I told my parents the week I turned 18, after they pestered me about not having a girlfriend to bring over, that if I wanted to get laid I’d just pay a prostitute or go to a bar.
They were aghast, but missed the point entirely. “Sex” isn’t the be-all and end-all, I want someone who loves me and whom I love in return. Even then, eight years ago, my walls were built high and now they’ve grown ever stronger because at the end of the day, though my standards are truly at the floor, I’m rarely shown a woman who meets them. And, of those, even fewer that I could possibly trust.
For many, being an “incel” (see: single) is not a lack of physical attractiveness or social capacity, but a simple matter of having standards for what you stick your prick in. I could debase myself to the level of picking up a drunken whore at a bar, or I can maintain my dignity and self-respect. Those are worth infinitely more than 15 minutes of sex.
Inceldom is fake theres like 20 girls who are decent looking at your local club who will take you into the toilets if you drink enough tequila to act normal