Follow Your Primal Instincts

Í vegi jarðar (That is the way of things)...

This article contains references, sexual and otherwise, that may be offensive to some people. Reader’s discretion is advised.

I am a Blendingr. Or hybrid. In Norse myth, our kinds are believed to be half men, and half Jǫtnar (as in ice giants). I am indeed over 220cm (7’3”). Ripped, with more natural, lean, defined, usable muscles that you ever know existed. A pretty epic blonde beard, eyes of an incandescent blue, like many of my kind, skin as white as snow, and fur on my legs (especially in winter), feet, crotch and pits, but nothing, not even one single hair on my chest outside of my thick treasure, or happy trail. Yes, with everything in proportion… Actually, even bigger than that. 

From an early age - it is programmed in our genes - we Blendingar see women as carriers of our boys (I did in fact made good use of wombs by producing 68 boys. I drew the line at 69), but we also see men as having a hole for the sole purpose of us hybrids, often seen by mortals as semi-gods, filling it… As Þórolfr puts it, in his second book (Úlfheimr: The Dark Age), “its most fundamental source (is) in Ginnungagap, the original dark and bottomless void and abyss in existence prior to the creation of Níu Heimarnir. A void, as in any opening, cavity or hole, that simply has to be filled in order to maintain order and balance in the cosmos and across all worlds.” To be fair, it is also practical. I can blow in a dude 10 times a day without killing him. I can also fully penetrate. I could not do either with any woman. As a warrior, I also like other warriors, I like men, archetypes of masculinity, better. How they smell, how they look, how they feel, how aggressive they are. How they have built civilization with their testosterone and allowed the human species to survive and thrive. Men are sacred, and there is nothing more noble that becoming one with another, and gifting him our sacred seed and wild DNA. 

As hybrids, we know we don’t get along with women. We only thrive in the company or males. We only establish emotional connections with other warriors. Women are only to bear our boys (yes, we have a spermatogenesis of 0:1. As in 100% Y chromosomes). This is in fact nothing new, and throughout history, men, and specifically hybrids, have had it rough with women. In Brennu-Njáls saga, Gunnarr (the dude I, like many other Icelanders, was named after), dies after his cunt of a wife refuses to give him some of her hair to replace the string on his bow. It is also in the same saga that Unn, some undickable dumb cunt, divorces her husband Hrút because… His cock is too big! Let me be very clear: I have never come across an actual man who complained that my Göndull was too big. Ever. As a matter of fact, my cock, and that of other hybrids, is what gave the Old Norse nickname “göndulsinsforn” to the U.S. Marine Corps: The Cock Cult Corps. 

Iceland, however, like the rest of Scandinavia, somewhat got Christianized. And with it came unprecedented sexual repression. Secular laws of Iceland (or the rest of Scandinavia for that matter) did not mention homosexuality indeed, and there wasn’t even a word for it in Old Norse (just fucking, with distinction between the pitcher and the catcher). As long as a dude was behaving as one and had offsprings, anything else was irrelevant. It is only in the 13th century, with Christianization, that Bishop Þorlákr Þórhallson started talking about homosexuality and outlawed it. Probably because the Church knew that if it was promoted, most dudes would go for it rather than be stuck in a miserable life with some bimbo that would stop taking their load within 72 hours or marriage (another Christian thing by the way). So, Iceland hasn’t been on board with homosexuality/bisexuality for a few centuries. The more recent unbearable virtue-signaling in the country does not endorse homosexuality or bisexuality. Far from it. It solely encourages faggotry and inherent associated emasculation. With one of the big tenants of radical left ideology being that all natural sex, whether between a man and a woman, or two men, has to be stigmatized. Because, somehow, sex is demeaning to women, so they have to ruin it for everyone and nobody can enjoy it. Not to mention that women will always be bitter for not having a dick. Again, as Þórolfr puts it in Úlfheimr: The Dark Age:

From the very first day of their creation, women have resented men. Understandably. One is to imagine the woman’s frustration and angst from looking at Askr’s göndull in awe, before finding out she didn’t have one, and bore instead a void space. With the matter being made much worse when she realized the primary purpose of the gap was to accommodate the male’s göndull, while keeping it wet and warm. If the operation could be pleasant at times for women, assuming the phallus was of reasonable proportions (never the case with Blendingar), in fact, it rarely was the case. Norse history is indeed filled with bitter -and frigid- women whining about göndlar being too large.

Despite my own dad, and his bros, telling me from an early age it would not work out with women, I still wasn’t convinced of it. Societal standards in Iceland also pushed me towards marrying some chick to live happily ever after on my ancestral farm. Ásjárstjórn (AS) telling me, however, that I should not get married, as no Úlfheðinn can have a fulfilled life with a woman, sealed the deal, and probably out of spite, I got married (to a woman clearly).

Possibly the greatest mistake of my life. Within 72 hours of marriage, she developed a persistent headache, and I ended up having to use my (very rough) hand. It got so bad that I even considered sheep… But, I am not British, so I decided against it. I thought about guys… But I was under the impression that the only dudes into dick were gay, and thought that, if I wanted a woman, I might as well get a real one. I was very interested in some of my peers… Including Raskulfr. A Danish bro and SOF unit commander, and fellow hybrid. Unfortunately, the laws of nature make the concept of a hybrid taking it up the ass absolutely abhorrent. And the only thought of it was also completely unspeakable. So, yeah, for all the bros who, over the years, saw Raskulfr and me sitting next to each other in peace, and suddenly, out of the blue, for no reason at all, at each other’s throat, rolling on the ground, fighting, in yet another brawl, it is because I had thought of fucking him, he knew about it, and could not tolerate it. Of course, I was entitled by law, under the Skjǫldrinn Covenant of 748 to dick any Úlfheðinn around as needed. But I thought just randomly breeding dudes minding their own business wasn’t necessarily great for brotherhood and cohesion. As for MU’s, the legendary MU’s, I wasn’t too sure about the responsibilities involved with them, and at the time, we weren't as organized as we were now. Ultimately, though, my behavior was pretty much entirely out of repression and denying my most primal instincts. I wanted to fuck males, but I wasn’t. Finding excuses. I am bigger than Raskulfr, so I could have dicked him real good, even though we probably would have killed each other. At least I would have died a happy hybrid. Without blue balls. 

So, yeah, I spent a while with chronic blue balls. Hybrid loads belong in a hole. My hand didn’t cut it. My Óðr got completely out of wack, only expressed through violence (thank the gods I could actually still make the grass greener). It all went to hel, though, upon my return to Iceland after a miserable deployment of several months that saw several of my brothers die. The wife didn’t even pick me up at Keflavik. I returned to a farm in complete disarray. She refused to give me sex. She even went on a rant that I was worse than a caveman, that my cock was indeed too big (rolling eyes), and that I was such a loser that she was embarrassed to be seen with me at Kringlan (the mall in Reykjavík, which I don’t even remember ever visiting). She also sprayed me with perfume, saying I stunk. I nearly choked to death. I did forget to mention that we hybrids have up to 1000x times the level of androsterone (a pheromone or sex hormone) than regular dudes, so we have a specific scent. Dudes love it, women, not so much. So, we usually get pussy by flooding them instead with Androstenol, which prompts them to ovulate, so at least we can get boys out of the bimbos. But it also often backfires at a deep evolutionary level, with the female suddenly remembering the huge risks of pregnancy, especially from a dude our size. I also learned that the wife had aborted my boy. Which was devastating to me. It was murder. Anyway, to close the chapter of the wife, I should also add that she eventually ran me over with a small car (I had tire marks on my abs for a while), and got me kicked out of my own family/ancestral farm, until my bros got involved and resolved the matter.

I wasn’t in a good place. I won’t say I was depressed, because depression is a chemical imbalance of the brain, with no good reason. In my case, according to my views on life, I had good reasons to not be happy. So, what did I do? I called a bro… 

When I caught Þórolfr on the phone, he was at the airport somewhere in Europe, about to take off, in First Class, to Tahiti with some bimbo. I told him I needed his help right away to rebuild my barn (which was kinda true). There was a silent of a few seconds. Then he said, okay, I’m on my way. I could picture him rolling his eyes, and in all my misery, I giggled like a Japanese school girl. 

I picked him up at Keflavik the same evening. I hadn't showered for a couple of days. I hugged him. He didn’t run away (although I knew he wasn’t really into hugging). We didn't say much during the ride back to the farm. We went straight to the barn and started talking. Long story short, I explained my wife was a cunt. He let me talk, and then responded that he didn’t understand. That I was the archetype of masculinity, the ideal male and warrior, and that every single female in Iceland should be competing over me for the honor to take my loads and carry my sons. He smelled very good… So I asked something like “would you take my loads?” or “Would you let me breed you?”, I don’t remember. His jaw dropped (but somehow, I didn’t believe his open mouth was an invitation to shove my cock in there), and he didn’t immediately respond. I have to stay, this destroyed me. For a moment. I knew he had done dudes before… So, what I saw as rejection killed me. He probably saw my face. Opened his mouth again, probably trying to explain. Nothing came out. But Þórolfr always was a pragmatic man. So, rather than try to recover from his understandable hesitation in responding, as my choice of words may have been unexpected and maybe a little too crude, he approached me, dropped on his knees, unzipped my pants, and started blowing me. Seemingly greatly enjoying my ripe sack and the taste of my precum and semen. I was alive again. It was so amazing. It was the way things should have been for so long. The release and exchange of energy was epic. Nothing I had ever experienced with a woman. It went on for a while… (As in hours). We hybrid replenish semen faster than we blow it… Add to this a major backlog, I wasn’t about to be done anytime soon. So, I kept blowing. He kept sucking. Probably thinking he had to keep going until my ball sack was fully drained. Which never happened. But he kept at it, despite the pain he must have felt in his jaws, a resilience I truly appreciated (I would have said sacrifice, but this choice of word is probably more adequate with the willingness to take my massive dick up the ass). Until he dropped on the ground. Not dead. But from exhaustion and being high. Yes, our semen is different. I laid next to him to have a nap. In his sleep, his face moved towards my pits… He really seemed to like my scent. Unlike women. When we woke up, we decided to go to Húsasmiðjan for some supplies. While driving through a lava field, we got hungry. I spotted a lone sheep. Probably from one of my neighbors, and probably that had been grazing on my freaking land. We stopped, and I decided to get that sheep. Had to run a bit. Icelandic sheep are difficult and rarely cooperate, especially to be eaten. I finally caught it and killed it by biting the neck, getting a good deal of blood all over my beard. Then, I thought to myself: Hmmm… This may have been a little excessive… No wonder I ain’t getting any pussy. I turned around, expecting Þórolfr to be appalled. His mouth was open, again. Indeed. Jaw dropped. But he then just… jumped me. So, obviously, some dudes liked my primal self. I fucked him wildly, right in the freezing rain in the middle of that lava field. Then I cut the sheep and roasted it for a feast. In the same spot. We were both naked, eating the sheep, in the middle of nowhere. When he got cold, I just held him. He was much smaller than me, so my body acted as a warm shelter. He seemed happy to be there, his nose in my pits. Or his face in my crotch. Feeding on my semen non-stop. Greatly enjoying being bred. I loved it. It seemed natural to me. He smelled so good. Was so committed to draining my balls. He was actually turned on by me displaying the features of a caveman as my soon to be ex wife claimed. We spent several days in the wilderness. Sleeping in a cave. Literally. Naked. Fucking non-stop. Killing animals to eat. 

This experience probably changed both of our lives. We both allowed ourselves to follow our instinct. To go primal. To be wild. To be primitive. To be men. With no regard for societal conventions, for the Church of Iceland, for the vision modern society had of sex. life or masculinity (aka emasculation). This approach may even have defined part of the foundation for the rebirth of Skjǫldrinn and its return to its ancestral glory, driven by true warriors. We both continued to fuck women. To produce children. Until we got oathed. For everything else, it was males. And it was just amazing and the way it should have always been. We gave no shit about how the world may have seen it. It was meant to be. Í vegi jarðar…

However amazing our connection was, we didn’t get oathed to each other. He went on to later oath Áskunnr hinn gullúlfr, the baddest ass hybrid to ever walk on earth, his true match, from Sverreættin (The Sverre Royal House). I, of the competing Harðráðiættin dynasty, went on to oath Kýlan inn leðrhals, a MARSOC and the best United States Marine to ever live. The best decision of my life. And my perfect match. Chapter 16 (Eiðrinn: The Oath) of Úlfheimr: The Tenth World, discusses the series of events that led to it. But I still love Þórolfr and always will. And I know he does as well. Our connection will remain in life and beyond. And the cohesion we have has been greatly beneficial for our unit. We are tight and always will be. Allowing our primal and most basic instincts to prevail made the strength of our unit, and is what defines us as men and warriors. To this day, we are still in the same unit, and still share the same hall. 

My advice to all men out there is therefore to follow your most primal and basic instincts. Do not repress them. Doing so is not self control, it is self-annihilation. Get out of the Abrahamic concept that sex is bad, semen is dirty. That you should only fuck what society tells you to fuck. Do not shy away from violence either. Together with sex, wild sex, it is the foundation of Óðr and balance in the life of a male.