Homeless Gay Game

A million readers have sent CH links to this video and accompanying story of a purportedly homeless dude picking up girls for sex and flophouse stays.

I haven’t bothered to write about it because, well, watch the video and you’ll see why.

Strong gay vibe. This video is either a production house put-on or a confused gay man’s misdirection. If he’s a rump raider, then you should believe exactly 0% of his words. If, despite loudly pinging gaydar, he’s straight, AND telling something close to the truth, then godspeed exiled git of the vertical slit. Faux gay game has its place in pickup history; many a fine dandy wooed women with their aloof, refined charms.

True open relationships are different in kind from “I don’t give a fuck what you do on your own time” relationships. The former are verbally confirmed agreements to strange and psychologically toxic sexual and romantic arrangements that defy biosocial realities and are often designed to the benefit of weird lesser beta females and their ovulation cycles, and to the detriment of lesser beta males with scarcity mentalities and low T; the latter are emergent conditions of the player lifestyle where quantity of experience is valued higher than quality of experience, and short term trysts are valued higher than long term commitments.

I’ve known more than a few dyed in the wool cads who genuinely did not give two fucks (or pretended very convincingly not to give two fucks) about what their flings were doing out of sight. But these cads weren’t getting on bended knee for their lovers either. If that sort of commitment expectation was on the table, and they were considering it, then you can bet they’d drop their pretense of giving no fucks about the sexual fidelity of their girlfriends, (even if they themselves continued giving no fucks about their own caddish infidelity).

Overcoming A Bad First Impression

You meet a girl. She’s pretty, so you feel yourself tightening up, and your brain revving hot. You speak, trying hard to say something witty. Big mistake. You say something awkwardly tone deaf that pulls everyone nearby out of the conversational flow. You cringe inwardly and are sure it’s noticeable outwardly. This makes it worse. Anything you say now will be even stupider and more charmless, pinched through the contracting voicebox of your amygdala.

You’ve made a bad first impression. For most men (read: beta males), this would mean the hopeful romance was deep-sixed. It’s hard to change a woman’s first impression, and just as hard to change your reflexive withdrawal when you become aware you’ve messed up.

But, it’s not impossible. Bad first impressions can be overcome. The technique itself is easy, even if the mental hurdle to accept the technique into your life is high.

A reader pleads,

Love your posts. In the near future, can you please address how to overcome the initial first impression which was bad? Most of what you says makes sense but stigma of previous reputation of nerd/geek/loser,etc. can negate any learned experience. This post can be of tremendous value because it’s not always convenient to change venues.

Recovering from a bad first impression is a two-step process:

1. Ignore it
2. Plow

To give an example of what I mean, think of a natural you know from your life. The “What Would A Natural Do?” rule applies here.

Naturals aren’t always on; sometimes they too say stupid or incongruous things. We can’t all be Chateau lords. If you know or have known some naturals, and spent a decent amount of time in their company, you’ll recall a few missteps they made. And you’ll recall how they responded. Often, from what I see, the natural recovers from a self-inflicted social miscue with a potent dose of nonchalance.

Basically, act like nothing you said or did went afoul of social etiquette. Remember: OVERCONFIDENCE IS KING in the realm of quivering vaginas. What does an entitled, narcissistic, self-regarding, overconfident, jerkboy natural beloved by women everywhere do when he bumbles? I’m sorry, do you think he notices or cares when he bumbles? He doesn’t. Or, if he notices his faux pas, he acts like he doesn’t notice it. He registers no perceptible shame, no clumsy self-acknowledgement, no reddening cheeks, no stiff retreat from the social matrix. He just plows ahead to bless the world with his next gilded thought.

And girls respond universally to that kind of quasi-sociopathic practiced unconcern with one’s perceived impression: Curiosity greased by their mental Bartholin’s glands.

This isn’t the only way to overcome a bad first impression, but it is the preferred method of 4 out of 5 naturals. Mild self-referential humor is another effective tactic. Making light of one’s own social mistake, if pulled off with a competent mien of amused detachment, will release the awkward tension and allow those present to laugh along with you, which is a powerful “social leader” DHV.

“Yup, I just said something nerdy. If you can’t handle it, the cooler guys are over there.” [point to a nerd herd]

Disqualification plus savvy acknowledgement of social realities is chicknip.

I’m going to tell you something about so-called “open relationships” that you probably already suspected. I’m using the term of art “open relationship” to mean any longish-term relationship in which both partners have agreed in principle to the freedom to pursue trysts or concurrent relationships without punishment, and are fully aware in the abstract if not of the sordid details of each other’s extracurricular lovers.

Without giving away TMI and triangulated coordinates of secretive Chateau vaults, I have peripherally known a couple of honest-to-goodness swingers. They had a club and a meeting place where bacchanalia would attend under the tacit permission of local authorities. Spouse swapping was on the menu, along with sundry sexually experimental arrangements. The two men of my brief acquaintance were proud participants in the open relationship lifestyle.

Weirdly proud.

One was a giant goony ambassador for the pleasures of polyamory. “It’s not for everyone,” he would snobbishly intone in a preface to a twenty minute discussion about free love I had chanced into one evening. Decked in a soul patch, a three piece suit, and fondling a cane topped with a dragon’s head (“from Bangkok”, naturally), his “primary” — the woman with whom he lived — was a dumpy, squat, mid-30s Janeane Garofalo mimic. She was one of those bountiful fertility goddesses with steatopygia in the front and back, a strange trick on a white girl. She was with him, so I got to see up close the goth eye shadow and ghost rouge concealing her moonscape pores. After the dapper gargantugoon felt sufficiently pleased with my and my company’s feigned curiosity and he had regally delivered a layman’s guide to his sex at dawn, I was presented photos of his third wheel — strangely not referred to as his secondary — dressed in a slutty vampiress costume and biting his neck, and not to put too fine a point on it, she was butt ugly. Younger — maybe mid 20s — but ugly like Chinese crested dog ugly.

He crowed about sending her off on her own in seedy nightclubs to gather concubines into his whoreticultural goonhouse.

Months later, I met, through unusual coincidence, the second of the two self-professed polyamorists. Omega to the max. Besides his gangly physical asymmetry and receding chin, he had no discernible personality. Weathertalk filler would’ve added charm to his crashingly dull conversational skillset. Which surprised me, because one figures a man embracing a radically alternative sex life would have to be interesting along other dimensions.

This second meeting was far more disturbing than the first. I learned, diffusely through him and later more pointedly through his female companion, that he was his girl’s main man, meaning he lived with her, helped her keep up the home and hearth, and shared her pussy with another man (of whom he was aware) and possibly with innumerable men beyond his ken and his care. My morbid interest piqued, I tried my best to extract the juicy raunch from the moldy rind of their polyamorous polygon. Best I could piece together was that this outstanding specimen of malehood had three jobs: Paying the rent, attending auctions with his girlfriend, and eating her out.

Apparently, penis in vagina sex was off the table. Or uninteresting to him. Because the pride that welled up in them both was evident in their florid descriptions of his oral facility at parting her dandered waves of mange. And, more distressing to yer humble serrator, she clearly evinced delight explaining how this sexual selflessness would turn her boyfriend on so much he would stroke himself during the act to sterile inner calf-splattered completion.

As for her, while not entirely repulsive to the eye, her looks were not the sort of showstopper one would expect capable of enslaving even a wretched omega male into perpetual financial and cunnilingual servitude. Tall, bony, breastless, pockmarked with various tattoos and piercings, she had at least the saving grace of residual youth and thinness and a recognizably human female face. A solid HB5 in good lighting.

The worst of it was the emotionless cadence that infected his voice when he proceeded to explain how a polyamorous agreement meant monogamy didn’t “coerce” either of them to stay in an unfulfilling relationship. Both were free to love on the side, although, “at the moment”, only she had the pleasure of another lover (and the timely dart of her eyes suggested other lovers). He was, he noted, at present “not that excited about meeting more women”.

Of course. I thought at the time, and still do, a man can’t go lower. The incel homeless bum and his penis encrusted with twenty years of smegma has more dignity than the willing cuckold with the tongue glazed by the skankhole deposited sperm of better men.

Two anecdotes, to be sure. But adding my brush with polyamorists to the collected literature, a focused picture of the reality of open relationships emerges.

Open relationships are almost never two-way.

One party to the “creatively ambiguous” polyamory agreement is getting the metaphorical shaft, and the other the actual shaft. The shafted is typically, but not always, the male (no need to sully the word “man”), whose role is as the eminently mockable “beta bux” (or beta hugs) available for service during those three weeks of the month when the female’s libido goes into hibernation. That he may live with his openly open-legged girlfriend doesn’t mean he’s getting the lion’s share of her vagina. But he is getting the lion’s share of her feelings and tantrums and moodiness.

Even males who manage to fulfill their implied rewards from an open relationship are rarely sole owners of the sexual excess. The first polyamorous couple described in this post survived on the male’s willingness to whore out his “primary” to fellow travelers at their favorite swinger spot. And as CH readers should know by now, the sexual profligacy of women is a far more serious infraction in biological (and hence, psychological) terms than is the sexual profligacy of men.

Genuine, egalitarian, open polyamory for all practical purposes doesn’t exist among white Westerners. There’s always one or another party out in the asexual or anhedonic cold, nursing feelings of rejection and traumatic self-doubt. And if that party is a willing participant to his or her sexual/romantic exclusion, it’s a good bet he/she is psychologically broken, mentally unstable, physically repulsive, or suffering from clinically low sex drive. In other words, human trash.

Open relationship participants are almost always hideously ugly.

Polyamory is a mating ground for human rejects. Whatever else it offers, the open relationship ruse assists the comically low value sector of humanity to live amongst each other and experience pleasures of the diseased flesh.

True open relationships are predominantly polyandrous.

The general complexion of contractual open relationships — where all participants are voluntary and aware of proceedings — is one ugly to mediocre-looking woman on the pre-Wall fast track lavishing in the flaccid attention of two or more omega males. Invariably, the more masculine (and it’s all relative, so maybe it’s better to say “the less androgynous”) of the males would be the one who is actually porking her.

For a visual of this reality, see here.

Illicit open relationships are predominantly polygynous.

“Open” relationships that form organically from the unspoken (and initially unacknowledged) impulses and romantic decisions of one or another partner nearly always manifest into polygynous arrangements: That is, illicit open relationships are distinguished by one high value alpha male discreetly juggling multiple concurrent female lovers. Pickup artists call the illicit open relationship the MLTR: Multiple Long-Term Relationship. Genghis Khan called it Tuesday.

The MLTR exists in the gray area of the female mind where she senses a disturbance in the romantic force but can’t summon her courage, or dismiss her love, to disentangle herself from the web of lives. Illicit open relationships — soft harems in popular nomenclature — can have surprising endurance, because women’s love for an alpha male is stronger than their pride. For quite some time, a woman in love with a sexy alpha will sacrifice her pride and prejudice with a swiftness complete. This is true whether the alpha player informs all his lovers of their complicity in his pleasuredome, or if he keeps his dalliances on the down low. In the latter case, I have only ever seen girls promptly eject upon discovery of participation in alpha male soft harems if those girls were very beautiful, or getting on in years. Very beautiful women have perpetually groomed coteries of alpha male suitors to tap in times of crises. Older women have ticking egg counters and desperation that help their escape.

Illicit open relationships — polygyny circles — are far commoner than forthright open relationships that typically assume the polyandrous or rarer volatile and highly unstable polyamorous forms. Sex differences practically guarantee that this would be the reality we see, rather than the reality homely polyamory proponents would want the benighted to believe.

In the real world, the openly polyamorous nirvana of ‘sex at dawn’ is really the circus sideshow abattoir of ‘sex before personal hygiene’.

Women, especially pretty young things, possess a natural entitlement that is the psychological effluvium of being the sex with more reproductive value. Men who step in line with this natural female entitlement (I’m looking at you white knights) are usually rewarded with NOSEX. But men who assume the mantle of female entitlement for themselves are irresistible by their rarity. Flipping the biological script is outrageous and novel; the entitled man demands a woman’s rapt appraisal.

Reservoir Tip writes,

One shit test keeps coming my way, mainly on tinder, and I’m curious how you guys would handle it.

I’ll be getting a girl to come over, and at the last minute she’ll throw out,

“How do I know you’re worth it?”

This is a classic Female Entitlement Syndrome Shit Test (FESST). It’s more common among marginally attractive girls, lower class girls, and stridently unfeminine lawyercunts who feel a need to convince themselves of their own desirability. Very pretty women will rarely rear up on you with claws so starkly bared, because they are content with an inner confidence that comes from knowing they have nothing to prove. The residual reproductive value of a 19 year old HB10 is conspicuous from its beginnings as a speck on the horizon; the same cannot be said of a vigorously twerking, clear and present 33 year old Bindi HB5.

Stealing a woman’s natural entitlement is easier than it may first seem.

GIRL: How do I know you’re worth it?

GÖTTERDÄMMERHUNG: I’m talking to you, right.

The above is a subtle steal. The neophyte beta male, feeling the weight of his newborn bristly balls, might reply “You’re talking to me, right?”, thinking that this was a clever retort to her challenge. But the alpha male knows better; any acquiescence to a woman’s frame is failure, no matter how cleverly garbed. Her frame must be destroyed, utterly. “I’m talking to you, right” (note the jettisoned question mark) assumes the sale. It’s a bit of wordplay that connotes the man’s higher value by tacitly reminding the girl she’s the one invested in keeping this conversation going.

(True or not, it doesn’t matter. What matters is massaged perception.)

Here’s another example of stealing a woman’s natural entitlement and muddling the pulp out of her frame.

GIRL: How do I know you’re worth it?

RAGNARCOCK: Charm school wasn’t my thing either.

Watch for the follow-up defensive crouch where pussy waterfalls are sprayed in fine mists over jungle canopies. The wording is crucial. You don’t want to mow her down tongue-guns a-blazing. It’s better to leave a little room for her to laugh it off with face-saving denials. Setting yourself up as an ally in oafishness creates that elusive “connection” that pickup artists know is the longest and most fruitful side quest on the road to sex.

Eric Barker, a guy CH has linked to several times over the years because of his outstanding work compiling data-rich studies into the workings of the sexual market, has a new article in The Week titled ‘The Science of Sex: 4 Harsh Truths About Dating and Mating’.

The four harsh truths he lists and thoroughly corroborates with links to scientific studies will be very familiar to regular CH readers, as they all vindicate a number of Heartistian field observations of the flesh and blood dating world where men and women collide in hopeful union.

1) Those things we say we hate actually make us more attracted to people.

When someone plays hot-cold, keeps you guessing, makes you constantly uncertain?

Yeah, that makes you even more attracted:

Participants in the uncertain condition were most attracted to the men — even more attracted than were participants who were told that the men liked them a lot. Uncertain participants reported thinking about the men the most, and this increased their attraction toward the men.

Never listen to what a woman says; watch what she does. You ever wonder why women complain about equivocal men, when you yourself and every man you know are niceguys who never lead women on or play head games with women? Wonder no more. Women complain about these kinds of men because these are the men women choose to date and screw. They’re like children who complain about the sugar rush from eating lots of candy.

2) Yes, guys are pretty shallow.

The stereotypes are true: men want sex more than women and, yeah, guys are more likely to hit on girls with big boobs.

Men dig beauty.
Chicks dig power.
The rest is hamster nibbles.

3) Women can be quite dastardly too.

The science of sex tells us that the romantic comedies lie. Sex is an area where nice guys do finish last:

In one survey of men, Trapnell and Meston (1996) found that nice guys who were modest, agreeable, and unselfish were disadvantaged in sexual relationships. Men who were manipulative, arrogant, calculating, and sly were more sexually active and had a greater variety of sexual experiences and a greater number of sex partners. [Journal of Sex and Marital Therapy]

Women are very often attracted to bad boys like James Bond. In fact, research shows young women sometimes prefer out-and-out jerks:

In the end, young women may continue to claim that they find certain qualities in a “good guy” nice guy as highly desirable and that they want to be in a committed relationship with one man as their ultimate goal, but, at the same time, they seem content to spend “the meantime and in-between-time” going out with fun/sexy guys who may or may not turn into “jerks.”

For every Ray Rice who knocks a loving wife out, there’s a loving wife who chose to be with a Ray Rice. It takes two to tango. Someone tell that to Rod Dreher and Ross Douthat.

4) Little of the above will be changing anytime soon.

This is the science of sex, not the culture of it. Most, if not all, of these things are true around the world.

In a study of over 1000 participants in three dozen cultures it was consistently found that men are focused on looks and women on status:

Several standard sex differences replicated across cultures, including women’s greater valuation of social status and men’s greater valuation of physical attractiveness. [Personality and Individual Differences]

But we grow out of it, right? Nope.

Our tastes do not mature as we get older:

Findings suggest that although emerging adults believe that their peers’ mating desires change systematically over time, emerging adults’ self-reported mating desires vary little with age.

Unlike most other human attributes, the sexual preferences of men and women are remarkably uniform across the earth. Which makes sense. The sexual market is the one market to rule them all.

And we pretty much want the same thing throughout our lives, which must cause an amazing amount of pain for aging feminist beauties who are no longer able to cash in their prize assets for their hearts’ desire.

To recap:

Women say one thing but do another.

Male ambiguity, coyness, overconfidence and entitlement are sexy.

Men value female looks far above all other considerations.

Women value male social status above male looks.

Niceguys finish last.

Sexual desire is immutable.

GIF Game

Withering dismissal is antagonistic and thus arousing to cantankerous women. Now that we have at our disposal forms of courtship communication that were unavailable to our forefathers, the seductive power at our fingertips, and for so little investment, is astonishing. Nonverbal GIF game might be the apotheosis of this modern condensed badinage.

A reader writes,

The perfect text response to a woman who is really trying to give you her best bitch act. Just the image, nothing else. It works.

If you’re the kind of man who overthinks how to reply to a bitchy (aka flirty) woman, then have a few of these GIFs in your arsenal to deploy when your brain starts whirring too white and nerdy. A woman who may be your future sex partner doesn’t want an exegesis on your compatibility; she wants fun. That’s just what girls want.


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