Genital Lia

A smattering of immodest proposals.

In case you haven’t heard, a bunch of uppity mermaids are currently suing the NCAA. The latter’s crime? An excess of empathy, natch.

The lawsuit, the first federal action of its kind, seeks to change the rules, rendering any biological males ineligible to compete against female athletes. It demands the NCAA revoke all awards given to trans athletes in women’s competitions and “reassign” them to their female contenders. It also asks for “damages for pain and suffering, mental and emotional distress, suffering and anxiety, expense costs and other damages due to defendants’ wrongful conduct.” 

For those who don't follow sports — or who hail from one of those strange, backward nations that still calls this “football” — the NCAA is a regulatory body charged with the organization and oversight of American collegiate athletics. They write, vote upon and enforce the rules, including those which may conflict with constitutional law. They have vested interests, deep pockets and tentacles that wriggle into every nook and cranny of higher education's amateur sporting world.

At the center of the lawsuit is one Lia (nee William) Thomas. Internationally celebrated for her spectacular victories in the pool, this bravely stunning young lady now faces the prospect of being stripped of her records and medals. Meanwhile her stunningly brave allies in the totally-not-for-profit NCAA stand to lose millions in unspecified damages.

All this because a baker’s dozen of bitter, spiteful losers can’t quite hack it against a true champion.

Can you believe the balls on these chicks?!

Still, I thought it was worth investigating the merits of the case. After all, Mark is a justice-minded guy. Maybe I could find some middle ground here.

While reviewing the filing’s drab legalese, here’s a few juicy fact-nuggets I uncovered, of which you may or may not have been previously aware:

• The “John Thomas” of Lia Thomas is fully intact.

• Thomas strode nude about the ladies changing room with said dingly proudly dangling.

• One of the plaintiffs was so mortified that she took to changing in a storage locker under a set of bleachers.

• The swimsuits of nubile, college-aged lady swimmers are so skintight they “require 15–20 minutes to put on.”

Like I said, I’m a fan of justice. Basically Solomon, on five hits of acid. So with these details firmly in mind (especially that last one), I set about cutting this whole courtroom drama short, by proposing some potential settlements that might be amenable to all parties.

I present to you a summary of these proposals:

The “Fash” Dash

Twenty minutes sounds like an awful waste of time, which could instead be spent painting toenails, spreading nasty rumors and gabbing about cute boys on the telephone. To maximize efficiency, I suggest the young women be allowed to compete in whatever outfit they happen to be wearing on the day of the swim.

As an added benefit, this solution affords a degree of personal expression not typically found in any sport. We might even add an exciting competitive element based on this new rule.

For example, imagine a brief beauty pageant, to be held at the start of each meet, rewarding the winner with a half-second shaved off her racing time. For the sake of expedience, we could borrow the diving judges’ scorecards too (and perhaps even the judges themselves — after careful vetting by Anna Wintour, of course).

The Greek Method

Perhaps option #1 seems too imbalanced or unfair. Consider the disadvantage of leather jeans versus sundress, or the fact that not all women have an aptitude for chic accessorizing. In that case, I propose we reach back into our ancient sporting traditions for a solution. Indeed, the Olympian gods themselves would smile upon this idea!

Instead of spending precious gossip-time squeezing their bits and bobs into singlets, the ladies could merely do half the job, then compete au naturel as Zeus intended. While the effects on speed are unclear, other hidden benefits such as enhanced buoyancy might be revealed.

But the most important aspect of this solution is its total transparency. For instance: How many of these lasses were deploying hidden propellers, miniature jet engines and other secret Wakandan gadgets, ingeniously woven into the fabric of their swimsuits? “Fifteen-to-twenty minutes,” you say? Color me suspicious.

In addition to ensuring equity and safeguarding against STEM cheats, this rule will likely lead to a significant boost of interest in the sport. It will also open up a whole new sea of lucrative financing, sponsorship deals, cross promotions and other growth opportunities.

(Note: I’ve already purchased the domain onlyswimfans.com, so don’t bother).

Trim Spa

On the other hand, maybe the resolutions above are forms of overkill, involving too many and/or too immodest moving parts. Perhaps we should apply Occam’s Razor to the dilemma — and to one moving part, specifically.

In the interest of maximally effective altruism, perhaps it’s best to narrow our focus to Lia herself. Although this tragic figure grins like a tiger shark after every victory, I sense her joy is incomplete.

Imagine the horror she must feel inside those locker rooms, traipsing amongst all those toned and unclad female forms. She peers down at her own mismatched body and sees God’s one-eyed error peering back, as if to mock her full membership in the Sisterhood of Man. My soul cries out for this poor, unfortunate, internationally celebrated champion.

This solution is as simple as it is obvious:

We must help Lia Thomas achieve her dreams.

She wouldn’t even need to pay for it. The modern West is littered with clinics that would jump at the chance to help. Indeed, considering her notoriety and influential friends, a bidding war will surely break out. This pool might even expand beyond the 100-meter mark, to include fathers, uncles, husbands, brothers and male cousins of her competitors, all chomping at the bit do the honors.

Just a-little-off-the-bottom, doc. A quick nip-tuck, to put an end to all tucking forever.

So c'mon everbody! Let’s Free Willy!

Then perhaps all parties will be mollified.

---

I'm just spitballing here, folks. Feel free to mix and modify these proposals as you see fit.

For example, perhaps only Lia will compete in the nude, thereby affirming her gender for all to see. We can still hold the beauty pageant beforehand, too, reduced now to a swimsuit competition — except for brave Lia, of course, who will proudly showcase the handiwork of her surgical allies. And rather than shave a fraction off the winner’s time, the last place finisher will suffer a handicap of three full seconds from the starter pistol.

Experimenting with the ruleset could also yield rich opportunities for scientific research. For instance, Lia’s corrected anatomy might serve as a good baseline for surgical recovery, aerodynamics studies and more. Even microbiologists might be interested. How will Lia’s vaginoplasty react to various chemical compositions in the pool? Will her host of bacterial infections, painful emissions and other common symptoms be alleviated or aggravated? Only the most courageous of test subjects can supply the answers.

Anyway, these and other rule changes shouldn’t be a problem for someone like Lia, or any other brave and stunning transathlete who dares to pursue their dreams. After all, there far are older methods of resolving the problem of nude male bodies entering ladies’ changing rooms. Most of these involve the former being taken somewhere out of sight — a loading dock, a woodshed, the alley behind a bar — and given a stern talking-to by other male bodies.

But we’re far too civilized for that, of course. Too progressive and evolved.

So how about this for a solution:

We tell Lia Thomas to fuck off.

Do not pass Go. Do not collect gold medals.

Fuck directly off, or we will send you directly to jail. And that would be a men’s jail, in case there’s any confusion.

You say that your “dream” requires forcing a bunch of naked young women to hang out with you? Hey, join the club.

But our answer is “No.”

We won’t let you do that. Dream on.

The same goes for the apparatchiks at the NCAA and other co-conspirators, who stole honor to service their own moral vanity, feed their egos and line their pocketbooks. A civil suit is fine-and-dandy, but criminal charges must be brought as well, against every official involved. When you enter those cells, you’ll find little of the privacy you denied these girls. There you can dwell upon the ugly Orwellian nightmare you forced them to inhabit. You can also ponder what kinds of eyes might wander onto your own naked body, come shower time.

It’s fine to have dreams and fantasies. But not every dream is possible, or is morally sane. If my dream was to sprout 30’ wings and fly to the moon, I’d be free to pursue this dream in vain all my life. Likewise, if I’m a six-foot-four, 250 lb boxer who “identifies” as a bantamweight, you might call my delusions harmless. But if I ever agreed to meet a real bantamweight in the ring, I would be culpable for the result. So would whichever governing body sanctioned that horrifically unfair bout. That’s when we move from the misty lands of fantasy into the realm of the evil and/or criminally insane.

The same can be said of men who dream of becoming women, or women who dream of becoming men. Those who profit from these fantasies are particularly evil, crazy or both. There is no middle ground to be had when it comes to the irreparable mutilation of the imago dei, especially when committed in the guise of a doctor. Meanwhile the best result their “patients” can hope for is an uncanny simulation, a costume of Self that strives and fails to replicate the elusive Other. And these butchered, ersatz bodies will likely become miserable prisons for their owners, in which they will serve life sentences of regret.

In that sense, I wouldn’t truly propose that William “Lia” Thomas be castrated. He is at the very least a pathological narcissist, and may in fact be some kind of cuttlefish-like sex pest, creeping closer to his prey. Or maybe his fantasies are born from an even darker place. Maybe he’s an autogynephile, whose kink involves humiliating women via imitation. Or for all we know, we are bearing witness to the most Epic Troll in Sports History, complete with an endgame reveal that serves to piss off everyone.

SURPRISE SUCKAS! He did it all 4 the lulz.

Regardless of the answer, Thomas is still a crook, a thief of honor. But, no, forcible “bottom surgery” isn’t the answer. I wouldn’t wish such ghoulish wounds upon my worst enemy, even if they were largely self-inflicted.

Perhaps that’s none of my business. After all, I still live in a nation of private health insurers. Bio-libertarianism is therefore the default position, so long as there’s money to be made. As

Mary Harrington

at

Reactionary Feminist

recently noted:

In the essay, Chu calls for the right to limitless medical interventions for cosmetic, identity-purposes. He also calls for universal, socialised healthcare. But as is typical among bio-libertarian leftists, he ignores the reality that taxpayer money is not a limitless pot. In practice, that means socialised healthcare is structurally more conservative than the insurance-based kind, as the taxpayer has a stake in which treatments are collectively funded. This is a key reason why several European medical systems are now reining in ballooning demand for gender-based body modifications, where the American insurance-based system is still strongly skewed toward individual choice.

The NHS ban on puberty blockers is an illustrative recent case in point: the financial incentives in Britain tend toward critical review of the evidence, in the interest of disciplining spending. This strongly implies that American leftists who want both bio-libertarianism, and also universal socialised medicine, will have to pick one. (History suggests they’ll pick the libertarianism, or rather have it picked for them, while protesting theatrically and publishing wistful texts about alternative, utopian worlds.)

They want it all, and they want it now. And they want it “free”, of course.

While these theatrical, wistful utopians may or may not include Lia Thomas and his ilk, what they describe in the main are people I’ve come to think of as “compassioneers”: a large bloc of naïve and intellectually barren cultural progressives. Though they’ll often advertise themselves as political centrists, they’ll still run cover for every nutty project that seems to piss-off anyone to the right of them.

Their most common tactic is to worry their brows in a soft arc, and accuse you of lacking sufficient compassion for the Lia Thomases of the world. If you request similar compassion for his victims, the brow will only worry and sunbow ever more.

Can’t we find compassion for all?

Some alternate dimension that can sustain all dreams and desires in equal measure?

No.

Reality doesn’t work like that. And nowhere are the perverse effects of trying to warp reality to your liking more obvious than in the sports arena. There exists no possible world where the extreme morphological advantages that a man enjoys over female rivals is deemed fairplay. That would require redefining “advantage” to mean something like “neutral”. When applied broadly, this form of language perversion will reduce all conversations to unintelligible barking.

As for compassion?

You aren’t being compassionate to him. You are spitting on them. Do us all a favor, and argue for the dissolution of all female sports instead. That will be the ultimate outcome of this nonsense anyway, and at least you’d find yourself in spitting range of something like honesty.

There’s no settlement to be had here. It’s not a case of you being some thoughtful empath, grasping for some delicate and sophisticated compromise. Siding with Lia Thomas is a shameful choice that you have made. When faced with the hilariously blatant evidence of a crime, you chose to side with the crook. You then try to chastise the rest of us for daring to point out that the empress is not only nude, but is also a dude. For that, you can fuck directly off as well.

These compassioneers and manipulators surround us now.¹ They infest every high status profession and bureaucracy, writing rules fit only for imaginary worlds. And yet their presumably boundless compassion will turn miserly in a heartbeat, the moment a target approaches anything like a normal person. “Normal” is for cavemen, for Republicans, for Nazis. The progressive’s compassion has evolved into a special currency, reserved for special people. It grows like money grows on the socialist’s tree, but not for thee or thine.

That is why the normal female swimmers, with their normal, achievable dreams, must be sacrificed for the greater good. They must bear any burden and suffer any indignity, in order to accommodate the sacred freak and his delusions. And the rest of us must be content to sit back and marvel, as this glorious tale of progress and justice unfolds.

Nope.

Dream on, dreamer.

Or better yet, find some other dream to pursue. The world’s a big strange place, after all. There are loads of dreams that don’t involve wagging your junk in a young lady’s face while you rob her of her dignity, and vainly steal her one big shot at glory.

(P.S. If it’s any consolation, onlyswimfans.com will be up and running any day now, Mr. Thomas. Different strokes for different folks, amirite?)

---

The Cat Was Never Found is a reader-supported blog. I don’t publish much paywalled content, so your generous patronage is very much appreciated. As a reminder, a paid subscription will also grant you access to Deimos Station; the happiest place in cyberspace!

P.S. If you found any of this valuable (and can spare any change), consider dropping a tip in the cup for ya boy. It will also grant you access to my new “Posts” section on the site, which includes some special paywalled Substack content. Thanks in advance.

1. A few months back, a longtime reader of this blog accused me of lacking compassion. In retrospect it seems like it was a manipulation designed to extract some form of apology — which would then be promptly ignored, of course. I even fell for it. Lesson learned.