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“joe” writes,

Shoshana used to live in my current city, and was actively involved in my blues dance group. I don’t remember meeting her, but after my local dance lady friends started posting this video, some bragging about knowing her, a quick Facebook search showed that we have over 20 mutual friends. With that said, two of my male dance friends are “red pillers”, and both contacted me to via private message to share their thoughts. For starters, both were quick to mention her tits, each saying how unabashedly proud of their being real that she is. One said that it’s entirely common for her to regularly wear revealing tops (no surprise there), and the other said that she danced with him in his living room, topless (“I assure you that they are real”, she apparently told him).

In short, we have a good, ‘ol fashioned attention whore. Now, let it be known that my being lover of women, I am not opposed to women flaunting their feminine figures; though, I do take issue with their both doing that and then crying “street harassment” when men take notice. Correction, they take issue when men whom they don’t deem as being sexually desirous take issue.

As I said, I don’t recall ever meeting Shoshana, though I surmise that our paths will eventually cross, assuming that she’ll find her way at my town’s annual blues dance festival, or that I go blues dancing in Manhattan on my next visit.

The attention whore epidemic continues to rage.

Ideally, what (attractive) women want is a world arranged to their liking, which means a world where lesser men know their place — silent, retiring, respectful, and unassuming — and alpha males — the top 10% of all men — are permitted to admire their beauty in however a manner they see fit.

This world will never happen because convincing 90% of men to essentially neuter themselves is like persuading a fat feminist to slim down and behave sweetly. Men are wired for the hunt, women are wired to be hunted. All the liberty-curtailing laws and thoughtcrime witch hunts in the world won’t change the fact that the prey will never dictate to the predators which of them may participate in the chase, the catch, and the consumption. A hungry man has little incentive to obey rules that perpetuate his hunger.

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A hilariously droll response to that Shoshana Roberts catcall-baiting (s)troll through the heterodusk community was recently uploaded to YouTube. It features an attractive white woman taking a 10-hour walk through predominately white Auckland and having her experience recorded by a companion operating a concealed GoPro camera.

Nothing much happens besides a few head turns by men as she walks past them. I suppose a deranged feminist would use that as evidence of eye harassment. Dem man eyes boring holes through women’s souls… eye rape!

The first interesting reaction starts at 0:25, when she struts past a construction site. Two brown men stare at her for a while, but say nothing. It’s hard to tell if they’re very tanned white men, or nonwhite laborers; nevertheless, the scene is reminiscent of the CH observation that the colorful excesses of “diversity”, whether of the race or class variety, tend to be kept in check if subsumed into a larger culture firmly in control by a self-assured and demographically dominant white majority. Some would call this an example of a people “owning a space”.

At 0:37, she receives a very aggressive eye rape from a mustachioed man who, it should be noted, looks conspicuously nonwhite.

The dramatic climax starts at 0:44. A white man notices her as he walks in the opposite direction, does a turnabout, and skips ahead to her side to drop some indirect day game on her. He stops her and asks if she’s Italian. Is this guy a Yad or Krauser acolyte? No mention is made in the video if he got her number. Her GoPro companion keeps walking, possibly to give her some privacy to exchange numbers with the bold pickup artist.

Which leads to another point: Catcalling is anti-game on white women. You will actually lower your chances more by sloppily catcalling a pretty white girl than you would by doing nothing except posing and hoping she digs your contrapposto. White men either intuitively know this and therefore deliberately refrain from the practice, or white men are constitutionally averse to picking up women like a carnival barker. Catcalling is one of those male mating dances that appears to be mostly race-specific; that is, blacks and pedros love it, and their women might very well enjoy it and even occasionally reward it. These guys will also catcall white women, but mostly because they don’t understand that white women don’t vibe with that style of primitive machismo.

Catcalling is also qualitatively different from game-savvy street pickup, the latter which is honed and practiced by, mostly, white men. Hooting at a girl to “show some love”, or “smile more”, or following on her heels for blocks without saying a word except a mewling “Am I too ugly for you”, is not game. Walking up to her side, stopping her, asking some nonsexual question with plausibly innocent intent, and swiftly moving the topic of conversation into more fertile ground leading to a number or kiss close is game that works, and importantly it’s game that works on the world’s most desirable women: Slender white women. (The qualifier is, tragically, more necessary than ever.)

Other than the white PUA flashing some game, and a flabby beta foreigner asking her for directions, she manages to walk the entire city unmolested by white men with active sex drives.

Lesson of the tape: White men don’t catcall. If you are a woman who secretly wants catcalls to feel attractive to men, and you don’t care about catcaller quality or courtship skill level, your best bet is to have a steatopygic ass stuffed into fuck-me jeans and a parade route through Harlem during work hours.

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Lena Dunham is quite the classy lady.

Dunham writes of casually masturbating while in bed next to her younger sister, of bribing her with “three pieces of candy if I could kiss her on the lips for five seconds . . . anything a sexual predator might do to woo a small suburban girl I was trying.” At one point, when her sister is a toddler, Lena Dunham pries open her vagina — “my curiosity got the best of me,” she offers, as though that were an explanation. “This was within the spectrum of things I did.” [...]

Lena Dunham never actually writes that she was raped by a mustachioed campus Republican named Barry at Oberlin College. She leads up to it with a long story about her childhood misuse of the word “rape” — she accuses her little sister of raping her and tells people that her father sticks a fork in her vagina when she misbehaves — and dwells on her lifelong fear of being raped. She describes two different versions of the same sexual encounter, in the latter version insisting that she did not consent to what happened. And in a remarkably dishonest turn, she has other people describe the event as “rape,” thereby dodging any intellectual or moral responsibility for making the claim herself. [...]

Dunham’s writing all this is, needless to say, a gutless and passive-aggressive act. Barry is not a character in a book; he is a real person, one whose life is no doubt being turned upside down by a New York Times No. 1 best-seller containing half-articulated accusations that he raped a woman in college, accusations that are easily connected to him. Dunham won’t call him a rapist, but she is happy to use other people as sock puppets to call him a rapist. She doesn’t use his full name, but she surely knows how easily it can be found. She wouldn’t face him in a court of law, but she’ll lynch him in print.

This is the last time I’ll write a post about Lena Dunham until she drowns herself in an extra-wide bathtub *fingers crossed*.

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Leading sociologists like Charles Murray have examined the social phenomenon of cognitive stratification — the generational separating into two classes, or even subspecies, of the smart from the less smart. It’s considered a bad thing (and I agree) because an IQ elite will not just amass an unequal amount of national wealth, but their precious IQ genes will get trapped into a small caste instead of spread to some degree around the general population. There is also the issue of dysgenic fertility among the overeducated women of the cognitively gated class.

The causes for cognitive stratification are manifold, but there’s one very plausible mechanism which I have yet to see discussed by mainstream white knights pundits.

The Southerner writes,

attractive 21 year old white women exist for marriage? By the looks of things they’re all in college capitalizing on their smv, therefore wasting their fertility and become un-marriageable (and untouchable). I don’t think I’ve ever seen a young post high-school white woman not in college and who wasn’t at least overweight.

Can someone tell me I’m wrong?

One of my theories is that female obesity is a big (heh) contributor to cognitive stratification of SWPL elites from other whites. If more working class and lower class women were thinner and sexier, more lower AND higher class men would happily marry them. This is particularly the case for those sassy smart lower class girls who could easily entrance lonely high IQ SWPL bachelors if these girls weren’t all so goddamned fat.

The same goes for single moms, even the thin ones. Men are loath to commit to single moms, sensibly figuring that her little bastards are romance killers and there’s no upside in raising another man’s fly-by-night spawn.

The sub-elite classes are filled with fatties and single moms, and this goes quite a ways to explaining the abandonment of marriage by the men who have these loser women as part of their social milieu.

Unemployed and unemployable men, driven by mass brown world immigration, are doubtless a factor in declining marriage rates among the cognitive outcasts, but due diligence should be paid to female obesity and single momhood as equal, if not greater, contributors to the decline in social stability of non-elite whites. The only reason I can think that this tenderhearted Heartistian worldview is studiously overlooked is because it gives conservatives the hives to shift some blame onto women and their poor life decisions.

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A reader passed along this graph, but I don’t know the source. It looks like a graph cobbled together by a feminist or feminist-friendly manboob trying to artificially extend the sexual market viability of aging beauties. See if you can spot the category errors.

The Y-axis is “percentage of potential”, which presumably means the percentage of maximum potential beauty that a woman at a given age possesses. So, from the graph, a 15-year-old teenager has achieved 40% of her maximum potential beauty. A 50-year-old woman is on the downslope of her beauty curve and has 85% of her maximum potential beauty remaining (*snort*).

The three lines are “external attractiveness” (physical beauty, which is pretty much the kitten and caboodle), “internal attractiveness” (aka inner beauty, which counts for a little), and “combined attractiveness” (the total attractiveness of a woman after her outer and inner beauty have been factored together).

If you haven’t got it yet, the category errors are:

1. The curve is much too generous to older women. There’s no way in the real world that a 60-year-old woman possesses the same amount of beauty as her 17-year-old self.

2. The inner beauty curve is likewise unrealistic. The typical woman’s personality and femininity reaches its maximum at age 70 (and up)? By whose standard? Oh yeah, by the standard of delusional feminists. If nothing else, aging subtracts IQ points, so 70-year-old women are likely not the sparkling conversationalists they were at age 25 (though they may occasionally drop gems of wisdom).

3. Finally, the combined attractiveness curve is worthless because it rests on the false premise that a woman’s external and internal attractiveness are equally valuable to her romantic prospects.

Here’s the improved, Chateau Heartiste version of the Female Total Attractiveness-Age Curve:

Much better. Red line is beauty (dispensing with the “external” redundancy), green line is inner beauty.

As you can see, the red line more accurately reflects the average woman’s external attractiveness trajectory. For most women who haven’t concealed their natural slender youthful beauty under an arctic-stressed layer of blubber, their peak beauty will occur between ages 15 and 25. The average woman will therefore max out in beauty at age 20. Unusual exceptions that desperate cougars trot out in support of an argument to the contrary prove the rule.

Past age 20, women begin the retreat from their maximum potential beauty. The fade is slow at first (as reflected in the less precipitous drop of the right side of the beauty curve), and this initially slow deterioration gives women a five to ten year graceless period to hone their self-delusion skills. “I’ll find a great guy when I’m 30!” CH: “No you won’t. You’ll settle for less, and your gogrrl friends will lie to you about this fact.”

By age 30, a woman is down to about 85% of her previous beauty high. At this stage of the game, she can no longer deny the tribute her skin and sag have paid to the überpatriarch, Father Time. It might not be evident yet under winter clothes, but it sure is the morning after twixt the bedsheets.

Now the decline accelerates in earnest. Age 35: 60% of former glory. Age 40: 40% of former glory (equivalent to her incipient preteen beauty buds). Age 50: 10%. For the typical woman, the Wall — the age at which she becomes sexually worthless to any man who isn’t legally obligated to assuage her fears — strikes sometime in her mid-50s. Almost no women beyond age 60 are capable of inciting genuine boners in any (white or asian) man.

The green line — inner beauty — is also adjusted to more accurately portray what’s going on with the average woman’s personality as she ages. This one is trickier to pin down than physical beauty, so I’ll explain.

A woman’s “internal attractiveness” covers a lot of territory, but if we are concerned with how she’ll fare romantically then we can pare back the number of relevant personality and temperament dimensions to only those that will contribute to, or subtract from, her dating or marital success. When it comes to “inner beauty”, the female traits that matter are those traits that men find delightful about women’s nonsexual (and sometimes sexual) company. This would include:

Her cheerfulness.
Her kindness.
Her submissiveness (to a greater or lesser degree).
Her coyness (suitably circumscribed).
Her fidelity (slutty aggressiveness has a short shelf life).
Her mothering instinct (does she love animals and children?).
Her gratitude (does she laugh at your jokes and swoon for your kingly mercies?).
Her femininity (does she love your teasing, return the favor, and do it all with a sparkle in her eyes?).
Her focused desire (she is desirous of you, and no other man).
Her patience (she warmly tolerates your masculine eccentricities).
Her self-restraint (she doesn’t nag).

The new and improved green “inner beauty” line closely follows the red “outer beauty” line. This is no coincidence. A woman is most charming when she’s happiest, and a woman is happiest when she’s most desired by men and feels most womanly.

There’s a slight lag in personality development. Generally, women blossom physically before their femininity matures. There’s a bit of catching up to do to the reality that her body inflames the ardor of young and old men alike. But indiscriminate male ardor can also harden the prettier women who come to learn the art of ice queen coldness as a deterrent to mistaken intentions. Thus, the peak of female inner beauty is short-lived, typically occurring during the mid-20s, after she has mastered her feminine wiles but before any single lady bitchiness has robbed some of her charm.

Inner beauty is a moving target and highly susceptible to changes in a woman’s relationship status. Women who ride the 20s-early 30s cock carousel, or who are out of committed relationships more than they’re in them, will succumb to the call of the bitch. Their femininity will disappear under a bunker of nastiness and bitterness. This is why women’s inner beauty line collapses faster than their outer beauty line: If we are talking about a woman’s LTR or marital prospects, then desperation-fueled bitchiness will betray her state of mind before her body betrays her state of hind.

Women who do the smart thing and lock down a man at their beauty peaks (early-mid 20s) won’t have this issue of rapidly deteriorating inner beauty, at least not with the same intensity undergone by unattached women. They will have started families and their happiness will become contingent on their wife and motherhood experiences more than their romantic allure.

That caveat aside, all women, no matter their marital or familial status, will suffer a cratering of inner beauty as their outer beauty abandons them. No one relishes the prospect of aging and body decomposition, but the travail affects women more deeply as they are the sex for whom youthful vainglory is most conspicuously allied with their fortunes of romance. By age 50, a woman will have lost most of that feminine charm she had as a 20-year-old vixen. This fact of womanhood is IQ-independent.

But it never bottoms out like her physical beauty. Past age 50, a woman becomes matronly, finally surrendering the last of her dreams of sultry attractiveness for the serene reality of her asexual, swaddling bosom. At this stage, a woman can jettison the feminine for the grandmotherly and substitute one set of happy personality traits for another. The older woman will never be as scintillating as her young self, but she can be pleasant company, rife with stories and disregard for restricting social etiquette, helped to fruition by the specter of sex banished to fond memory. Thus, a woman at age 70 can be as charming as she was at age 13. Peculiarly, at each end of life, a woman’s asexual allure converges onto a similar precociousness and innocence.

There was no need to draw a revised combined female attractiveness line. Women’s physical beauty is 9/10s of the Wall. Her inner beauty counts for something, particularly when that something is a man’s decision to long-term commitment, but as a factor under consideration by men it hardly budges her outer beauty curve in a more “age-appropriate” direction. The best you can say about women’s inner beauty is that it can bump up female SMV a half point, perhaps a full point as you get into the rarefied air of 8s and higher. (This latter phenomenon is what I call the “Oh shit, she’s hot AND sane!” lottery win.)

These are unkind truths, but they need telling, now more than ever in this time of delusional freaks vomiting their mental disease through every available medium. A woman who does not square up and accept this reality about her inevitable and all-too-swift sex-specific attractiveness decline is setting herself up for an unhappiness far more profound and entrenched than any fleeting discomfort from reading the Rude Word of Heartiste.

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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.

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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.

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