Lots Of Feminists Are Getting Banged Out By PUAs

Ronin asks:

Just out of curiosity, have any of the real PUAs here ever used game to nail a Jizzabel-type feminazi?

As an aspiring womanizer, you don’t need to act with intent to nail an avowed feminist. If you scavenge snatch in the SWPL regions of any major American city (barring a few notable exceptions*), you WILL have collected more than a few feminist notches on your bedpost. This is because most girls in the big blue population sinks of SWPL-Land are feminists of one stripe or another. You can’t swing an Emperor Deluxe condom without hitting a feminist in the cooch if you live or operate within these zones of misandry.

Of course, not all SWPLcity feminists are cut from the same unsanitary napkin. SWPL chicks generally fall into three main groups of feminist identification:

1. The Femcunts

These are your Jizzebomb fanatics, the devotees of feminism as a life-affirming ideology. They are the smallest in number, but the loudest in bitchery and kookery. This is the kind of manjawed girl — typically a lawyer, academic, organic farmer or diversity consultant — who reads and comments daily at sites like Feministing and Slate/Salon/SuckMyClit with furrowed brow, regurgitating what she learns therein at parties and in the middle of dates, exposing a vile expectation that all the world should agree with where her retarded logic takes her. As long as you don’t embroil yourself in her occasional tantrums at invisible enemies, and keep the pick-up light and breezy while steering her in different conversational directions whenever you sniff the approach of another feminist tirade carried along by the id winds, you will get the bang. She is, underneath her femcuntery, still a woman, and as such (however much you may need reminding) she will respond viscerally to ancient cues of your mate worthiness, and her vagina will flower in spectacular opposition to the wilting of her mind. You don’t want to stay with women like these beyond a few hate smashes, so for shits and giggles I suggest you regale her in the morning with your support of the Second Amendment and the ludicrousness of the equal pay myth. For bonus soul-shivving points, casually muse aloud, after you have sprayed her mug and she’s inserted her glazed face into your armpit nook, that 1 in 5 women who are being raped will orgasm during the act.

2. The Partisans

These are the girls who occasionally read feminist blogs (usually when a fat femcunt friend passes along a link) and parrot the benumbing Cathedral crap they hear on TV and read in approved MSM papers. But these soapbox episodes are blessedly infrequent and pass unremarked, unless they manage to corral some dipshit manboob into acting as a sounding board for their cockamamy nonsense on white male privilege and socially constructed beauty standards (Hugs Shyster, Scrotumless Scalzi, I’m looking at you two distilled estrogen pools.) They believe the feminist canon, but live and conduct their dating lives in a decidedly non-feminist fashion. You will rarely, for instance, find a fattie or a mustachioed Marcuntte wannabe amongst this group. At the end of the day, they like being girls, and are all too happy to ignore the inherent contradictions between feminism and their love of shopping for shoes and falling for assholes.

3. The Lemmings

You have to understand that the anti-feminist/pro-rationality message does not get out in America’s major cities. There simply isn’t an anti-Cathedral reporting or opinion outlet with enough heft to influence more than a tiny fraction of women away from the idiocy that is feminism. This being the case, MOST women in the cities will have spent the better part of their sexually adventurous single girl years steeped in the platitudes of feminism, and they will know nothing else. Combined with women’s natural aversion to abstract thinking beyond immediate, selfish concerns, what you wind up with is a population of lickspittle lemmings who mindlessly nod in agreement every time a talking head exploiting this deficiency in the mental circuitry of half the voting public sonorously intones something about “equal pay for equal work”, or “war on women”. The Lemmings, by far the largest group of women you will likely encounter unless you live in South Dakota, include all types of girls, from club sluts to self-important HR robots to daddy’s princesses to deliriously frantic scenesters. Luckily for your sanity, these girls do not take feminism seriously; not if we measure “seriousness” by the frequency and intensity with which a person holds a belief. They are far more interested in looking hot for you, and gossiping endlessly about relationship drama in their circle of friends. Sure, if you press them “What do you think of free birth control?”, they’ll eagerly approve and perhaps segue into a condemnation of those “rape-y Republicans” and Sandra Fluke’s godliness, but mostly they just go about their lives oblivious to feminism’s charms.

So there you have it. Given that 90% of your city’s women are feminist in name if not in execution, the odds that you will bang out, or currently are banging out, a feminist are pretty good. Most hardcore feminists, whether or not they know it, are fucking men who either pretend to give a shit about their precious ideology, or don’t even bother with the pretense of pretending to give a shit about it. In fact, the majority of men, and an even bigger majority of players, are like me: they find feminism absurd on its face and will dismissively change the subject anytime the girls they are seeing make the mistake of veering into feminist bromide territory. Most girls are sensible and will know when their feminist retardation is turning off the men they like, and will quickly fall in line with the change of subject.

There are exceptions. A few supercharged feminists will eventually wind up with sycophantic manboobs for lovers, and a more perfect pairing I couldn’t imagine.

*I currently live near one of those notable exceptions, and damn straight I’m keeping that info close to the vest.

**Many SWPL cities have geographically extensive ghetto areas, which I don’t consider part of the SWPL, or feminist, world. Ghettoes are like exotic locales that SWPLs like to brag they’ve lived in for six months, when in fact all they did was read about them in the crime section, or pass through them on a bus.

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The Silent Virginity

There are virgins among us, but they cannot be identified by their ecstatic moans, so they slip unnoticed by the sexually active masses like frigid totems to a bygone era.

A reader links to a study on American virginity rates:

Women who are college graduates are more likely to be virgins. So, it’s not just Ivy Leaguers who are more sexually restrained, but all college graduates.

I still agree with you to the extent that I think there are pockets of promiscuity among educated women, especially among those with graduate/professional degrees, and also probably among those in certain urban areas. Furthermore, I would think that educated women who are promiscuous are probably much more deliberate about it than lower class women who often disapprove of promiscuity in the abstract (I use the term loosely) but are unable to control themselves in the heat of the moment.

Before you players start to wonder if you’re just passing around the same irrepressible slut’s party hole amongst yourselves, note that overall virginity rates are still quite low for the general population, including both men and women.

1.1 million Americans between the ages of 25 and 40 are still virgins.

The CDC also reports that by age 19, 80% of men and 75% of women have lost their virginity.

And, furthermore, keeping in tune with this blog’s unnerving habit of drawing back the curtain on humanity’s clanking machinery, men, being the expendable sex, are more likely than women, the perishable sex, to remain virgins past the age of 25.

[T]he odds a man aged 25-44 has had no female partners are 1 in 35.71.

More women than men are likely to postpone losing their virginity, but during the teens and early 20s their odds follow the identical trajectory. However, by the time a woman enters the age range of 25-44, the odds she has had no male sexual partners are 1 in 58.82—so somewhere along the line women start outpacing men in shedding their virginity.

It is simply easier for the average woman to get sex than it is for the average man, and the later in life virginity rates reflect that reality. (Although the ease with which women can get sex partners may be experiencing a bump upward in difficulty owing to the increasing fattitude of Americans — obese women are 30% less likely than normal-weight women to have had a sexual partner in the last year. Obese men do not have the same problem.)

Compared to men, the relatively low effort required of women to obtain sex is why it’s silly for them to take pride in their sluttiness; getting sex from men is no accomplishment. Now getting commitment from men… there’s the challenge. But of course, if you are a feminist with a grating personality and all you have to offer men is a zip line to your jungly vagina, then you might be tempted to dismiss the shame you feel from giving it away so freely.

After a certain ripe age, a virginal woman might say to herself, “Why am I holding out for an alpha male? The odds of landing one diminish with each passing month, so, fuck it, I’ll take the next cocka that comes alonga.” She then finds that the goal of spreading her legs for a horny bastard is remarkably easy to achieve, which is why the act often leaves her feeling confused and depressed afterwards.

The typical virginal man, in contrast, discovers that it becomes increasingly difficult to lose his virginity with each passing year. For him, virginity isn’t a choice; it’s a sentence. Or it may have started as a free choice, but quickly transmogrified into a punishment. The 40-year-old male virgin who manages to finally bust a nut inside a woman doesn’t feel confusion; he feels elation.

The more interesting angle to the virginity numbers is the discrepancy in rates between uneducated and educated women:

For well-educated ladies looking to join the ranks of the sexually active, unfortunately you’ve got your work cut out for you. Female college graduates are 5.4 times more likely to be virgins than those who never received that diploma—adding a sad irony to the term “bachelor’s degree.”

I suspect this ties into impulsiveness; if you have the time to spare, there are studies floating around demonstrating a link between lower IQ and higher impulsiveness. It could simply be the case that female college grads are better at controlling their impulses, rather than some high-falutin’ notion that educated women are more apt than dumber women to save themselves for marriage deriving from some quaint personal ethos.

But why would women want to, or feel an inner urge to, restrain their sexual impulses? Well, in the ancestral environment, the one that has shaped the contours of our hindbrains to this day, the women who were bad at controlling their sexual impulses were often the ones stuck with babies from men who weren’t willing to stick around and help raise them. More circumspect women were better at screening for men willing to dependably commit to them, a male trait that is exhibited when a man wines and dines a woman while waiting patiently for her to give it up. Evolution favored the propagation of the latter’s genes (with exceptions), and so this female restraint instinct survives into the modern world, in an age of contraceptives and big daddy government, and its existence spurs all sorts of rationalizations from women seeking to make sense of their antediluvian feelings.

Nevertheless, the CDC data showing that educated women are more likely than uneducated women to be virgins seems counterintuitive to me. I swim amongst the educated set and, accounting for a few memorable exceptions, I have rarely befriended or befouled a virgin. On the whole, smart chicks are novelty seeking; they love meeting new men and flirting like femme fatales. Case in point: Smart, educated girls may be more likely to be virginal, but they are also more likely to cheat.

And my experience is not unique; I know few men, alpha or beta, who can claim to plunder virgin puss regularly. The existence of legal age virgins in the megalopolises is so rare that meeting and bedding one would be immediate cause for a triumphal parade around the city square.

As I have said on occasion, you will find that if you keep your eyes open and observe the world around you without self-assuaging delusion, that science eventually comes around to confirming 9/10s of your common sense. Yet once in a blue moon, the scientific data throws a curveball. This is one of those times.

Herewith I offer some explanations for the discrepancy between most men’s real life experiences with a paucity of educated virgins and the self-reported virginity data:

- Women lie worse than men on self-reporting surveys. This is scientifically validated. Now, participant lying doesn’t necessarily indicate that the sexual activity trend lines are wrong; for that, you’d have to somehow show that women are lying more now than they did on past surveys, or that educated women lie more than uneducated women. (In fact, the latter is a distinct possibility, as it has been shown that smarter people are generally better at the deceptive arts, and have a better grasp of what kind of information about themselves is potentially incriminating.) However, the very fact that women do lie about sexual matters more than men should give one pause about taking their virginity claims at face value.

- Player selection bias. This is a favorite assertion of the anti-gamer, feminist and omegavirgindork crowd (losers of a feather flock together): “Oh, you’re just nailing the sluts who like to screw around, so you never get a chance to meet the angelic hordes of chaste, virginal girls.” On its face, this seems plausible, but it breaks down badly upon closer inspection. One, many seducers meet women randomly, outside of the clubs where sluts tend to congregate. For instance, I have met women from extraordinarily varied occupational and educational backgrounds, in stores, at events, on the street, in buses, while driving, at the beach, in class, at work, at weddings, at picnics, and even at a funeral. It would be a remarkable coincidence if all those women were raging sluts. Two, and most disturbingly for the anti-gamer, their assertion denies the possibility that players *are* meeting chaste women, but that these women, accustomed to the limp company of their beta orbiters, are so overwhelmed by the player’s sexy vibe that they become a bit less chaste for the night (or many nights).

Given the above refutation of the player selection bias theory, I suspect that it is true to some minimal extent that men who actively bed a lot of women tend to miss the virgins, who are, after all, not very likely to be out anywhere in mixed company. And the reason for this may be that the ranks of female virgins include a lot of grossly ugly or obese girls who are ashamed to be seen in public. Girls who major in math or other male-oriented tracks are probably overrepresented in this group.

Luckily, by the early 20s, most girls have abandoned the charade of virginity, so player selection bias ceases to be of much relevance for men who don’t routinely try to pick up teenagers.

- Confusing education for introversion. Education, conscientiousness and introversion tend to correlate. If educated women have a higher virginity rate than uneducated women, that may just be a reflection of the fact that educated women are more introverted, and thus less likely to be energized by large mixed groups of men and women where hooking up is more likely to occur. Thus, players who plunder the big cities may be missing out on the virgins because those women are less comfortable mingling in social settings. This particular explanation is speculative, so take it for what it is.

- Obesity is just another word for celibacy. As noted above, there have been studies which found that fat women have less sex than thin women. Not very surprising, as men really don’t want to sleep with fat women if they can avail themselves of the sexier alternative. (A contrarian might argue that fat women, given their lower sexual market value, would more readily put out for men in hopes of gaining their commitment and love. If true, that would work against higher virginity rates for fat women.)

Anyhow, assuming the premise is true — that fat chicks are more likely to live a sexless purgatory — then the obesity epidemic may explain decreasing rates of sluttiness among American women. However, it would not tell us much about the supposed higher virginity rates of educated girls, as it is a safe assumption most truly grotesque fat chicks shamble among the lower classes. Or it could be the case that educated fat chicks, as the more introspective subspecies, are more likely than uneducated fat chicks to sequester themselves away from human contact and sunlight, thus shifting on one elephantine foot higher virginity rates toward the college crowd.

- The “technical” virgin. How do girls rationalize their lying about their sex lives? By inventing false truths. Anal and oral sex among young women are way up, but hey, it’s not the vagina, so STILL A VIRGIN. The hamster is happy. Perhaps this explains better why educated women have higher “virginity” rates — they are using a very loose definition of virginity. And wouldn’t it be just like a smartie to wordplay her way out of an uncomfortable self-assessment? I suspect the Audacious One would be interested in GSSing his way through this byline to the sexual behavior annals. Annals. Heh.

- Bifurcation Nation. I have previously offered as an explanation for the supposed decreasing overall rate of sluttiness among American women the hypothesis that the nation is bifurcating along sexual behavior lines:

[P]erhaps American society is bifurcating into two female camps, with the urban blue state camp waving the banner of Team Slut and the religious red state camp hoisting the flag of Team Prude. Since there are more red state godly girls than there are blue state heretic hos, I figured that would account for the overall trend toward less sluttiness.

Again, purely speculative, but worth investigating. (Paging Charles Murray.) I admit I don’t have reams of experience with evangelicals or Hasidim, so for all I know there is a mass of middle America religious women out there who are refusing sex until a ring is on it. Maybe a lot of these red staters who have the smarts go to college and as a consequence swing the co-ed virginity rate higher. Since religious girls tend to socialize in venues (like church) where players are rarely found (imagine a demon stepping foot on holy ground and immediately bursting into flames), it’s reasonable to conclude that male perception of college girl sluttiness is skewed by the religious de facto shut-ins.

***

Bottom line: Human sexual behavior is exceedingly difficult to pin down, as the nature of the enterprise requires survey respondents possess a bracing comfort with exposing the underbellies of their egos, and nothing is quite as critical to the healthy functioning of the ego as faith in one’s SMV. Don’t trust self-reported sex survey data. Chicks lie. Educated chicks are probably not much more virginal than uneducated chicks, but there is room to disagree on this point based on potential skew in men’s perceptions of the active, college educated dating market. Nonetheless, overall virginity rates are quite low after the late teens, so men need not worry that a shrinking pool of sexually enthusiastic women is about to cramp their styles.

This post grew beyond its preplanned bounds, much like a virgin’s hymen stretches to its breaking point when confronted by the concentrated force of my life-giving battering ram.

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Hypergamy, Sluts And Smart Women

A reader emailed a recent fascinating study that, AS PER USUAL♥♥♥♥♥♥♥, confirms many core Chateau concepts and related game strategies.

Although robust sex differences are abundant in men and women’s mating psychology, there is a considerable degree of overlap between the two as well. In an effort to understand where and when this overlap exists, the current study provides an exploration of within-sex variation in women’s mate preferences. We hypothesized that women’s intelligence, given an environment where women can use that intelligence to attain educational and career opportunities, would be: (1) positively related to their willingness to engage in short-term sexual relationships, (2) negatively related to their desire for qualities in a partner that indicated wealth and status, and (3) negatively related to their endorsement of traditional gender roles in romantic relationships. These predictions were supported. Results suggest that intelligence may be one important individual difference influencing women’s mate preferences.

Anti-game haters and various sore losers in life: reread the above for comprehension before commenting. You’ll save everyone a lot of scrolling effort to glide by your blockheadedness.

Let’s tackle the conclusions of this study one by one.

1. Smart, educated, careerist women (aka urban SWPLs) are more likely to want to ride the cock carousel (i.e., “engage in short-term sexual relationships”). That old game hater saw that only low self-esteem sluts and dumb skanks like to play the phallus field is the complete opposite of reality. It’s the smart, educated chicks who dig the cock and, by deduction, it’s the smart, educated chicks who will fall for short-term pickup game more than dumb chicks.

In one fell swoop, a cherished feminist and beta male shibboleth gets crushed into dust and blown away.

2. Smart, educated, careerist women are less interested in a man’s money or career status. This dovetails perfectly with the Chateau contention that female economic empowerment has led to a sexual market where soft polygamy — the clustering of financially independent women at the peak of their fertility (and beauty) around charming alpha males — is the new norm in blue state meccas. If money and occupational status mean less to smart girls, then guess what means more to them? You got it. Game. And who loses in this arrangement? Yup, boring provider beta males.

3. Smart, educated, careerist women are more likely to eschew “traditional gender roles” in romantic relationships. So it is the smart girls, not the dumb ones, who say screw it to marriage, dating, fidelity and lifelong monogamy while they are in their primes, and who are more open to fucking around, casual hook ups, cheating and, ahem, serial monogamy. This is, not to put too fine a point on it, a description of a pickup artist’s paradise. Smart girls do eventually get married at higher rates than dumb, lower class girls, but the relevant factor to the typical urban beta male is how many girls in his milieu are ready for marriage and/or long term relationships *during their 20s*, when women are at their most desirable. If the rising age of first marriage is any indication, not many.

Bottom line: your typical slut is a smart, educated woman.

So what does this have to do with that noted force of nature, female hypergamy? Well, if we premise our argument with the claim that female hypergamy always exists, and is always operational and acting upon women’s mate choice mechanisms (a claim entirely consistent with observed female behavior), then, given the study conclusions above, we are presented with the possibility that smart, financially independent chicks emphasize different male attractiveness traits when choosing mates than do dumb, financially insecure chicks. What are they?

Charm. Wit. Looks. Confidence. Social savviness. Social status (as distinct from wealth or occupational status). Charisma.

Most of these male attractiveness traits favored by smart chicks, yes, even including social status, can be grouped under the game umbrella. Game makes men more charming, witty, confident, socially savvy and charismatic. It even boosts a man’s social status. (Being known as a ladykiller is chicknip.)

Looks are the one thing game can’t change, but in most men’s experiences, women’s judgment and emphasis of male looks doesn’t much vary between the lower and upper class women, or the dumb and smart women. The study does suggest, though, that economically empowered and übereducated women probably will put more emphasis on male looks than will economically insecure, less educated women.

Now you know why poor, dumb religious girls swoon (settle?) at younger ages for provider betas relatively more than well-off, smart, secular girls. And why the latter can be found hanging off the arm of your local indie band singer before doing the smart thing and marrying a beta as her expiration date looms.

The trends in female mate choice I have described in this post go a longer way than any economic or class argument I’ve read to explain the coming apart of the white race in America as detailed in Charles Murray’s new book. Anyone who wants to take a long, hard look at social trends and the phenomena of “men dropping out” needs to incorporate into his thinking the cold, merciless, unrelenting reality of female hypergamy. To do less would be… uncivilized.

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Feminist Gets Pumped And Dumped By PUA

A masochistic reader (you’d have to be in love with your own pain to read any of the yeasty discharges fouling up Jizzabel) sent along this turgid confessional from a feminist who got banged out by a player four hours after they met for a first date drink. Her account of the date leaves the distinct impression that she was played by a guy who knows game very well. Let’s examine the techniques he employed to snare his prey.

I went on a date a month ago with a boy I met on an online dating site. “Met” meaning he’d sent me a few witty messages and his pictures were decent enough to warrant an IRL pass.

No long-winded phone calls making his interest in her obvious. Just a few witty (translated from the femspeak: terse/cocky/funny/asshole-ish) emails which implied his non-neediness and her interchangeability. So far, he’s off to a good start.

He was a strong conversationalist. We talked politics and he impressed me with a nuanced understanding of the debt ceiling debate. He knew about the Arab Spring.

How does the old saw go? Treat a lady like a broad and a broad like a lady. Mr. PUA knew he was dealing with the typical urban feminist slut who would swoon over a man who flattered her intelligence. So sprinkle in a few ledes he read in the NYBetaTimes about the Arab Spirng and , voila!, instant charma.

We discussed the unexpected but peculiarly gratifying direction our late 20s had taken both of us.

Again, translated from the femspeak: She was glad he assuaged her ego with comforting euphemisms about being an unmarried childless woman in her late 20s.

He made me laugh.

“He made me tingle.”

One drink turned into two,

Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker!

two neighborhood bars into three,

This is the standard game tactic known as “bouncing”, or “time distortion”. By taking a girl to a number of places on a single night, you leave her with the impression that she’s known you longer than she has. It’s very effective at building comfort, as we will see.

and when he kissed me in the street, I was elated.

When a PUA gets a street kiss, that’s a green light to go for a same night lay. Women don’t make out in public places unless they are really into the thought of sex with you.

He wanted to see me again, he said. I agreed, the enthusiasm audible in my voice.

Audible enthusiasm is also a SNL green light. Also, note how he doesn’t set up a day and time to meet again. He just says he wants to see her again. Make your intentions known, but make them known vaguely, without promise, so that they could plausibly be misinterpreted, or misconstrued, by women. Chicks dig ambiguity even more than they dig ambivalence.

As he walked me to the train, he asked me if I would come over for a nightcap. Just one. He offered to pay for a cab to take me home afterwards, as I had to work early.

Always escalate, until you have hit her limit. Push, push, push. It’s what women — even, maybe especially, feminists — secretly crave from men, their protestations to the contrary notwithstanding. There’s no worse feeling than having a pussy in the hand, only to see it disappear because you pulled back at the last moment out of some quaint deference to dating etiquette or mangina virtue. Or fear.

I — like many women I know — harbor a quiet but persistent internal voice that cries, “If you like him, don’t go!” The voice that says men don’t respect women who sleep with them too quickly. The voice that says despite the fact that you’re turned on, you’re a grown-ass adult and goddamn it you want to, as the female you should be the one to decline, to demur, to hold off for another night.

I’d never understood the reasoning behind that voice.

Silly feminist. The reasoning is simple, if you would free your mind of its stifling propaganda shackles. Men really do devalue women who put out too quickly. Sexual evolution has granted men the insight to recognize that slutty women are likely to continue being just as slutty after committing to them, and that is bad news for men who want to know their children are really theirs, and who want to avoid the divorce raping that inevitably follows when a wife pursues the feral eat, pray, love self-actualization life trajectory. Those pesky little feelings that swarm around your cortical ham, if you would stop drowning them out with femcunt agitprop, are early warning signals to behave in a more stereotypically feminine manner lest you harm your reproductive fitness.

I suspected I was internalizing cultural judgments about “easy” women.

Culture does not spring up out of the ground unseeded, like a summoned monolith. Human genetic disposition seeds the ground and creates culture, unleashing a macro feedback loop where culture and genes interact in perpetuity. Those “cultural judgments” you so recoil from are actually subconscious reinforcements of ancient biological truths.

The traditional refrain, “don’t buy the cow if you can get the milk for free,” which implies women should withhold sex to ensnare a partner, insulted me.

What’s a horny slut with daddy issues to do? Listen, lady, either embrace your sluttiness and stop kvetching to the cunty choir, or keep your legs closed. You can’t have your cock and keep it, too.

Years of dissecting dating mishaps with my friends taught me that if you want a relationship or even just the potential of one, it’s best to wait.

Betting is now open on how many cocks she has satisfied. We’ll start with 30.

In my mind, the waiting period was for no other reason but to increase the odds of a relationship. It was like dating lore passed on between friends. We don’t know why it works but it does.

It’s amazing that women have to relearn this common sense in their late 20s, after a decade or more of cock carouseling. Was there a wholesale abdication of parenting in the last two generations? A massively successful brainwashing campaign? Rhetorical.

Nevertheless, it’s best if women don’t start making men wait, because I was getting used to the easy peasy sex. Feminism has been very, very good indeed for men who want to play the field, and have the skills to do so. A return to patriarchal norms would really cramp my style.

But the way my date kissed me up against the brick wall outside the subway stop was enough to convince me my internal voice was an antiquated Debbie downer, squawking nonsense irrelevant for the modern woman.

Pushing a woman up against the wall to kiss her and grope her unleashes powerful, primitive, quasi-rape-y forces of submission within her. It’s one of my go-to moves.

I went to his house. We headed straight to the bedroom. Sex — intense, unexpected, rough and satisfying. Afterwards, as promised, he called me a cab.

By 3 a.m. I was home. And utterly freaked out.

I think it would bother women to know that men NEVER feel the urge to freak out after a one night stand. Not even the weepy beta males. Nope, slipping into sleep with a huge grin plastered on our faces is closer to what happens.

I hashed this over with multiple friends during the next few days. One suggested I just forget about the guy and be happy I’d had good sex.

The group Samantha.

Another brought up respect — if he wanted a real relationship with me, he would have proceeded with more respect for my body.

The group fatty.

I received a single lackluster text from him a few days later.

And that kid went ha haaaw! Who couldn’t see this coming? Apparently, her.

She should be thankful she got to experience a night of pleasure from a man who knows how much women crave being gamed. But women being what they are, (bless their overstimulated hearts), the fleeting waves of pleasure quickly gave way to self-absorption and tedious reinterpretation. The rationalizations that follow are some of the best frenetic hamster spinnings you will read in a long time.

Still distraught over the experience, I told [my mom] the bare-bones version of the story: I slept with someone four hours after meeting them and now I felt shitty and I couldn’t identify why.

I wanted to know what she — a world-experienced, non-judgmental woman — thought about sleeping with someone you’re interested in dating so soon? What she said was the best argument I have ever heard for waiting to have sex.

When you first meet someone, she said, you don’t actually see them. You see a flimsy construction of their personality, created by your interpretation of the signals available. The way they make eye contact. How they interact with the bartender/waiter/homeless man asking you for change. The facts they choose to divulge about themselves. Because you have no other point of reference, every little detail resonates with added significance. Your mind, faced with a scarcity of information, is forced to create a projection of them. [...]

The mirage is sexy. But herein lies the danger. The potential for a schism to exist between the mirage and reality is huge. The probability of being disappointed is gigantic. That disappointment is compounded when intimacy is involved. You sleep with a stranger. You feel like you know them. But you likely don’t at all.

This may not be an epiphany for other people. But it was for me. After that night, I felt shitty not because I’d been “slutty,” whatever that means, but because I felt foolish.

I slept with an idea of a man. I slept with how that man made me feel. But that man didn’t exist, except in my mind. When I realized this, I felt… blah blah blah

Zzzz… zzz… *snort*… zz… huh, wha… oh, hai there. Must’ve dozed off. Wow, yeah, totally see what you’re saying. Totes. I bet you’ve learned a valuable lesson from all these experiences.

I’m still going out with guys and getting tipsy

Well, you know what I (sometimes) say… be true to yourself! Whatever that means.

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The Bar Girl, Ten Years Later

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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Gay Men Have Game

Alpha males and gay men have a lot in common. They know how to playfully jive with women. This is why there are so many fag hags in the cities. It’s not the shopping or in-depth color wheel knowledge that chicks love about gay men; it’s the teasing they get from them that they sorely miss from the straight men they date.

If you listen to a conversation between some gay guys and their chick friends, you’ll notice that the gays almost never answer a girl’s questions or discussion tangents logically. They will nearly always take the path of evasion, obfuscation, wit, teasing, cocky misdirection or backhanded compliments (aka negs). For example (drawn from real life):

GIRL: Is it a long walk from the train to the club?

GAY FRIEND: Don’t worry, shorty, your six inch marry me heels won’t break.

***

GIRL: Why are we eating there? I heard their pizza was terrible.

GAY FRIEND: There’s a froyo place right next door if you need to eat healthy.

***

GIRL: I don’t think we’ll make this movie in time.

GAY FRIEND: Oh, you’re one of those who has to see every preview or you feel sad.

Girls lap this shit up. They can’t get enough of men who don’t take them seriously. And gays are great at not taking girls seriously, even the most beautiful girls, likely because they aren’t physically attracted to them. (How gays act around each other is a mystery to your humble host. Perhaps they become more tongue-tied.)

Now let’s rearrange those above examples to show how they would sound if a straight beta male was replying to the girl, instead.

GIRL: Is it a long walk from the train to the club?

BETA: [excited to be spoken to by a cute girl] No, it’s not bad. Maybe five minutes.

***

GIRL: Why are we eating there? I heard their pizza was terrible.

BETA: Really? They’re supposed to be the best pizza in the city.

***

GIRL: I don’t think we’ll make this movie in time.

BETA: It’ll be close, but we can do it if we leave now.

As you can see, these interactions have none of the flirty vibe that characterized the original conversational snippets. In these, the beta is answering logically, the way he would want to be answered if he was asking the same questions of a girl. But what the beta doesn’t realize is that girls don’t think like him. They don’t think like him AT ALL. Girls despise logic and straight answers, because it sucks all the fun and unpredictability out of life, and girls need fun injected into their lives because they don’t have the creative chops to make fun themselves. So they lean on gay men or cocky alpha males to generate the fun for them. Oh, sure, girls can mimic logical thinking at the office, but that’s just an act. Once they get home, they revert to their more favored natural state: EMOTIONAL AMPLIFICATION BIOFEEDBACK.

And it’s not a one-way street between girls and their gay male friends. Gay guys expect just as much entertainment out of their chick friends as the girls have come to expect from their gay friends. You will often hear of gay friends unceremoniously cutting off contact with a dumbfounded girl because she became too boring to hang out with. This puts pressure on the girls to SEEK THE APPROVAL of their gay male friends, something girls desperately wish they would need to do with their straight male suitors. Why do they wish this? Because it is natural for a girl to seek the approval of a powerful social peer, whether that peer is a friend or a lover. Women, as the submissive sex, feel more comfortable seeking the approval of others rather than having their approval sought, much like a dog feels more at ease following a strong owner who has trained it to obey.

The man who can awaken and amplify a woman’s emotions until her electrified feelings are ricocheting off every tendril of her body is the man who holds access rights to her pussy. Stop thinking logically to seduce women. Train your brain to think in the female mode, where nothing is off-limits to silliness and questions are merely props to demonstrate social mastery. It is the rare time indeed that a woman wants a banal question answered seriously and in the full, and won’t appreciate a playful deflection to more emotionally-charged topics.

***

Preemptive hater rebuttal

A reader might reasonably ask: “If gays have natural game with women, then why aren’t women sexually attracted to gay men?” Ah, but more than a few chicks ARE attracted to their GBFs. It’s such a well-known phenomenon that the meme has polluted chick shows all over TV. It’s not the whole picture, though. Plenty of girls have no tingles for their gay friends. Despite the preponderance of evidence that girls swoon for men with verbal facility, don’t forget that girls are also drawn to a masculine essence. Gay men’s voices are too musical and lilting, and their body language too feminine and graceful, to project an adequate level of raw masculinity that zooms straight to the beating, blushing heart of the pussy. A straight man, with his masculine posture, slow, rhythmic cadence, and stoic countenance poised to sudden violence who co-opts the gay man’s conversational playfulness, is irresistible to women.

So don’t think that you have to sacrifice your Dirty Harry-esque repose to play the gay man’s game of insouciant teasing. Like any master seducer, you merge seemingly contradictory behaviors and attitudes and capture your prey with a trap of their own making.

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The Forager/Farmer Thesis Is Wrong

Robin Hanson has been beating the drum on his liberaltarian wet dream known as the forager/farmer thesis in a series of posts. Basically, “liberal” values and lifestyle are a reflection of humanity’s ancient forager (hunter-gatherer) ways, while “conservative”, or traditional, values and lifestyle are emergent properties of our relatively more recent 10,000 year old farmer (agricultural) heritage. Modern foragers in the form of cafe-loitering SWPLs sipping dragonwell tea and reading Dan Savage columns are essentially freeriding on the industrial and moral substrates that were created by rules-following and hierarchical farmer ancestors. Thanks to their comfy livings and safe environments, elite cosmopolitan liberals in Western societies are returning to the values and lifestyles of their distant forager forebears, while modern traditionalists hew to more rigid codes of conduct and warn them (in so many words) that all foraging and no farming makes Jack a weak boy. (You can see where this is heading.)

If you buy Hanson’s thesis, this neatly explains blue state vs red state, Obama vs Bush, open borders nuts vs immigration realists, and Apple vs Windows.

Hanson relies for much of his speculative evidence on the Sex At Dawn book, which I promiscuously manhandled here. But there’s too much wrong with the claims made by that book to sufficiently lend support to the Forager vs Farmer (i.e., liberal vs conservative) thesis of clashing values and lifestyles.

For instance, Hanson and Ryan elide the force of jealousy in shaping human sexual dynamics. If we were built for polyamory as Ryan claims, or free love promiscuity as Hanson says, then jealousy would not have evolved to the extent it did (among Euro-descended people at least) to become a powerfully ingrained emotional hindbrain response to infidelity or suspicions of cheating. Both men and women experience jealousy, though men seem to react more violently when in its throes, (as would be predicted by a “farmer” reading of sociosexuality, since men stand more to lose by a cheating lover).

In addition, just about every polyamorous, free love utopia/forager commune that has been tried in historical record has utterly failed, some of them spectacularly. (It’s no coincidence that most dedicated polyamorists are androgynous, middle-aged frumps.)

Hanson and Ryan claim foragers are/were nonviolent compared to farmers. But from everything I’ve read on the matter, that is wrong as well: modern hunter-gatherers have impressive levels of tribal violence, mostly of the raiding and randomly savage variety. Farmers are also capable of violence, but when they do it the violence is coordinated and planned; the random individual violence that typifies forager society isn’t a steady state feature of farmer existence. I’m not going to dig around for relevant links, so I’ll throw it open to the commenters to do the dirty work.

Finally, a big point of Hanson’s repackaged thesis is that “rich and safe” modern foragers — implicitly the intellectual and social liberal elites of Western society — pursue and advocate a promiscuous lifestyle. Except the data show that isn’t necessarily true. Higher IQ men place greater value on monogamy and sexual exclusivity and are less likely to cheat than lower IQ men.

There are too many holes in this tidy farmer/forager outlook to take it as anything more than United States of Canada porn for self-satisfied cosmopolitan lefties to jack their head hamsters off to. And I say this as someone who lives to the fullest the modern, promiscuous forager lifestyle. I know its personal appeal, and its immolating potential for the wider society.

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The Duke Rejection List

I’ve gotten more emails to write about this Duke slut Karen Owen than I have on any other topic. I wasn’t interested at first, having scanned the notorious Powerpoint (also at this link in case first doesn’t work) and concluded that it was just another story of a whore riding the (alpha) cock carousel who happened to forego discretion and publicize her sluttery, nothing to see here move along dystopia down the hall and to your left. But a closer inspection of Owen’s tell-all reveals a river of scorned subconsciousness that the mainstream feminist bloggers have predictably failed to notice –

this chick was rejected by each and every one of these high status men she banged.

“But how can that be?”, some of the duller among you will ask. “None of the men turned her down for sex.”

Don’t you know it’s different for women? Failing to get laid is not how women are rejected; they are rejected when they don’t receive romance, love, and long term commitment from the men who fuck them. Most women under 25 with a slim and healthy 17-23 BMI profile have no trouble getting laid from the men they find attractive. Given that most young women can get sex fairly easily, falling into bed with a man, even high status men such as the Duke athletes targeted by Owen, is not much of an accomplishment. It’s like giving a trophy to a dog for being able to lick its own balls.

Now convincing these fly-by-nighter men to date, romance, introduce to their friends, spend money on, and marry the women they screw… that’s the real trick. And it is the measuring stick we should be applying to skank hos like Karen Owen. For by that metric, she and many others like her fail miserably.

For example, here is her write-up of the man (a tennis star) she rated the worst:

Note this man’s utter dismissal of her as a potential long term prospect. “Did not bother to kiss more than a few seconds”. “…after which he simply walked out”. “…did not return”. “‘I will leave them outside of the building for you’”.

And Owen’s reaction?

“1/10. Seriously.”

That is the tersely bitter send-off of one pissed and deeply wounded woman. Don’t let the whimsical snarkiness and slut empowerment pose fool you — even the raunchiest cockgobblers have a heart inside that beats for a man to love and cherish them above all others. The love of a man, true and loyal, is the slut’s white whale.

But what about the men she rated highly? Did they stay with her? Here’s her write-up of the man she rated the highest:

What did the first place man do differently than the last place man? He catered to her female need for signs of romance and commitment (which, in the end, weren’t forthcoming. And that kid went HA HAW):

“…intense level of eye contact”. “‘…if I get lucky you’ll wake me up with a kiss in the morning’”. “Him refusing to allow me to leave before noon”. “…how important it was to him that I got off as well”.

So when PUAs talk about leaving women better than you found them, this is what they mean — treat your pump and dumps like girlfriends and in the ego-assuaged haze of their pleasure they will forget that you haven’t actually committed to them beyond offering the half-eaten burrito in your fridge.

Unfortunately for Miss Owen, this story with ÜberMan #1 does not have a happy ending. After that amazing night together, this is how the following rendezvous meetings went down:

I saw him out briefly at Devines the Tuesday after, but since we had only just seen each other [ed: "seen" = "fuck" in chickspeak. GSS Fail!]… I did not even approach him, only making sure that he saw me in passing. [...] I would have liked to have hooked up many more times than two, but he was tired and I needed to graduate the next day.

Long term romance fail. When a girl is careful not to talk to a lover in public for fear of creating an awkward moment that might kill the budding romance, you know you are dealing with a slut shooting way out of her league and, in the big picture, a dating market beautifully arranged to the maximum advantage of alpha males. This truly is the golden era for single men with game who have wisely avoided the trap of marriage. Conversely, it is the hell matrix for betas who now have nothing to offer but the pitiful consolation prize of being willing to wear ‘This is what a feminist looks like’ t-shirts in hopes of copping a pity fuck from a short-haired hippie chick on a five hour bender.

The whole Powerslut Powerpoint reads like the above. Owen snags another Duke alpha athlete (implicitly she has studiously avoiding snagging any computer science students on campus), has her sex, and then never sees the guy again except at beer pong parties where they exchange knowing glances if she’s lucky, or unacknowledged quick exits if she’s unlucky. Then she writes about it with a dash of humor and self-awareness to exorcise the demons tormenting her broken heart and chafed vulva, and sends it to a couple of girlfriends, her male-oriented brain assuming the girlfriends would be loyal to her and not pass it on to the wider public. Big mistake.

Probably the stupidest commentary on this affair was by that cougartown fembot Penelope Trunk, (the hypocritical conniving cacklepuss stalkercunt who harassed a man and his family in real life for having the gall to sneer at her feminist boilerplate), who in her infinite perspicacity managed to turn it into a treatise on, color me surprised!, sexual harassment and female empowerment via the magical art of spreading your legs for chaste men who only have sex once every thousand years when Jupiter and Saturn are aligned.

So what makes these slides so fascinating?  I think it’s her spunk and self-knowledge and enthralling sense of her own power. I wish I had had that when I was her age. I am twenty years older than Owen, but she inspires me to be brave, takes risks, and let my creativity get the best of me.

So what’s stopping you? Oh, that’s right. Twenty additional years (forty in female years) isn’t good for the bangathon business.

Jesus, what a buffoon.

Here’s some real insight for ya, Penelope and assorted Jizzabelers — Karen Owen has royally fucked up her chances to extract marriage from a good man thanks to her intemperate decision to write about, share and, consequently, archive for the masses for all eternity her insatiable hunger for a variety of lacrosse cock. Try to turn down the knobs on your psychologically-cemented female projection modules for a moment and put yourself in an alpha male’s shoes. What man worth his yarbles in character, money, career, looks, charm and/or social status is going to use Karen Owen for anything more than a hole in which to dump a perfunctory fuck? What high status man would marry a slut with a tap sheet a mile long, her every clitoral flutter registered in loving detail in ASCII, jpeg and png for his friends to read and laugh at?

Rhetorical.

Naturally, the double standards crowd will pipe up that Owen was just doing what men do all the time. Congratulations! You just figured out double standards exist and life isn’t fair. First prize, a group hug from fellow knobbobbers. Second prize, a beta with few options. Third prize, you’re still a rancid slut.

The impolite fact is that a man who wrote an Owen-esque fuck list would not suffer much, if any, penalty in the dating market *or* in the more tightly regulated social market for his promiscuity. Sure, a few femtards would wail at the objectifying of women and the unfairness that ugly but SMRT broads are passed over for alpha bimbo sorostitutes, but in the crucible of real life most normal heterosexual women would be uncomfortably drawn to such a man, and would work for his affections. I’m sure the athletes who are a part of Owen’s fuck list are high-fiving their pounding of Owen’s sperm cavern when they’re not fucking a hundred other groupies scrambling for their attentions.

Bottom line: a male Karen Owen would actually see his sexual market value *rise*, while Owen’s value as a girlfriend and potential wife has undoubtedly fallen. This — plus the raw hypergamy on display by her choice of sexual partners and her ability to effortlessly fulfill that limbic impulse — is the underlying message of Owen’s cutesy confessional. And it’s the message that the legacy media, the middle-aged vicars of vicariousness, and the feminists are trying hard to miss.

******

A few other points of note. Duke is also the site of the infamously racist false rape accusation by a black stripper against white lacrosse players. The mass media and fembots had a glorious communal orgasm over that one until it was discovered the whole thing was a lie. Funny how now, with another Duke scandal wafting in the autumn air, those same media mavens and feminists can’t be bothered to string up Karen Owen for her objectifying of Duke’s male students. Instead of a wail, admiration for her journey of self-actualization is shared by all.

Hypocrites, liars and filthy cunts, the lot of them.

Karen Owen herself looks masculinized. Check out her manjaw, beady eyes and heavy overhanging brow (on the left):

The photo of her lends evidence to my theory that women with high serum testosterone, or women who have been prenatally drowned in single mamma’s high T syrup, are more likely to slut it up with a platoon of men. These kinds of women are also more likely to value raw looks in a man, whereas more feminine women tend to downgrade male looks relative to other attractive male traits such as humor, charm and social acumen. It is possible that Owen’s masculinization gives her the male-like capacity to absorb to a greater extent than most women a series of repeated romantic rejections from crudely inattentive one night stands.

Last thought. What I’ve written above is based on the assumption that Owen was honest with her Powerpoint. It isn’t a guarantee that she’s telling the truth. The internet is the place where people make shit up. (Case in point: I could be making everything up as well. Every story I write could be a total lie. It isn’t, but it could be. You’ll just have to take my word for it.)

Owen could very well have made everything up for shits and giggles, or she could have been cruelly rejected by an alpha lacrosse player and this was her weird idea of getting back at him and those like him. It’s not unheard of that women will lie, in both petty and grand ways, about the men who have hurt them in a vain attempt at exacting vengeance, nor is it unheard of that they will fantasize out loud about having sex with alpha males. For purposes of discussion, we’ll have to believe the story as reported: the hookups are real and she only meant to send her fuck list to a few (formerly) close girlfriends.

I’m sure the Duke lacrosse players are crying in their red cups. [/sarcasm]

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Bristles

“Wow, I can’t believe I neglected to do this. Can I come inside and use your bathroom real quick? Yeah, I know, I should have gone at the bar.”

She cocked her head and a wisp of sandy blonde hair tumbled across her left cheek. She smiled.

“Of course, you can use my bathroom.”

“Just the bathroom, that’s all. I’m gonna hold you to that.”

She giggled. “Ok.”

Her place was smartly decorated. A geometric mobile acted as a partition between her bed and the room. She pointed to the bathroom and I closed the door. Lifting the toilet seat, I let my gaze relax on her patterned wallpaper. This pissing felt particularly pleasurable. I flushed and exited, walking to her studio apartment window.

“You have a good view of the students across the street. Are you an exhibitionist?”

“I don’t think so. Are you a voyeur?”

“Yes.” I walked into her personal space. She held her ground. “Who isn’t a voyeur?”

“Well, I’m not a pervert, but if that’s your thing, I won’t stop you.”

“If I want to be stopped, I’ll let you know.”

She parted her mouth as if about to formulate a reply, but fell short. I noticed her palms had opened and were facing my thighs.

“I really… like your place…” I leaned in and softly brushed my lips sideways across hers.

Her tongue escaped with a fury, pushing for the dark recesses of my mouth. I withdrew, pulled back, and examined her pupils. She became shy.

“Oh god, that makes me nervous.”

“What does?”

“You doing that. Looking at me and not saying anything.”

“Good. It’s hot when you’re nervous.”

Kissing resumed. I could taste a little of the artisanal beer on her tongue. She pressed into my face, and a whimper echoed in her throat. Something scratched my upper lip. I pulled back, then returned to her mouth. Still more scratching. Pulling back once more, I spot checked her upper lip. All clear. A visual inspection revealed nothing but soft skin. More kissing. More irritating scratching. Like a Brillo pad scrubbing my philtrum. Five minutes and a semi-chub later, I disengaged to allow my upper lip a moment of relief from the interminable stinging.

She opened her mouth for more, eyes half-lidded. I paused. Her eyes widened quizzically. Reluctantly, I rejoined the oral battle with her tongue, lips, and whatever phantom torment occupied the tender region between her upper lip and nose. The pain resumed, and I could no longer deny it; she had a hedgerow of invisible bristles above her mouth — scratching, scraping, scrubbing the epidermis from my face. I could not even fool myself these were soft female hairs; I was kissing 5 o’clock stubble. Once more, I stepped back and microscopically perused her face and mouth. I could see nothing. But the bristles were there, invisible and abrasive.

“You know, it sounds cliched, but I’m not that kind of girl.” Her red face and swaying hips belied her words.

“Hey, I’m trying to turn over a new leaf. I’m a different guy from the old me. I’m a gentleman now.”

“Oh… Ok.”

“I’ll give you a call.” One more kiss, this time with my mouth pursed defensively, and my fingers already deleting her number.

Outside, I passed a group of undergrad girls reveling in the 1AM street lamp glow. All tits and ass, bursting into existence. Their philtrums glistened, danced and swayed, and I wondered which of them held no secrets.

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She’s A Superflirt

“Yo man, let’s go next door.”

“Why? It’s good here. And the bathroom is only ten feet away. Very convenient.”

“There’s a new club next door. It caters to the international crowd. Last time I was there it was filled with Russian women. And I know how you are about Russians.”

“How is it I haven’t heard of this magical land before?”

“You’re out of the loop. Time to pack up and move to the burbs.”

We left to check out club eurotrash. It was as advertised; hot foreign-looking women everywhere. I heard three different languages spoken as soon as I walked in the door, two vaguely Slavic and one Spanish. My buddy and I sat at a two seater table near the bar. The bartenders were women. The only men working here were the DJ and doorman.

We had barely settled in when a pretty blonde flitted up to us, smiling broadly. She had a delicate feminine jaw and chin, and high cheekbones. Very slender with nice sized tits. She was a hard 8.5. Later I would discover she was American, but spoke with a funny generic euro accent that she said she picked up from all her foreign friends.

She put her hand on my knee. “You’re cute. Where you guys from?”

Before I could answer she continued. She craned her head slightly upward as she spoke.

“Let’s dance! Come on, get up! It’s my birthday this week.” (Are girls now celebrating week-long birthdays? Isn’t there enough female entitlement?) She had grabbed both my hands and was guiding me up off my seat, her hips in a perpetual wriggle.

I knew this type well. The superflirt. Not drunk, but buzzed. Exraverted. Superficially confident. Used to getting her way with men. Weaponized femininity. A classic eternal ingenue. Likely had a boyfriend somewhere else and a couple of mother hens in attendance to supervise her.

The superflirt’s frame is all-powerful. Few men can resist getting sucked into it. But resist you must. I had three choices before me.

1. Brush her off.
2. Refuse to dance but attempt to get her to join us in conversation.
3. Dance with her.

Number one is fine if you want her to leave. But don’t expect to pull a superflirt out of her euphoric frame with aloofness and indifference. She’ll just waltz to the next guy willing to entertain her machinations.

Number two is a battle of the frames. Can you convince a hyper happy chick to focus on you for more than a second? All her energy is pulling her onto the dance floor, into the embrace of an envious or horny audience. You have no value to her other than your looks, and that’s weak sauce to a cute girl. She has approached you, thus stripping you of the momentum and careful planning of a male-initiated approach, and she has thrown out a hoop for you to jump through which is rigged to ensure failure. You jump, you lower your value. You refuse to jump, you look like a stick in the mud.

Number three is jumping through the hoop, but with an eye on the long game. That’s what I did.

I got up and we all danced languidly around the bar, her leading the way. (I had tried to maneuver myself in front but obstacles prevented a smooth transition.) She introduced me and my buddy to her two friends, a sausage-shaped older, short Latina and a tall, big-boobed, meaty girl. The mother hens. I tried to preemptively neutralize any future mother hennery by asking the tall girl if she was responsible for babysitting Superflirt while she had all the fun.

“No way. She can take care of herself.”

Bullseye.

I danced with Superflirt on and off for fifteen minutes. Every few seconds she would saunter away to harass the DJ, dance on the bar, or drink a free shot, courtesy of the gawking older men gathering around us. She would return and put her hands on my stomach, exclaiming with delight how hard it was, or she would tickle me. A few times she leaned in and rested her cheek on my cheek, whispering in my ear. She smelled like concentrated estrogen. Then she would recoil in mock indignation, and, without my prompting, announce she had a boyfriend.

“I have a boyfriend, just to let you know. No, really, I have a boyfriend.”

I’ll admit I was enjoying the spectacle, regardless if it led anywhere or not. Of course, I would do my best to lead it somewhere, but the superflirt is normally quarry best left to shot-buying chumps who can convince themselves they’re going home happy having danced with a cute chick for a minute.

“That’s great. So does my girlfriend.”

She cocked her head and stared at me quizzically, then giggled. “I reeeeeeeally have a boyfriend. I’m supposed to go to his place later.”

I ignored her. She hopped up on the bar again. I figured at this point she was teetering close to the edge of outright drunkenness, so if I was to make a bold move, I had to execute quickly.

There are two ways to handle a superflirt. One, nuclear negs followed by a bold sexual move that shocks her out of her attention whore programming. Two, jealousy plotlines that flip the script so she is chasing you. I wanted to do the first option, but she had stopped clambering into my lap in between dance moves. All I could accomplish was a few negs.

“Hey, stop tickling me. Do I look like a piece of meat?”

“Yes!”

“Sexual harassment! Is this how you hit on men? It’s not working.”

She twirled. I tried to keep her focused.

“How would you like it if I did that to you?” I tickled her middle and she shrieked joyously like a little girl so loudly I though my ears would bleed.

This was going nowhere. She was in full-on attention whore mode. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a leggy woman of exquisite beauty wearing a miniskirt that climbed past mid-thigh. Her makeup was expertly applied, and she didn’t smile. An expression of disdain swept across her purse-lipped face.

Had to be Russian.

I sidled closer to her table where she was standing with a couple girls and some men, and listened in; yep, Russians. She glanced in my direction. I realized why. Preselection. She had front row seats to me getting pawed by Superflirt. A man can go up as much as five points simply by being seen in the company of a hot babe.

This was one last opportunity to break Superflirt’s frame. If I could be seen by her chatting up the Russian, she might reengage and be open to a proper seduction. All her earlier boyfriend chatter suggested to me she was subconsciously looking for an excuse to step out with a new man. And nothing works like jealousy on an eternal ingenue. She has to feel a competitive threat from equally pretty women.

Unfortunately, this story does not have a good ending. I opened the Russian, asking her why she wasn’t embarrassing herself like the other girls by dancing on the bar, because it’s what all American women do. As we talked I would steal a glance at Superflirt to see if she was watching us, but she had fallen on her ass next to a bar stool, drunk as sin, and one shot away from puking. Three men rushed in to help her up. I didn’t budge. When I turned back to continue my conversation with the Russian, the doorman was saying something to her and she clopped in three inch high heels toward the door to make a phone call outside.

It was near closing time. Superflirt stumbled past me on the way to the door. She stopped to drape her arms over my shoulders, and I told her to give me her number. It was a last ditch effort that I knew had a low chance of succeeding. She was barely cognizant. But she stuck to her boyfriend script.

“Can’t. No I really can’t. I’m going to my boyfriend’s place right now! He lives nearby.”

Admiring her tight ass and perfect 0.7 waist-hip ratio as she wobbled out into the street, I figured her boyfriend either had very strong pimp hand to feel comfortable letting her get drunk by herself in his own hood, or they were heading for a dramatic breakup within the month. What a fucking headache it is dating a superflirt. Best way to keep them in line is to date two or more of them at the same time.

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