeking to meet halfway: he jumps in a bit, I yield a bit, then a bit more him, then a crumb me, then half of the crumb’s crumb him, then a sixteenth of the half crumb me, and then it ends up with me yelling: ‘Ah! Ah! Schnell! Schnell!’ But no! They don’t get that old saying, crumb by crumb – the land, but they, because historically the role of the conqueror has fallen to men, have totally messed it up. I can’t find the right spice. It should be learned as a craft, even imitate some other lands, decide between more types, reduce by trial and error, between carrot and stick, decide on the carrot because the carrot is good for potency, it’s just very hard to secure. They are used to the lands, as soon as they get credit, to bulk up with silicone traps, makeup, and high heels, to style their bangs up and down, and all that to make that bakery work easier for them. They’ve gotten a bit spoiled: you conquer on a bet, you jump on the internet and jerk off… And that’s it. Guys and beer change, but the tricks remain the same. Now publicly, in the newspapers, I declare tuborg-sliding the worst pickup of the century.

Scientific Evidence
Basically, among other things, I think: screw the herd. In the conquering sliding on thin ice, those herd lovers think, safety is in speed and kinship. At church’s Sunday ritual workouts, they mark where the ice is thin and there they no longer attempt to slide. Like, I won’t take yours if you won’t take mine. Then the poor think that a strong man is a multiple of the herd of the weak. Honestly expressed sexual desire in the Catholic-Borg collective sexual consciousness is a devilish call to the dilemma between motherhood and prostitution, and to me, those recommended indissoluble monogamous relationships with maternal preconceptions come more like a hostage crisis. With occasional unannounced exchanges of prisoners, it can be endured. Because of the tulips on the table, among other things, I think this text should also be published in the Scientific-Educational program of HTV so that those rabid trainers of wild beasts, shaggy scientists, and I can be seized like Mišak because I spread unscientific truths. And they don’t know how carefully and long I have spent all my research samples, so now I can’t present them as arguments that my conclusions are totally scientific. Basically, I learned long ago that you shouldn’t take the whole pig for just one sausage. There you go. And now I’m in a hurry because, among other things, I think I also need to conquer Carthage.