Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘Psy Ops’ Category

Do whites living in the West have a right to bitch about anti-white hatred? You bet. As PA clarifies in a comment over at GLPiggy,

In order to function normally, to keep a good mood, one has to intentionally blind himself to the organizing principle of the very society he lives in: White genocide.

I’ll occasionally feel its sting in a comment by Elk, or blogger THRASYMACHUS, a gentle-souled, thoughtful writer who relays observations from the edge. I can’t get Kayla Peterson out of my thoughts. Or, every time there is an internet article about schools, you see the cherubic faces of black kids, like a scene form Ghana rather than America — except when Yahoo posts “America’s Worst Schools” — you get a photo of white kids.

Hate fills any human being who opens his eyes to the horror and the humiliation of whites. Emma West’s ordeal — on that train with the animals growling at her and her little son, and then under the British police state.

And to stay sane, one looks away because there is not a thing he can do about any of this.

What PA is framing is what CH calls the “parade of humiliations”. Like the tactics of totalitarian communism before it, anti-white ideology thrives in part by its inquisitors visiting upon the victims an endless succession of humiliations. It’s not enough to propagandize with lies; the subject must be coerced to suffer the lies in silence, to accede to the primacy of the lies, and even to intone the lies as if they were the truth. Economic and social terrorism break the heart and mind, but humiliation breaks the soul.

Let there be no mistaking what this parade of humiliations is: It is a war of hate, psychologically bloody if not yet physically bloody. The aggressors — the ruling elite and their useful Section Hate shock troops — despise whites, despise the concept of whiteness, and despise especially the idea that the territory and nation and culture from which they parasitically suck the lifeblood was created and sustained primarily by white men.

A parade of humiliations is a nefarious elite and a gullible bureaucratic class importing thousands of Somalis and dumping them in whitest Minnesota, where they multiply on the generosity of their host’s welfare largesse and then aggressively oust from power the very benefactors who opened doors to them.

A parade of humiliations is a disingenuous promise by condescending moralizers to fellow citizens that wildly foreign immigrant pawns will easily assimilate to local norms of conduct, and that any difficulty encountered during the assimilation process is proof that the natives have not been sufficiently welcoming and must be reeducated in the goodness of their displacers and the badness of their own self-consideration.

A parade of humiliations is a subhuman beast with an extensive criminal history free on probation by a sympathetic system, coldly gunning down a retiree in his home. The beast, shot through with demonic hatred, lied about needing assistance and exploited his prey’s naivete and magnanimous responsiveness. This incident in form and intent is a microcosm of the overarching assault on white America.

A parade of humiliations is the mass media studiously ignoring to the best of its plausible deniability the above stories of whites churned to bits by the anti-white death machine while trumpeting to the high heavens as vile hate crimes hoaxes targeted at whites.

A parade of humiliations is exiling from society any whites who dare notice their debasement.

Elite leftoid status whoring is all fun and games when nobody is the wiser and the costs are too diffuse to measure by endorsed economic formulae. But now the pain bites, and the parade of insults grates. The people on the sidewalks dumbly acquiescing to participation in their disparagement feel something they haven’t felt in a long time…

Rage.

Read Full Post »

We sat in a window box of the cafe. Warming sunlight marched through and glittered off her black hair. As I spoke absent-mindedly about a girl I loved whom I recently lost, barely comprehending in my stream of consciousness that I was airing my inner thoughts, a sunshaft grazed her cheek and I saw that she was silently crying. Two soft tears traced slowly downward, framed within an expressionless face. The effect hit me hard, not because it was the first time I made a woman cry from sheer carelessness, but because her tears were so incongruent with her personality. She was an Ivy-educated business consultant, easily turning six figures, ambitious, sure of herself in ways she thought mattered, and to the undiscerning eye cold and opaque.

She was also pretty, but the timing of our fling threw her orbit away from mine. Pleasing enough, she regrettably didn’t press my buttons like my recent ex-girlfriend had. And so, when she earnestly pried for my truest feelings, she received in return the fate of suffering reckless confessions she didn’t want to hear. My emotions were raw, and I unloaded on her callously as she took my strafe on every flank. Not meaning to hurt her, I had, and every time we had sex since then, over the following weeks, it ended with her tucking her knees under her chin naked on the bed to quietly cry into the wrapped bubble of her body.

When my one-sided conversation with the cosmos had finished, and her tears had shocked me back to empathy and guilt, she choked out a tiny utterance that I’ll never forget. A simple, endearing question: “So you really liked this girl?” Imagine for a moment the excruciating hollowness of unreciprocated longing that the friendzoned beta male feels as he patiently abides his love’s encomiums to another man. Women can feel this way, too.

I crashed back into her presence. Now all I could think was making amends and, truthfully, a part of me wanted to preserve for a while longer the usefulness of her distractive adoration in my time of need.

“Yes.”

I surprised myself at the forthrightness of my answer. Quickly recalibrating, “…but I could see it coming, so maybe it’s all for the best.”

She coaxed a crooked smile, but I had sunk her. She knew in that bright cafe that we would never be more together than a pleasurable temporary escape. Already approaching thirty, the weight of it landed in the breadbasket of her soul.

These stories locked in time offer lessons for times yet to come. What I had unknowingly, accidentally, obliviously, and with quite sincere effort done to this woman was run an extreme version of Disqualification Game on her. That confessional about my recent ex, the sincerity with which I expressed my confusion and unresolved desire, the indifference to how it might be received by present company, sent my replacement lover into a tailspin. She felt stronger love for me at the same time she felt the sadness of our inevitable, arriving end. Thus, our sex life carried on while her tears flowed heavier with accumulating grief.

What was accidental can be made intentional for one’s personal advantage. “I’ll always have this thing for my ex” Extreme Disqualification Game can, if delivered without a hint of manipulative urgency (almost as an afterthought), greatly increase a woman’s attraction to you. She’ll see herself as the one who can make it better, or steal your heart away, if you’re careful to stop just short of killing her hope outright. You’ll be a challenge too irresistible to some women, especially women with options, and if you parcel your redirected romance into hamster-sized pellets that make her feel as if she’s slowly winning you over, you’ll have from her a love that can transcend all other arid considerations women tend to autonomically jot down on dating profiles or personal ads.

Read Full Post »

A common dramatic license in fictional thrillers is the sudden exit of the main character, usually a powerful man, from a scene of heightening intimacy with a woman. He gives no reason why he has to leave, but the viewer knows, or it is implied, that he leaves to rendezvous with his mysterious employer or otherwise shady characters to do business. This disappearing act, naturally, leaves the woman in a state of frustrated, and aroused, curiosity.

This trope taps ancient female longings for a heroic man with a sense of duty who must travel to faraway lands to fight an enemy, pursue a passion, or reach an enlightenment. A man who can tear himself away from a woman, from her trite domestic concerns, to “do what compels him”, becomes an exotic archetype to the woman. His desirability is stamped in the psyche of every woman from an early time in human evolution, when leaders of men gathered hunting parties and left the women and babes behind.

The modern seducer can capture the allure of the disappearing act for himself. Imagine you’re on a date with a woman who, you intuit, has one foot in and one foot out. She’s beautiful, and she’s unfailingly inscrutable. You try an arsenal of game tactics, but nothing sticks. To bag this trophy baby you’ll need a bigger tingle bomb. That’s when you reach for your phone, briefly scan the screen, make a phony excuse — “I have to meet with someone important” —  and be gone. Don’t loiter to parry her questions. If she presses, tell her you’ll call her tomorrow, and that you’re sorry you can’t divulge more, and you understand her frustration. Your exit must be fluid and definitive.

Beautiful women expect men to lavish them with attention, and to extend as long as possible the time spent with such women. They are right to expect this effortful courtship, since most men rarely break from the script. Therefore, the man who executes Disappearing Act Game immediately catapults himself into the frantic consciousness that characterizes a sexually fixated woman.

A few clarifications. Disappearing Act Game is dynamite, to be used sparingly, and only on those women with whom the seduction process has tediously stalled. If you’re at a woman’s place, and she’s smiling and tipping back a glass of wine, it would be stupid to suddenly leave when the probability of crack fracking is high. Too, it would be self-defeating to walk out on a date when she’s dropping nonverbal hints of her rising attraction. In pickup lingo, Disappearing Act Game is a nuclear version of the game tactic known as the takeaway; you’re leaving her not just for a few seconds, or even a few hours, but for a whole day, and under enticingly obscure circumstances.

I’ve used Disappearing Act Game ten or fifteen times in my life, if you want a handle on the proper frequency of deployment. It’s best used on very beautiful women who routinely date high status men, and with whom you’d seriously consider a long-term romance. Timing is important; disappearing after the first hello isn’t going to accrue much to your value. Maximum hamster impact is achieved after she’s gotten somewhat comfortable in your company, and a groundwork of intimacy has been built. She has to be a little bit invested in you to feel the loss of your quick exit.

You, for your part, must have a deep reserve of self-control to initiate the Leaving Protocol. Most men reading this post now don’t have it; you will think about leaving on a whim, you may even have at the ready an erotically charged excuse to leave, but her pretty face will keep you stuck in her orbit. To disappear with conviction, you have to be firmly committed to seeing your exit through the back door. Her eyes will look up at you, suddenly liquid with confusion and spiked interest, and it will test the last ounce of your will to sever your precious, if illusory, spatial bond to her. Stay the course. The only bond that matters in a woman’s heart is the one you caulk in her cock vault.

A final tip: What really helps gird your will to disappear like a phantom is having another girl in your dating rotation. Two in the kitty isn’t just a cad’s mission statement; it’s psychological leverage.

Read Full Post »

Does this post title sound like a paradox? It is to virgin ears which have yet to hear the Rude Word of CH. But once again ♥science♥ waltzes onto the Chateau ballroom floor to plant a giant wet kiss on the stubbled cheek of your e’er ‘umble host and announce with stentorian resolve that “Aloof Indifference Game” is real and it works.

Erin Whitchurch and her colleagues conducted a study on 47 female undergraduates to find out. Each woman was told that several male students had viewed her Facebook profile and rated how much he’d like to get to know her.

One group was told that they would be seeing the four men who had given them the highest ratings (“liked-most” condition). Another group of women were told that they would be seeing the four men who had given them average ratings (“liked-average” condition. Finally, another group of women (“the uncertain condition”) were told that it is unknown how much the guy likes her. The women then viewed four fictitious Facebook profiles of attractive male college students.

After they viewed the profiles, they reported their mood and rated multiple aspects of their attraction to the male students (e.g., “someone I would hook up with“). The participants then rated their mood again, and also reported the extent to which thoughts about the men had “popped into their head” during the prior 15 minutes.

They found evidence for the reciprocity principle: women liked the men more when they were led to believe that the men liked them a lot compared to when they thought the men liked them an average amount.

Women in the uncertain condition, however, were most attracted to the men. Women also reported thinking about the men the most in the uncertain condition, and there was tentative evidence that the effect of uncertainty on attraction was explained by the frequency of their thoughts. In other words, it wasn’t the uncertainty per se that was attractive but the thoughts it induced.

Interestingly, women in the liked-best condition were in a more positive mood than women in the liked-average condition, but women in the uncertain condition were no different in mood than women in the liked-best condition. Women felt just as positive under uncertainty as they did knowing for sure the guy liked her!

When women think of assholes they don’t want to date, they’re thinking of caring assholes. The kind of men who are clingy, mate guarding buffoons. The assholes who are loved by women are the men whose jerkitude is implied through emotional distance, cocksureness, outcome independence, and inscrutability. The man who cares least earns the most love (and sex) from women. The gradient of this Uncaring Male-Loving Female curve is steep at the beginning of a relationship (courtship, dating) and levels off as the relationship deepens, to a point where the man’s SMV is noticeably higher than his lover’s and she is practically begging for romantic beta signs of his continued love and commitment.

The Uncaring Male-Loving Female curve is also dependent on the comparative sexual worth of the partners. A beautiful woman with a lot of options will be more attracted to romantically ambivalent men. In contrast, an ugly woman with few options will need and feel grateful for conspicuous signals of sexual and romantic interest from men.

As a man with game, you should always default to the Uncaring Male-Loving Female dynamic. If you overshoot, you have room to rein your indifference and bedaub the woman with tiny jewels of romantic intent; if you overshoot in the other direction — i.e., you lavish too much beta wooing on a woman — there’s no chance to come back from that category error.

Interestingly, psychologists are coming around to the CH theoretical (and field-tested) framework that the frequency and amplitude of “care least” courtship and dating rituals are increasing. Women, at least those in the highly sexually charged ruthouses of our major anonymizing cities, are responding more to aloof men, and are themselves mechanistically cranking the reverse gears of their pair-bonding algorithms. There are a host of reasons for this state of arid affairs, but one major factor has to be something like this: Women have become as men, and the flipped sexual polarity is warping every incentive structure of the dating market.

We’re tits-deep in the era of men and women competing like cheap date gladiators for the honor of most invulnerable animatronic ego maximizer.

One thing for certain: In this environment women are unhappy, society loses, and men with game win. Because if it’ll be about nothing but banging with piston-like efficiency and avoiding romantic entanglements, men will clean up the arena with the battered husks of women’s egos.

Read Full Post »

The Wreck of the Beta Male Cuckold, sung to the tune of:

The legend lives on from the Left Coast on down
of the beta they called “Cuckold Freddie.”
The cuck, it is said, sits alone near the bed
when the thighs of his wife spread to darkies.
With a load of mandingo twenty inches more flaccid
than the Beta Male Cuckold at full chubby,
that goon man and true worked his bone black and blue
when his wife and her lover slapped uglies.

The cuck was the pride of the 4channer side
coming back from some brony convention.
As the big betas go, he was fatter than most
with manboobs and a belly in tension,
concluding some terms with his wife of 12 years
when they agreed to bring in an “acquaintance”.
And later that night when his wife’s gina danced,
could it be the lost tingle they’d been missin’?

The suck in her snatch made a tattle-tale sound
and a tremor broke over her vulva.
And ev’ry man knew, as Freddie did too
’twas the twitch of desire come on her.
The dusk came late and his wife couldn’t wait
for the big dicked intruder to come over.
When all three were there he called himself “Bear”
as his wife pressed her hand in his crotch bulge.

When sexytime came the sad cuck came to bed sayin’
“Fellas, I’d like to now join ya.”
But in his wife’s eyes he saw his demise,
And she snapped, “Go wait in the kitchen!”
The cuckold bemoaned he heard sex noise comin’ in
through the walls two rooms wide clear as ever.
And later that night as his wife screamed delight
came the wreck of the Beta Male Cuckold.

Does anyone know where a proud atheist goes
when his wife’s moans turn the minutes to hours?
The cisgenders say he’d have kept his wife tame
if he hadn’t leased her out like a street whore.
They might have split up or they might have hate fucked;
but at least Freddie’s shame would be no more.
But all Freddie hears through his hot beta tears
is, “put a gag in his mouth so he won’t direct”.

Cuckold suffering tolls, Hypergamy sings
in the rooms of Freddie’s Mountain Dew mansion.
Bear’s black mamba creams in his wife’s wet vajeen;
Her asshole and mouth are for Bear’s fun.
And farther below, Freddie’s marital ho
takes in what Bear’s privilege can send her,
And Freddie will know as all swinging alphas know
it’s two women-one man not the inverse.

In a musty old hovel in a basement he prayed,
in the “Beta Male Cuckolds’ Cathedral.”
The blade shimmered twice as he sliced quick lengthwise
for the dignity that Freddie surrendered.
The legend lives on from the Left Coast on down
of the beta they call “Cuckold Freddie.”
“A sperm puddle,” they said, “dripped from his wife’s cleft
and ’twas that ended Freddie’s life early!”

***

A tip o’ the fedora to these plucky gents for digging up the pastiche of true stories this song is based on.

The original:

ps yeah, i know this is closer to omega male territory, but poetic license demanded the use of beta.

Read Full Post »

Occasionally, barely concealed incipient concern trolls will ask why CH gives so much shit to obstreperous fatties instead of just leaving them to their moribund misery.

The answer — besides a vigorous reminder that CH is not a camp of saints — is that loud and proud fatso promoters deliver a caustic, soul destroying message that will increase the total amount of ugliness and unhappiness in the world should women reading their lies start to believe them. Fat apologist feminists who insist on writing manifestos excusing or rationalizing or glorifying their fatness, or slandering anti-fat crusaders, will get, and do very much deserve, both barrels of the shivgun. Call it environmental activism. Call it the penile erection protection program.

Lies must be met with truth. Ideally, that truth comes packaged in stylistic ordnance that explodes in a shower of entertaining dazzle for fence-sitting gawkers and liquidates the central processing egos of the blubbery lie machines. Utterly annihilated, their demolecularized fatty essence scattered to the wind, the suffering fat chick (and it’s almost always a chick claiming fatness is fine, which should tell you something) howling in pain and impotent indignation serves as an example for the others: If you spread filthy lies that cause, intentionally or consequentially, women to be stripped of their beauty and thus men deprived of their happiness, CH will be here at the ready, the tip of its nimble hate spear plunging deep into your ululating hindbrain, probing, excavating, and finally stabbing with the force of a thousand unleashed hells the heart of your scarred, coal black id.

Fat shaming now, fat shaming tomorrow, fat shaming forever! MOOAH!

Read Full Post »

A reader writes,

I wrote to you before about your advice improving the relationship with my mom.

I want your critical and scrutinizing take on another situation. I’ve been in a relationship for almost 3 years now. It’s going great. I keep it in-line with CH preachings and wisdom, and I would even go as far as saying that both of us are pretty happy. I’ve never been the type to be the super macho alpha male. I would describe myself as Tom Haverford from the show Parks and Rec, except caucasian, and a bit taller. Now that the necessary background info is out of the way, here’s the question: I find it much easier to talk to girls and make friends with them than with guys. I have 1 guy friend, and about 11 girl friends. (As a side note, from those 10, about 2 of them are dtf.) I’ve never cheated on my gf. I don’t hide the fact that I am in relationship from any of them, and I do not broadcast every detail of my relationship either. I find that girls are easier to go out and do things with, like go to the bar, play pool, or even just grab a coffee, or lunch with. (Maybe it’s easy for me due to the fact that I internalized your ways of game and flirting, and had ample of practice on my actual gf.) Where as with guys in the past and now I had friends who I would do a certain activity with i.e. soccer sam, xbox mike etc. but thats about it.

Anyways, naturally this drives my real girlfriend nuts. She’s not the overly attached girlfriend, who texts me every minute asking me where am I, but if she hears that I’m in company of girls when she calls, she would go like “oh right, you are with your girlfriends, sorry I’ll call you back” Or if I’m about to send a text to someone and she sees my phone messaging screen and its mostly girls names she gets upset. She also met a few of my “girlfriends” and every now and then would throw something like “sorry I’m not Katie” etc. My gf keeps hinting that I need more guy friends, and that it’s “weird” that I don’t hang out with guys at all, and that I should do something about it. On the other hand, I am quite satisfied with the situation.

What’s your take?

My take: you’re sitting in the driver’s seat. You’re right to feel quite satisfied with the present arrangement. Everything you’ve written tells of a woman who is beset by irritating, if manageable, jealousy pangs, and has assumed the perpetual chaser role of the girlfriend who feels she must continually re-earn her man’s love and affection.

This state of affairs may sound bad in print, but these kinds of men aren’t the ones getting taken to the cleaners by icy ex-wives.

When a girl like this one tells you to swap out most of your female friends for male friends, she’s practically confessed to feeling threatened.

Women who are in charge of their relationships typically put the kibosh on their men hanging out with their male friends too much because those women don’t want their men’s attentions (read: resources) spent frivolously on his gang of bros.  These women don’t worry so much about female competition because they don’t believe their beta herbs are capable of seducing other women. This is how it goes for, oh, 80-90% of long-term relationships.

In contrast, women who *aren’t* in charge of their relationships typically fret more about their men spending time in the company of women, any women, in any context. These women do worry about the female competition, because they know their boyfriends/husbands have the charismatic chops to woo aspiring mistresses. And they know that women are mercenary behind the fair maiden masks, and will eagerly encourage a betrayal.

Be happy that you hold court with women. It’s not weird, it’s exhilarating, for you and your girlfriend.

Read Full Post »

Another stirring affirmation of CH-elucidated sociosexual realities comes courtesy of a peculiar agreement arranged between a married couple and researchers designing an experiment to test whether stubbornness by one or both spouses produces unhappy marriages. (ps: ♥)

It is better to be right than to be happy – at least for one husband on the cutting edge of science.

As part of an unusual experiment, the husband was instructed to “agree with his wife’s every opinion and request without complaint,” and to continue doing so “even if he believed the female participant was wrong,” according to a report on the research that was published Tuesday by the British Medical Journal. [...]

Based on the assumption that men would rather be happy than be right, he was told to agree with his wife in all cases. However, based on the assumption that women would rather be right than be happy, the doctors decided not to tell the wife why her husband was suddenly so agreeable.

Both spouses were asked to rate their quality of life on a scale of 1 to 10 (with 10 being the happiest) at the start of the experiment and again on Day 6. It’s not clear how long the experiment was intended to last, but it came to an abrupt halt on Day 12.

“By then the male participant found the female participant to be increasingly critical of everything he did,” the researchers reported. The husband couldn’t take it anymore, so he made his wife a cup of tea and told her what had been going on.

That led the researchers to terminate the study.

Maybe the researchers thought that aiding the dissolution of a marriage violated ethical boundaries.

Over the 12 days of the experiment, the husband’s quality of life plummeted from a baseline score of 7 all the way down to 3. The wife started out at 8 and rose to 8.5 by Day 6. She had no desire to share her quality of life with the researchers on Day 12, according to the report.

Translation: The wife was appalled by the revelations into her sexual nature.

“It seems that being right, however, is a cause of happiness, and agreeing with what one disagrees with is a cause of unhappiness,” they wrote. They also noted that “the availability of unbridled power adversely affects the quality of life of those on the receiving end.”

Behaving like a supplicating beta male will increase your unhappiness, partly because it feels unmanly, but mostly because you’ll incite the seething contempt of your girlfriend or wife. CH readers won’t be surprised to read that an overly agreeable husband earned nothing but nagging criticism from his wife. The wife’s self-reported happiness didn’t budge much from Day1 to Day 6 of having her ego relentlessly stroked, but as we all know women are distinctly incapable, as a sex, of honestly and accurately aligning their socialized thoughts with their unsocialized feelings. A woman possesses a deep pool of innate talent for subconsciously reconciling contradictory emotions.

It would have been interesting to see how the wife rated herself on Day 12, but the self-reported result wouldn’t have had much impact on her *true* feelings, as manifest by her compulsion to nag the shit out of her husband for agreeing with everything she said. Never mind the wife’s words; her actions say it all. Women don’t respect, don’t desire, and certainly don’t tingle for excessively agreeable men. We know this from cold hard experience, and we know this from scientific inquiry. What a woman wants is a man who will put her in her place when she’s wrong or being silly. To stand up for himself. To call her out on her bullshit, aka shit tests. Oh sure, she’ll make a show and bitch and moan at first… but then watch her face vulvaically glow with desirous urgency as the life-giving waters of his insistent masculinity pour into her thirsty feminine soul. Yeah, just like that.

The Chateau covered this ground before, referencing a similar study. “Yes, dear” men get nothing but headaches, both their own and their wives’. “No, dear” men get enduring love, bordering on worship, from their grateful wives.

Continuing with the linked study above,

The three doctors think they might be on to something, and they wrote that they would like to see the work continue: “More research is needed to see whether our results hold if it is the male who is always right.”

Happy Whoridays! There has been “research” along those lines. As commenter Trimegistus asked,

Everywhere this article has been reported on they leave out the obvious, critical detail: WOMEN don’t react well to always being agreed with by men. If the experiment had been done with the opposite approach (wife agrees with hubby) it could go on for years because both of them would come to find it satisfying and pleasant.

A wife, writing on PuffedHo about her most intimate personal matters, decided that in order to resurrect her marital lust life she would agree to her husband’s desire for as much sex as possible. She didn’t want to do it, not on a conscious awareness level at any rate, but she discovered that acquiescing in total to her husband’s wishes made her own life a lot… happier! And less stressful. Feminists of course will be delighted to learn that wives who follow the Biblical command to obey their husbands enjoy a much more positive state of mind.

This is where women need to be, even if they will never say so, or are incapable of saying so, outright: Following the lead of their lovers instead of leading them around like a neutered cat on a leash. Anything less would be… unsatisfying.

Read Full Post »

This one time, in gigolo camp…

I’d like to relay a conversation I had with a past lover who asked a very pointed question as we were strolling along a riverbank (yes, really! Hallmark called and wanted their moment back), in hopes that it will impart a valuable lesson for the next generation of pussy houndlings. Our love ended when she moved far away, but she later returned for a few weeks and met with me to wax nostalgic over old times. The pertinent part of our convo follows:

Her: Did you use game on me?

Me: (momentarily rattled) What do you mean?

Her: I mean did you say things that would make me fall for you? Were your feelings real?

After a few seconds pause to collect myself and stop from blurting an ill-formed, self-incriminating reply, I stowed my easy smile and summoned my Very Serious Face.

Me: Since when did you become so cynical? One thing I’ll always regret is turning a woman like you into a cynic. It doesn’t suit you.

Her: I’m not cynical. I was just wondering if you meant what you said to me.

Me: Tell me, was I a bad influence on you?

Her: No.

Me: But I was. You sound like a different girl today. That’s not good. You’ve lost something, and it kills me inside.

Our conversation took a detour at that juncture, as we passed a store that reminded her of the place where I picked her up. When we returned to the subject, she asked me what I meant when I said she was different now than when I met her. All talk of “game” had ceased.

Note three themes: 1) I never answered her question directly. 2) I redirected the conversation so that she was put on the defensive, having to reconcile both a possible change in her personality for the worse, and blame for making me feel like “it was killing me inside”. 3) The “bad influence” assumption fed her desire for JERKBOY drama.

The wild-eyed feminist reader shrieks, “That’s manipulation!” Is it? Substantively, nothing I said was false. Her fling with me really did provoke in her a small measure of cynicism. It’s also true that she was a naturally big-hearted girl for whom cynicism conflicted with those temperamental attributes that made her special to me. And finally, I did in fact feel kind of bad for arousing in her dark suspicions. And it is a fact as well that women welcome a bit of badboy excitement in their love lives.

But there would’ve been no gain to be had, for either of us, from admitting under interrogation that I had used game on her or from expressing regret for the use of game rather than regret for the effect that it had on her uncorrupted, trusting love. Because I knew from experience that when women ask seemingly pointed questions, what they really want to know goes much deeper, to primal feelings that women hold near and dear, like, for instance, the nature of loving reciprocation. Directing my replies to those deeper feelings in her, as if I was talking to a separate being or the real woman behind the curtain, would yield fuller intimacy.

So I had used game. And I meant what I had said to her when we first met. The two aren’t mutually exclusive. Game was the best way to persuade her that my feelings for her were genuine, because I knew that she would need that professionally administered seduction to be open to receiving my sincere message of love. Yes, you evade tough questioning from a woman to sidestep discomfort and bad feelings, but you also evade her dead end inquisitions to grapple with the turbulence of her hidden, animating emotions. The art and science of seduction can be as enlightening as it can be bewildering. And there’s no woman in the world who doesn’t love it for both reasons.

Read Full Post »

A reader suffered a grievous insult to his dignity when a man caressed his face and recommended masturbation as an alternative to competing in the sexual market.

So here’s my situation … There’s this girl that I like.

The prologue of every beta male lament ever.

I’ve liked her for over 3 years, and made out with her when her and her ex (now current boyfriend) broke up. This guy left her and started seeing her sister for 5 months, yeah he’s that big of a douche bag, and he’s not even that good looking!! See attached pic. (That’s his profile pic on Facebook..)

Verified.

I’ve tried to AMOG this guy using the information on your site, I’ve tried in school and I’ve tried at clubs. He’s literally patted my cheek and told me to “go jerk off” right in front of her!

Physical contact with the face is a thermobaric dominance move. He may as well have been taking you from behind to the roars of the approving crowd. This dude is a Nimitz class AMOG.

And she doesn’t say anything!

Of course she doesn’t. Her tongue is trapped in a cognitive dissonance dimension where her estrogenic tingles for the douchebag and her oxytocinic pity for your debasement drive her to catatonia.

She just says sorry then asks him to be nicer to her friends, which he shrugs off!

He shrugs it off because he knows her words mean nothing when her vagina is saying something else.

This guys an asshole and doesn’t deserve her at all!

The epilogue of every beta male lament ever.

I’ve tried talking with her secretly and telling her he’s an ass and that she deserves some one better, even if it isn’t me!

Are you pulling our legs?

He didn’t get her a birthday or a Christmas present, and on their anniversary he tried to convince her to have a threesome with her sister!

Didn’t even bother with the bag of Skittles. Alpha.

She stormed off, to my house ;) unfortunately couldn’t get any, she was too rattelted up, and he went off to her house, where her sister was! This guys not an alpha, he’s an ass hole!

For all practical purposes, one and the same.

I hired a professional “PUA” in [Canadian city] to help me out we went to the club they were at and [XXXX] (the mPUA) approached her at the bar and within a minute one of [XXXX]‘s (the douche bag) friends was all over [the mPUA] telling him to “fuck off – she’s taken”. [The mPUA] tried to AMOG his friend by tapping his shoulder and trying to continue conversation and he got punched in the face! I’ve never seen this animalistic behavior before between grown men! How do I AMOG this guy!?

Now that I’ve read through the entire email, I’m 99% certain it’s a variety of troll known as the exaggeratum ad absurdum troll, the intent of the troll being to discredit game blogs by trapping them in long-winded debates about the merits of this or that tactic for dealing with a fabricated crisis.

It’s a good bet none of this stuff ever happened. So why publish it? Because it’s funny. More importantly, because far out on the asshole curve there really do exist men like the guy in this reader’s fantasy story, who will tool you horribly in front of a girl, say by patting your face and telling you to fuck off. You won’t meet these kinds of guys often (if ever), but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared should you have the misfortune of crossing paths with one of them. It therefore behooves the reading audience to use such troll attempts as a springboard into wider discussion about how to handle AMOG antagonists who love to humiliate lesser men in public.

Let’s get the crux of the matter out of the way. If a man malevolently touches your face, that’s grounds to sock him. No question about it. A demeaning face pat is the G-rated equivalent of a cock slap against your cheek. You reply with a hammer blow to his gut or nose. This goes whether a girl is present or not.

If, by some chance, the fighting force is too weak in you to muster it at the moment it’s most justified, then you can try the “agree & amplify” technique for disarming brazen AMOGs. A dude pats your cheek, you look at the girls, then back at him, and say, “Was that like a signal for gay sex? Because I have to tell you, I don’t roll that way.” Or, “You can’t stop thinking about my cock, can you? Don’t worry, I won’t judge. My cock is unforgettable.”

If you really want to fuck with the AMOG, ask him within earshot of everyone what it’s like to date sisters, at the same time. Then direct some of your artillery at the girls themselves, to implicate them in the AMOG’s assholery. Tell the girls you’re really impressed with their willingness to share a man, that it’s very 21st century and open-minded. If you think this is a step too far, recall that the AMOG (allegedly) punched a PUA in the face. (Some readers may get a thrill up their legs about that little detail, but let’s try to empathize with the beta here. He’s the one who wrote for assistance.)

In the meantime, reader/troll, go find a new social group and next the girl. She’s obviously cunt over heels for this lunkhead, so let her be with her Chris Brown. It’s a good life strategy to avoid getting entangled with girls who helplessly swoon for ragebots, if for no other reason than the increased likelihood one of her exes will come back to take what he thinks is his, and his problems become your problems.

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 1,955 other followers

%d bloggers like this: