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Archive for the ‘Beta’ Category

In big and small ways, social science studies have a habit of confirming many CH precepts. The latest finds that expensive diamond engagement rings and expensive wedding ceremonies are inversely associated with marriage duration.

This study was done by professors from Emory University. They found that U.S. adults who spent large amounts of money on engagement rings and/or their weddings were more likely to end up divorced!

According to the research, men who spent $2,000 to $4,000 were 1.3 times more likely to end up divorced than men who spent $500 to $2,000.

And when it comes to weddings, if you have a wedding that costs more than $20,000, you’re more likely to end up in “Splitsville!”

The average cost of a wedding in the U.S. is $30,000, according to “The Knot.”

Expensive rings and weddings are classic provider beta male game. And, as science is showing and the Chateau has warned, beta male game is ultimately self-defeating. Women don’t fall in love with a wallet; they fall in love with a man. They don’t desire a mate guarder who has to pay fidelity money; they desire a self-assured jerkboy who expects love free of charge.

And if you’re dating a princess who demands a big ring or ostentatious wedding, my advice is simple: Run. Don’t look back. The next day, you can admire the bulge of your full bank account and your spared dignity. I just saved you from hitching yourself to a woman who couldn’t really love you without a large gift bag included in the deal.

What studies like this one uncover is a bidirectional sexual market feedback loop: On one vector, you have a weak man who feels it necessary to pay for love and supplicate to his fiancee’s gaudy selfishness. On the other vector, you have an unenthusiastic woman who knows she is settling for a less desirable man in a trade-off between exciting sexiness and boring security, and who therefore feels empowered to make her sloppy second beta pay tribute to her in Damegeld. Where these two vectors meet, relationship exactness and complementarity trump love, and subcurrents of divorce are never far from cresting the polished dinner party surface.

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If all you had to go on was a couple’s photo together, could you predict the man’s romantic future? Exhibit Gay:

Men made aware of the sexual market undercurrent propelling each person through superficially detached life events woven into a unified whole by the prime directive could glance at this photo and know in an instant, based on nothing but body language cues, the fate of this happy couple.

There is, of course, the obvious. Mixed-race couples tend to fair poorer than same-race couples. And he looks forty years older than her.

But beyond those black and white monochromatic signatures, there are almost equally telling giveaways in his and her body postures that predict their marital fortune. He grasps her with fearful possessiveness. He leans into her like a human Pisa tower. Her smile is all show, no glow. Her dead eyes reveal her emotional distance. Worse, and most humorously, her head has craned away from his head at an angle that precisely mirrors his neck crick. She checked out of this lovely scene long before the camera flashed.

Can you predict his romantic future from this photo? Take a guess before reading further.

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She willingly stayed married to him for 20 minutes after her green card cleared.

Beta males need to learn game and to hear non-nonsense talk about the differing nature of the sexes so that they can spot the clues early in a relationship or even during a first date that a woman isn’t as enamored of them as they are of her. This bracing acceptance of reality would save them time, energy, money, and heartache, and most crucially save them the accumulating bitterness that is inevitably projected onto future women who may be good for them.

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I see this a lot in clubs and bars where noise is a problem, but also in quieter venues where the only problem is the beta male doing it wrong.

The horrible combination sideways lean-in + side-of-mouth talking + craning neck. It’s the beta male body language trifailure.

Half of game is knowing what not to do. This ludicrous, enfeebling posture may tickle Manboobz Fatrelle’s porcine labia, but it’ll turn off any woman who is the recipient of it. If you wonder why this behavior is beta, you have to see it in action. Seeing is believing. But the theoretical explanation goes like this: Awkwardly leaning in to speak to an indifferent or distracted woman subcommunicates a frantic need for her attention, which is value lowering, and girls prefer their men enthroned at a higher social value plateau than themselves. Leaning in sideways adds the element of cowardice: Now he is trying to get her attention without putting too much of himself on the line. Leaning in sideways while craning the neck and talking out of the corner of one’s mouth is exponentially beta. Pained tentativeness and neediness distress cues are the opposite of alpha male could-give-a-fuck.

So what do you do instead if you find yourself standing like this next to an oblivious girl? If she can hear you from where you’re standing, all it takes to get her attention is a pivot of the head so that you’re looking at her (and preferably down at her) through one eye. Keep your body facing forward. She hasn’t yet earned your full nonverbal engagement. If she reciprocates, you may turn more towards her to continue the foreplay conversation.

If the scene is loud and she won’t hear you from way up there, you’ll have to engage more forcefully. This means boldness in action. If you must make your verbal intentions known over ambient noise, then do it with pride of purpose. Turn to face her so that you obstruct most of her view and she can’t mistake your solicitation for the mumbles of a passing derelict. Penetrate her earspace with a diaphragm-expulsed vocal timbre so that you don’t have to bend at the waist too far. The truly overconfident cads may want to bend over until their lips are practically brushing the maiden’s cochlea and speak straight into the hamster ear trumpet.

Excessive venue noise unfortunately does not allow much leeway for indirect, uncommitted body language openers, but that could be a good thing for a lot of men, who from the sight of them treat women like they’re museum artworks protected by lines of tape on the floor that one crosses under penalty of castration.

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Spot The Beta Male

The four fine gentlemen in this photo are North Carolina State University undergrads who have invented a prototype nail polish that, when dipped in a drink, will change color if it detects the presence of “date rape” drugs.

“Date rape”, of course, is a feminist bogeyman that has no basis in reality. Actual rape is currently riding a 40-year decline. “””Date rape””” is more precisely described as regret rape — the female emotional desire to retroactively reclassify a consensual one night stand with a cool alpha jerk (or a one month stand with a boring beta male) as rape. The female hysteria over it shows no signs of letting up, and hints at a culture of hookups and male escape from the marriage market that is beginning to eat away at women’s sanity.

If anything is close to the truth, it’s the idea that there’s a rape fantasy culture gripping the overheated psyches of American women.

Naturally, given these inarguable realities debunking the myth of a rape culture, in ride the four white knights above on their Prius steeds to save women from stealth armies of caucasian frat bros slipping mickies in their appletinis.

But poz never did give nothing to the manboob
that he didn’t, didn’t already have
and facts never swayed the reason of the white knight
Or the blue balls of Sir Beta Male

The really interesting story, though, is the photo itself. Can you spot the beta male of the bunch?

Trick question. All four qualify.

Whether intentional or subconscious, these four M’lady’s have outed themselves as self-abnegating beta males. That standing posture — with hands clasped in front of their crotches — is the international symbol of beta maleness. It bespeaks a deep shame of their vestigial masculinity. They cover their junk and hide it from the world, in case some ugly State U cunt is triggered by a micro microaggression. Shocked by the impudence of their twitching members, they beat them down and shroud them in hand-woven burqas. Perhaps one or two of these anti-men walk with their butts out a little so any hint of groinal protuberance is pruned, like an unwelcome sapling that has dared to reach for sunlight over an expanse of lawn sod with feminist armpit hair.

It’s a self-emasculating inversion of the alpha male directive to command space as if at the behest of one’s conquering penis king. A repudiation of the sexy and masculine posture wherein one stands with arms and hands at one’s side, vital life-giving fulcrum bawdily pushed forward in supreme dominion, tempting coy minxes with illicit pleasures.

The shame exhibited is so blatant, one wonders if this is a new kind of beta male game — Prostration Game — where the goal is complete submission to the feminist imperative in hopes of eliciting a contemptuous pity fuck. If so, this is a game with a very short shelf life, as even avowed feminists cannot help but be repulsed by sniveling supplicants.

The masculinization of Western women and the de-masculinization of Western men is both initially the impetus, and eventually the destruction, of proud and prosperous white European civilizations. Guess which arc of the cycle America lumply squats on now.

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JavaScript Male

Skittles Man has his antithesis: Meet JavaScript Male*.

Commenter Reservoir Tip writes,

The female reception of this piece, even here at CH, has been incredibly elementary.

I imagine the beta man-boob response is no different.

Reminds me of a funny story, actually.

Recently I was on Facebook (I know I shouldn’t have one, but Tinder) and a girl friend of mine asked via status update whether she should get a pixie cut or grow her hair out.

I told her, “pixie cut and I’m personally kicking your ass.”

To which her feminist friends and a former friend of mine turned hardcore cultural Marxist manboob replied, “omg Reservoir Tip’s opinion is stupid. Why are you even concerned about societal standards of beauty?” (LOL)

Then the manboob, who I assume is somewhat into the girl, posts something for the beta hall of fame.

“I wrote you a java script to help you figure out which style is going to work best for you” and of course, he posts the script.

As if she has any idea what the hell to do with it. Neutered man-booby goonery at its finest. I could practically feel his anticipation for her thanks and whatever attention she would afford him.

“Oh I know how to win her over! I’ll write her some java script! That’ll get her attention!”

“I’LL WRITE HER SOME JAVA SCRIPT!”

“JAVA SCRIPT”

*I can’t bring myself to call him JavaScript Man, because the term “man” carries positive character associations. Low T beta losers who behave in ways more typical of women and betray a lifetime spent struggling with testes nestled somewhere up near their diaphragms are best described as “male”, acknowledging the fact that they possess some rudimentary form of biological maleness, however actively it’s suppressed.

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One of the more amusing private pains-turned-public spectacle to leak out of an internet pustule recently graced the combox of Reddit (/r/relationship). A sexually deprived married man (but I repeat myself) crafted a meticulous spreadsheet documenting the number of times his wife denied him sex and the excuses she gave each time. He then emailed this “unspread”sheet to his wife while she was away on business (red flag right there). She went public with it, hoping to both shame her thirsty hubby and to trawl for advice from male feminists that would rub the fur of her hamster with the grain.

at least she didn’t use “i have a headache”

For those keeping score, that’s three marital congresses out of twenty-eight attempts, for an 11% successful lay ratio.

An 11% lay ratio is pretty good for the average single beta male picking up girls (1 out of 10 approaches yields sex), but horrible for a married man who pledged his freedom, natural polygynous urge, and HALF to a woman who presumably loves her husband unto death, and who tacitly agreed by signing the marriage contract to offer her body on a regular basis to him.

But as visitors to Chateau Heartiste know, marriage is no respite from the perpetually clanking meat machine of the sexual market. If you recline into complacently dull beta maleness, you will lose your wife’s desire to please you as readily as you would lose a girlfriend’s, or a fling’s, desire. Worse, if you make the mistake of thinking that marriage will energize your wife’s sexual cravings beyond the limp gestures she had exhibited toward you pre-marriage, you’ll learn soon enough that the line that is dotted is not the ‘gine that is prodded.

No marriage contract in the world is sufficiently coercive to wrest sexual desire from the limbic node of a woman’s arousal center. Sexual desire is an animal instinct that predates legal fictions or social expectation. If the animal slumbers, “talking it out” or making it promises won’t rouse it to rutting; the animal must be confronted on its own terms, with equally primal cues that waken its instinct to mate.

The trope of the married man reduced to begging for sex from his wife stricken with yet another “headache” is a stereotype for a reason. These things hardly ever materialize out of thin air. But exactly how many married men labor in the purgatory known as the thirstzone? Numbers are hard to come by, although General Social Survey wizards have played the contrarian and dug up data suggesting married men have slightly more sex on average than unmarried men.

The problem with that survey data, beyond the inherent flaws of self-reporting and social expectation bias (and burning shame), is that the huge swell of omega and lesser beta single men who suffer involuntary celibate lives greatly skews the stats to promote an illusion that married men enjoy a cornucopia of sex (with one woman, let it be reminded). This incel ballast must be jettisoned to get a truer picture of what kind of sex lives married men actually enjoy. If the typical married man gets laid once per month (as our pubic flogging victim above has documented), then a more accurate assessment of his bounty would come from comparison to unmarried men who aren’t hopeless sex market rejects.

Compared to an incel, once per month married sex sounds like a pretty good deal. Compared to single men with girlfriends, fuck buddies, and flings tossed in for flavor, once per month sex sounds like painful blue balls. Ask any single man what a year-long relationship with a hot girlfriend is like, and he’ll tell you it’s a copulation carnival. His married buddies will turn green with envy.

As often surfaces on megafeminist sites like Reddit, hackneyed hackers and bromide belchers rush to fill the void of useful advice with Hivemind-approved diagnoses that abjure the wife of even the tiniest bit of responsibility for her role in her husband’s desperate sexual deprivation. Two common refrains — the husband isn’t doing enough to “support” his wife, and the wife has “low libido” — receive rounds of applause from the benighted.

These are handy rationalizations without a scintilla of realistic relevancy. In the real world, husbands who support the shit out of their wives are often less sexually rewarded than husbands who follow a program of benevolent sexism. And no scientist has yet, to my satisfaction, proven that there is an epidemic of pathologically low libido among married women. What is much more likely is that married men are, or become, less sexually stimulating to their wives, and the infamous “low libidio” of their wives is nothing more than selective female libido. Divorcee tell-alls revel in confessions of rejuventated sex lives once the beta provider hubby package was sent adrift.

A married man stuck in the thirstzone is not without options. Mistresses have traditionally been outlets for such men, and the culture used to give a wink and a nod to such arrangements, because the culture used to have a healthy and normal appreciation and acceptance of innate sex differences, before everything turned to poopytalk and hamster fuel.

There, too, is the advice offered by this very outpost of recivilization: A dab of dread will make legs spread. The poor sexless husband who attempted to shame his wife into fulfilling his most basic need in a marriage has, by accounts, ended all contact with her. Radio silence, while not the ideal solution to such crises of the cunt, is better than abject mewling and prone apologia. It has, at the least, made his wife think so hard about her lack of desire for her husband that she has taken to an internet forum full of spergs to find serenity now.

Dread game works, but only if the timing and execution occur before betatization has metastasized. A husband who repulses his wife is in a sorry position from which no remedy will work within a time frame not measured in years. The unspreadsheet man had undoubtedly been suffering months, perhaps years, of sexual isolation from his wife before he became so desperate that he felt it necessary to painstakingly chronicle his pain and accost her with it while she was at a hotel bar thinking about unleashing her inner bed fiend with a business associate.

At that late stage, any active effort to reverse his misfortune would be perceived as spite by his carnally estranged wife, stemming from a place of hurt and neediness. Perception is king in the mating arena, and butthurtness is kryptonite to women’s horny levels. The proper dose of dread needed to be delivered earlier, under circumstances less likely to be confused for vengeance.

The most effective punishment for a sexually withdrawing wife is punishment that can be construed as inadvertent. A woman is validated equally by intentional punishment as by intentional reward; both tell her “I’m so desired I rouse my husband to flattery and to retribution.” And a validated woman is an unpliable woman.

But punishment that appears almost “off-hand”, or apathetic and callous, is gold. This is the kind of punishment of female misbehavior (and, yes, denial of historically regarded marital duties counts as misbehavior) that strikes wee hamster nerves. It’s the punishment of indifference that follows when a husband’s mind has started wandering to thoughts of other women. The classic “late night phone call to wife with girls laughing in the background” ploy is an example of indifference punishment.

Wives can handle being punished when it validates their higher status. Cause-and-effect kneejerk punishment won’t rattle their self-possession or shake them into suddenly renewed desire. But no woman, wifed up or not, can handle being an afterthought to her man without compensating for her perceived demotion with reinvigorated lust.

This type of “punishment by gradually escalated indifference” of wayward wives/girlfriends — what a reader suggested can be called the “De-escalation Ladder” — will feature in a future post.

***

PS: Here’s an example from real life of “accidental” dread game in action.

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New information has come to light which provides further support for the theory that Elliot Rodger was the practical equivalent of a male feminist who was pathologically introverted, romantically isolated, and who simply didn’t understand that men and women are psychologically different and require different courtship approaches. A family friend of the Rodger’s understood intuitively what was wrong with Elliot: He needed help meeting girls.

When a student, Elliot Rodger, went on a rampage in California in May, killing six people, one man began wondering if he could have prevented it. Hollywood screenwriter Dale Launer knew Rodger and had tried to help solve his problems with women. [...]

Launer: The Elliot portrayed in the manifesto and in the video he made was not the Elliot that I remember.

The person in that video was cocky, arrogant and hateful [ed: only in the end did Elliot become the jerk chicks dig]  – the Elliot I knew was a very meek, timid and awkward kid.

I first met him when he was aged eight or nine and I could see then that there was something wrong with him.

I’m not a psychologist, but looking back now he strikes me as someone who was broken from the moment of conception.

It appeared to me that he had an overwhelming lack of confidence but not in a particularly endearing way. Sad, but not endearing. [...]

He never raised his voice – he didn’t even seem capable of raising his voice. He didn’t slam doors or pound his fist. I couldn’t imagine him making a fist.

Beta males rarely get into fights. “Have you ever been in a fight?” is a question on the Dating Market Value Test for Men for a reason.

In retrospect, you can point out a few clues, a few cracks to the malevolence percolating underneath but they were overshadowed by someone who seemed incapable of any kind of action.

He did not simmer or seethe. The boldness he showed in that video wasn’t something I ever saw before.

Elliot knew (to himself) he was about to die in that final video. That freedom may have allowed his long-dormant inner alpha to finally come out and play. Or, he could have been hopped up on cocaine or Xanax.

We met a few times and emailed a lot. He seemed convinced that women hated him but he could never tell me why.

It seemed like he would perceive cruelness or hatefulness when in fact, I suspected, he was just being ignored.

This is the developmental process by which woman-hating betas are created.

I remember giving him an assignment once so he could try to establish some kind of dynamic with a woman.

I told him, “When you see a woman next time you’re on campus and you like her hair or sunglasses, just pay her a compliment.”

I told him, “It’s a freebie, something in passing, you’re not trying to make conversation. Keep walking, don’t make any long eye contact, just give the free compliment.” The idea being you might make a friend if you make someone feel good.

I said to Elliot, “In the next few weeks – if you see them they’ll likely give you a smile – and you can smile back and eventually turn this into chit-chat.”

I got in touch with him a few weeks later and asked if he did it. He said “no”. And when asked why not, he said “Why do I have to compliment them? Why don’t they compliment me?”

At that stage, I realised he was very troubled.

This isn’t half-bad advice. Launer had good intentions and, it seems, a fairly decent grasp of women and what Elliot would need to do to get over his crippling introversion. It’s basically newbie game. “Get out there, say SOMETHING to girls that isn’t a compliment of their beauty, and move on while you still have the happy high of making an approach. Get used to talking to girls first before you start spitting seduction game.”

Elliot didn’t do it. That’s the source tragedy. I imagine his victims would be alive today if Elliot had completed Launer’s task. But for the flight of a betaboy, a typhoon brews in the sea…

Here we have our first hard evidence that Elliot didn’t get women at all. Similar to cellar-dwelling manlets who think that any proactive effort to woo women is tantamount to “putting the pussy on a pedestal”, Elliot believed that it was beneath him to approach girls and start a conversation. In his world of equalist ignorance, women are just like men, except with different genitalia, so logically why shouldn’t women approach him to give him compliments? If his premises are right, you can’t really argue with his conclusions.

But of course his premises were all wrong. And who knows why they were all wrong. Mental illness? Pathological neuroticism toxicified with a dash of repressed narcissism? A dearth of savvy male authority figures who could educate younger Elliot about the realities of female sexual nature?

Elliot needed guidance. He needed an experienced man — not a weirdo coterie of emotionally retreating family kin shoving pills down this throat — to patiently inform him before the rot had set that biological differences between the sexes means that women will rarely, if ever, approach men directly to start conversations, that it is the man’s job, if he wants sex and love in his life, to break the ice. And that however unfair Elliot deemed this state of the sexes, it was a reality that would never change, and never go away. He had only one choice: To make reality work for him, instead of fighting futilely against reality.

In one of the last emails I sent to him, I became quite frustrated.

I pointed out that he had the choice to change his circumstances, and if he didn’t make the effort then he had to take some of the blame. He insisted that, “I have to blame someone for my troubles, and I don’t blame myself.”

It appears that by the time Launer intervened, Elliot’s romantic ignorance and ego self-preservation had consumed him. He was beyond help. I wonder if Launer would have had more positive impact had he explained to Elliot WHY he needed to do his newbie game drill rather than just giving him the task without justification for it. Most unenlightened men who come to the Chateau to learn the ways of the crimson arts are first introduced to a steady diet of knowledge about psychosocial sex differences before the juicy game strategies are revealed.

One time there was a gathering at his parents’ place and Elliot was his usual uncomfortable self.

I asked Peter if Elliot was ticklish. Peter said he was, so I encouraged a couple of women to tickle him and you know, that was the only time I saw Elliot express any kind of joy. It seemed that, at least for those moments, he was a normal kid.

A woman’s touch is water to a parched man. Sad, sad Elliot. Game can save lives. But only for those willing to see.

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