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Archive for the ‘Hitting The Wall’ Category

Shiva the Detroyed Feminist locates a crumb of feminist hope amid a sea of feminism-crushing scientific studies and reality-assaulting dissonance:

I think this will win comment of next week:

This just blew open the “wall” theory. [ed: she wishes.]

sure, women may not be at the prime of their beauty in the future but they’ll still be in prime fertility at , say, 45.

Wow.

[ed: just wow.]

The schooling shall commence…

The wall is a function of women’s looks, which are, evolutionarily-speaking, a proxy for women’s fertility. Ovary transplant tech may extend fertility but it won’t do a damn thing for aging women’s declining looks. Men’s eyes don’t see women’s ovaries, they see women’s bodies and faces. Men are wired to respond sexually and emotionally to youthful female looks, not to a hidden working uterus. A 70 year old woman could be rejiggered to bear children thanks to the intervention of science, but she’ll still look 70 years old, and so men won’t be turned on by her. She will suffer the indignities of wall victimhood, having to settle for conceiving children with a turkey baster or a blind old goat who gets around on tennis balls. Tragically for feminists nursing delusions of sustained desirability, in the gene-governed sexual market where visual cues are men’s primary information medium it’s the proxies that matter, not the actual biowiring underneath.

There’s really no point to explaining the facts of life to feminists and other assorted grievance groups with real reasons to fear and loathe the truth — beyond its entertainment value as a button-pusher — because in three weeks’ time the same lot of them wander back into this happy hunting ground babbling the identical, debunked bromides all over again. Logic and reason hurt their wee egos for a brief spell, and then when enough time has passed for their self-medicated ids to baseline to normal and reconcile their cognitive dissonances, (say, ten minutes), they are right back to chanting pretty lies, sticking their fingers in their ears, and stamping their ascii feet. Never underestimate the lengths to which humans will lie to themselves and, consequently, to others to maintain an illusion of high sexual or social market value in the face of rapid deterioration or expendability.

If I had to put a number on it, I’d guess 80% of the human population is aggressively self-deceiving, with the number reaching close to 100% in backward societies and within certain ideological sects. With those numbers arrayed against you, it’s fruitless to battle for hearts and minds. The best you can do is mercilessly mock their pretensions to high holy hell, preferably in front of an audience, until some tiny illumination of self-preservation sparks in their limbic chimp systems and they sulk off to lick their ego wounds rather than face the psychic torture of further debasement on a public stage. Even the most blockheaded deluded dumbass will think twice about shrieking his or her stupidities when Total Ridicule is the only reward.

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A reader claims to note a trend in online personals:

[T]his is a trend I’ve noticed online, women who are QUITE comfortable with dating someone a handful of years younger but do NOT want anyone more than a few years older than they. What accounts for this trend? I mean, you could meet a 28 year old fat dude, or a 40 year old paleo-hardened guy who looks young. Why pre-emptively discount age like that? Most women I’ve met prefer someone same age or older.

I don’t know how widespread women’s aping of men’s standards in online ads is, because I don’t do online dating (at least not recently). However, from what I’ve read about the subject, most women’s preferences in online ads is for men older than they are; which makes sense, since age is a status marker for men in a way it isn’t for women. But assuming for the sake of argument that there is a small but growing contingent of cougars explicitly seeking younger men in what amounts to a mirror image of the universal trend for men to seek younger women, I believe I have an explanation.

First, keep in mind that it doesn’t matter what women demand in online ads, because outrageous standards that are far removed from reality are quickly weeded out of contention, leaving such delusional women sad and alone in real life. A lot of loser women who do the online thing subconsciously know they aren’t going to get laid by the man of their dreams, so they throw all reason and sobriety to the wind and just go hog wild laundry listing their fantasy criteria. For these women (admittedly greater in number now than every before in Western history), it’s more about ego catharsis than about actually meeting a man. ASCII therapy with a public audience of like-minded Medusas one-upping each other to the top of the entitlement heap.

Happily punching in a feverish list of ridiculous expectations in an online ad is the emotional equivalent of plopping in front of the TV (all shows cater to women except ‘Mythbusters’ and sports) and wolfing down a tub of ice cream. Feels SOOOOO good, even if it’s SOOOO bad for her health, looks and love life. Kinda makes a tidy little metaphor for civilizational decline.

Second, the few cougars who aren’t ugly, ragged or grossly obese but who left their prime years far behind in a haze of drunken binges and cock hopping, will sometimes recognize, on a primal level, that their odds of getting a good (read: high value, sort of charmingly dickish) man of the type they pined for at age 20 to commit to them in a loving long-term relationship are very low, and that their efforts are best spent putting out for horny younger men who will at least offer a short term thrill in the sack. This phenomenon — of older woman transforming into clitorally turgid quasi-men — is not common, certainly not nearly as common as the media would have you believe. But they do exist, and you can be pretty sure that most of them could cut glass with their jaws and suffocate small dogs with their jungly, frosted pube patches. Do note, as well, that as women age their testosterone levels rise in step with their lowered expectations, making the prospect of loveless one night stands more palatable to their still feminine egos.

Let’s just say that these horncat cougars are not exactly the sorts of women older men with options want at all, and they aren’t the sorts of women younger men with no options want for more than a few no muss no fuss bangs in which to drain their aching teen balls. Because younger men, just like older men, prefer the exquisite intimacies of young women. Cougars probably know this on some deep supraegotistical level, so they respond to their constrained sexual market choices by pretending to prefer the company of younger men when in reality all they’re trying to do is avoid the soul crushing loneliness that would inevitably result if they adhered to the standards of their real desires and had to face the brutal and merciless cruelty of the sexual market head on.

Women never really lose the ability to extrapolate a one night stand into some fantastical dramatic relationship story arc, so a cougar having a couple of perfunctory fucks with an indiscriminately horny college student in a dating slump can sometimes mean the difference for her between having the will to live for another day and resigning herself to gardening and obesity. It’s not an avenue most older single women are willing to take, but for a few desperate specimens with male-like sex drives and bodies that haven’t yet gone completely to shit, it beats suddenly and unceremoniously being dumped into the invisible fringes of forgotten wastelands. At least for a few more years.

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This is what happens when a woman who has passed into sexual worthlessness has to contemplate the stark reality of divorce from a cheating alpha male husband who fathered a child with his mistress, but who still tingles his wife’s tangle.

Is Maria Shriver having second thoughts about divorcing Arnold Schwarzenegger?

That’s what we heard.

Tipsters cite the Kennedy princess’ strong Catholic faith as one of the main reasons she might be reconsidering tossing the husband who cheated on her.

The religion excuse is squid ink. Maria has lost her looks and is facing the merciless indifference of the zero sum, free-for-all dating market as an aged divorcée. She knows, on some deep primitive level, that as a newly single woman she could very well wind up living out her years unloved by any man. Or at the least unloved by any man even close to Arnold’s level of alphaness.

A woman in this position, and swirling with these feelings, can forgive a lot. I mean, A LOT.

Arnold, for his part, is reported to be treating her nicely. What’s that sound… cha ching.

It’s almost as if there is a powerful sexual market guiding people’s decisions. Weird.

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Sinead O’Connor’s first marriage at age 21: 5 years

Sinead O’Connor’s second marriage: 1 year

Sinead O’Connor’s third marriage: 8 months

Sinead O’Connor’s fourth marriage at age 45: 16 days.

Sez it all, really.

(The typical benighted SMV trajectory of women is even worse when you consider the quality of men with whom Sinead progressively got hitched, which, if photos and lifestyle status are any indication, demonstrates that Sinead had to gradually settle for ever more beta lovers.)

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Rollo Tomassi writes:

Thank you Mark Zuckerberg for creating the single greatest time-comparative engine men have ever known. I’m not a big fan of Face Book from a male standpoint, but if it has any redeeming aspect it’s that it provably shows men, in stark contrast, how women’s SMV declines. This is driven home all the better because the subject women are usually ones he’s known personally for a few years.

I entered my 20s in the early 90s, well before the internet went mainstream. I can vividly remember the women I was banging then and the ones who wouldn’t have a thing to do with me. Now I see them 20 years later thanks to social media and every single one is just ravaged by time and lifestyle. I’ve accepted friend requests from women whose memory from 20+ years ago are ones of flirtatious, beautiful lust-inspiring youth, all to be shattered when I see photos of them in their late 30s and early 40s. Then I pray to God and thank Him for sparing me from being yoked to cows like that in spite of my consuming desire at the time to get with them.

Take a minute to digest this: we are really the first generation of men to have such a convenient comparative tool. There was a time when a man could get with (or not) some girl he fancied and never see her again. Young men hear all the time how inconsequential the women they pine for really are in the grand scheme of things. Now the older men giving him advice have a tool to prove and emphasize that advice, and women have cause to lament the ugly, provable truth.

It used to be that you had to extrapolate the deterioration of a hot girl’s looks by seeing her mother, preferably side by side. (The mother-daughter couples I see at the mall are testament to the chasm of difference in attractiveness. In a mere twenty years, the majority of women go from deliciously fuckable to sexually worthless. Rampant obesity worsens the decline, as most American women don’t hit their fattest, blobbiest years until after their 30s.)

Even then, the extrapolation was never anything more than an academic exercise. After all, it is easy to compartmentalize the mother from the daughter. Men could logically tell themselves this is what their lovers would look like in short order, but it didn’t have the visceral impact that actually seeing *an older version* of their young lovers would have.

Looking at old photos of exes was always a dreamy nostalgia trip, because men have rarely had access to newer, updated photos of exes or high school and college crushes: you left a girl or she left you, and that was that. You never saw her again, unless you really went out of your way. So your memories remained untainted by fresher biosystem information.

But now Facebook gives us that instant-comparison tool, and holy shit on a breakfast platter, is it effective, and disheartening. As Rollo said, there is now, for the first time in human history, a whole generation (or two) of men who have millions of saved photos of their younger lovers, not to mention sweet memories of them, side by side with instantly accessed photos of those same lovers five, ten, even twenty years later, thanks to the proliferation of social media and female attention whoring. And as the Facebook culture becomes entrenched, this “time-comparative engine” will only become more widespread, and eye-opening to millions of men.

There could be no more powerful way to inculcate to a man new to the game the first principle that women are largely interchangeable in the dating market than by handing him the keys to Facebook and the dangerous secrets locked within. The female aging process of past lovers compressed into seconds will shatter the hardest pedestals and deflate the headiest romantic idealism. There is no poem in the world that can fully express that disenchanting feeling.

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I’ve noticed a trend in the MSM. Men invent something controversial, get little mainstream press, women follow up with their watered-down version, get tons of mainstream press. In this case, an aging ex-stripper has landed on the front page of the New York Post where she discusses girl game: the female version of getting “what you want” from men, which in femspeak means getting love, money, attention and resources with, presumably, the ultimate goal being marriage. (Although you have to wonder about the kind of man who would be willing to pony up big bucks for a useless rock and ceremony to geld himself by marrying a road-worn and tossed away wet ex-stripper single mom with enough cock notches on her vagina wall to make it look like a gynecological cave painting.)

I don’t much write about girl game — aka The Rules — because it is, for the most part, ineffective relative to the thermonuclear game that girls already have at their disposal; namely, their youth and beauty. An ugly girl can run all the “girl game” she wants; it won’t make a lick of difference to her prospects. Conversely, a hot girl will often get what she wants without any girl game. In fact, girl game can actually hurt her chances with the alpha males she loves because those are the kinds of guys least affected, and most turned-off, by girl game machinations. Only in the middle where the average over-25 plain janes congregate can girl game help at the farthest margins, and then only by helping them snag betas who are more likely to fall for it.

With that in mind, let’s examine this whore’s recipe for dating bliss. First, here’s a look at her:

Not bad, not good. She has the tell-tale post-op tranny face that bespeaks a lifetime of pumping and getting dumped. That lifestyle tends to masculinize women. I wouldn’t pay her for a lap dance, but I would bang her for free. Once. With a kevlar condom.

So what does this broad “Diane Passage” have to say about girl game?

1. Show your confidence at all times — especially when you feel it the least. No one will ever know if this is true, but if you believe it, others will, too. A friend of mine who was a dancer at a club once gave me the advice to always enter a room “proud as a peacock” — stand up straight and move confidently. She worked in Las Vegas, where it’s highly competitive for any type of dancer or entertainer. She was a pretty girl, but average in comparison to other women. But wherever she walked — whether it was a club, casino or a grocery store — all eyes were on her.

Classic case of female projection. Women love confidence in men, so they think men must love the same in women. Nope. Confidence in women is neutral to their dating market value at best, and actively off-putting at worst. Most likely, this “confident”, “stands tall” Las Vegas girl she talks about has a big rack, and guys were staring at her jutting tits that she was thrusting outward.

Very shy girls who are pretty will arouse a deep, instinctive authoritarian desire in men to protect and sexually serve. Women don’t need to be loudmouths or assertive if they are cute. It helps, in fact, if they are a little effacing and deferential. A woman with *clinically* low self-esteem, (as distinct from nearly all women who are told they have low self-esteem but in actuality are full of themselves), can temper a man’s lust by slouching, mumbling and denigrating herself. Why? Because men will think she’s not interested.

2. I can create my own outcome and accomplish any goal. I like to set goals for anything — serious or ridiculous. I started doing this when I worked at the club; I’d set weekly income goals to help me stay focused and not get onto a downward spiral (which is typical for exotic dancers). Along the way I set fun goals — attending certain concerts, parties, etc. My most ridiculous goal? Hooking up with a certain male porn star. A friend of mine offered to buy the star for me for one night, but I declined. It’ll be far more satisfying to accomplish my goal on my own. Whether your goals are serious, fun or both — never think you can’t have it all!

New age, feelgood pablum. Worse than useless. This will encourage ugly, old and fat girls to avoid putting in the necessary work to make themselves more attractive to men. Newsflash, ladies: No, you can’t have it all. You can have what your best assets will bring you by maximizing their impact and minimizing the impact of your worst liabilities. Some liabilities, of course, are not mitigable. PS: Getting a male porn star to fuck you is not an accomplishment. Getting him to love you and commit to you is.

3. Slow and steady wins the race. While goals are important, you shouldn’t set unrealistic time limits to achieve them. People do crazy things under deadlines. An acquaintance of mine stalked a man because she was obsessed with getting married before the age of 35. Last year, she fell head over heels on one of her first dates. On Facebook, she saw he was looking forward to a sushi dinner at his favorite restaurant. My friend knew where to find him, because he’d mentioned the same restaurant on their date! So early in the evening, she planted herself at a table with a good view of the place. He showed up . . . with another date. This woman is seemingly sane otherwise. If she dropped the marriage deadline and just had fun dating, I bet she’d end up meeting her goal — without stalking!

This advice isn’t half bad as a way to avoid the worst mistakes women make. Women can quickly kill a sexy, fun vibe and drive an alpha man away by revealing their desperation on a first date. Or even during the first year of dating. (Beta men will stick around and suffer her desperation because they, too, are desperate.) As women don’t want to feel like sex objects, men don’t want to feel like commitment objects.

4. Every girl should know the basics of fishing and dog training. Several years ago, my son [ed: bastard spawn soon to be huffing paint under an overpass] took an interest in fishing. I had to learn, too, so I could help him with it. Little did I know that my basic fishing knowledge would end up serving me well in the world of romance! When dating, I like to try a fun and sporty approach. As the person who’s fishing, I’m able to lead my “fish,” so I have the advantage of getting what I want. My bait: smile, hair, makeup, clothing, stilettos and either legs or cleavage (never both at the same time). [ed: no, because that would be slutty. it's not like he'll think you're a skank when he hears about your stripper past and bastard sprog] My hook: a flirty, mysterious demeanor. When I “reel” a man in, that means I’m getting to know him. He always has the option to free himself from my “hook.” And I always have the option to throw him back into the dating sea. If I decide to keep my “fish,” then I switch to boundary-setting mode. I’ve trained a dog, raised a son and have been married twice to men who wanted nothing more than to make me happy [ed: if she's been married twice and is currently an unmarried single mom, then they weren't very interested in making her happy. nor was she interested in making them happy. and single women should take advice from her?]. I know how not to let a male dominate me. The one consistent thing for all types of men: consistent enforcement of boundaries and giving rewards when they deserve them.

It sounds like she ripped this nominal idea straight from the Chateau archives. Anyhow, what she is saying here is nothing new. She’s just repackaging the time-tested advice to women to look as good as possible to capture a man’s interest by trying to make it sound edgier with the comparison to dog training and fishing. And enforcement of boundaries? What does that even mean? Her boundaries have obviously been rodgered to complete permeability.

5. My wallet does not exist. It might sound like an outdated cliché, but if you’re a woman, you should never reach into your wallet while you’re in the presence of a man. Even if you’ve been married for years. Not only must a man pay for the main components of a date (dinner, etc.), but they must also take care of taxi fare, coat check and bathroom attendant tips. The woman who believes in this mantra is not a gold-digger or obligated to “return the favor.” The few times I’ve gone “dutch” on dates, it usually results in the man feeling emasculated because of it — or it means the guy has some sort of money hang-up. Can an emasculated guy or someone with issues give you what you want? Not for me!

How sweet. An old-fashioned stripper single mom. The worst of every world. Now here’s some real talk for the single women reading: the only men you’ll get by playing the role of whore golddigger are betas with few other options and rich men with harems and zero game, wit or charm. Don’t bet on the latter unless you’re smoking hot.

6. My presence is a gift. Know your value — and not in dollar amounts. Relationships are work — and work has value. Do the rewards of your relationship satisfy you? What do you want from your partner? I broke up with a guy (who my friends and I nicknamed “The Whiny Baby”) because he was too high-maintenance, emotionally. This wouldn’t have been a problem if he could have just provided a bit of emotional support in return. [ed: translation: he treated her like the worthless aging stripper single mom she is] I told him that, and he briefly turned into a decent boyfriend until becoming a whiny baby. I decided my time was too valuable and he had to go.

This reads like he dumped her and she’s rationalizing it as her decision. Allow me to clarify. Your presence is only a gift if you’re pleasing to look at. It is less of a gift if you think you look as good at 35 as you did at 25, and you are saddled with kid baggage from another man. (This is starting to sound like a broken record. But it needs to be said, over and over, apparently.)

7. Allow your man to believe he is in charge. Men like to play the dominant role in relationships, so why not encourage the fantasy? This summer, I was with a man who was sensitive about women using him for his money. He watched me like a hawk, so my usual tactics were no good. But he was open to spending extravagantly at charity events, fine restaurants and so on. So I invited him to my friends’ events and establishments — where he was free to spend money — and I remained quiet and pretty, as he required me to be.

She’s contradicting herself. Above she says she does not allow men to dominate her. Here, she says she encourages men to dominate her. Oh, but of course she couches it in terms of “letting him feel like” he is dominating her. Hair-splitting. He’s either making the decisions, giving her orders and demanding she look pretty and remain quiet, or he’s not. Leave it to a single mom stripper to vomit whatever ill-conceived toddler babbling happens to scoot across her gyrating frontal lobe.

Not that there isn’t some substance to the advice to placate a man’s desire to dominate. A woman who constantly battles a man for dominance is an unloved woman. Men don’t respond on a visceral level to those kinds of women. And it works the other direction, too: men who renege on their duty to dominate are often pushed around and unloved by the women in their lives.

8. As a woman, it’s my right to act bitchy on occasion. When a man first approaches me, I’m icy cold and dismissive. The weak men leave. The ones who are up for a challenge stick around and show their charm and wit, and may land a date. Refer to mantra No. 4 (dog training) — along with boundaries, give rewards when due — leading to mantra No. 6 (value). A woman’s time, smile and interest are valuable and can be rewarded to the man who deserves her attention. Being icy or lukewarm at first also maintains an element of mystery. In addition, refer to mantra No. 5 (woman never pays). A man does not deserve a woman’s phone number without buying her and her friend(s) a drink, not to mention paying their entire bar tab.

Any man who buys a girl *and* her yakking yenta friends drinks, and pays their entire bar tab, just to get her precious, gold-plated number, is, by definition, an emasculated, hopeless beta who has the masturbation stamina of ten men. I doubt very much this skank ho would respect, let alone desire, such a man.

Mostly, what she writes here in point #8 is a rewording of the conventional wisdom that a woman who puts out too easily will harm her chance to get men to commit to her. (Leave aside her admonition to be bitchy. That’s not advice. It’s just a recognition that hot chicks will shit test men to discern their alphaness.) There is some truth in the CW. Beta and alpha men alike subconsciously downgrade loose women from potential girlfriend material to funtime sluts. But a woman has to carefully walk that tightrope; too much coyness, playing hard-to-get and bitchiness, and the alpha males of her dreams will quickly find sweeter and moister pastures. Too little, and they will relegate her to fuckbuddy status. And herein lies the main problem with “girl game”:

Girl game is effective at manipulating exactly the kinds of men women desire the least.

Horny, desperate betas — not sexually satisfied alphas — are the ones who will allow themselves to be toyed with by scheming girls. If those are the men you want, ladies, you can’t go wrong listening to the dating advice of a washed-up wednesday night stripper single mom.

Luckily for us men, game — real game — is just what the best looking girls crave.

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So sad, so tragic, the inevitable slide into sexual worthlessness that accompanies women, the withering tick tock of the cosmic clock stripping their beauty in flayed bits of soulletting mignons like psychological ling chi. A sadistic thief in the night etching, billowing, draping and sagging a new affront to her most preciously guarded asset. The comfort of her children, if she has them, acting as meager respite from the awful realization that she has been sucked dry of her whimsy and power.

But enough of that merriment. Sinead O’Connor, the Irish singer who ripped up a picture of the Pope and sweetly sang a remake of a Prince ballad, and who was, not so long ago despite the shock of her change in appearance, cute enough to bang even with her boyishly short hairstyle, has hit the wall hard enough to cause even Wile E. Coyote to wince in pain. The evidence:

Then:

And now (20 years later):

Pixie? No. Not anymore. BIXIE.

Some of you tenderhearted sorts might be tempted to ask why I am torturing a poor woman who has to endure pain enough ensconced in her deteriorating shell. Steady on, bugle boys. I might have a sadistic streak, but I don’t select my targets without some justification which makes the torture that much more pleasurable to inflict. Good old Sinead, fat and unhappy, has an internet blog, of all things!, wherein she laments her lack of a sex life and basically puts out a personal ad for a man to come rescue her from her celibate dreariness. The incomprehensible catch? She makes a list of demands for the type of man she wants.

Complaining of a lack of intimacy in recent times, O’Connor writes on her blog: “My shit-uation sexually/affectionately speaking is so dire that inanimate objects are starting to look good as are inappropriate and/or unavailable men and/or inappropriate and/or unavailable fruits and vegetables. I tell you yams are looking like the winners.”

“Needless to say what I do for a living makes it hard for me to find men that only want me cuz they like my (legendary) arse. Yet I am in the peak of my sexual prime [Ed: No, you're not.] and way too lovely [Ed: No, you're not.] to be living like a nun. and it’s VERY depressing.” [Ed: Yes, it is.]

So she’s taken action but O’Connor is not looking for just any man. She specifically wants a middle-aged, sweet, sex-starved man – who doesn’t use hair product, lives in Ireland, loves his mother… There’s a host of stipulations for O’Connor’s would-be sex partners.

Sinead, spinhead, spinster, Irish Lassie, lumpentits… have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re in no position to make ANY kind of demands on men. You should thank your LUCKY FUCKING STARS if you get a homeless, piss-stained BUM to stick it in your distended flabby sowhole.

It’s this sort of insistently aggressive delusion, so common amongst the aging cougar crowd, fat harpies and single moms, that pings my target designation flaydar. This is the kind of bullheaded clown steeped in pretty lies who serves as an excellent test case to be made example of for the benefit of younger, more sensible women who might be teetering on the brink of bad life decisions. You could almost… almost… say I’m a humanitarian.

Let me be clear, if I haven’t already. Ladeeeeez, listen up. When you look more like post-wall Sinead and less like pre-wall Sinead (see above), it’s time for you to ratchet down your lists of demands in men. Any man you manage to get, if you get any, won’t meet them. They won’t even come close to meeting them. I understand it gives you some psychological comfort to pretend you have standards in the face of your horrible disfigurement at the cruel hands of father time, but actually living by those ridiculous standards instead of just hypocritically mouthing them to rock yourself to sleep at night is NOT going to land you a man of any semi-respectable character, intelligence, wit or looks. If anything, such strict adherence will consign you to lifelong celibacy. The men you will find attractive, quite bluntly, won’t find you attractive. At all. You will be worse than invisible to them. You will be repulsive. A monster to avoid or mock.

The time for women to nurse a list of exorbitant demands in the men they date is when they are young, slender and cute. By young, I mean under 25. By slender, I mean BMI 17-23. By cute, I mean the top half of the women in this post. If any of those ingredients are missing, women need to slacken their demands in accordance with the degree to which they veer from the feminine ideal. So if you are old, fat and ugly, the only demand you can make of men and reasonably hope to achieve is that he isn’t a corpse. Even then, it’s a tough sell.

Sinead is an especially illustrative wall splat, as her entitlement complex, rivaling that of kings and queens, is a classic case of projection. She is attracted to men with fame and power, and so she thinks men will be attracted to women with fame and power. She has fame (loosely defined) and thinks that men will love her for it. This is the worst life station that can befall the single cougar: to have the trappings of male attractiveness with none of the trappings of female attractiveness. On paper and in thrall to their hamsters, these powerful older women think they deserve the best. In the reality of the sexual marketplace, they are the forgotten femmes of yesteryear, cavalierly shoved aside by men with options for the younger, prettier girls of their fervid dreams.

But it gets better:

And further posts [from Sinead] brought more. Prospective lovers can be lesbian; may even, she conceded, be christened Brian or Nigel; but anal sex is non-negotiable.

“Any man I contemplate has to be into anal sex …  let me now take time to make VERY clear that yes I ‘do anal’ and in fact I would be deeply unhappy if ‘doing anal’ wasn’t on the menu, amongst everything else$ So if u don’t like ‘the difficult brown’.. Don’t apply.”

When I think of the joys of anal, it’s a cute, young chick whose silky smooth back passage I’m violating. If I wanted to trek through a dank forest and hack away at thick underbrush with a machete while the stench of rotting carcass meat singed my nostril hairs, I’d sooner travel to the Amazon than Sinead O’Connor’s ass.

But I can understand why Sinead has highlighted this demand of hers. Naturally, as women age, they become more willing to experiment with all manner of sexual kink. It’s totally predictable. When you don’t have your cute looks to trade in on anymore, you have to make up the shortfall with some other, usually less intriguing, enticement, like a willingness to lodge your ass into a bottomless hammock and swing onto a dildo machine for the amusement of your loser lover.

I do wonder, though, if the Chateau message is starting to infiltrate the borg collective; if perhaps a great cougar awakening is upon us. An aging single mom writes a blog honestly appraising her low SMV and the Darwinian brutality of the dating market for women like herself.

‘I always had boyfriends when I was younger and assumed I would again after James was born,’ she says. ‘When he  was three, I started chatting online. These chats were fun — and sometimes quite flirty — but if I ever suggested  we meet, the men would often back  off, saying they were not looking for a relationship.’

A dozen or so dates followed over the years, none of them quite right. When she last registered with an online dating site she was 44 — and few men made contact. ‘Forty is a huge cut-off point for a lot of men,’ Ruthie explains. ‘There was just one I met and we had a fantastic evening. I was surprised afterwards when he didn’t get in touch.

‘Six months later, he did contact me. It turned out he’d seen some other women when he saw me and gone on to have brief relationships with them. When those relationships failed, he came back to me and I just felt, “He’ll be off again”, so I didn’t pursue it.’

Youch. This is the kind of crappy male behavior a woman on the downslope of her attractiveness and saddled with bastard spawn can expect from the men she wants to date. It won’t get better if she insists on only dating men she finds attractive. It will only get worse. Men with options simply won’t treat has-been single moms as well as they will treat already-is hot young childless babes. That is, if they deign to treat them with anything but callous indifference. More younger women need to hear stories like hers. It could save a lot of potential heartache.

And then there’s this online evidence for an awakening among older women.

Katie Sheppard, the director of relationships at Match.com, said online dating was now the second most common way couples met across the UK – behind being introduced by friends or family – and for older people it can be a perfect way to “dip a toe back into dating”.

Its research shows that dating is, especially for divorced women, fraught with complication, anxiety and worry. Looking for second-time love when children are a first priority is a challenge. Nicola Lamond, Netmums spokeswoman and mother, said: “Being a single parent can be pretty tough. Single parents describe themselves as lonely, isolated, vulnerable and worthless. There is a real sense their world has shrunk.”

There is a sense their world has shrunk… because it has.

Even Sinead has a hope of coming around to sensibility on her sexual obsolescence.

“Fire-men, rugby players, and Robert Downey-Junior will be given special consideration. As will literally anyone who applies.”

Sometimes, you just can’t give the stuff away for free.

Now is the time to take the message of this blog global. To ostracize the rigidly denialist feminists and to cajole the merely confused into the light of wisdom. To, in a word, increase the sum total of happiness in the world.

It beats listening to me gloat ‘I told ya so’.

ps:

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Reader whorefinder remembers a tragic story from his past.

Story time: you’ve all heard of Coyote Ugly, the bar in New York City? Many of you who are above 25 remember there was movie about it, which, unfortunately, turned out to be a beta-male-chick-flick as opposed to the semi-porno it should have been. Such a waste…

Anyway, I live in NYC, and have frequented the bar many times over the last 10 years or so. And this is the sad story.

You see, there’s a redheaded bartender who’s worked there since I started going. We’ve chatted a few times over the years, but nothing more–like a good bartender, she remembers my face when I come in, but she wouldn’t know me from Adam if I walked by on the street.

Now, we’re the same age. I started going around age 22, which was, coincidentally, the same year she started working there.

Back then, I couldn’t buy a date. A beta at heart, I marveled at the hot women at Coyote Ugly (hot in a roadhouse skank way) shaking their asses all over the place. The redhead, at the time, was in her physical prime. While not the best looking, her body was banging: slim, curvy, and elastic. She gave off that crazy-fuck vibe like something else. Danced like a motherfucker, looked like a poor man’s angel.

Now I know she was a skank, because each time I moseyed in, I saw a new guy with her. He’d sit down the end of the bar, bored, but occasionally, when no one was looking, she’d give him a kiss. In my early-to-mid 20’s, sad to say, I closed out Coyote Ugly and other bars way too often, and yet still went home alone to punch the clown. And the redhead would, monthly, be leaving with a new dude to get fucked by.

As I grew, matured, and, most importantly, developed game, I actually started to have success with women, and places like Coyote Ugly and strip clubs became distant memories for me, only to be visited for nostalgia, boredom, or shits-and-giggles when buddies are in town. I can pick up a hotter woman now much easier than spending $60-$100 to watch a whorish one be a cocktease to me and feed me bullshit. This is what game does—changes your perspective on everything, makes you disdain what you once would have given an arm for.

Those times I did roll into Coyote Ugly, the redhead would invariably be around. I found out from a bouncer she eventually became the bar manager, hence her hanging around even if not working behind the bar. But her look changed, too.

Years of hard drinking (Coyote girls often drink with the guys, although they invariably will get you to drink way more than them to push up your bill) and smoking outside gave her deposits of fat on her once-pristine body. Years of having a new cock every night left her face haggard, old, and tired, even when she faked a smile. Years of bad food from late night shit shops left her unable to speedplow through dance routines on the bar she once cut like a young farmer in summer. Years of screaming to the bar to “make some noise” and one too many bummed nicotine sticks left her voice low, deep, and gravelly—like the welfare queens you might hear on COPS.

She knew it, too. When she began, she dressed in a bikini top and short, short shorts almost every time I saw her (or ass-tight leather pants). Then, as she withered, she dressed more conservatively (at least for a wannabe roadhouse bar)—longer shorts and looser pants, to the point her tops were more “Jersey Girl out in the 1980’s” than Coyote Ugly. She took to wearing a short sleeve button down when going out for a smoke and then “forgetting” to take it off behind the bar. She wasn’t in denial—just trying to hide Father Time’s and Mother Bad Decision’s abusive marks.

I went in there the other night with a 25 year old Russian hottie I’m banging, for the first time in a year. And saw the redhead. Now 31, her face is permanently jowly from the screaming, nicotine, fatty food, and cocks. She’s well on her way to obesity, and doesn’t even bartend any more, even as a fill in—just a manager. Her once strawberry red hair, which was light and airy, is now stringy, greasy, and worn from one too many guys yanking on it. She even has stretch marks—apparently, she had a kid.

When I walked in with hottie, she was sitting at the edge of the bar, encouraging the new girls to act as she did once, when spring was in her step. She looked up at me and her eyes flickered two painful emotions: recognition of my face, and shame. She was shamed by me, a man who once probably openly salivated at her but was too shy to do anything about it, standing there, now confident, brazen, and cocksure, arm around the waist of a girl ten times hotter than her—and also knowing that I remembered her when she could stop a clock. Now, the only thing that stops for her is a bus.

Long story. I think I’ll cross post at my site.

Somewhere in the readership, a trashy, loudmouthed, has-been skank who spent one too many years walking the trail of pecker tears just cried at her reflection in the mirror.

Cautionary tale, ladies. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

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On this Father’s Day, it makes to sense to honor the lives of men who have forsaken the path of beta domestication, fat mortgages and fat wives to live the swinging single life of the harem king.

Hugh Grant, middle-aged alpha male, canoodles with one two seven college coeds. His face is the picture of unbridled joy. This is one happy man. You will never see this kind of blissed-out look on the faces of men married for years to the same aging wives. Only young, fresh pussy can inspire such a glow.

The photo comes from an article by a 40-something careerist spinster who bemoans the fact that she can’t find love with the men she wants. In her words:

when I look around at my girlfriends – bright, attractive, successful, fabulous women in their 40s who are single – I sincerely begin to wonder: Is there even one solvent, kind, desirable, heterosexual single man in his 40s left in Britain?

My friends and I have a horrible suspicion that the answer is no.

The topic was much debated when I went on a detox holiday in Morocco at Easter with nine single women, ranging in age from mid-30s to late-40s and all looking for love.

At first I thought it would be an oestrogen-infused nightmare, but as I got to know the women, all well-educated and successful (including bankers, a lawyer, a top fashion buyer, a media executive and an art historian), we bonded over our inability to find our male match.

Some of the bankers confessed to resorting to affairs with married men at work, which was depressing, but mostly we concluded we were unable to find what we were looking for because like-minded men of our age didn’t exist.

Like most delusional, over-educated termagants, she believes her accomplishments and intelligence — those things that are more naturally suited to the domain of men — entitle her to a fabulously successful, good-looking and kind alpha male in his 40s. She is heartbroken to discover that most men her age want nothing to do with her, or her similarly situated klatsch of Cosmo readers. One of her friends moans:

My friend Lizzie, a 43-year-old art director, says it was a real surprise to start dating at 40 after her marriage ended.

‘I’ve always had boyfriends before, but I’ve been single for three years now, as I’m not so attractive a proposition any more. I’ve had a child and have responsibility, which these immature men of our age see as terrifying baggage – which is hypocritical when many of them have ex-wives who are bringing up their kids.’

Yes, the reason could only be “immaturity” why men don’t want to date aging single moms. Maybe the reason why men “see” your kid from a previous marriage as baggage is because… wait for it…

it is baggage!

The hamster is in overdrive in this one, his wee tongue hanging out, gasping for breath, the axel on his wheel coming off.

The author has even coined a cleverless gibe to describe these age appropriate men who dare to follow their hearts and date much younger women: “kidults”. She wonders why these older men — who BY RIGHTS should be dating HER, don’t you know it’s how things are done in polite society — treat her with such perfunctory disdain and act as if they are the prize. Well, lady, I got news for ya. When you have aged out of your prime attractiveness years (15-25), the men you want to date ARE the prize, compared to you.

On and on she bitches, with one insult after another hurled at the impertinent men who dare to pass her over for the younger, hotter competition. “Misogynist”. “Hateful”. “Arrogant”. “Vile presumption”. “Secretly hate women”. “Dysfunctional”. Such a colorful repertoire of psychological projection to soothe the butthurt ego. Unfortunately for her, the cold machinations of the sexual marketplace do not operate by adjectival decree. No, the answer why she goes unloved by the men she desires is much, much simpler:

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A lot of older men in the comments of this blog complain that they find the frivolity, shit testing and emotional demands of younger women too frustrating to tolerate, so they nix entire groups of women from their target designation list. As one who has dated plenty of crazy whimsical women and enjoyed their company, I can’t wholly commiserate with these men who avoid younger women, but I can understand the reason for their gripes. Compared to women over 30, younger women are a pain in the ass. But they’re also fun and exciting and girlishly feminine and lovesick and sweetly naive and horny and curious and submissive and romantic. And they have perfectly unwrinkled tight asses. There’s your primary trade-off: PITA for PUTA.

However, there is a way around this conundrum. You could date low energy younger women. There is a sizable minority of early to mid-20s women who aren’t high maintenance drama queens. You’ll have to screen for them, but they are out there. They don’t dance on bars or shamelessly flirt, because they find those activities mentally taxing. They won’t constantly shit test because their minds require more peaceful repose than the party girls. They don’t make demands to be entertained because they don’t get easily bored with life. They don’t get antsy sitting still or enduring more than five minutes without male attention because they’re comfortable residing in their own world. They’re certainly cute enough to do all those things, but they don’t because it doesn’t suit their temperament.

The Man Who Was… writes:

I’ve said it before, both the best and the worst younger women like to date older men. On the one hand are the golddiggers and the girls who will indiscriminatly fuck anyone who makes them horny at that moment. On the other hand there are the girls who honestly appreciate your maturity.

But let’s face it the younger a woman is the flakier and more drama laden she is likely to be.

No argument there. Flakiness is very age-dependent. Teens and early 20s girls are the flakiest, then it falls off through the 20s, has a second, but smaller, peak again late 20s up to just past 30, and finally nosedives into and beyond the 30s when no man who isn’t a complete loser will put up with dating a 30+ woman who still flakes. (Sane women intuitively know this, too, which is why older women are so agreeable when you first meet them.)

Flakiness is just another term for having a wealth of options. Or, in the case of the 30 year old single careerist, having a mental breakdown. A woman of 21 simply has more options in the dating market than her older self at 31, and vastly more options than her 41 year old self. Finally, at around 50 years old for most women, their options dwindle to whatever man will have them. Which is close to zero. Paging Naomi Wolf…

So a flake is really just a hindbrain burp from a hot young woman who is beset with male admiration. She flakes because she is uncertain about choosing from amongst many potential suitors. It’s the beautiful agony of nearly limitless choice within a limited time frame.

Here’s another good thing about dating low energy younger women: they age slower than their attention whore counterparts. This must be related to a telomere sparing metabolic thing. Corollary: If you want to know how well your girlfriend will hold up should you decide to marry her, ask her when she hit puberty. In my observation, late bloomers are also late wilters.

The downside to dating low energy younger women? Your game will inevitably… ahem… soften. You need those dramatic hamster chicks to keep your game in tip top shape.

“I am a wiltin’ flowaahhh.”
- Naomi Wolf in her terrifying nightmares

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