Archive for the ‘The Good Life’ Category

How many of the men reading this have fathers who give (or gave) them realtalk about women? How many had heart to hearts with Pops about what women really desire in men? Reader Zombie Shane writes:

I have a theory about “The Natural”.

It’s kinda the White Peoples’ version of Amy Chua and the Tiger Mom phenomenon.

And here’s the theory: I think that some Dads CHEAT and teach their sons all the secrets at a very young age.

Kinda like what Adam Carolla and Jimmy Kimmel used to do with that fat obnoxious kid on The Man Show.

Can you imagine how much more poontang you would have scored in the early years if your Dad had taught you the forbidden secrets?

But instead your Dad forces you to be self-taught and to learn all the lessons for yourself.

Yeah, long-term, it’s a much better character-building exercise to absorb all the “hard knocks”, and to learn from experience, but wow, can you imagine if you had had the “White-Peoples-Amy-Chua-Dad” in, say, Middle School?

Being an 8th-Grader and hitting on all that fine-assed perky young just-barely-pubescent poontang?

Shit damn, man, shit damn.

Actually, on second thought [thinking about all that jailbait tail], maybe I should thank my Dad for keeping me out of prison [or at least out of Reform School] at that age…

The fact that you had a dad around to raise you is a leading indicator he is a beta male who himself didn’t know the secrets to women. That’s my theory for why more fathers don’t teach their sons the truth about women: they don’t know it themselves!

Not that there’s anything wrong with having a beta male for a father. If you like civilization you can thank beta male fathers.

Another theory that perhaps explains why so many fathers neglect their duty to impart the lessons of love to their sons is that they feel embarrassed talking about these topics. Even the most cold-blooded womanizers would squirm a little when the time came for them to teach what they’ve learned to their sons. And it’s easy to understand why: when you know women inside and out, you can’t help but be aware of their unsavory natures. Any talk with your son is going to necessarily implicate his mother.

Finally, there are some fathers who are so alpha that they actually view their sons as competition. To them, revealing the secret of snatch is like fraternizing with the enemy. These aging Lotharios wistfully long for the days when pubescent poose clung to them like dryer lint. In some dark recess of their minds, they harbor an envy for their sons which motivates them to conceal their knowledge.

Ultimately, though, I think the best explanations for the dearth of fatherly wisdom regarding female nature is that there are too few fathers experienced in the ways of women to know what to teach, and there are too many fathers protective of their children’s mothers who fear the risk that dangerous knowledge would tarnish by association the esteem with which the children hold their mothers (and sisters).

There is also the theory — and I throw this out here for completeness — that fathers are somehow genetically or psychologically predisposed to encourage their sons to attain resources and status to win the attentions of high value women, and that this mitigates against them teaching their sons the dark arts of seduction which would enable them to short circuit the laborious process that is the conventional method for attracting women.

As regards the origin of Naturals, the greatest influence on them is likely to have been their peers rather than their fathers. Or, if they have been influenced by their fathers, to have been influenced *despite* their fathers’ reticence to share their wisdom. I suspect Naturals benefit from three advantages, in varying degrees of imprint, that most men don’t have:

1. Fathers and friends who teach them the effective (note: I did not say morally righteous) alpha attitude through their own behavior with women.

2. Favorable genetic traits in whatever ratio, which may include sociopathy, narcissism, lack of empathy, mesomorphy, good looks, high sociosexuality, intelligence, artistry, humor.

3. Fortuitous successful early encounters with girls that set the budding Naturals on a path of alluring self-assurance.

So… if your father was an unapologetic cheater, you see vaginas in every Rorschach test, and you got your first knob job at the ripe age of seven, chances are good you are a Natural with women. Chances are also good you would not be able to teach other men what you know, because you only know it intuitively.

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Cheap Chalupas notes that a prominent economist has come out in favor of Catalonian secession, and that he has done so for evil, vile, naughty, emotionally human tribal reasons. It’s an interesting post more for what it reveals about the dominant narrative of our time, and how it has infected the perspective of the pundit class to such an astonishing degree that any thought remotely transgressive of this narrative becomes the stuff of Hitlerian nightmare.

Commenter “lords of lies” left this over there:

i have yet to see or hear of a mainstream economic model that accounts for robert putnam’s findings that racial and ethnic diversity reduces intergroup and intragroup trust.

Is that true? There are no major economic models that incorporate this fundamental aspect of human nature? If so, that would be evidence for the growing irrelevance of economics as a field. Maybe that explains why no two economists can agree on anything, despite learning from the same textbooks and past greats.

I wonder what roguish, Spanish-speaking commenter gig thinks about all this.

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Readers, Chateau Heartiste has gone mainstream! Check out my first submission to CNN’s blog, where I review a new book by two “relationship sexperts” who advise men seeking love to expand their pool of dating prospects by cultivating multiple concurrent sexual relationships with as many women as time and energy allow.


Every man needs a ‘harem’ of women.

If you’re a single man and you’re looking for love, forget about “The Ring” and stop worrying that “She just sees me as a friend.”

That was then, this is now – it’s a post-dating world you’re living in, and that means you have to shed your one-to-one mind-set and start thinking in terms of one to many.

In other words? Stop searching for Ms. Right and look around at all the Ms. Right(s).

That’s the premise of “The Harem,” a new book from Lord Cockenawe, who, along with Donald Juanholio, runs the website “WTF Is Up With My Love Life?!

According to Cockenawe and Juanholio, every man – single or not – should have his own harem, a group of girls that occupy different roles in his life.

“You probably have a ‘harem’ of friends, who all play different roles and fulfill different needs for you,” explains Cockenawe. “You might call one friend to go gun shopping versus another friend when you’re playing first person shooters online versus another friend when you need a serious drinking buddy. Your romantic harem is just another piece of the much larger, long-term puzzle of how you structure the relationships in your life to feel full, happy and loved.”

The women in this harem can include anyone from the waitress you flirt with, to the ex-girlfriend you Skype, to the picturesque HR coworker you commiserate with over lunch. Whether you end up dating one or more of them is just an added bonus.

“As a man, having a harem provides you with a love life full of possibility: you have many women in your life, in many ambiguous but sexually enriching ways, who are all teaching you about yourself and your needs and desires and leading you closer to the girl and relationship you want,” say Cockenawe and Juanholio.

Terry Trespassio, a New York-based dating and relationship coach who is single himself, exuberantly extols the “uncoupled state” and takes things a step further: If you’re happily single but enjoy dating, he recommends seeing three different women regularly.

“When you date just one girl, you might feel pressured to commit, even if you’re not ready,” he says. “If you see two women, there’s often this unspoken need to choose between them. But three girls tend to balance each other out, like a tripod. There’s really no downside to female variety!”

Like the “Harem,” these three women can fulfill different needs – maybe you like to have dirty sex with one, public sex with another and intimate lovemaking with a third – which removes the burden of one woman to fill all those slots.

“This can also help you worry less about whether or not someone is your ‘match’,” says Trespassio, “and shifts your focus to the sheer joy of connecting with other young, slender, height-weight proportionate pretty women of all sizes and ages.”

Nor does being single have to equal celibate. Your harem may well include ex-girlfriends, hot sex prospects, and perhaps even a casual f*ckbuddy. It’s your love-life, so do it your way. As long as you’re open and honest with your dates when pressed on the matter – and practice safe sex until you’re assured she’s not lying about being on the pill – there’s no reason why you can’t be intimate with more than one person.

Just as different people can serve different roles outside of bed, so too can they satisfy different needs between the sheets. In their groundbreaking book, “The Ethical Player,” Dossier Everlong and Jamdhin Hardy describe the ways in which single men (and women) can juggle multiple sexual partners and enjoy intimacy safely and “ethically.”

Marriage is wonderful for many, but it’s not the right choice for everyone, particularly men, who must bear the brunt of sacrifice when deciding to accede to marital monogamy and forego all other lovers. Whether you’re sexually intimate with more than one person or simply enjoying a variety of friendships and dates, one doesn’t have to be the loneliest number.

Say Cockenawe and Juanholio: “We are living in a post-dating world because traditional dating is no longer the most common path that people are following to romantically connect and fall in love. And the more that men judge themselves and their relationships by traditional dating standards that no longer exist, the more they are going to feel an unnecessary despair and confusion and hold themselves back from finding multiple outlets of exciting love in this new romantic landscape.”

So go forth and harem build!


Isn’t it great how the mainstream is beginning to accept with open mind the teachings of players and sexually satisfied men? This could be the dawn of a golden era when all harem master penises are served, and all concubines satisfied. A revolution in romance!

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There’s a tumultuously adventuresome discussion thread going on over at GLPiggy’s about “citizenism” versus white nationalism, in which your cockily imperturbable narrator has contributed some choice morsels (look under ‘heartiste’).

Couple addendums: I wasn’t familiar with WN until the one degree of separation internet revealed glorious new vistas to me. As such, I’m not up to speed on their political platform, although I can make an educated guess. I prefer not to spend too much time around relentlessly serious people, a fatal personality defect that some (some!) WNs share with feminists and grievance group racialists.

And, I’m not doctrinaire on the subject of national homogeneity. Like with most things in life, quality and quantity matter. A huge nation can accommodate some small number of immigrants who don’t resemble the native stock. I spell it out in more detail over there at piggy central, but in short, I believe an advanced nation’s social and economic health is best served by an immigration policy that does not shift its majority ethnic/racial demography below 80% of the total population. Obviously, the US is past that critical ratio and falling fast, and just as obviously, the US is concurrently experiencing the long, slow decline to has-been status in earnest, complete with all the expected attendant neuroses afflicting ever larger swaths of individuals and communities.

ps Libertarians are still stoopid. And it mostly hinges on their willful blindness to this issue, the one issue to rule all issues.

pps I might emigrate someday in the distant future for, ah, moister pastures, to which a pro-swamp white people advocate might justifiably accuse me of hypocrisy. Hey, no one said life was tidy. I think Social Security is a Ponzi scheme waiting to implode, but that doesn’t mean I’ll turn down the SS checks the government sends my way when I’m old. Countries have a right to restrict who enters and gets to stay, and if, for example, Poland decides not to accept my application for citizenship, then I’ll abide their decision. I won’t like it, but I’ll understand perfectly well why they enforce the immigration policy they do.

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Reader Sidewinder writes the following:

Last night I banged the highest quality girl to date. 21, petite, model, easily orgasmic…somewhere in that 8-9.5 range where any difference in rating is merely a matter of opinion. I’m a 35 year old attorney, recently divorced, 2 kids, balding, medium height, slender build…pretty fucking average.

I won’t waste your time with the entire seduction (which took 2 months, yet the 7 hour rule still held). I am fairly confident that last night would not have happened without the knowledge I have gained from reading your blog. This girl threw shit tests at me on a near daily basis for over a month. And when I passed all the tests and had near flawless rapport with her on 2 dates, she wouldn’t even kiss me at the end of the date (even though there was a lot of touching, hand-holding, etc.). She flaked on one date, and rejected me on another date request. So what changed? What were the keys to success?

1.        Persistent frame maintenance. I never whined, complained, asked, pleaded… I always acted congruent with the reality that I am a high-value male worthy of her sexual interest. While it was never said, she knew that “let’s just be friends” would not be an acceptable way of dealing with me. And I always moved forward, never afraid to tease, touch, flirt. No attempt to backtrack to try to avoid a rejection or give myself an out.

2.       Negs. Even though she is very attractive, she has a warm approachable personality, so I calibrated to a teasing form of negging. No cutting negs, except as described below at 5.

3.       Freeze out. After a month of flirting, dates, but no sex, I stopped giving her attention. This drove her crazy and resulted in increased texts and emails from her.

4.       Gamed other girls. While freezing her out, I continued talking to other girls, banging one of them. She didn’t know about this, but this bird in the hand mentality gave me strong inner game in dealing with the hotter girl.

5.       Destroyed/preempted her ultimate shit test – while I was ignoring her, she sent the following beta bait: “A girl hit me last night. I don’t know what to do”. I completely ignored this. This pissed her off and she demanded to talk a couple days later. I told her at the last minute she could come out and meet me at a restaurant I was already at after work (a greasy hole in the wall that she had previously told me she hated). She shows up, pissed to even be there and started fishing for emotional support which I ignored. Then she tried to guilt trip me about not being a caring person and listed all the ways I’m “not as great as you think you are.” At that point, having banged the other girl the night before, I didn’t give a shit so I told her the truth: I didn’t respond to her text because her “girl fight” was embarrassing for her, not something she should broadcast or that I would ever be involved with. I told her she needed to grow the fuck up. She looked at the wine in her hand and thought about throwing it on me, but instead got up, yelled at me and stomped out of the place. But she really didn’t leave…she waited outside for me to come out…we ended up having a good conversation. She wanted to come over but I told her I was tired.

6.       The days following this, she turned a complete 180. Pleasant, accommodating, openly interested in hanging out. Last night she came over, with her overnight stuff (I didn’t invite her to spend the night), watched a movie, no drama whatsoever, sex after a fair degree of last minute resistance and she stayed over. But it was good resistance, the “I don’t want to fuck this up with you” kind of resistance.

While we were laying in bed after sex, she was talking about why she wanted to be with me and she said “You are really honest with me, even when I don’t want to hear it. No guy is ever honest with me. They just tell me what they think I want to hear.” I know you don’t put a lot of stock into what women have to say about game, or what they think they want, but this girl is very intelligent and self-aware.

Unbelievable how difficult this was, though. It was like trying to land a marlin in a kayak, or break a wild horse. And odds are good I’ll slip up or get out-gunned eventually by a higher quality guy. But I’m fairly confident I would never have even got my first drink with her prior to finding this blog, much less navigating the minefield she laid out.

Some men found Fortune 500 companies. Some men split the atom. I help guys get laid with hot babes. Ask yourself, who’s really bringing more happiness into the world? :cool:

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When I had made an end of my morning labors slathering lotion on my skin to protect it from the sizzling tropical sun, it was eleven o’clock — hot but now tolerable, the air stirred by cooling winds, the rays glancing at a blinding angle off the sand. Laying on my towel face up, inviting the browning of my flesh, I swiveled my head to the left and right, to ensure my immediate area was clear for uninterrupted napping, and to savor perhaps one more plump, glistening nude buttock before I closed my eyes.

Sunlight ricocheted off the pocked sand, blinding me as I squinted to the smallest aperture possible to view my surroundings. To my right, about ten feet, two girls, early 20s, lay on a blanket on their backs, faces craned skyward. Skimpy bikinis concealed only the most imprudent parts of their lithe figures, and their pale skin, nearly as light in hue as the sand which enveloped them, showcased off-toned strap lines. I knew this because they had untangled their tops, letting the cloth rest loosely on their breasts. Giddy with freedom, they nonetheless couldn’t muster the insouciance to splay out entirely naked. Here they allowed a mere hint of their wares on one of the most notorious full nudity beaches in the world.

My right eye lingered on one girl’s twinkling side boob until I began to drift off.

As the surf sounded the seconds, there came a faint, seemingly distant patter approaching from my left.

slap slap slap

At first I thought it was the blood rushing through my ears, but as the sound congealed it became apparent the source was foreign and the noise it made strangely rhythmic, almost monotonic.

I smiled, — for what had I to wonder? Although the beach was only a third full, nothing of note ever occurred except the infrequent native pitchman hawking his trinkets. I strained to catch sight of the intruder, curious about his product for sale, but saw nothing save for bloated humps of tourist flesh possibly rolled over on their infant walruses. I grimaced that such aging monstrosities are often the ones least susceptible to self-regulating modesty.

I bade sleep welcome. But not soon enough, for the steady patter returned.

slap slap slap slap slap slap

I listened intently this time, agreeing with myself that the sound most resembled the light thwacking of a heavy, uncooked sausage against a wall or open palm. It grew ever so slightly in loudness, until, Doppler-like, it passed behind my head at its zenith and then receded, to return to prominence again in a few minutes as it swooped around the opposite side where my feet pointed.

slap slap slap SLAP SLAP SLAP slap slap slap

Ere long, I felt myself getting disconcerted and wished the sound gone. My head heavy with stupor, each time I looked around to locate my pattering torment, dazzling sunlight obscured my vision.

Had no one else been hearing what I heard? The walrus humans snorted and quivered like Jell-O, periodically scratching a fold. I fancied a hallucination brought on by the heat: but still the terrible soft patter encircled me. The gentle slaps became more distinct, less distinct, then more distinct again: I talked myself into believing it was an energetic small child bemused by a new toy to get rid of my curiosity: but it continued and once more gained definiteness — until, at length, I found that the noise had stopped ten feet from me.

No doubt I now grew very intrigued; — but I remained unwilling to sit up for a clearer visual inspection that would solve my mystery, for there were only a few minutes left to the conclusion of my facial bronzing, a chore I had planned in advance and hoped to premiere at that night’s danceclub opening. Yet the sound stopping aggravated me even more — and why would that be so? It had stopped for a reason, and so close by, and I had to know its purpose.

I arched my head to the right, toward the girls again, and slowly gazed upward into the blackest silhouette imaginable, backlit by the blazing sun. I could see the geometric contour of a thin, sinewy man, standing close to six feet tall, looming over the heads of the girls, his face totally hidden in shadows like an eclipse, and below his torso, equally cast in impenetrable shadow, a tubular structure swung languidly like a pendulum, its edges shimmering from a corona of sunlight.

I propped myself on my elbows — could it be? And yet the beachgoers saw it not, or pretended not. The girls had just opened their eyes, possibly rousted by the man’s shadow cast across their faces, and one of them audibly gasped as she looked straight up into the vortex of the pendulous tube swaying inches over her forehead, and past it into the barely perceptible grinning mug of the man holding some primitive face masks in his right arm.

Her open mouth frozen in shock, perhaps awe, the man inquired loudly in the local dialect.

“I have masks. Very good art. Good party masks, too. Dancing masks. You wanna buy? Ten dollars, my friends.”

No reply. He talked more quickly — more vehemently; but the girls’ catatonia steadily increased. I stared at the spectacle, pondering a rescue, but all I could see were wispy limbs, torsos and heads swirling nebulously around the mammoth tube.

Finally, the girls both wriggled to their sides, holding their tops against their chests with a free arm, and assumed a kneeling position a few feet away from the pubic proboscis. They erupted in giggles, looking at each other for confirmation that what they were seeing was in fact real, and one of them shook her head no. But the other, ostensibly the mischievous one of the two, asked about his selection, which prompted him to extend his arm full of masks, the motion of which caused the tube to swing in a parabola before their faces, inciting another round of stifled giggles.

Though cast in shadow, his toothy, brilliant grin was nonetheless visible enough, accentuated by the obvious creases in his cheeks. I was certain he prowled defenseless, but easily entertained, fillies in this manner every day of the week.

A brief bargaining ensued with no sale, and the man shrugged and walked off, the slapping noise commencing once again. I watched him retreat, his consciously exaggerated gait betrayed by his muscled legs sweeping outward a bit, and as if excited to fury by the giggles of the women, the tube arched upward then fell heavily from its own weight, thumping against his thigh, grazing the knee.

And then I knew. The slapping — the irrepressible noise of flesh on flesh, growing louder, louder!, then quieter, heard by others for certain who irritated me sourly, for they never let on that they suspected the source of the noise (they knew! they were making a mockery of my horror!), and still they sunbathed pleasantly, and glistened like oiled slugs — the slapping was his enormous member, thick enough around to plug a truck exhaust, bouncing happily off one leg, then the other, as he strolled, each stride punctuated by the beast’s shaft and head landing on the thigh like a breaching whale on the ocean surface, just short of the kneecap, a full 17… 18? 22?… inches from its origin point.

slap slap slap

Oh God! what could I do? I foamed — I raved — I mentally swore at the thing for refusing to suppress my prejudicial stereotyping! I sat up straight from the towel upon which I had been laying, and watched the snake slither across the beach around mounds of apathetic onlookers, pausing every so often to surprise a mark into an impulse buy. I noticed he studiously avoided the naked men, who, I guessed by their indifference, had either seen the snake handler before and were inured of his infamy, or were gallantly hiding evidence of their insecurity with quick hoists of bathing suits over blotchy, reddened privates. In time, every woman, even the old ones, who caught sight of the unearthly appendage tittered like schoolgirls, laced with a hint of anxiety.

“Fake!” I announced to the brightened girls next to me, “It’s so fake. You have to admit it.”

“I don’t know. It looked real to me,” girl one demured.

“Yeah, you were pretty close to it,” scoffed girl two at her friend.

“He could rape a girl from across the beach!” girl one whispered loudly.

Disgusted with their levity, I told them that if they had grabbed the thing and tore it off at the root, they would have found the little guy hiding underneath. That it would be surprising if sex stores didn’t have very lifelike organs nowadays for sale, and this thing was his gimmick to sell child-like art to dumbstruck tourists.

In the distance, a good hundred yards from our spot, maskman waded into the turquoise water, still in shadows, his member nevertheless clearly distinct and hanging like a giant grandfather clock chime from his crotch. He grabbed the shaft in the middle with one hand (his hand did not make it all the way around), the unattached end of the leaden pipe drooping toward the water, and took a piss into the waves.

The girls looked back at me. “Fake?”

I smirked. “Camera tricks.”

Later that evening, for the first time in my life, I was less than proud of my god-given nine inches. It would be nothing but small-vaginaed asian girls for me, from then on.

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This is not my thought. It’s a transcribed comment from a science group I follow.

Evolution isn’t done with us yet…and the latest innovations may well be still in their ‘Beta’ phase i.e. unreliable and not yet fully functional.

One of the major components of cellular aging is the shortening of telomeres: the protective ends of chromosomes. But there is a cure for this shortening problem.  It is called telomerase, the enzyme that can lengthen telomeres and so, in many cases around the human body, restore youth or halt aging.

Why doesn’t telomerase reactivate?  Every cell in the body has the formula for telomerase written into its DNA, so transcription is possible.

But the only cellular population that switches telomerase back on (apart from during our period of maturation) is cancer.  And cancer tends to prefer damaged or old tissue.

Is it possible that evolution is trying to figure out a way to switch telomerase back on for old or damaged tissue, but the process, far from perfection, screws up each time and we end up with cancer instead?

It is an intriguing thought ~ that when evolution finally gets it right then some of the most prominent manifestations of aging will gradually disappear, perhaps leaving the majority of the population to age gracefully into their early 100s and, perhaps, beyond!!

A dizzyingly pregnant hypothesis. Seems to me the key to unlocking the human potential for almost infinitely youthful lifespans lies in a full understanding of cancer — that most mysterious of afflictions — and how to corral its cruel destructiveness into something beneficial.

A lifespan measured in the hundreds of years, the great majority of those years lived in prime time vigor, a world of 80-year-old rock hard boners saluting at full mast and breasts pointing skyward joyously defiant of gravity, would so radically alter humanity’s relationship with just about every social, political and religious institution I can think of that predictions on the matter are futile. But you’re free to try.

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There’s a good article in the Washington BetaPost written by a hospital internist who laments the growing disconnect between the reality of death and people living in atomized, urban enclaves whose affluence allows them to warehouse their elderly parents into chambers of horrors death’s waiting rooms.

Mass urbanization hasn’t been the only thing to alienate us from the circle of life. Rising affluence has allowed us to isolate senescence. Before nursing homes, assisted-living centers and in-home nurses, grandparents, their children and their grandchildren were often living under the same roof, where everyone’s struggles were plain to see. In 1850, 70 percent of white elderly adults lived with their children. By 1950, 21 percent of the overall population lived in multigenerational homes, and today that figure is only 16 percent. Sequestering our elderly keeps most of us from knowing what it’s like to grow old.

This physical and emotional distance becomes obvious as we make decisions that accompany life’s end. Suffering is like a fire: Those who sit closest feel the most heat; a picture of a fire gives off no warmth. That’s why it’s typically the son or daughter who has been physically closest to an elderly parent’s pain who is the most willing to let go. Sometimes an estranged family member is “flying in next week to get all this straightened out.” This is usually the person who knows the least about her struggling parent’s health; she’ll have problems bringing her white horse as carry-on luggage. This person may think she is being driven by compassion, but a good deal of what got her on the plane was the guilt and regret of living far away and having not done any of the heavy lifting in caring for her parent.

With unrealistic expectations of our ability to prolong life, with death as an unfamiliar and unnatural event, and without a realistic, tactile sense of how much a worn-out elderly patient is suffering, it’s easy for patients and families to keep insisting on more tests, more medications, more procedures.

The human impulse to detach from the specter of death is strong, so it’s understandable people would want to get away from it as much as possible. I have vivid memories of being escorted through an ICU ward, so heavy with the stink and sight of dying, mechanically assisted bodies contorted in pulleys and displayed in giant plastic bubbles, their lesions and bloat and sickly droop mocking the thread of life they cling to, that I nearly choke on the most fleeting recollection and search for an expedient distraction.

So I have to wonder how people who are surrounded by death all day, every day, manage the burden — families whose old, dying parents live with them, doctors who treat the husks of humans lingering in the limbo between living and the illimitable void. Most condition themselves to it, having honed a preternatural ability to sever their emotions from the constant reminders of mortality that accompany every dying person like a gloomy chaperone.

So what does this have to do with nurses and game, you ask? I have this running compendium in my hed of my lifetime lays, because of all my memories, it’s the ones spent intimately with lovers I strive the hardest to keep well-formed and prevent from dissipating into the murky mists. This is my tribute to their love. Some of these sex memories are technicolor brilliant, some are romantically hazy, some curiously abstract.

Two lays in particular stick out, both with girls who were nurses. And not GP nurses. One was ER, the other worked in a children’s cancer ward. They saw death, the worst kinds of death, on a daily basis. Sex with them was exuberant, unhinged even. There was little foreplay; they couldn’t wait to get their clothes off and my dick inside them. One would impatiently hike her skirt up and drop her panties as soon as I walked through the door, then back up into my daggering manhood, heaving a satisfied sigh upon penetration, like a junkie who just depressed the syringe.

While it was not, qualitatively speaking, the *best* sex I’ve ever had, it was certainly the most frantic, and the fastest from “hi” to “slide it in”. Both of these girls banged on the first dates. They were not ones for drawn-out seduction dramas in the bedroom of the LMR variety; kisses always followed couplings.

This is what those in proximity to death do — they embrace life more fully, and part of that embracing is total sexual abandon. For what besides sex, the generation pool of life, is a bigger middle finger in the face of death? Skydiving while having sex, maybe.

One of these nurses, it should be noted, had a father who was considerably older than her mother. Almost her whole life the looming of her father’s end must have surely weighed on her. Coyness was not part of her vocabulary. Hungry copulation was.

A familiarity with death might put a stop to escalating medical costs as more enlightened people choose to let their old relatives pass into the ether as part of a natural, unimpeded progression. It might reverse demographic decline seen in the form of childlessness, a condition caused in part by insulation from death’s omnipresence among the privileged class which obscures revelation of their finiteness. Familiarity has other benefits: it inculcates a powerful will to live for experience, to grasp that the doorstep of death misses no one, to apprehend that the luxuries of boredom and ennui are the province of the derelict who has fooled himself to believe forever is now.

But my favorite death-accepance benefit: quick lays!

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The look and layout of your bachelor pad when you take a woman home with you, while not a necessary tool of game, can help ease the transition from seduction to sex. There are four main design theme directions a man such as yourself can consider when kitting out a home to best reflect your ladykiller cred.

1. More masculine

Deliberately excising any estrogenic touch from your interior decorating is the way of the man who wants female visitors to know his balls are not for sale. These are the homes of the finance wizard, the international businessman and the nerd. Man caves are usually sharply geometric, monochrome, metallic, hi-fi and, except in the case of the nerd, blessedly free of clutter. Bedroom furniture is either heavy, dark, unadorned mahogany or Scandinavian. Art is minimalist and modern. Sofas are exquisitely uncomfortable, facing enormous flat screen TVs. Top shelf bottles of liquor rest on Sterling Cooper bar caddies. The masculine home is a cold, unforgiving, chillingly beautiful non-interactive space that evokes the warehouse aesthetic of early first person shooters. You are reminded of nothing less than “American Psycho” and chainsaws.

2. More feminine

Adding splashes of femininity to your bachelor pad lets women know you are comfortable living with the energy of the softer sex humming pleasantly in the background. The feminized bachelor pad is the man parlor of the artist, the real estate salesman and the homosexual. Man parlors feature rounded edges, multihued color schemes, mineral or elemental textures, lo-fi vintage sensibility, and whimsically decorative trinkets and baubles of meaninglessness. Bedroom furniture is either antique or avant-garde. Square pillows and cologne-scented candles are everywhere. Paintings of French scenes abound. The feminized man parlor is a warm, aesthetically welcoming interactive space that evokes safety, security and the familiarity of romantic moments in front of the fireplace.

3. More sexual

This is the player’s studio. His den of iniquity. A sexualized bachelor pad, whether masculinized or feminized, is littered with props that testify to a man’s preselection by women and his tomcat lifestyle. Many decorative touches are of the form of “accidental” knick-knacks left lying around — such as old photos of you with pretty girls, a stray earring, two toothbrushes in the bathroom — that send hamsters spinning at full tilt. The sexual overload is contrasted with carefully conspicuous cookbooks and “homey” artifacts that fuel the female predilection to believe there is a domesticated man within the cad just waiting to burst forth with assistance by the right woman. This is the man lounge that inspires one night stands.

4. More mysterious

Here we come to the final destination — and the most difficult to master — in bachelor pad proofing: the man manor. A woman entering the enigma of the man manor is greeted by curios of mysterious beauty and a design sensibility that evokes not so much an aesthetic, but an adventure; a life fully lived. Oddities loom over monstrous bookcases. Souvenirs act as fulcrums for each room’s decorative theme. Tattered manuscripts, not glossy magazines or SWPL weeklies, perch tantalizingly in nooks and crannies. The rooms do not reveal, as much as beg for more to be revealed. A woman, upon entering this alternate manverse, is forced to navigate the novelty, snooping reflecting on what she sees at every turn, robbed of the inertia to sit down immediately and stew in her ASD (anti-slut defenses). She is overwhelmed by curioisty, and a curious woman is shortly a horny woman. Man manors pay only the slightest lip service to design rules, but they are generally spartan in space usage (the better to showcase the quizzical artifacts of unusual heft), boldly colored with an emphasis on the darker hues, moody in affect, and nonconformist. The man designing the man manor assiduously avoids trendiness of any flavor. He does not care for social approval; he only cares about lighting up the neural synapses of his prey.


There is no right or wrong way to manage the look of your bachelor pad. Each of the above four themes, properly executed, will redound to a man’s advantage in the bedding of women, and some women will react more favorably to a certain theme depending on her individual aesthetic, station in life and relationship goals. However, one theme provides a bigger boudoir boost than the others. And that is the man manor. Simply put, mystery is the gift that accelerates women to sexual abandon faster, and more reliably, than masculinity, femininity or Quagmire caddishness.

I have not lived in every style of place outlined in this post, but I have known, and know, men who do live in homes representing each of the four major design philosophies. Without doubt, the best players tend to the man manor theme, sprinkled with props indicating female preselection. The biggest player I have ever known — a man whose count possibly numbers in the thousands — had a living space that could double as a museum.

Charred oak was the construction medium of his coffee table and bookcases, which were filled with travel guides, dog-eared classics of literature and lewd photography books. A cracked and gouged writing desk he claimed was one used by Edgar Allan Poe sat in his bedroom, at the end of a four poster king-sized monstrosity covered with mosquito netting. A full body female mannequin wearing a safari outfit and pearls occupied a corner of the living room. She looked on the proceedings with an expression of smug disdain. A stuffed rattlesnake reared back, coiled and angry, under a glass case.

A shelf full of dusty old baseballs supposedly gleaned from major sporting events and autographed by famous players peered out from small glass containers. (I say supposedly because I had suspicion that some of the autographs were added after the point of sale.) A crocodile head was etched with dripped wax from a giant gothic candle on its snout. A reading stand — much like the one you might see holding a Bible in a church — propped open a leather-bound notebook with scribblings in Arabic, a small bottle of india ink at its side. He claimed it was a compendium of love poems written to him by a former lover who died young. A very realistic and very creepy Hollywood quality face mask acted as a bookend. A surfboard with a shark bite-shaped chunk missing from it leaned against another corner. A black cat (real one!) with piercing green eyes sat at the edge of a banal out-of-place microfiber couch, surveying his playground.

The overall impression is that one had entered the abode of Ernest Hemingway merged with Andy Warhol.

But the coup de grace was the white wedding dress (sans train) and dark purple tuxedo displayed on mesh wire torsos in a hallway leading to the bathroom. “A love story gone tragically wrong,” he would explain. In fact, he had a story for everything in his place, and it was a rare girl who didn’t feel impelled to satisfy her curiosity. I’m convinced his digs were such extreme chick crack, that half his game was opening the front door and letting girls have a look see.

How much of his stuff was authentic, or how many of his stories true, I can’t say. Likely, most of it was BS. But what does it matter whether he traveled the world collecting strange mementos and memories or he traveled to a SWPL store two miles away to buy his stories at exorbitant prices? Girls ate it up just the same. He put effort into learning and retelling his stories, true or not, and that made girls happy, which made them want to have sex and fall in love, which made him happy. And isn’t that the essence of game?

Once you’ve entranced a woman with your living room, proceed to the bedroom finishing move; the final mysterious conceit that will cause her hamster to run straight to her vagina and start nibbling on her labia.

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Digging through the archives of the Chateau Heartiste library, we find a post about the hazards of LTRs and marriage.

Now you can’t do anything without her, and she you. In the beginning, this is a necessary process to build the level of trust and bonding that distinguishes the LTR from any run of the mill fling. But it morphs into a hermetic pair-bond cocoon, a soft escapable prison that shields from the outside world more than it protects. Increasingly consanguineous, the LTR alienates friends and slackens ambitions.

Scary stuff. Science has something to say about the deleterious effects of marriage on the female body, as well:

•Women in their teens and early 20s who continued to date but didn’t cohabitate gained an average of 15 pounds over five years; their male counterparts added about 24 pounds.

•Newly married women in that age group packed on 24 pounds in five years; newly married men gained 30 pounds.

That degree of gain wasn’t seen in couples who were living together but not married. Women gained 3 pounds more than their single peers — 18 pounds — and men gained 24 pounds.

When you see photos of the groom stuffing the bride’s mouth full of wedding cake as she licks down every last ounce of sloppy creamed filling, you may as well be watching the groom disposing of his sex and love life down her maw. But as we all know, men get very, very stupid about marrying the first semi-decent pussy who comes along.

The latest from the scientific front presents more CH-confirming evidence that LTRs and marriage have negative consequences for their practitioners.

For better or for worse, in sickness and in health – there’s a long line of research that associates marriage with reducing unhealthy habits such as smoking, and promoting better health habits such as regular checkups. However, new research is emerging that suggests married straight couples and cohabiting gay and lesbian couples in long-term intimate relationships may pick up each other’s unhealthy habits as well. [...]

Corinne Reczek, a UC assistant professor of sociology, reports three distinct findings into how unhealthy habits were promoted through these long-term, intimate relationships: through the direct bad influence of one partner, through health habit synchronicity and through the notion of personal responsibility.

Reczek reports that gay, lesbian and straight couples all described the “bad influence” theme, while in straight partnerships, men were nearly always viewed as the “bad influence.” [ed: there go women again, abdicating all reason and accountability.]

[...] “Third, respondents utilized a discourse of personal responsibility to describe how even when they observe their partner partaking in an unhealthy habit, they do not attempt to change the habit, indicating that they were complicit in sustaining their partner’s unhealthy habits. The final theme was described primarily by straight men and women,” says Reczek.

So if your partner has unhealthy habits, (smoking, drinking to excess, overeating, underexercising, staying up late to watch Modern Family recordings or Jon Stewart smugly sing to the SWPL choir), you will likely pick up those bad habits. And thus we see how the fat acceptance movement gets its steam — osmotic inevitability. (In related news, according to the Red Cross, there are more obese than there are hungry in the world. We’ve entered the era of globulization.)

Of particular interest in the above study is the evidence that women, and presumably their lapdog betabitchboys, placed the blame for being a bad influence squarely on the men’s shoulders. It’s obvious to those in the know that this blame-shifting is complete bullshit, since (just to pick an easily discernible example at random) there are innumerable couples where the woman has gotten fat while the man stayed slim. Nothing will kill a man’s desire to please his woman in every way faster than the disfigurement of her body caused by bloating up from bellying up to the buffet.

Is there an enterprise in existence where women will blame themselves for something bad they did? To ask the question is to laugh at female absurdity. The rationalization hamster is a cosmic force on par with dark matter; you can’t see the little bugger, but goddamn is he everywhere, redirecting galactic phenomena at will.

Also interesting is the last line quoted above from the study. Partners are complicit in sustaining their SO’s bad habits because they don’t call them out on it. I think we can figure out who is most responsible for this dereliction of duty: sackless beta males who are afraid of the divorce raping and/or sex withholding they will assuredly receive if they displease their queen sovereigns by timidly mentioning in squeaky-voiced passing their increasing girth. Women, for their part, don’t attempt to change their partners’ bad habits for a different reason: they don’t have a clue how to articulate what is wrong with their beta boyfriends and hubbies.

This post, and others like it, is a helpful reminder to the “marriage is best” crowd that marriage — and, similarly, LTRs — hold special dangers for the man who allows himself to become ensnared. An LTR is a beautiful thing with the right woman and undertaken with the right alpha attitude, but it isn’t a panacea for all psychological, emotional or sexual needs, and it isn’t without its own problems that men who serially date don’t experience. When you commit to a woman with the intent of remaining monogamous, you acquire new obstacles to navigate and problems to avoid. Failure to recognize those LTR-inherent deficiencies and counteract them will lead to exile in betaville, where begging for blowjobs once per year and praying you don’t get reamed in court if she gets bored become part of the wonderful fabric of life.

As with everything you venture to explore, do it with your eyes open. Otherwise, you may as well hand your decision-making process over to a committee of cog-molding industrialists and ball-chopping feminists.

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