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Archive for the ‘Dating’ Category

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.

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A 59-year-old woman, international speaker and writer (“productive citizen”), laments the icy rejection she received at the hands of a 55-year-old man who felt a surge of natural male biological disgust for her naked wrinkly old lady body.

And so, we planned a weekend together. That’s when things got confusing, unspoken and just-not-quite there. We went to bed in a couple’s way — unclothed and touching — all parts near. Kisses were shared and sleep came in hugs. I attempted more intimacy throughout the weekend and was deterred each time.

On Monday evening over the phone, I asked this man who had shared my bed for three nights running why we had not made love. “Your body is too wrinkly,” he said without a pause. “I have spoiled myself over the years with young woman. I just can’t get excited with you. I love your energy and your laughter. I like your head and your heart. But, I just can’t deal with your body.”

I was stunned. The hurt would come later. I asked him slowly and carefully if he found my body hard to look at. He said yes. “So, this means seeing me naked was troublesome to you?” I asked. He told me he had just looked away. And when the lights were out, he pretended my body was younger — that I was younger. My breath came deep and full as I processed this information. My face blazed as I felt embarrassed and shamed by memories of my easy nakedness with him in days just passed.

We talked for some time more, my head reeling at the content of the conversation. He spoke of special stockings and clothing that would “hide” my years. He blithely told me he loved “little black dresses” and strappy shoes. He said my hair was not long and flowing as he preferred, but that was okay because it was “cool looking.” I felt like a Barbie Doll on acid as I listened to this man. He was totally oblivious to the viciousness of his words.

She thinks this man a sadistic monster, but he was perhaps more honest with her (and with himself) than any man she has known. They aren’t called the ugly truths for nothing.

Men don’t get impotent; women get old. You won’t hear any therapist telling that raw reality to struggling older couples. Be prepared for soul-flaying pain of this nature to become commonplace in post-sanity and post-restricted female sexuality America. Marriage rates are at a historical low and never-married or divorced older women are desperate for romance. They’re in the field when they should be in the home with grandchildren, deluding themselves that the older men who they think by rights are theirs instead are more interested in the younger women with tighter bodies and fresher histocompatibilities. And to make matters worse, more than a few of those younger women love the company of older men.

The sexual market is not equal. It’s not fair. It’s not progressive. And it’s not a rom-com with a happy ending. It is a tearjerker, however.

Compounding the difficulties that older, single women face in the arena of zero-sum mate acquisition is the altered perspective of single older men who are accustomed to dating younger women. When you’ve tasted a morsel of Kobe filet mignon and washed it down with a 2010 Hewitt cabernet, an 80/20 ground beef burger with a tepid Bud Light just isn’t going to get you up in the morning.

Some commenters had a fun time with this lady’s id yelp.

I can relate…there is this woman who is obsessed with me who calls me everyday, she is the nicest woman I ever met,but when I saw her naked I freaked out.

I usually like to keep the lights on but with her I did not want to see, and I tried to think of my ex who had a superb body.

Everything is wrinkly and saggy…it is impossible for me to be passionate about such a woman even though she has the best personality.

Part of me feels sad for her, but I just can not be with her, I have to be passionate about what I see, not only about what us in her heart and her head.

Men are very visual, I am very visual. At some point I had no choice but to tell her I had trouble looking at her naked body.

She is my age but I look 15 years younger while she looks older than her age.

with clothes on she is cute, she even has an hourglass figure, she gets a lot of attention from men but they have no idea what is under her clothes. how everything is very saggy and wrinkly.

sorry if I go on and on, but I am right smack in the middle of a similar situation as the Huffington story..

***

Women gotta understand, God put our eyes right up front…

Personality? Well, okay… but our ears are way back on the head.

***

“I didn’t even want to try to explain the hurt and the horror that he had inflicted upon me. I actually felt sickly sorry for this man as I hung up the phone”

!!!Hamster time!!!!

HE HAD INFLICTED ON HER!

Try servicing a monster and you’ll understand what horror is.

Older women’s best hope is for an epidemic of mass amnesia to strike men and men only. In this way, no single older man crashing the dating market and creating tsunamis for older female hamsters to surf will remember what prime pussy looks and feels like under clothes. Unencumbered by these fond recollections, he can more easily be catechized in the belief of stylishly-clothed but surreptitiously wrinkled hags as the pinnacle of female sexuality… at least for a short while, until his occipital resumes control of his prefrontal and penile.

The whole sordid spectacle reminds me of a dating exploit from a time not yet beyond crystalline recall. I had met a 20-ish blonde in the dusky brick-relief bowels of a drunken after-party. Already buzzing from one drink too many, I began to imagine scenarios… transactions… with her shapely vessel as she spoke of childhood dreams and favorite movie scenes. I made feints toward a same night lay (never a dull moment on the CH sexpress) but she wouldn’t bite, preferring instead to indicate her interest with strong pleas for a follow-up date. “you will call me, right?” “you’ve got my number right there.” SMILE SMILE SMILE “i’ll see you soon!”

Sufficiently sated from recent conquests, I dropped the idea of an effortful seduction whisking her from venue to vainroom before sleepiness took its toll. I agreed to call her, and confessed to myself that the date was happily anticipated. I like blondes. I like 20-ish women. I like them most when they like me in kind.

Two evenings later, we met at a small bistro. She was already there when I arrived, seated indoors under bright light only paces from an outdoor area softly illumined by decorative patio lights. This was her critical mistake. From twenty feet, barely through the restaurant’s entranceway and acutely sober, I saw her heart-swelling silhouette from two nights ago, now unshadowed, had morphed into the splotchy, shattering skin wrap of a woman accelerating to her upper 30s. My smile dropped faster than an unsupported witch’s teat.

I am a master actor when crisis calls, but this disappointment was too great to conceal. She caught the full impact of it and, exacerbated by the contrast of my insanely youthful countenance, stood up from our table seconds after I had introduced myself to calmly but with a hint of croak in her voice cut the date short with a prematurity that must have set land speed records. “if it’s ok with you, we really don’t have to do this. i’m not ready for this. I’m so sorry.” Her entire body downcast and my guilt cresting a harsh wave, I eagerly (but not too eagerly!) accepted her offer.

It’s hard out there for the older woman. Yer ‘umble mareslayer revels in revealing the barbarous clashes that bloody the innersides of our polite vestments, but in real life he’s a bit less callous and handles life’s sad cameos with a softer glove.

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Comments are disabled on all posts published during Approach Week to encourage readers to limit their internet time and go outside to apply the lessons they have learned here. Approach Week celebrates the spirit of the approach, which is, in essence, a celebration of the spirit of assertive masculinity.

Achieving romantic dominance over a woman — a dominance, mind you, women intuitively crave — and therefore her fidelity and everlasting love, is as simple as finding her thermal exhaust port and lubing the entrance with your id-penetrating sheathseeker. Every woman has one, though some women’s psychosexual ports are more accessible. The cougar’s nemesis is the younger woman. The ugly, the beautiful. The dull, the smart. The fat, the slender. The misshapen, the lithe. The slut, the modest pretty girl next door.

And the single mom’s torment is the carefree childless woman.

Reader olympiapress writes,

I dabbled with a few single moms right after the ex and I separated.

Nothing wrong with a sexual expediency to get over an ex.

They will try to push you around/flake/issue rules for you that no other guy followed if they think you’re weak. Secret is, if they see you in the company of women who are just single and not a mom, they’ll go nuts letting you know they’re interested. You can easily build a harem of spawn-encumbered lassies if you want. Social proof for the win.

As long as you don’t mind tripping over the toys on the way to her bangroom.

(And I do mean nuts. One chick, couple years younger than me that I took home but didn’t quite bang, flaked, got deleted, came back on the scene a few months later to discover I’m hanging out with gals 15 years my junior. She threw herself at me every time she saw me afterwards, and when I didn’t respond to her efforts, she decided to have a going-away threesome with two guys, one of whom usually hangs out at this gay bar up the road. Which… didn’t make her more attractive in my eyes, actually.)

Female preselection is an amazingly effective attraction generator. You can turn a woman from coldly indifferent to crazy with desire through the transmogrification process known colloquially as “other women”.

The best thing about fucking a single mom (and it is fucking we’re talking about, nothing more) is that you won’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt hastily jettisoning her once an unencumbered womb-fresh woman enters your life. There is a profoundly repulsive force that operates within the male psyche that propels him safely away from wasting any precious resources on helping, however apathetically, the bastard spawn of another man’s short-lived lust. This force is so naturally strong in healthy men with functioning testicles that absence of it in a man is evidence he sleeps in a blue fox costume and can’t bench more than a twelve year old girl.

Yer tunnel aerator loves to troll the shit outta single moms (they are in fact a blight on civilization, and most of them gravely overestimate their ability to coax a quality man into a surrogate father relationship under one happy broken family), but societal ramifications and overstuffed hamster rationalization issues aside, a hot young single mom is no worse a ten minute lay than a hot young child-free woman. If you find yourself trawling the waste product of womanhood for easy lays, you’ll have a blast (literally) manipulating single moms into frenzies of appeasement. Although my personal experience with single moms is limited (and self-imposed, due to justified concerns that a desperate single mom might misconstrue my giddy romantic abandon for long-term commitment probings), I can tell you that this tactic of slyly slighting the single mom with offhand comparisons to her untethered competition is a winning one. The trick is to smash her ego with a velveted fist. Frame the contrast in a way that appears, superficially, to be complimentary of her chosen (or ill-chosen) lifestyle.

“It’s nice to talk to a woman who understands responsibility and has bigger concerns than just her own fun. I date enough carefree women to know how shallow they can be.”

After you’re banging the tragic yearning out of her, you have to take care to sidestep her attempts to insinuate you into the rhythms of her shattered family life. The longer you’re with her, the harder it will be to avoid kid cuff chafing. Either limit your use of her to no more than two months, or affect an air of borderline psychopathy whenever her chess pieces are present. The following three rules should suffice to protect yourself against bloodsucker assimilation:

1. Make it a priority to bang at a neutral location. The less time in her romper room, the broader your path of escape. And keep in mind that a lot of single moms are emotionally unstable, so giving them your home address is not recommended.

2. Don’t do favors for her. Single moms will test the commitment waters by assaulting you with requests for favors that gradually increase in complexity with time. Smarter single moms can entrap men this way within a year, leaving the man wondering what the hell just happened. What happened, goon sir, is that you just forfeited your genetic prime directive.

3. NEVER play with her kids. You may acknowledge them with a head nod or a dry observation about how big they are for their age, but anything more than that and you risk stoking dangerous hope in the single mom.

The above three rules are for men with a conscience. If you are a clinical psychopath, you may find it more fruitful (and instinctive) to pretend interest in commitment, marriage, and proxy fatherhood, and then, when your dick has rifled her barrel to satisfaction and her heart has swelled with visions of green lawns and a decent school system for her future juvenile delinquents, to bolt with no reason nor closure given.

You might drive a few single moms to self-deliverance in this manner, but that’s a small price to pay to ensure your fathering isn’t wasted on the spunkjunk of a felon or bankrupt basketballer.

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Men should generally avoid confirming dates, but there are ways to do it with alpha flair.

A reader contributes his version of date confirmations that he says has gone very well for him.

Hey I thought you’d like this. I came up with this funny confirmation.

My text: This is a courtesy reminder that you have a date with me on Thursday. I require at least 24 hours notice if you need to cancel. Please confirm your appointment with me at your earliest convenience.

Her text: Haha Confirmed!! Where are we going?

Mission accomplished :) I thought perhaps you’d like to share this with the readers in a new post.

Sure. I like it. It sounds like you’re a hot commodity with a tight schedule. And it’s sardonically impersonal, which is good when you want to create some distance between the aloof impression you wish to leave and the beta confirmation maneuvering you must accommodate.

If you must commit an act of treasonous betaphilia, you can soften the self-betrayal by filtering it through a smart alecky cleverness algorithm.

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A distinct pleasure of being alive during the decline and fall of a Western world power is bearing witness to the technicolor debris that spins off of rapid cultural collapse. CougarLife.com is one such belch of asocial ejecta. The promo video is short and sweet, so recline poolside and sip your Molotai cocktail as CH presents to you a dating website dedicated to matching imminent Wall victims with inexperienced younger men hauling a knapsack of blue balls.

CougarLife.com’s catchphrase is “Meet divorcees, single moms, and sexy singles looking for a young stud!” (Studs are called “cubs” for female members trying to emulate Mrs. Robinson.)

The revelation in this cheesy ad is the surprising bounty of (unintentional) bracing truth. Of course, the truth is mixed in with a dollop of sophistic slop, but it doesn’t take much reading between the lines to uncover some timeless Heartistian shivs.

So let’s play a game. (“Let’s not and say we did”, says the recovering beta practicing his alpha chops.) Watch the vid, and list all the ways it conforms to sexual market realities. See if you found as many sterile Easter eggs as CH.

.

.

.

.

OK, here’s what I found.

1. Right out of the spinster gate, a roar of propaganda hits us. Few cougars are as Hand-Alternative-Threshold-Exceeded (HATE)* fuckable as porn star Julia Ann. Your typical cougar looks like this:

grandma why are you clawing my chest?

The Wall feasts most gluttonously on former beauties who never thought the day of reckoning would come. I’m not about to make an account to tally what kinds of mangy cougars are on offer, but I’d be surprised if Julia Ann quality cougars numbered more than 1 out of 100. 1 out of 1,000 might even be pushing the odds.

By way of comparison, your typical man — cub, as it were — who joins a dating site specializing in cougars, single moms, and divorcees looks like this:

it’s been ten years! my precious fell off.

2. “So are you tired of meeting the same types of girls in bars?” Translation from the cougarese: “So are you ready for an easier if less visually stimulating lay?”

3. Julia Ann shoves a sandwich in the face of a not particularly skinny younger woman, (the girl’s reply: “Ugh, meat!”), implying she needs to grow some curves. Notwithstanding the absurdity of the implication (the younger woman is far from anorexic), this amply demonstrates the anti-feminist ugly truth that women are other women’s most misogynistic enemies.

4. A younger woman snidely remarks on her date’s job as a “computer geek”. Julia Ann leans in (her giant tits leading the way) and reminds the girl she folds sweaters for a living. Awesome reframe… which would be far more useful to a man who wanted to knock down the self-esteem of a bona fide hottie a peg or two.

5. Older women may know what they want (“young guys”, according to our esteemed MILF, because apparently the older guys are too busy chasing younger women), but that doesn’t mean they automatically get it. The presumption that cougars can get sex when they want it from younger men rests on the unspoken premise that the kinds of men most likely to take up the offer are undersexed goons or desperate virgins. Or non-famous YOLO black guys. And even that low grade supply will get cut off once terminal Wall impact is achieved.

6. Younger woman (to her date): “Buy me a drink?” Cougar drop kicks her and assumes her place. She smiles at the man, “How about I buy *you* a drink?” This is just a plain admission that older women have to price themselves lower if they want a scrap of male attention that younger, hotter, tighter women take for granted. (Note: The guy sitting across from her doesn’t look all that young.)

A sexual landscape of prowling unmarried cougars, single moms, and divorcees forced into settling for two minutes of cartoon love with awkward dweebs ten beers deep is indicative of a fraying society. All boundaries are coming apart; the hedonist impulse is the last standing principle. Interestingly, CH not only predicted the rise of cougardom, we held it up as an ideal arrangement in an anarchic sex bazaar where the broken incels and insols pile higher than the 99% vacancy rate Burj. Neophyte beta males increasingly getting shut out of the sexual carnival can get their rocks (and their apprehensions) off in the dusty muffs of grateful cougars, while older, suaver players can scoop up the younger morsels for long time love.

*Hand-Alternative-Threshold-Exceeded (HATE) Fuckability is a simple concept: Given a den of cougars (or other category of mostly undesirable women) and a lack of better options, how many are more interesting to your penis than your crabbed hand? For most normal men with functioning self-esteems and some experience bedding younger women, there will hardly be more than a tiny fraction of cougars capable of stimulating arousal beyond that which can be accomplished with one’s hand and imagination. The few cougars that can outclass your hand are said to be HATE fucks.

The HATE fuck ratio is actually a very useful stat for measuring a man’s standards and discriminating taste (which, ultimately, are themselves contributing factors as well as conspicuous indicators of his overall SMV). For example, if urgency and circumstance dictate an opportunistic cost-free 30 second rutting, and you are willing to fuck one cougar in a roomful of one hundred stalking cougars, then your HATE fuck ratio is 1:100.

The higher your ratio, the lower your standards, and the more you hate yourself for requiring the shabby hole of a bottom shelf jezebel to alleviate your incel. That is the essence of the HATE fuck… a tepid squirt of pallid pleasure in exchange for your dignity and psychologically distressing confirmation that this is the best you might ever do.

Consider yourself lucky if you have a HATE fuck ratio of 1:100. Some omega males shuffle along this mortal coil carrying the burden of a 1:2 HATE fuck ratio. Imagine being that guy who surveys the wrinkled menu at a cougar convention or the buffet at a NAAFA mixer and thinks to himself, “Yeah, I’m desperate. I could make myself sexually available to at least half of these assembly line rejects.” If you’re that guy… WAYSA?

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Via Leopard of the Blogosphere, a Salon article written by a woman about all the six figure techie beta male nerds moving to Seattle to work for Amazon and how this massive influx of single, well-off, and available men is doing nothing to spice up the dating market for women.

Why were they so awful? What was it about guys who work in tech that made them worse than lawyers or other white-collar industries?

In a way they exhibit some of the same qualities of those professions—ego, arrogance, and unlimited amounts of cash. In San Francisco, said Violet, “There were a lot of men to date with disposable income who wanted to take women out. It’s just, it was so boring,” she said. “My dating life went from dating artists and writers and going on cheap but exciting dates, to men who thought the ability to buy someone an expensive meal made them interesting.”

Violet is like many young, prime nubility women — a cheap date with a man who has that ineffable alpha attitude is far more intoxicating to them than is an expensive date with a beta male who plays by the traditional courtship rules.

The choice is simple: You can pay $150 for a nice dinner for two in a pricey SWPL enclave and pull her chair out like a gentleman while flashing your Amazon employee card, or you can meet at a dive club and pound $3 PBRs while asking her if she ever pervily listened in on a roommate having sex. Option one guarantees gloomy late night batin’. Option two gets you laid.

Beta males bring two things to the table that enable them, in however limited a capacity, to compete with alpha males: Their provisions and their dependability. But as we are seeing, modern women have begun to value both of those things far less than they used to. A beta male who thinks that making beaucoup bucks and showing a lady a fine time on his dime will arouse her to sexual receptivity simply has no concept of female sexual nature. His money won’t save him. He needs an attitude adjustment, and a better idea of the sorts of conversations and activities that women love.

The beta male torrent is so bad in Seattle that the local women are going to gay bars to avoid them and get their fun drama fix.

The problem has become pervasive enough in Seattle that when I went with a few girlfriends to Pony, one of the last true gay bars on Capitol Hill, I was shocked when I found out that the adorable pair of 25-year-old boys talking to us were heterosexual. They were there because—as one of them told us—”It was the only place on the Hill on the weekends where there are no bros.”

Beta males are so unattractive to women that they are not only being outcompeted by alpha males, but also by gay males who have no interest in sex with women. Women would rather do away with the prospect of sex in exchange for a fun time with a gay man who “gets it”, than endure a single boring date with a rich beta male who can give them a life of ease and luxury.

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RooshV writes,

I went out with my friend on a Friday night, ready to put in work, and this is what I was greeted with instead in multiple bars:

what we have here… is an unfavorable ratio

Severely skewed sex ratios will affect your game. If a bar is 80% men-20% women, that means on average each woman got ego-fluffed by three men before you approached her. You are therefore attempting to open a line of loving communication with a female ego four times as large as it would be in a normal state of nature. That’s an uphill battle, folks. Throw in the expanding and waddling mass of fat chicks, and that 4-to-1 ego-fluffing ratio could jump as high as 8-to-1.

This is why night game is dying. The ratios suck. Either men are restricting their pussy trawling to the night alone, or women are abandoning night venues in droves. Add the demographic cratering of marriage leaving too many single men who lack the creativity and balls to day game descending on bars like migrating wildebeests to watering holes and you’ve got what you see above. Weekend day game, (or weeknight evening game), if nothing else, has the powerful advantage of a sex ratio that more closely aligns with a natural 50-50 split.

On Saturday night I was called the following by four women:

-shady (girl 1)
-douchebag (girl 2)
-creep (girl 2)
-disrespectful (girl 3, girl 4)
-asshole (girl 3)
-dick (girl 4)
-weird (girl 2)
-“I don’t like you” (girl 2)

One girl from the above gave me her number and the other took me to her place.

What a bizarro world for girls to call you names but actually like you.

Despite the horrible ratios, night game still retains one benefit that’s hard to acquire in day game: In nighttime venues, girls respond better to jerkboy charisma, and your odds of closing the deal in the same window of time that you opened the deal are higher. In contrast, it’s advantageous to soft-shoe your jerkitude and cloak your message when you meet girls under the harsh glare of sunlight. But at least you’re not hobbled by beer goggles, dim lighting, or Michelin Woman egos. You can be confident that the girl you meet during the day will look almost as pretty the next morning.

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