Emily Ratajkowskis Shocking X-Rated Confession Exposed

is one of the most beautiful, confident women in the world.

Or so we thought.

If EmRat's essay in New York Magazine's The Cut is any indication, she is a deeply insecure oversharer, more revealing than  in pantyhose on date night.

In a meandering, unnavigable brain-dump about post-divorce dating life as a single mom (she split from Sebastian Bear-McClard in 2022), Ratajkowski, 35, is gruesome – broadcasting the most intimate tidbits of her private life.

The central sexcapade in this horror story involves a physically and emotionally unattractive lump that she calls Elder Millennial. Ratajkowski, writes: 'Lord knows I didn't think there was any chance he was exceptional in bed… What I wanted was his attention: I wanted to feel a man's desire and to be reminded that I was a sexual being, not just a mother of a toddler.'

Ok, so she's frigid and judgmental. But that is just a bland amuse-bouche compared to the entrée portion of humiliating slop she eventually served up.

Despite her apparent revulsion with her date, she 'found' herself 'on her 'knees in front of him' an hour later: 'He told me I looked like Cleopatra… I'd found everything I'd come there for — a praying mantis devouring her mate.'

I dry-heaved just reading this. Hey Emmy, your five-year-old son will be reading soon.

What is the point of this filth? To make homely women deeply grateful they're not well-packaged and noxiously damaged?

It gets worse. Ratajkowski persists in denigrating herself, laundry-listing her passing partners: 'There was Vegan Graffiti Artist with impeccable posture, Chef who thought he might have chlamydia, Spanish Gen-Zer who couldn't stop sending me nudes, heavily self-medicated Son of a Billionaire with questionable politics, several Italians, and, of course, another DJ.'

And read how she describes motherhood and her son's birth story (the redactions are mine): 'I pushed for four hours, ripping the muscle between [***] in the process. My OB/GYN, in an effort to loosen me, had used her fingers to repeatedly [***], scratching both me and my son's delicate, nearly translucent scalp.'

Was it all worth it? Apparently, yes, but if only to stick it to her sad and lonely peers: 'I already had the kid and the motherhood experience so many of my friends secretly coveted while pretending to date casually.'

Now I'm tempted to wish illiteracy on her young son, because – to me – this reads like hideous resentment: 'It was a violent transition into a new reality of screaming baby on my aching tit and ring on my swollen finger.'

Some real poetry there.

I've delivered two children. I love being a mom. Their birth stories make up the two most beautiful – and yes, challenging – moments of my life. I think of their births as the times I got to wrestle with God and He let me win. I have also been divorced and had to navigate dating as a single mom and there is no way in hell I would publicly broadcast my journey out of respect for myself and my daughters.

Dating can be painful enough, but when you find yourself in love again and get another turn on the carousel, it is terrifyingly ecstatic, not the stuff of grotesque public inquiry.

What's the point of all this? Honestly, who knows?

Ratajkowski's pseudo-intellectual over-explanation has something to do with dissatisfaction with self-restraint and traditionalism.

'I decided to f**k my way into a new kind of woman. I wanted to destroy the Madonna, the special girl I'd worked so hard to be before an eight-pound baby had torn my [redacted], and replace her with the whore,' she writes.

Again with the tearing? Enough already!

This is not feminism. It's pornified drivel.

At the end of this OnlyFans Odyssey, Elder Millennial, who Ratajkowski causally dated for weeks, turns out to be a pathetic, dirty-talking weirdo and Ratajkowski finds solace in a throwaway remark from her divorce lawyer, who tells her she was right to leave her husband.

Ratajkowski does not seem to recognize the irony of still requiring the validation of strangers.

Here's my advice to any impressionable women who may be looking for a roadmap - and it can fit on a bumper sticker: Have some self-respect.

Snacks and the City

Speaking of single life, rumored cannibal Armie Hammer is back.

He's sunk his teeth into a new relationship with model Reagan Newman.

No word yet on Armie's new dating diet. Either way, let's hope Newman's rabies vaccination is up to date.

Knicks on fire

The New York Knickerbockers won the NBA championship in five games – and some idiot fans celebrated by burning a school bus in Times Square.

Now that's what I call snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.

Yada, yada, yada

A mouthy influencer tried to stick it to Jerry Seinfeld as the comedy legend was leaving game four of the Knicks-Spurs series on Wednesday.

'What up, Seinfeld, what up? Can we get a "free Palestine." Come on, give us one "free Palestine!"'

Without missing a beat Seinfeld countered, 'It doesn't exist.' 

Seinfeld was a show about nothing; he's an expert on existential emptiness.

Eye candy 

Brad Pitt was sporting a pair of aviator glasses with tinted lenses that some say have become a go-to accessory for fellas well into their second midlife crisis.

He may be hiding the reading lines of his bi-focals, but even if he's trying to ugly it up, there's no hiding this 62-year-old is still extremely hot

Silver-spooner

Put this week's nepo-baby in the corner. Aspiring rapper Xav Trudeau (spawn of former Canadian Prime Minister Justin) says of his music and his dad, 'I could have done it with or without him.'

Sure, but no one would have listened. 

No doubt, Xav will soon be opening for dad's new squeeze, Katy Perry.