Lena Dunham

By her own admission, this sort of creeping-flesh incestuous sex play continued until Dunham was seventeen:

I shared a bed with my sister, Grace, until I was seventeen years old. She was afraid to sleep alone and would begin asking me around 5:00 P.M. every day whether she could sleep with me. I put on a big show of saying no, taking pleasure in watching her beg and sulk, but eventually I always relented. Her sticky, muscly little body thrashed beside me every night as I read Anne Sexton, watched reruns of SNL, sometimes even as I slipped my hand into my underwear to figure some stuff out.

After the website Truth Revolt highlighted such passages and wrapped a noose around Dunham’s neck with her own words, her lawyers sent the site a cease-and-desist order demanding an immediate retraction for printing a “€œfalse”€ story that was, at least according to their own friggin”€™ client, entirely true since it was printed in an autobiography that purported to be a work of nonfiction.

Although many militant feminists, undoubtedly creeped-out by Dunham’s accounts, took her to task and accused her of molesting her sister, several others rushed to her defense so quickly, their tampons likely fell out. They claimed it was all a “€œmanufactured”€ controversy, which I”€™m assuming runs counter to the presumably organic controversies that the Liberal Outrage Machine shits out a dozen times every minute. They scrambled to find studies and experts claiming that sex play among siblings is very common.

That may be true, but according to their own hyper-inflated stats, so is rape.

If it had been a male celeb who”€™d done the same things”€”then bragged about it in print two decades later”€”you can imagine the shrieks of outrage from the very same menses-coated lemmings who are defending her.

That’s because in their Manichean world, only boys can be that kind of sexual predator.



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