Reader “T.A.” sent me the following email:
I’ll be brief – I’m a fan. Game has made my marriage palatable, and I thank you and the rest of the community for that. However, I wanted to submit a sort of “public service announcement” to the community. Hopefully so men everywhere can avoid the mistake I made. Do with this what you wish, but hopefully you’ll post it:
I’m like alot of men – probably safe to say “most” men. I’m 35. I’m a handsome fellow. I’m reasonably successful. I’m fit – probably more fit than I should be at my age – due to years of pent up frustration released on various pieces of innocent gym equipment and “recreational” 5Ks. You would probably look at me if you passed me and my family on the street and think I’ve got my shit together. I’ve got a pretty, fit wife who wears stylish clothes, and I’ve got two gorgeous sons.
You’d probably think that I’m a happy man – or at least that I SHOULD be a happy man. You’d be wrong.
I’ve spent countless hours thinking about the uninspired, passionless albatross of a marriage that constantly tugs at my neck. Countless hours thinking about how incredible it would be to actually get to use my dick more than a couple of times a year. Countless hours spent lamenting my shitty marriage with my equally miserable married buddies. I’ve thought about divorce a dozen times, but social pressures and family expectations have always held me back (“grow up – sex isn’t that important!” “but you’ve got such a lovely family!” etc.). I lived in a constant state of crisis for years until one day an old friend of mine introduced me to the CHsphere.
I’ve DEVOURED all manner of PUA/MRA/CHganda with the appetite of a starved child. And I’ve come to some startling conclusions.
I won’t waste too much of your time with my personal story (trust me, it is completely interchangeable with any one of millions of men’s in this country). But I have come away with one priceless gem that I believe all men MUST be made aware of. It’s as common as a McMansion in an outlying suburb, yet its as powerful and menacing a beast as any you’ll ever encounter:
BEWARE the classic gun-to-the-head marriage pressure administered by your typical non-descript, rudderless late 20’s/early 30’s woman.
When a woman pressures you mercilessly to marry her, bullying to the point of threatening a break up – this is the shit test of ALL shit tests. Treat it as such – If you fail this shit test, you are RUINED. FOR…LIFE..
For those of you who haven’t lived through it, let me go through the script:
You’ll meet a girl. She’ll seem perfect in a lot of ways. Not only will you get to hang out with your friends whenever you want, go out to bars with your buds, etc. but she’ll encourage it. And she’ll have her own life and she’ll go out with her friends. She’ll be game for the booty call, and she’ll do filthy things in your bed (and out of your bed). She’ll fuck in public bathrooms, she’ll fuck you and blow you in cars. She’ll bend over willingly and she might even swallow. Nothing will be off limits, sexually, and she’ll wake up your neighbors proclaiming how much she loves to get fucked by you.
She’ll watch football with you, maybe even become a fan of your team. She’ll watch movies with you that you know she hates, and she’ll do it with minimal whining. She’ll cook you special meals, pick up random gifts, and generally be a perfect girlfriend. You can leave her to pay the check, shrug at her requests for attention and affection, blow off her birthday, and generally just live a normal bachelor life but with the added benefit of having a consistent and exciting lay.
Then one day it will all come to a screeching halt.
I’m not quite sure what causes it – I suspect its a “special” night out with her yenta friends. A night spent drinking and dreaming about designer wedding dresses, champagne flutes, Pottery Barn registries, and giant rocks. Whatever the case, sooner or later they end up muttering to each other how unbelievable it is that their boyfriend hasn’t popped the question and made the self-absorbed dream that they’ve held dear since they were a little girl into an expensive and soul-sucking reality. They might even become hostile – proclaiming what a “waste of time” it is to date this horrible creature who is so selfish that he’s denying them a $50k masturbatory spectacle that benefits no one but them, and a subsequent life of enslavement and misery. Things will get desperate, and you’ll start seeing the signs.
There will be inexplicable weeping at inopportune times. Cold shoulders for no apparent reason. Sex will dry…up. Blow jobs will be something you only see in pornos. Hints at marriage will drop like snowflakes at first – then like a barrage of hail. Any resistance to the wedding yap will incite riots of rage and tears, and screams of “if you loved me you’d want to marry me!!” and “why am I wasting my time with you?!!”
This is the beginning of the end, my friend. And you should fucking RUN…LIKE…HELL!
You see, there is no winning this fight. I know – I tried. But there is no victory – and there sure as shit are no spoils. I know what you’ll be thinking: “I don’t really want to break up yet – maybe its time to settle down?” and “surely the sex will resume once we get over this hump and get married?” You’ll start wistfully looking at little kids on the street, thinking “maybe I’d make a cool dad?” and “I’m not gittin any younger – maybe this is for the best.” You’ll fall prey to the oldest trick in the book – thinking that things will get “better” if you just cave to this, the queen of all shit tests.
Listen to me – things will not get better. I didn’t really understand at first, but after becoming part of this community, I understand it all perfectly now. Things will not only NOT get better, but they will get much, MUCH worse. EXPONENTIALLY WORSE. To degrees that you cannot imagine. Think that you’ll start having sex again after buying that ridiculous fucking rock? Dream on – it gets WORSE. You’ll be lucky to get laid on your birthday from now on. And when you do get laid it will SUCK. The term “doggystyle” will be like a fucking cuss word in your house. Anything cool and interesting that ever happened in your bedroom will be a long lost memory.
Think your girl will relish her role as wife and cook you up a nice meal from time to time? Fuck that – get used to picking up fast food and frozen dinners. That is, unless you like to cook yourself or take it upon yourself to maintain a healthy diet – in this case, welcome to the role of homemaker, you beta pussy. And you better not have the audacity to leave it up to the Mrs. to plan/cook a meal. You’re on the hook now.
Oh and you’ve still got all of the “man duties” too, didn’t you know? Make sure the oil in BOTH cars is changed, make sure all of the tires are inflated. Want to sit on the couch and watch the game? Fuck you! Cut the grass. And pay the bills when you’re done. Mama needs to go shopping with the girls. Because hey, maybe if she buys herself something nice from time to time (and by “from time to time” I mean “increasingly” until she’s buying EXPENSIVE shit every other day) she’ll be happy again and you guys can get to fuckin again, right?
Wrong. Its over dude. You’re on a sharp, downward beta-slide that will just make her more and more revolted by the day. It was over before you started.
See, if you fail this shit test, you have failed every…single CH tenet in one fell swoop. Worse, your girl is going to have a front row seat to this total and complete collapse of your manhood. She’s gonna watch it in what seems like slow motion – like witnessing the carnage of some kind of disgusting ten car pileup where gas and steel and body parts are spewed out in a violent ballet of carnage. And make no mistake – she will be sickened. She will have to hold back the vomit upon witnessing your more-beta-than-beta act of total surrender. And your dick will be as appealing to her as a fresh turd. You will be completely and permanently doomed from that day forward, and your sex appeal will hit negative digits.
It has a sad sort of snowball effect – you’ll think that the more sensitive, caring and compassionate you become, the more she’ll reward you. But all it does is make you more beta – more repellent. She’ll hate you more by the day, and she’ll mask it less and less.
Whatever you do with your life, to whatever degree you practice game, if you remember one single thing from any of these blogs, remember this – you MUST pass the Marry-Me-Or-Else shit test. Your future depends on it. Its basically like someone holding open the door to a prison cell and cheerfully inviting you in. There’s no earthly reason for you to EVER step into that cell, and ultimately they will HATE you for getting in that cell. Not only that, but they’ll lift up their skirts and get fucked by some bad boy outside that cell – right where you can watch but are powerless to intervene. Its a cruel, beta joke and they know it. Turn it back on them – just say “NO.” The world needs another yenta wife like it needs another stinking landfill.
I’ve had a few instances where the girl I was dating began pressuring me for marriage. What did I do? I walked. And I will probably walk again. If a lover told me “marry me or else” I would choose “else”. I would inform her that I don’t heed ultimatums, for that road leads to soul death.
Only weak betas cave at the first hint of pressure. Fear motivates their decisions. The fear of being alone, the fear of going sexless. This fear is mostly a phantom. Remember, gentlemen, no matter how badly the dating market skews against your interests, no matter how much your woman withholds sex, no matter how deviously she threatens to leave you if she doesn’t get the ring, you hold the trump card, the dick detonator, the MOAB in the eternal battle of the sexes — you can walk away, forever.
Exercise your right to walk.
Once you’ve walked you might be surprised to see her come running back to you, suitably chastened.