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Archive for the ‘Hitting The Wall’ Category

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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There’s a lot of chatter among the cuntocracy about how men aren’t “manning up” and doing their duty to marry off all the single ladies. But maybe, just maybe, part of the reason for this male abdication of the sacred institution of marriage is the poor quality of the women on offer.

Just how bad is the marriageable American female market? Jay in DC writes,

‘Hot 99.5′ is basically the hippest and most relevant DC radio station in that it has the youngest listener demographic.

They are currently holding a contest for “new brides” to post their hottest photo to win the contest (1,000 dollar prize). Now granted, more intelligent chicks are probably NOT going to put their pic out there. But there are about 100 submissions up there already so this is a pretty good cross-section of not only DC, but really the US.

Behold men, and look upon your ruination. Betas WILL marry anything. ANYTHING, and this is what keeps the perpetual cycle of disgusting fat entitled average americunts reproducing.

I really advise you take the 15 minutes or so to REALLY look at every photo. This is our future. Out of those 100 photos there are FIVE women I would date, a few more I would fuck, and 3 I would marry if they had the classic femininity to go with their looks.

That is a SAD ASS RATIO. 97 to 3 in a pretty good statistical sample are marriageable? Welcome to the USSA.

http://www.hot995.com/contests/summer-bridal-showdown/297456/Vote/photoDetail/402513

p.s. Don’t bother posting comments, they will be shot down in seconds, just enjoy the grotesquery that is these women in bridal gowns.

Browsing the blushing attention whores, I’d have to concur with Jay’s assessment; the majority of the American East Coast brides are beastly. Beauty and the beast, inverted.

Beta males won’t marry anything. That is a stretch. Ugly, older, masculine, and fatter women DO pay marriage marketplace costs that you won’t be able to readily discern in their smiling wedding day photos. The hidden nature of the cost does not preclude its exorbitance.

And what is that exorbitant cost? Settling. It’s all of the better men with whom the post-prime, pre-Wall, porky-princess American bride had to give up hope of fettering to a marital contract. As age, size and attitude veer away from the feminine ideal beloved by the vast majority of men, women will find it harder — sometimes impossibly harder — to land the man of their dreams. They will have to settle for second, third, or even 30th best if they want to be married at all.

And so what you don’t see in those blushing blimp pics are the men they truly wanted who pumped and dumped them, or ignored them for their prettier friends. What you also don’t see are the hapless losers who vowed last-ditch lifelong monogamy to a land whale in exchange for avoiding the walking death of incel, as their hearts privately sank away in forlorn regret.

That is the individual, human dynamic. What about the big picture? Interesting — in the horrible sense of the word — things happen when the supply of attractive women drastically shrinks in proportion to the supply of megafauna, feminists, careerist shrikes, manjaws, and bitter spinsters. When the marriage market essentially become an outpost of Wal-Mart (Wall-Mart!) — cheap, throwaway, high fructose corn syrup goods — men experience what could be described as an exogenous “restriction of range” problem when they set out to find marriageable women.

Instead of a normally functioning sexual market where men are presented with many options among marriageable women of varying degrees of attractiveness (who nonetheless meet the men’s threshold for long-term commitment worthiness), what transpires in a shit market like what we have now is a massive limitation in men’s acceptably attractive mate choices and a replacement with a dichotomous mate choice system. In a dichotomous mate choice system, beta males no longer have the luxury of choosing between, say, a feminine slender 6 and a tomboyish slender 7. Now they’re restricted to choosing between involuntary celibacy and marriage to a ghastly apparition.

Unfortunately for the progress of the human species, the male sex drive is so strong that more than a few hard-up betas and omegas will choose the sad, dreary marriage to a circus sideshow over the soul-crushing solitude of sexlessness.

Beauty is truth. CH is among the greats in asserting the truism of this plea for an aesthetic sensibility, and for good reason. When ugliness of body is the norm, ugliness of character and, ultimately, of nation is sure to follow.

Related:

obesity-map-GIF-j

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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.

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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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A very homely, urbanely decayed spinster has taken photographs of herself posed with male and child mannequins, presumably as some sort of statement on the present condition of her bifurcated ego.

If you thought 21st Century American women have plumbed the depths of crazy, you’d be wrong. There’s totes crazy left in those desiccated wombs and cock-ravaged holes where their feminine hearts used to reside. Expect to see a plague of crazy visited upon the women of the West, as the modern diversity industrial complex and no-holds-barred sexual market drives the wedge deeper between their mothering and materialistic desires. We have only begun to bear witness to a total meltdown of the American woman’s psyche.

My advice to American men: If you didn’t get lucky and find yourself a sane, feminine American woman before this late-stage twisted empire in rapid decay corrupted her, head overseas. You’ve got to know when to hold an American woman, and know when to fold her. And right now, she’s coming up 2-7 off-suit.

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A sad woman left the following comment (scroll down) to a post about an OkCupid experiment in dating profiles which CH covered in detail here.

An even more insightful “study” would be to do the same thing but use people of similar attractiveness but different ages. I am in my 40’s and I receive virtually no messages. I did the Match thing for six months and sent over 200 messages, all of which were “custom” to the guy I was contacting. I can’t stand cut and paste emails, not to mention they’re obviously cut and paste. I got fewer than 10 responses. In six months. What I have taken away from this whole experience is if you’re female and your age starts with a number equal to or higher than 4 (I’m 45) it is not going to be a great experience. And if, like me, you’re tall (5’11″) it’s going to be even worse.

Dating sites exist to make a profit, and that means by necessity and in accord with the nature of their market and consumer sentiment they must push a silo full of pretty lies. If they were to come out and say “ugly, fat and older women and boring, poor and loser men need not apply”, that would cut into revenues. And probably provoke an idiotic discrimination lawsuit which serves the betterment of absolutely nothing.

So dating sites package their pretty lies in pabulum like “customization” and “29 dimensions of compatibility to find your perfect match” that specifically ping the hopefulness radars of lovelorn women and the men who follow where those women go. Keep hope alive, because when you can’t find a date in the real world, hope is all you have left.

Never are the inherent limitations of online dating sites more apparent than when the eFallacy marketing fluff meets the massive edifice of the Wall. The Splat Protocol is that event horizon when aging beauties become like the beta males they ignored in their youth, now reduced to spending hours and hours working feverishly on their arid, online dating profiles only to be rewarded with crumbs of lackluster attention from those very same men.

The lesson here is that cultural leverage in whatever form has to be brought to bear on the inflated egos and runaway narcissism of American women to guide them to wise life decisions. This wisdom would include reminders to settle down young while they still have the glow of natural rosiness in the cheeks, and warnings against imagining internet dating is some kind of reprieve from the merciless judgment of the God of Biomechanics.

when the wall… comes rising into view
when the wall… comes closing in on you
when the wall… is looming all arouuuund
- Jane “Cougar” Mellentramp

UPDATE

Commenter Wrecked ‘Em (rectum? I nearly wrecked em!) writes,

And on the flip side, 50 y.o. friend changed his match profile to imply that he looks younger than his age, has younger friends, that women his age can’t hang, and finally listed his real income, which is over match’s top spot of $150k/yr… then dropped his minimum age on “looking for” to 28.

He then proceeded to like photos and favorite plenty of women in the 28-32 age range, wholly ignoring what age of man they were supposedly interested in. Based on the response he’s seen thus far his new theory is that the hotter the girl is the more likely she’ll respond. He’s swimming in it after only a week of this.

Given compensatory attributes (game, wealth, looks, overconfidence, preselection by younger women/friends), a man can easily date women significantly younger than himself. Women, in contrast, have little ability to compensate for their aging.

The Wall comes to all, but men have the option to outflank it for a while. Women can only watch in horror as it bears down on them.

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n/a lyrically reminds the arriviste audience that an old chestnut is just as moldy when a man serves it up on a platter and calls it the main course.

Amused by this thread and its arriviste assumption that ladies with a few more rings in the trunk and some rather shocking sun-damage from their salad days in St. Barts are somehow more “sophisticated” than a sweet pink baby in her last year of high school: the notion is even more comical than it is wrong.

There is no “intellectual” badinage much less intelligent conversation with a woman who is still worth fucking; of all the cliches of romance none better suits the vanity of women and the hard to dispel starry-eyed stupidity of men than the laughable idea that there exist magical hags smarter, more spirited and altogether better at desiccated 40 than they were at moist 20. This is an amazing delusion and a quintessential trope – and tell – of the diehard beta.

The question to ask the woman duly and dully decked in her “Chanel” and knockoff Louboutins is do you have a pretty and naughty daughter? There are indeed rich and bored women who will be anything but displeased to entertain such a question after a few oily martinis and then, and only then, does the hard mug of the accomplished bitch take on the warm glow of lechery. Do not press the issue. Let it scent the air.

This comes close to a perfectly crafted comment, in both substance and delivery. Men who, by dint of limited options, choose to extol the “sophistication” and “worldliness” of the wealthy middle-aged cougar are revealing a classic handicapped SMV tell: that of the man who can’t do any better. It’s the inverse of sour grapes; instead of falsely claiming the sourness of a ripe grape out of reach high on the vine, one insists on the sweetness of a rotting fruit within reach on the ground.

The supposed sophistication of the well-to-do cougar is nothing next to the firm rump, smooth skin and pert tits of the minimum wage 20-year-old barista. Nothing. All the cougarly sophistication cubed will never approach the exponential allure of one evanescent smile from a pretty young babe. And this chaps the hides of the men who are trapped in the cougar pen as much as it does of the defeminized fading trophy harridans who sprinkle their aging flesh with shiny brand name baubles and fuel their egos on the fumes of vaporous entitlement.

The great joke of this charade is that older women aren’t even the paragons of sophistication they and their beta handlers like to claim. Wit is the province of the smart, and smarts are in full evidence by the early 20s. Fluid intelligence declines after the youthful 20s, further degrading the smart woman’s chattering legerdemain. Intellectualism, too, is not age-dependent once past the early neural formative years. The young intellectual woman has at least the advantage of being fun and sprightly along with her occasional bursts of deep thought. The smart cougar is well-versed… and tired.

Even a more generous interpretation of sophistication as a term meaning wisdom is not the boon for the cougar’s self-conception she, or her lovers, think. A wisdom borne of experience riding the cock carousel is a knowingness most men find unpalatable in a romantic partner. Yes, the cougar “knows what she wants in a man”, but what benefit is that to any man in serious contention for her crumbling facade? Perhaps the man she chooses can feel good that, after she has had a spell sampling the boner buffet, the wizened lady honored his pig in a blanket with Best In Show. But that’s like winning a trophy for running the mile in 42 minutes; he is left to wonder just how bad the competition must have been.

No, what a man wants, when he’s alone with his thoughts and he can feel the natural pulse of his viscera, is a young, beautiful woman with a lifetime of reproductive residual value ahead of her. And, knowing what a prize she is, his pride upon winning her will be genuine.

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The Wall, In Fast Forward

A helpful reminder, ladies.

The Wall, for those new readers unfamiliar with the term, is the moment in time, measured in age, when a woman’s sexual attractiveness, following years of asymptotic approach, finally hits absolute zero. To put it less turgidly, The Wall is that age when a woman’s looks go splat, like Wile E. Coyote running headlong into a boulder. The Wall is the sexual worthlessness event horizon of a woman’s existence on earth, the immovable metaphorical object that divides her long-telomere romantic life stage from her short-telomere post-romantic life stage when the vast majority of men become utterly uninterested in sex with her. A post-Wall woman may still have dusty sex, but it will be with begrudging men who had no other younger (i.e., better) options.

The Wall exists regardless of any individual woman’s psychological capacity to accommodate its inevitability. It’s a remorseless executioner of romantic hopes and dreams, and its shadow suffocates the intentions of the most practiced self-deluders.

The Wall does not affect men like it does women, for men have, unlike women, the advantage of possessing or acquiring compensatory attributes and achievements that can radically delay The Wall’s merciless tribute. For this reason, when we refer to The Wall, we are referring primarily to the rapidly coalescing and unequivocal end of a woman’s romantic life, to be superseded by either her noble matron life or her crazy cat lady life.

The age of Wall impact varies from woman to woman, but it generally converges for most women between the early 40s and 50. Some exceptional female specimens with a fortuitous suite of anti-aging genes can perhaps extend meager traces of their former physical glory well into their 50s, but these are exceedingly few in number. 99% of women you meet in daily life will have hit The Wall by their 50th birthday. An unfortunately larger minority of women will have been unlucky in beauty longevity and hit The Wall as young as their early 30s. Sadly, tragically, the first glimpses of The Wall cresting the horizon will be visible to most women by their 35th birthdays. An understandable panic will ensue, because The Wall means nothing less than the total annihilation of their ability to win the love and commitment of the men they truly desire.

This is why it’s absolutely critical for a woman to leverage her beauty when it’s at its peak nubility and coax a man into a monogamous, legally binding relationship; for once a man is thus ensnared, inertia, guilt and duty conspire to keep him there past his lover’s sexual expiration date. A woman who waits too long to exploit her youthful looks will have lost the only sexual market leverage at her disposal to outcompete not only other women, but also to disarm the natural reluctance to commitment from higher value men.

In the video above, I place the precise moment of that particular woman’s Wall impact somewhere between 2:59 and 3:14, which, if we establish the total length of the video to coincide with her total lifespan, means that she hits The Wall within a short span of a few years, the difference in exact moment of frontal impact partly attributable to minor differences in men’s tolerance for overt signs of late-fertility aging and unflattering lighting. For comparison, note that her peak nubility appears to occur somewhere around the 1:25 mark. This means that she enjoys the time-lapsed equivalent of one minute and thirty seconds of lifetime libidinous attention from men, and three minutes of lifetime invisibility to men. In actuality, that 1:30 of male attention is more like 30 seconds of widespread and welcome male attention, because a substantial chunk of her waning attractiveness years will be spent suffering the ignominy of increasingly rare glances from increasingly low value men.

Note, too, how quickly her facial attractiveness deteriorates once The Wall rises into view for her. Like most women, her pulchritude trajectory held steady for many years, the deterioration hardly noticeable from one year to the next, but once she crossed the threshold from youthful to “hanging on”, the droop and destruction accelerated, so that each day brought a new insult in the mirror. It is these years of torment that suicide begins to dance in the heads of childless, unmarried spinsters.

The Wall is now a popular regurgitated concept on various manosphere blogs and Reddit hovels, so it behooves the CH intellectual property protectorship to remind the studio audience that The Wall made its premiere here, when the creaky iron gates first opened a leaf-strewn path to a Chateau in the woods for curious wayfarers.

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Over at Jizzebel, internet archipelago of misfit romantic rejects, a woman breaks the ogress omertá and bares her shiv-scarred soul for the world to leer at with morbid fascination. In a skin-thin confessional-cum-rationalization wrapped in a transparent gauze of self-protective snark, ur-femcunt Tracy Moore, sporting a testosterone-fueled gargantujaw that would be the envy of any excessively prognathic urban youth, unloads about the reality of women losing their looks, and thus their sexual market options, to the unrelenting tick tocking of father fuckyouupgood.

You will realize that getting older is not only NOT as terrible as you thought, but that it actually it confers untold advantages you couldn’t have even imagined when you were busy running around doing cartwheels staying up all night wearing miniskirts.

Ugly truth time: Old age is a horror show. The mind fogs, the body rots, the sex organs wither, the energy level plummets. And that’s if you’re lucky enough to avoid really shitty decay accelerants like heart disease or cancer. What about these facts of the toll of aging is not terrible? Old people have remarked to me that the only upside to their loss of youth was a growing sense of serenity, aka calm resignation to a total lack of power to do anything about one’s wretched deterioration. Here’s an easy question for platitude pusher Tracy Moore that will highlight the bankruptcy of her feminist feels: How many 80 year old women would instantly and painlessly shave 60 years of aging off their bodies with a snap of the finger if they could? My bet: A lot. About the same number as the number of parents-to-be who would instantly and painlessly cure a gay germ infection that was discovered in mommy’s fetus. (The following ‘heh’ directed at Andrew “Rawmuscleglutes” Sullivan:

Heh.)

Moore continues her psyche triage by quoting an advice seeker from an “Ask Polly” column:

“And so, the prospect of losing [my looks]—and I know I will lose it, everyone does—fills me with such crushing dread. I take care of myself as best I can in terms of a healthy lifestyle and sunscreen, but I know that every day that goes by, I am aging, and ultimately powerless to stop [the aging process]. (I don’t have much faith in the ability of cosmetic procedures to keep my face looking exactly the way it does now, so that “option” is of little comfort). It’s like I’ve been given this precious gift with the stipulation that it will be yanked away from me before my life is even halfway over. I don’t know how to cope with this. I have these horrible moments now in which I see older women around me and feel a visceral sense of disgust and pity—obviously a projection of my own fears.”

The fear of old people is real, because, of course, they aren’t a separate species, but a mirror of our future gnarly selves. This woman is expressing a real fear based on a real understanding about how the world, and the mating market, work, even if her worry borders on obsessively unhealthy. The correct advice to give her is not to impugn her character or chide her for her lack of faith in feminist boilerplate credentialism, but to tell her to stop worrying so much about something she has no control over and to get out and enjoy her boner-inspiring, beta-manipulating youth n beauty while she has it, because it is good. And then perhaps to recognize that, yes, the day will come, sooner rather than later, that her looks will be gone, and she should prepare for this eventuality by limiting her time on the cock carousel and extracting commitment from a worthy man before her carriage turns into a fatass pumpkin. A few tips about age-slowing eating and lifestyle habits wouldn’t hurt, either.

Tracy Moore, as is the wont of members of her subterranean sisterhood, imparts a distinctly uninspired take that vibrates with barely-concealed acknowledgement of biomechanical reality:

Obviously, we could make a lot of assumptions about where this advice-seeker has gone wrong — namely by being too caught up in her own appearance and the joy it brings her and others. But we would do better to remind ourselves of the double-edged sword beauty brings to those who posses it: great rewards, an often over-reliance on its door-opening magical powers to the exclusion of cultivating the self, an expiration date, being taken less seriously, etc.

An “expiration date”! A term so closely aligned with Chateau Heartiste that suspicions are aroused Moore is a secret reader.

Nevertheless, Moore’s laundry list of youthnbeauty downsides are feelgood pablum: There is not only no laboratory evidence that beautiful women don’t “cultivate the self” or that they are “taken less seriously”, there is hardly any real world evidence of these nostrums either. If anything, beautiful women are taken *too* seriously, and get a leg up in just about every aspect of life by obsequious men… until they hit the wall. And since beauty and IQ correlate, there is a better than random chance that a beautiful girl will be a more interesting personality than will be an ugly girl.

Sometimes the Thing You Notice About Aging Is Oddly Comforting

Even when these moments come — I can’t get drunk like I used to; What’s that popping sound in my hip every time I stand up? Must use more moisturizer — rather than feel bad, I actually feel good, good that I am alive and this age and still totally healthy, in spite of how much I wasted my youth, or rather, got wasted while young. Think about it: Your body says fuck you to gravity most days of its existence. Pretty amazing.

It’s only “oddly” comforting because Moore understands, past the confines of her well-manicured ego, that aging is not a comfort show at all. Yes, pretty amazing. You keep telling yourself that Tracy, because those wasted years not finding a beta husband to tenderly stroke your anvil mandible while you still had a semblance of sexual marketability are never coming back. May as well ease the pain with a stirring morning motivational that exults in your achievement of breathing air for another day.

Yes, There’s Regret, But Not Like You Think

Once I remember talking with a friend when we were in our late 20s, and she remarked casually that she wished she’d worn more cute clothes/risqué stuff when she was younger and had a “better body,” and I agreed reflexively, like, yeah, of course, who doesn’t. But then I realized that in order to have done that, I would have had to have been a completely different person. I have never really been the type of person to dress provocatively at any age.

Just like a feminist to wish she had been sluttier when she was younger. Hey Try-Hard, I got news for ya… younger women can wear a friggin potato sack and still look more bangable than a 40 year old in a cocktail dress.

What crazy person would trade that [life experience] for a slightly higher set of boobs?

False choice fallacy. But this is feminist-land, where logical fallacies are coin of the realm.

And if you so happen now be the sort of person who wants to wear a miniskirt, wear a fucking miniskirt and shut the fuck up about it!

This is not recommended for cougars and fatties, or does Moore believe that women should be exempt from feeling bad about any visual appraisals that aren’t sufficiently and simultaneously respectful and lascivious?

The Thing You Really Notice is How Little You Care

Sorry, I know it’s a bumper sticker at this point, but the hands-down, best motherfucking juice that comes from being older is how much better you know yourself, and what’s more, you like this person you’ve gotten to know, even when you accept her worst flaws. This is more liberating than all the fresh-faced ignorant bliss in the world.

You know what else would qualify as “liberating”? Admitting to yourself that you look shittier now than you did ten years ago. And then adjusting your man-sights accordingly.

Trying to appreciate where you are right now is the big triumph of life.

Feminism: The new tard olympics.

Knowing that wherever you are right now is where you are, and looking for the best thing in that, with an eye on how to keep it going toward wherever you want to be, is the point.

Has a sentence more devoid of substance and more burdened with vapid nonsense ever been written by a woman? It reads like a post-modern architectural shoebox of stacking “right now is where is right is now is point is where” clauses.

Your Looks Never Actually Bail

If so, where do they go? In the crawl space at your last apartment? Is there a dumpster in the sky where all the young, beautiful faces go, like some weirder, more mutant version of the movie Face Off? Duh, you always look like you! Because you are you! And you are an evolving thing, a thing that ages!

So Tracy, is the fact that this concluding paragraph of yours contradicts just about every stated and implied premise you made earlier in your article fill you with shame in your chosen career? Jes askin’.

So if you are young and terrified and reading this right now, I say, please, enjoy the shit out of what you’ve got, and spend the rest of your time building an exquisite bridge to the next phase of your life, so that you can enjoy the shit out of that, too. That is the secret to sheer magnetism, no matter how old you are.

Actually, men will be a lot less tolerant of your “sheer magnetism” when you’re old and ugly. But your fat feminist snarky BFFs will continue to lap up your runny shit, so there’s that.

Why else can we not stop drooling over Helen Mirren?

Newsflash: No one is drooling over Helen Mirren but deluded feminists fearing a crash impact with the wall, and their suck-up orbiter manboobs who secretly want to prematurely dribble a tepid spurt of their feeb seed all over your jungle bush.

PS: The following is *not* a valid example of an older woman having sexual market options:

PPS: One of the reasons, maybe the primary reason, why you’re seeing an uptick in these lamentations from aging beauties nowadays is because the loss of religiosity and the concomitant bracing realization of the illimitable lightness of youth and the infinite darkness of post-life encourages a mournful nihilism about one’s happiness beyond serving as a visually appealing cum receptacle. When hope for something more transcendent, whether real or imagined, is gone, the pistons of sex are all that’s left to power the motor.

Another reason for the wailing is the growing childlessness of the marginally-aware class of women. Fear of old age and regret for lost youth have always been with humankind, but never have they felt so acute as now, in our modern, pre-collapse society. Children, along with God, acted as decouplers that placed the sense of self at a safe, if still visible, distance from constant gnawing dread of one’s mortality. Being responsible for a child, and living through that child’s life, provides, I imagine, and especially provides for women, a distraction if not a redemption from sexual invisibility and the uglification of aging. But when you are a single and the city feminist tankgrrl with mimosas for blood, sexual invisibility is akin to an exorcism of your soul. You are shattered, empty, a nothing with nothing but regret to rapidly fill in your osteoporosing id.

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In a mainstream media aka Cathedral loser-whistle article (h/t “garter snake”) about older women “””dating””” younger men, one of the interviewed aging beauties had this to say,

Felicia Brings was 31 and dating a 25-year-old man in the 1970s and so feared losing her job over it that she kept the relationship a secret. “I was so ashamed,” recalled Brings, now 65 and living in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. “At that time, if the guy was younger, you were considered a pervert.”

Brings now gravitates toward younger men — the largest disparity was when she was 50 and dating a 25-year-old — because she finds she connects with them better and, frankly, men her own age aren’t as interested in her.

“When I was in my 40s, I realized I had become invisible to men of my own generation,” said Brings, co-author of “Older Women, Younger Men: New Options for Love and Romance” (New Horizon Press). She noticed younger men, often raised by feminist women, were intrigued by and admiring of her success and experience, whereas older men seemed threatened and expected women to play traditional roles.

Language is supposed to convey meaning, but when a hamster has swallowed it, digested it, and shat it out, we are compelled to sift through the pellets to find the embedded fiber of meaning.

Translated from the Hamsterese, abridged version:

Women are like dog shit. The older they get, the easier they are to pick up.

Translated from the Hamsterese, full version:

Felicia Brings was 31 and banging a 25-year-old boring mediocrity in the 1970s and so feared losing her mind over it that she kept the twice yearly sex sessions a secret. “I was so ashamed,” recalled Brings, now 65 and living in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. “At that time, if the guy was younger, you considered yourself a romantic failure.”

Brings now gravitates toward younger beta males of EatPrayLove ethnicity who are desperately horny and unable to command attention from non-morbidly obese women their own age — the largest disparity was when she was 50 and dating a 25-year-old abject loser — because she finds she genitally connects with the paid gigolos better and, frankly, men her own age aren’t as interested in her when younger, hotter, tighter women are available to them.

“When I was in my wall impact 40s, I realized I had become invisible to men of every generation who had options,” said Brings, co-author of “Older Women, Younger Effete Manboobs: New Ways to Temporarily Sedate the Pain of Being Sexually Worthless to the Men You Really Want” (New Whorizon Press). She noticed younger closet cases, often raised by feminist women, were pretending to be intrigued by and admiring of her success and caustic careergrrl personality, whereas older men who weren’t piss-stained street bums seemed viscerally disgusted by the thought of sex with her flabby carcass and expected women to be minimally attractive to coax a semi.

Hamster status: nuked and raining tufts of blood spattered fur.

This has got to be a Hamster of the Month contender. The alacrity with which aging starlets resort to the “men who don’t want me are threatened by my career success and life experiences” shibboleth should be included in the DSM-IV as a diagnosable psychological disorder.

< Bizarro Obama > Let me be clear, feminist platitude pushers. < /bizarro obama > Men are “threatened” by the accumulated career success and loudly exhorted independence of aging sirens like they’re threatened by a mound of warm, steaming shit: they think it’s disgusting and don’t want to touch it or smell it, let alone stick their dicks in it.

HTH.

I don’t doubt that there are aging divas getting their overworked holes mechanically serviced by dorky desperadoes bursting with the dull pain of years of unexpelled cum. Nor do I doubt that some of those aging Isn’t Girls manage the miracle of convincing a lonely, thoroughly gelded pudgeball with swaying bitch tits and the hormonal profile of a soybean to stick around for more than a few nights of lusterless dispassion.

But, like Mrs. Robinson’s escape from reality, their younger lovers plungers usually fly the coop as soon as a cute girl half the age of the younger men’s groundbreaking intercourse aging mentors bats a dewy eyelash at them. That’s why so many of these loud and empowered aging dames reel off a laundry list of younger “lovers”; apparently not a one of these sensitive and intrigued lovers was interested in putting a ring on it, or even hanging around beyond the proximity of the industrial-sized bottle of lube. And when you ask the aging maiden about her current relationship status, she’s always “gravitating” toward this or that great type of guy.

If this post wasn’t enough of an ego MOAB for you, allow me to bullet-point the relevant shivs:

1. Older women are not fucking younger men in any appreciable numbers, and certainly not anywhere near the numbers of older man-younger woman couples. The whole notion is a wishful concoction of the feminism-drenched fluff media industry.

2. Every rule has its exceedingly rare exceptions. Older woman-younger man arrangements do exist, however their existence is not proof of a noteworthy reality that can impact the otherwise normal functioning of the sexual market.

3. Within the small subset of older woman-younger man pairings, the romantic dynamic is mostly energized, such as it is, by the easy path to sex provided to the younger man who would otherwise have trouble getting laid. Very few older woman-younger man bedroom jaunts grow into committed relationships. Most end unceremoniously within a matter of months.

4. Within that tiny sub-subset of romantically committed older woman-younger man pairings, the younger man is typically a low value omega male who couldn’t get laid in a libertardian-run brothel with a fistful of bitcoins.

5. A non-trivial number of older woman-younger man sex romps are between aging fat women and younger black men who seem to possess, contrary to what is observed in most other races, a complete and utter lack of discriminating taste in short-term sexual partners. The women in these squalid arrangements resemble, in size, shape, color and texture, don’t forget texture, the great resource-aggregating herbivores of the African veldt.

6. The rare, outwardly loving and seemingly stable older woman-younger man couple that one might occasionally glimpse in SWPL enclaves are often the tired detritus of a relationship that began with passionate keenness when the man was, say, in his early 20s and the woman was in her late 20s, and in the fullness of time and familiarity managed to avoid rupture by sheer force of risk-averse beta male inertia.

Some of you wonder why I drop the hammer of candor on liars and deluded freaks with such Thorian dispatch. What’s the upside?

The upside is that a world with fewer reality-denying propagandists is a world that is capable of turning away from the elevation of ugly and toward the exaltation of beauty. That’s the kind of world I want to live in; a world easier on the eyes and happier in the heart.

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A reader with an urgent family emergency has turned to the Chateau for help.

I have been reading your site for many years now and thank you for all of the wisdom you have shared. Your blog has improved my life in many ways, and I humbly ask your advice now to convince my brother that he is about to make a terrible mistake.

My brother is the pride of the family – went to a top school undergrad, graduated med school last year, and is now on his way to becoming a surgeon. He is a well-adjusted, mature man who has had a couple of long term relationships in the past and possesses above average intellect, physical, and social skills.

For the past 6 months he has been dating an unemployed divorcee who is 8 years older (he’s 28, she’s 36). This summer he will be moving across the country for his next rotation and they have decided that she will also move and live together with him. She has no social network in the region and even if she finds a job will be relying almost entirely on him financially, emotionally, etc. Not surprisingly she has been pushing him for a ring and a baby, and he seems to be happily going along with this.

My parents and extended family are distraught. We have all tried to reason with him but to no avail. You and your esteemed commentators can all see the train wreck that will occur if my cousin decides to marry and start a family with this woman.

My question to you is this: how can I talk him out of it?

Nervously Poolside,
Dr. No

This reader’s brother needs an intervention. A strong, powergut propelled, three pats on the back intervention. The best teachable moments are those which sock the nascent quisling in the face with a blistering infographic:

The graph is via GLPiggy. As you can see, more women have sex before age 25, but after that the dynamic flips and it’s men who enjoy the edge in sexual pleasure. The why is simple: women are most desirable when young. Men are most desirable when older, and continue staying desirable well into middle age. The underlying why is even simpler: Female attractiveness is almost entirely a function of their physical beauty. Male attractiveness is a function of multiple causes, including status, power, charm, looks and social dominance.

This is CH 101, aka Life 101, aka Feminist Soul Implosion 101.

So tell your brother it makes no sense to marry a woman eight years older than himself when he has the SMV goods RIGHT NOW to land a hotter, tighter, younger babe without divorce baggage, said baggage which itself is strong evidence she will divorce again. And on top of that, his SMV will only increase for another ten, perhaps twenty years, while hers, if she is the typical woman following the usual senescence track, will have a date with the wall of sexual expiration just about the time his appeal is maxing out.

That’s a recipe for marital failure. It makes no sense for him to hitch his cart to this gimp horse, unless….

she’s hot.

I mean, balls tingling, cock leaping hot.

You left this out of your description of her. Be honest, how hot is she? A hard 10? And not just for her age? Because if that’s the case, (however unlikely), many would find it difficult to dissuade him from experiencing the kind of glorious transcendental passion that most men can only crave from the sidelines of their gloomy masturbatoria.

You see, a man falls in love with a woman’s beauty. He does not fall in love with her smarts, her job, her credentials, her family connections, her employability, her future time orientation, or her ability to stand against the patriarchy or avoid the pitfalls of divorce.

Her beauty inspires his devotion, his lust, his love, his tenderness, his protectiveness, his delirium. Once inspired, he begins the journey of discovering all those other little things about her that seem now to him so powerfully alluring. Her beauty is the buttering ram that slides open doors to aspects of her subtler being that are joyously and post hoc-ally embraced by him as motivating reasons for his ardor.

Save this man, yes.

But save him from what? Himself? Or your family’s concern with appearances?

I ask with all sincerity. Because you need to be sure that you will act in your brother’s best interest. If he’s a man of solid self-possession who happens to be truly, deeply, crazily in love, leave him be. If he’s a beta who is clinging to what he imagines is a lifeline from a fate of grinding loneliness, then by all means get in his face.

Show him this blog. Let him sponge up the message that is both necessarily hateful and nourishing.

Slyly introduce finer specimens of femaledom into his life. Let him smell their intoxicating aroma.

Employ the carrot and the stick, the coax and the shame. In time, if he is not completely lost to the forces of self-doubt so preciously cultivated by our feminism glorified society, he will find his footing.

Preferably in the bed of a 22 year old stripper.

UPDATE

An astute commenter has noted that the reader requesting advice referred to the man in question as his brother, and then as his cousin. This may indeed be a troll email.

Nevertheless, the message stands. Trolls can often serve as useful springboards to discuss larger matters which do impact the lives of many men.

UPDATE 2

From original emailer,

My sincere gratitude for your post.

The cousin is a typo, he is my brother and this is a very real situation.

The woman in question is not hot at all, though not ugly – clearly post wall looking to latch on to a provider. 5 at best.

We are acting in his best interest as we can all see what will happen a few years down the road as your readers have already noted. He is more the latter than the former in terms of self possession vs beta – our working theory is that he fell headlong into this because he was in a new city working brutal hours without close friends around.

I am staging an intervention imminently and will keep you posted. The red pill will be hard for him to swallow but its better to go down swinging.

Just inform him that there are hot 21 year old women he can meet just about anywhere who would swoon for his surgeon swagger. Once he knows that, tell him he needs game. Direct him to the resources at this blog. Rudimentary game is all it should take for a whole world of young, exquisite pussy to blossom before his eyes. It sounds like the beta is strong in this fellow, so his shift in attitude from a scarcity mentality to an abundance mentality will need to be swift and sure. Good news: the shift will fully reflect his real opportunity.

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