Feeds:
Posts
Comments

From Craigslist (remember that site?):

thanks again for leaving me out in the rain! w4m

my phone is now ruined, so I’ll have to resort to this – the way we first met. here.

we both knew the other was married… but now that I tell you I’m pregnant, you have nothing to say… your only reaction being to leave the bar and go hail a cab!?

i ran after you for about half a block until almost movie-like it began to rain and i just felt like a whore.

so i stopped.

those raindrops felt like an amplified otherworldly expression of my soul dying.

please at least talk to me through here. tell me how you feel. i think safer speaking here anyhow. more freely. quasi anonymously.

how we started…

“I’m pregnant.”

Another option is to toss her a Groupon for Planned Spinsterhood services.

It’s an interesting speculation if the gotcha pregnancy risk profiles of married and single women are the same. A single woman faces the prospect of raising a bastard on her own, which is a powerful disincentive to seeing it through. A married woman might similarly want an abortion before her beta hubby finds out, but then she also might calculate that a cuckolding is worth risking discovery say, ten years down the road. As a player cad, you must weigh the available incentives influencing the “accidentally” pregnant single or married woman, and decide which outcome you can most tolerate.

Affirmative Resentment

An Atlantic tweenzine article by Conor Friedersdorf — you may remember tiny prancer Conor from his time in the spotlight as a Chateau Heartiste peeñata — grapples with the blowback from California’s new “affirmative-consent” law, the insane, human nature-denying law favored by ugly feminists who want to make romantic pleasure as difficult as possible for men and pretty women to experience.

Friedersdorf passes along a testimonial from a CA male student who attempted to comply with the law by asking women for explicit verbal consent during each stage of the courtship. You can imagine the thousand points of love that bloomed.

Dear Conor,

I am a recent graduate, and want to share with you a few of my experiences that I think are illustrative of why the new affirmative-consent laws are out of touch with the reality of the human experience. I hope they can be of some value to the debate.

I was raised by a left-leaning, feminist family who (at least I thought at the time) were relatively open about sex.

One thing you have to understand about lefties, particularly the white variety: They are the biggest prudes on the planet. The only difference between them and the evangelicals they love to hate are the target vices of their self-righteousness.

But while I arrived at college with a healthy respect for women, I was totally unprepared for the complex realities of female sexuality.

CH needs to reach more men before the manlet cancer metastasizes.

“Oh,” sighed one platonic female friend after we had just watched Harrison Ford grab Alison Doody and kiss her is Indiana Jones and theLast Crusade, “Why don’t guys do that kind of thing anymore? Now days they are all too scared.”

Threatening to toss men before a tribunal for busting a move might dampen their enthusiasm. I mean, I’m not connecting too many dots here.

On our second night together, one of my first partners threw up her hands in disgust. “How am I supposed to get turned on when you keep asking for permission for everything like a little boy?” She said. “Just take me and fuck me already.”

She didn’t stay with me for long.

Alert the media.

This would be a recurring theme. More than once I saw disappointment in the eyes of women when I didn’t fulfill the leadership role they wanted me to perform in the bedroom. I realized that women don’t just desire men, they desire men’s desire―and often they don’t want to have to ask for it.

A woman who has to ask for a man’s desire can never trust him. Once the seed of distrust is planted, it grows and chokes the life out of every interaction.

I also realized that I was in many ways ashamed of my own sexual desire as a man, and that this was not healthy.

Walk with your cock leading the way. Women love men who are proud of their tumescent entitlement. This is perhaps the hardest lesson for constitutional weaklings to assimilate. It cuts against a lifetime of assuming the rump-up position appeasing their betters.

At this point I was experiencing some cognitive dissonance with my upbringing, but in time learned to take an assertive lead unless I got a “no” or otherwise thought I was about to cross a boundary as indicated by body language.

One night I ended up back in a girl’s room after a first date (those do happen in college). She had invited me in and was clearly attracted to me. We were kissing on her bed, outer layers of clothing removed, but when my hands wandered downward she said, “No, wait.” I waited. She began kissing me again, passionately, so again I moved to remove her underwear. “Stop,” she said, “this is too fast.” I stopped.

“That’s fine,” I said. I kissed her again and left soon after, looking forward to seeing her again.

Interestingly, leaving a woman in the lurch of lust is not a guaranteed clit-killer. Off the tongue of a skilled vagician, a takeaway of this style could incite a girl to a higher plane of ecstasy.

But my text messages received only cold, vaguely angry replies, and then silence.

He still had her at angry (the opposite of indifference), but he lost her by the time silence rolled in to steal the show.

I was rather confused. Only many weeks later did I find out the truth from one of her close friends: “She really wanted you, but you didn’t make it happen. She was pretty upset that you didn’t really want her.”

“Why didn’t she just say so then, why did she say we were moving too fast?”

Much to learn, he has…

“Of course she said that, you dumbass. She didn’t want you to think she was a slut.”

The liberal male rationalization hamster is almost as swole as the generic female hamster.

Talk about confusing. Apparently in this case even no didn’t mean no. It wasn’t the last time I’ve come across “token resistance” that is intended to be overcome either. But that’s a line that I am still uncomfortable with testing, for obvious reasons.

Men are the risk-taking sex. It’s biologically ordained. And so women expect men to push the envelope. When a man fails to do that, she’ll wonder what other chances at greatness he’ll choose to decline.

But I have learned not to ask when it clearly isn’t necessary, or desired.

One of my fondest sexual experiences started with making eye contact across a room, moved to a dance floor, and then to an empty bathroom. Not a single word was ever spoken, because none had to be. We both knew and understood. I was a man and she was a woman, and we found ourselves drawn together in that beautiful way that men and women have been since a time immemorial, a time long before language was ever spoken.

Today in California this would be considered rape. I find that very sad. Women are not infantile. They can make their own decisions about sex, and that includes being able to say no―even if they don’t want to have to say yes.

Regards,

Anonymous

Either women are infantile, or they’re adults with agency. If the former, then they need to be treated like infants across the board. This would include removing their right to vote or divorce without cause. If the latter, then these feminist-inspired policies and laws need to be trashed. That means Title IX, affirmative action, and all the rest of the “level playing field aka anti-white male” nonsense must go.

Affirmative-consent laws are in practice Affirmative Resentment laws, because a woman will resent any man who seriously abides a law that requires him to ask her permission to crave and profane her body. Even feminist slags with a two-ton chip on their shoulders will be unable to control feelings of revulsion toward men who accept their demands for slavish foreplay petitions.

Cheap Chalupa’s Dogma

The Anti-Gnostic writes,

Everything Tyler posts on this reveals immigration is just more of the Highs and the Lows battle against the Middles. That’s probably why Alex no longer bothers with economic arguments like the manic Trillion Dollar Bills On Sidewalks. It’s become a Kantian imperative but that gets taken apart pretty easily. Open Borders is essentially a matter of dogma at this point.

From here (comments). I wonder if any of this is getting through to Bargain Beans and his intellectual zombies?

Sometimes a song that I’m singing in my head will escape from its skullblocked cage and make a run for it across the border of my lips. When this happens, I can go fifteen minutes, maybe hours given the retrospective nature of the discovery, before my conscious awareness is alerted to the fact that I’ve been whistling a happy tune in public like a damnfool. It’s a bad habit.

One of these times, my whistling must have been especially loud and taunting to fragile ears, because I was shocked into awareness by the shrieking of a chubby gargoylette, who whipped around from in front of me and demanded, “Did you just wolf whistle at me!?”

Caught completely off-guard, I stared at her flushed cheeks and fleshed body for a half second, dumbfounded. She continued glowering at me, as if seriously expecting an answer to her accusation. Pulling my head back a little, knitting my brow and squinting, I blurted, “Fuck no!”

She fumed. If she were a pig, which with a small tweak of one or two genes she could’ve easily crossed the species barrier, she’d have stamped her hooves in the mud a few times, threatening a charge. As it was, she turned on her heels while delivering a perfunctory “fuck you” and flipped me the fat bird over her shoulder as she walked away.

I felt embarrassed for the spectacle that had caught the eyes of a few passers-by, but also satisfied that my reflexive defensive parry poked a pig in the id.

I moved on, pissed that a pig deigned to shovel me a handful of her compacted shit, and pissed that I lost the tune in my head. smh…smh…smh… the rest of the walk I wondered, in vague outlines of indignation, how many American women were miserable in this way, cracking under the pressure of their fat and their delayed marriage schedules and their royalty complexes. How many women I saw every day were hiding blocks of TNT up their asses, just waiting for some misapprehended spark to blow the lid off their facade?

The feminine American woman harboring not a lick of resentment toward men is as rare as the HB10. I wonder, equally, if she knows this? I know it.

Five Minutes Of Alpha Syndrome

A reader generously offers a glimpse into the mind of a woman stricken with “five minutes of alpha syndrome”.

CH,

Having been a regular reader of your blog for a while now, I couldn’t quite join-the-dots in the general ‘5-Minutes-Of-Alpha-Beats-5-Years-Of-Beta’ (or variations thereof)
I couldn’t quite see it working in the ‘Real World’.
Until last night.
I contacted a woman from a well-known online-dating site that requires a strong rod and large net.
The woman: 44, 5’8″, Mom-of-one, blonde, pretty, maybe a solid ‘7’ with her war-paint on, separated from nice guy husband of 12 years, recently split from relationship with BF of 7 months.
The Boyfriend: 45, 5’7″, fire-fighter…really average-looking but with serious ‘issues’.

I was initially pulled-in by her looks and IQ (she’s a smart woman, a buyer, by trade) and a comment she made struck me: “I’m scared I’ll never find the level of intensity I had with my Ex”
Me: “What, with your husband?”
Her: “No! My Bf”
(husband, apparently was a tall, handsome guy, 6’3″, but had two things not going for him: ‘Nice Guy’ and liked to crush a 6-pack each night)

Anyway, we met.
For a drink, at 20:00pm, a bar not far from where either of us live.
We left at 22:45pm, after each having a single drink each, mainly because of her life-story of the last ‘X’ months with Fire-fighter Bf.
I could wax-lyrical about it, but it’s best set out in list form:
* upon first meeting, she said “the sort of man I wouldn’t look twice at – he’s 5’7″ for God’s sake”
* didn’t even date him for at least 3 months after 1st meeting, and he pestered me daily for a date
* finally met and things took-off (in her words, “sexually, emotionally and mentally…it was intense, daily”)

Then things start to slide:
* he breaks her left-cheekbone with a straight-right
* deletes names of male co-workers and friends from her iPhone
* secretly hacks into her FB account and sends ‘Don’t contact me again’ messages to male contacts
* constantly, calls, queries and questions her about where she is and who’s she’s out with
* rips her off for 86,000
* finally after 7 months she dumps him and throws him out.

Cue:
* paint poured over her Audi A3
* hate mail sent daily
* threatening phonecalls made multiple times daily
* bogus online-dating-agency profiles created and setup to monitor her on website
* fellow friends recruited to keep tabs on her
* drives by her home multiple times a day, checking up on her

Finally, the police are involved.
They urge her to press charges, a) for the physical assault and b) threatening behaviours

What does she do?
Protects the fuck out him, claims she doesn’t want him to lose his job or get into any trouble.

And the clincher? She spent the whole 2.45 hr date talking about him (liked to call him ‘Twat-Face’, and this whole sorry episode to me, her supposed date.
No matter what I did, no matter how blasé or cool I was about it….she just looked like she’d rather be anywhere else but on a date with me….
Why?
Because I wasn’t him.

Thoughts, opinions, rants?

Yeah…

Chicks dig jerks. And Ross Douthat handwaved.

Less glibly, yet another reason to avoid a long-term relationship with a woman who has amassed an above-average number of sexual partners in her life is that the odds increase that she has dated, fucked, and fallen deeply in love with an asshole. And though she was able to extricate herself from his intoxicating grip to one day go on a half-hearted date with you, his memory continues to scour her dreamscape. What man who isn’t a desperate loser needs the extra headache?

The girl with a lot of past lovers is never alone. You aren’t sitting across from her at a bar; you’re sitting across from her and all the cockas that rocked her.

My advice:

Date virgins.

Ok, that’s a tall order nowadays.

Your next best options, should an execrable date of this nature ever occur again, are to fight asshole with asshole.

Flirt with another woman in front of her.
Text while she’s talking about her ex.
Keep changing the subject. But make it obvious that’s what you’re doing. Humor helps. “You ever wonder what it’s like to piss in a moving elevator?”
Lay down the man law, in so many words. “If you want a shoulder to cry on about your ex, there’s a gay guy I know who’s much better at this. Don’t worry, he won’t judge.”
Get up and leave without warning. This is your last card, and it’s an Ace. Don’t be afraid to play it. You shouldn’t be spending three minutes, let alone three hours, of your valuable time listening to a woman bitch about her ex, anyhow. That’s beta male scarcity mentality.

Whatever you do, don’t sound jealous or butthurt. This is a game, treat it like one.

The advantage will be yours because a clear and present asshole trumps an invisible asshole. And given her history, you may be the new asshole who helps her get over her last asshole.

A slew of eye-tracking heatmaps reveal some very interesting sex differences in subconscious desire, (as well as revealing optimum product positioning, which come to think of it is related to the former).

In the above map we see that men’s gazes focused on the woman’s face and body (and less so on the surrounding details). Women were more interested in the photo’s context, but they didn’t gaze any less at the model’s face and body. (It even looks like women spent *more* time checking out their competition.) Conclusion: Women objectify women as much as men do.

Similar results here. Women aren’t blind to other women’s beauty. Or their shoes. (Men, as per cultural stereotype, don’t give a shit about a hot babe’s choice of footwear.)

Here are two online dating profiles. The left profile is female, the right male. Eye tracking shows that men and women viewers gaze for a long time at the female profile’s face. The male profile photo, in contrast, hardly gets any attention, from either sex! More attention is paid to his background information, aka his story and his identity.

Eye gaze experiments provide strong evidence that a woman’s sexual market value is primarily a function of her looks, while a man’s SMV is multivariate. Women’s attraction triggers are holistic. Women will subconsciously measure and judge a host of personality, psychological, and contextual characteristics of a man before their arousal has solidified into conscious desire.

Because I know it drives certain spergalicious Rainmen crazy, once more with the slash of the shiv:

Maxim #5:  A man’s looks don’t matter as much to women as a woman’s looks matter to men.

Men who grasp the innate truth of the above maxim will do better with women than men who give up all hope because they are sad their jawlines are 0.1 micrometers too narrow.

***

Taking bets now on how many bitter quasimodos and Tinder sluts with poor reading comprehension show up here to ragefroth after ignoring the part that says “as much”.

Reader PA linked to an old video featuring four famous French singers embodying four distinctive styles of womanhood. All four are fantasizing about hitting on the same man who’s leaning against the bar. PA comments,

This is a delight in its own right. It’s also a Game tool: ask a girl which style, of the four shown here, is hers.

(Stay tuned for 3:34. Assuming it’s not electronically altered, dude has the deepest frog voice I’ve ever heard.)

The video is fun, and yes it does contain material that would serve very well reconstituted as a game routine. Which is what I’ve done.

Naturally, in most situations you’re not going to pull up a Youtube video for a girl you just met so you can ask her with which femme fatale she most identifies, (although there’s nothing wrong with doing that if you can manage it).

Do you remember the archetypical femmes fatales? The classics? The Chateau archives have posts about them and their particular gaming needs.

The golddigger.
The waif/neurotic.
The eternal ingenue.
The Amazonian alpha.

Asking a woman which female archetype she thinks she is will light up her eyes and deepen her conversational commitment. (Most girls like to think of themselves as ingenues. Be wary of the girl who proudly proclaims herself an amazonian alpha. Also be ready to bounce her home for the NSA bang.)

In the video, the singers represent, respectively (and commenters are free to argue with my categorizations):

Singer #1: The shy girl-next-door with a secret raging passion.
Singer #2: The fun-loving free spirit with a naughty side.
Singer #3: The elegant romantic who can throw a dinner party as well as she can flirt.
Singer #4: The take-charge seductress who might walk out with your wallet in the morning.

(Timeout to note how crazy beautiful and feminine Frenchwomen can be. I’d even consider monogamy with that first singer, and it takes a lot to inspire me to that sacrifice. Tragically, the times, and our women, have changed.)

If the girl you’re hitting on can watch this video with you, simply asking her which type she relates to will get the comfort stage ball rolling. Without the video, you’ll have to keep the above four (or eight) femmes fatales stored in memory for retrieval as part of the Femme Fatale Game Routine.

DEVIL’S VANGUARD: Women love to put men in boxes — you know, the frat bro, the nerd, the momma’s boy, the player — but there are types of women too. Femmes fatales. And men can tell a lot about a woman by her type. [pause for her curiosity to get the best of her. look away during this moment, so you don't leave the impression that you're anxiously anticipating her reply.]

LITTLE BO QUEEF: Really! So what type am I?

DEVIL’S VANGUARD: That depends. You see a man you like. You want to grab his attention. Do you look at him, then look away, blushing? Or do you bounce up to him and act flirty?

LITTLE BO QUEEF: Act flirty.

DEVIL’S VANGUARD: So you see yourself more as the free spirit than the shy girl-next-door. Ok, now if the choice is between being a free spirit, or sidling up in a sleek cocktail dress and remarking on his sense of style or whatever, which do you choose?

LITTLE BO QUEEF: Ooh, I like cocktail dresses. I’d do that.

DEVIL’S VANGUARD: Ok, so you’re more of an elegant romantic than a free spirit. Now you have to choose between being an elegant romantic, or wearing a sexy dress with a plunging neckline and whispering racy innuendo in his ear. The take-charge seductress.

LITTLE BO QUEEF: That’s too much for me. I’ll stick with being the sophisticated romantic in a cocktail dress.

DEVIL’S VANGUARD: Typical American woman. Great! Now I know what type you are. Ready?

LITTLE BO QUEEF: Yes!

DEVIL’S VANGUARD: The elegant romantic is passionate, but not crass. She’s no prude, she just likes a long build-up before going for the kill. She thinks herself sophisticated [ed: note that this is a challenge], and tries to dress stylishly [ed: another challenge]. She’s emotionally mature and has that natural sexiness which makes other women jealous, but not so jealous that they feel threatened. Men feel good about introducing you to business associates.

LITTLE BO QUEEF: Yay!

If words aren’t your thing, you can run an abbreviated version of the Femme Fatale Routine.

DEVIL’S REARGUARD: Shy girl-next-door, or naughty free spirit?

LITTLE HO’S SHEAF: Both!

DEVIL’S REARGUARD: That’ll do.

***

PS I understand that the “style” PA refers to may be the man’s style, but I think the routine works better as a pickup tool if you ask the girl about female-specific styles.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 2,026 other followers

%d bloggers like this: