Scorched Earth Policy@Scearpo
You will know the sex pest by their eyes.
Their vacuous haunted unblinking eyes which betrays immeasurable suffering.
Their gaunt 1000-goon-stare is a portal to countless horrors.
It is a look you get when you’ve completely lost against entities far older than the human species, ones that feed on sin, ones that demand different flavors of suffering to sustain themselves in a vast ecosystem which operates on mechanics and incentives beyond any human understanding.
The sex pest is a captive. He is a prisoner of war. Every time he wanders into the midnight abyss of urban proclivities, chasing down the vague fecal stench of concrete stomping hoors, sticky skinned transvestites, and all manner of grabbing hungry touch goblins, you must picture him like Vercingetorix in chains being dragged along Caesar’s triumph. Wearing golden laurels is the demon that vanquished what was once a weak man, likely before he even had the chance to be one. His face is one of someone conquered, starved, beaten, and broken. He wants for nothing, he is beyond time, his only hope is to be strangled to death upon the steps of the Temple of Jupiter.
Such is the life of the sex pest. They are a perpetual rape victim, constantly sodomizing themselves via a series of easily avoidable choices. Their roaming grounds are cheap loud venues that smell like smoke and spilled liquor. Their lips are wetted by occasional slobbering. They are texting 20 different phone numbers a day and using messenger apps they’re too old to know exist. They have reoriented their entire glandular system and emotional psychocomplex around enjoying hollow transactional copulation. They will never truly love a woman or have a family. If they do, it will be meandering facade in which they masturbate into their wives and struggle to resist finding a hole in a toilet stall somewhere on the outskirts of town where they can feel alive for a few seconds.
The sex pest could have completely consensual casual sex with a willing partner and they would still be a rapist for doing it. Such is their existence, one in which all of their actions spread a residue of their sordid existence like a slug waiting to be salted and crushed. They are like the yellow toothed cunning bauble merchant cautioned against in Arabian folk tales for their wily tricks. They sell snake oil tonics from their great fuck wagon as they travel through the Wild West of bars, clubs, and dating apps.
You will know the sex pest by their completely eroded sense of propriety. The sex pest exists in a steady delusional bubble in which they consider themselves human beings. They neither share the stark junkie clarity of the typical coomer archetype, nor do they have the blunt violent indifference of an actual full blown parking lot rapist. No, the sex pest hides inside of the technicalities of “socially acceptable behavior.”
The sex pest clings onto more than just an addiction to lust, they uphold the mistaken belief of their humanity through the reinforcement of confidence that comes with socializing. Rather, their idea of socializing which is often just the humoring of prostitutes, strippers, and bored double digit IQ obese women counting down the minutes before they shamelessly get fucked. The sex pest counts each moment of interaction as a golden star upon a mental achievement board, one which says “I’m a player” but should say “I am a beta predator.”
The sex pest has built up an enduring crust against the inherent traumas that come with inveterate perversity. They have known biological waste reaching places it shouldn’t. They are familiar with sickness and disease. They have witnessed extreme emotional outburst. They have softly fled from entire environments out of shame or social exile. They have stared directly into the abyss and tried to fuck it.
You will know the sex pest by the look in their eyes. It is a look of begging for death yet scurrying away from any venture which would grant it. It is self inflicted hell.
