Three Macbooks

I’m sitting here in a coffeehouse and to my right are three people — a black man, a white woman, and a white man — sitting adjacent on a couch. All three are haughtily typing on Macbooks propped on their knees.

I stare at them, smiling. “Ha, you guys look like a commercial.” I point my finger at each Macbook. A woman seated across from me suppresses a giggle.

The black guy and the white woman grin at my perspicacity. The white guy does not smile. He furrows his brow at me, clearly displeased that I have made a mockery of his lame SWPL status whoring. I smile at him in return.

There is no escaping tribalism.

Lenovo Thinkpad. That’s a real man’s laptop.

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I Once Banged A Girl Who Was Banged By A Rockstar

A girl with whom I was having a sexual fling (squirter) once challenged me, while we were out together, to pick up a woman sitting at the bar by herself. I suppose the thought of me seducing another woman turned her on. I’ve dated quite a few slutty freaks like her. Naturally, I obliged. Seducing women is why Our Lord Below put me on this good green earth. (I wonder how a beta male would have responded to such a request? “Stop being silly, honeybunny, I’m not going to hit on another woman. That’s just WRONG. I’m with *you* now.”)

Donning my war mask (shit-eating grin and eye twinkle) I sidled up to the statuesque blonde sipping her Guinness. She was around 30, and quite attractive. She had a proudly feminine face of Scandinavian origin and wide, child-birthing hips. Even though she was sitting, I could tell she was very tall, perhaps six feet. Inspired by the jealousy I would provoke in my audience (who was standing only 10 feet away with an unobstructed view of my full-scale assault), I ran some of my tightest game. Blonde warrioress had no chance. She withered into a puddle of warm arousal. Occasionally, I would look over at my date to see how she was reacting (mouth agape) and the blonde would catch me doing this and ask if I knew her. “Yes”, I said, “She’s a friend.” Coast cleared.

I number closed the blonde in fifteen minutes and told her I had to get back to my “friend”. When I strolled back, triumphant, my date didn’t look too happy, but I’m sure she was turned on. I was worried she would attempt to sabotage my chances with the blonde by making out with me right there, so I shuffled us both out of there in a hurry. Later, after a rigorous interrogation, I lied to my date that had I erased the blonde’s phone number. If you’re gonna play a high stakes game, don’t expect the rules to be fair.

A couple days later I took the blonde on a date to my favorite dive bar. We hit it off. Drinks, walking around the park, making out, sliding a hand down her pants and diddling her taint. The only thing I remember her saying was that she once had a two year relationship with Anthony Kiedis. She was a teenager (possibly underage) when she met him backstage at one of his shows. He was bigtime and had just crossed the Pussicon into rockstardom; girls were his for the taking, like so many juicy grapes plucked off the vine.

Intrigued by her admission, I pressed for more details. The thought of her having gotten fucked by Anthony Kiedis inexplicably turned me on. “Wow,” I remember thinking at the time, “I’m gonna bang the same hole that Anthony Kiedis’ supermodel-banging cock has been in. That’s one vulva of separation.”

Turns out that her definition of “relationship” was highly fluid, dependent on the desirablility of the man she was “seeing”. For the typical beta male, “relationship” means “ball and chain”; for a guy like Anthony Kiedis, “relationship” means he continues fucking tons of hot young girls but looks more deeply into your eyes than he does into the eyes of all the other women, thus making everything OK. Which is pretty much how it went between her and him. She was dating him, but would sometimes catch him fooling around at his shows. Despite that, she was never worried that he didn’t love her.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because once he saw me he would immediately drop whichever girls he was kissing and come over to tell me he loved me.”

“I see.”

This was a grown woman saying this.

So two years dating a rockstar and finally they drifted apart. She was divorced (she left a rich lawyer) and had dated other men since, but the only fond memories she had were of Mr. Anthony Kiedis, womanizer extraordinaire who made her heart swell with love when he stopped fucking his groupies for one second to kiss her gently on the cheek. Her ex-husband and ex-lovers may as well have never existed except as feeble also-rans throwing in stark contrast the powerful nostalgic glow of her blood, sugar, sex, magik memories.

On our second date, I drove her home to her cavernous suburban mcmansion and fumbled backwards through the dark into her bedroom, stripping off clothes along the way. I stepped on something rubbery and heard a squeak. Since I was fully turgid and throbbing with urgency, I paid it no heed. In the morning, I woke up first and rubbed my eyes. There were children’s toys littered on the floor.

Nordic Princess woke up. “I guess I should tell you that I have kids.”

“Yeah… interesting. So… how many?”

She replied, sheepishly, “Four.”

“Wow, that’s… impressive. Very, um, active.” I was right about her child-birthing hips.

“They’re with my ex. Two of them are already in school.”

“Uh, huh.”

“Are you OK with that? I was worried you might freak when you found out.”

“Perfectly fine. Kids are great,” I lied.

“They spend a lot of time with my ex-husband. He’s a good father. So don’t worry I’m not searching for a replacement father.”

“No worries!”

We ate breakfast and I kissed her goodbye, promising to give her a call. On the drive home I deleted her number from my phone.

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Open This Set

Take a look at this photo…

A reader, who obviously remembers the first installment of ‘Open This Set’, sent me the above photo along with the following challenge to my manhood:

Attached is a set. Your target is second from right, against the pillar.
Go.

I accept this mission.

One, I would approach this four set obliquely, by myself, as if I was walking past them on my way to get free drinks from prettier women. I understand the wisdom of entering sets alone and having a wing step in later if necessary. After all, what will a woman deem more courageous and alpha? A solo rebel or a man riding point with moral support from his wolfpack?

Since this is an all-female set I can be flirty and edgy right away. No need to ease in slowly and assure a bunch of guy friends that I am not a threat. I notice a few things in the split second before opening — lots of half-empty drinks and a bottle, dyed hair, phallic toy (bachelorette party?) being held by girl with loudest fashion sense (attention whore), older brunette is the mother hen, two girls on right closer to each other than they are to the other two, girl in purple is the neediest (conspicuous lean-in), all four sitting on couch (possible bottle service? girls’ night out?), and most importantly… the target (second from right) has her hand wedged deep between her legs with her knees pressed together tightly. She is ovulating and horny. Her vulva rubs against the sheer fabric of her black tights. She will respond very well to a neg because ovulating girls are the ones most aroused by dominant men.

There are two options for opening here. Either go simple and straightforward, or go situational. Both are effective. An easy-to-remember generic opener, and one that would work well for men who sometimes experience brain lock on the approach, is a Roosh-style opener. For example:

“You guys look like you’re having the most fun of anyone here.”

The opener I would use for this set would be situational. The situational opener, a little more advanced as it requires thinking on your feet, has to focus on something unique about them and their immediate surroundings. I would stop halfway between, look over my shoulder, and address the girl most likely to cockblock — the American Bitch with the penis toy:

“You’re not holding it right. You want to pull it off? Figures. I feel sorry for your husband.”

Some laughing and shrieking would ensue, American Bitch would insist she doesn’t have a husband (I knew this already because I took note of the lack of a ring), and then I would propel the banter forward by accusing them of being another lame bachelorette party. I would wonder aloud if their fiancees knew what they were up to tonight. This baits them to give me vital information on who is in a serious relationship. Then I would turn my attention to my target and unload a neg:

“You look uncomfortable with that toy so close to you.”

I would then quickly address the two on the left. “Do you guys have to drag her kicking and screaming into having a good time?” Smirking, of course. Consider the smirk the .44 Magnum of the inveterate player. It always hits what it aims for and removes bitch shields like it removes fingerprints.

I’ve just flipped the frame from trying to earn their approval, to having them defend the group dynamic of their unimpressive girl fiefdom. It goes well (it always does because I am James Motherfucking Bond) and I motion for one of my boys to come over so we can either get these girls up off the couch or nudge them apart by sitting down with them. Sitting on the couch while I stand is a power position for them, and stripping them of that power is of the utmost urgency.

Now it’s your turn.

Go.

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Reader Mailbag: Happiness Maximization Edition

Email #1

Just came back from a great night out, I’ll try to make this brief.

I am beta by every standard you can have. I am 24 and I’ve had one girlfriend, who I had for five years. She’s my only lay.

I have severe one-itis for a girl at work. She has a boyfriend. She’s loyal to him. I know how ridiculous this sounds.

The point is that I just came back from a night out with her and another guy, who isn’t her boyfriend. The other guy is better looking than I am. He speaks something like three languages. He is “exotic.” He has known the girl for a lot longer than I have; he has a personal nickname for her.

Despite that, I rocked the whole night. This guy didn’t stand a chance. It was brutal. Six months ago, she would have been all over him, and I would have been sitting on the sideline, feeling empty and depressed. I want to note that I haven’t sarged once in those six months. (I have only ever sarged once, and it was barely, with two friends sarging and me being relegated to the ugly friend while they fought over the hot one.)

How did this happen? Application of game, pure and simple, reading a lot of theory, but most of the stuff I can actually use has come from your site – not really practical tips (although these have helped), but just how you think about yourself.

I’m a little buzzed, so I can’t formulate this as well as I want to without being even more long-winded than I’m already being. But I just wanted to say thanks – sincere thanks for putting this stuff out there. In the reproduction competition of life, I am still losing. But I went out tonight and I had fun – something I can’t say I’ve had while “out” for most of my life, but twice in the last three weeks, I’ve gone out and done this. I’ve gone from staying at home and feeling fucked to going out and participating in life, even a few nights being “that guy” who is driving the life of the party.

So even if I’m never a guy who can attract women consistently (although my belief that this is impossible fades day by day), application of the principles you espouse on the site have enabled me to actually be able to engage women in a way where I’m having fun, she’s having fun, where there is sexual tension and attraction, things that I have not really ever experienced as an adult. It is a feeling I can only describe as amazing.

Do I think you can be an asshole at times? Yeah. Who doesn’t? But I’d be the first guy to raise my hand to object to anyone who says what you’re doing is destructive, bad, etc. I’m biased because it’s my life, so it feels much more immediate, but just the fact that what you’re publishing on your site has been this useful, not to merely manifesting happiness, but virtually constructing it, in this one important arena of a man’s life – washes away a multitude of sins.

Best to you and yours, thanks again.
B.

I beam with pride when I read emails like this one. My hatred and evil brings love and good into the world. What was that sucking noise? Ah, yes, another steaming load of useless new age twaddle circling the drain.

First off, if you’ve had a girlfriend for five years that you were banging then you are not a beta “by every standard”, unless she is fat or ugly. Truly incorrigible betas can’t even manage that. So don’t beat yourself up too much. You’re not losing “in the reproduction area of life” because there are millions of men who aren’t getting any pussy at all and have to satisfy themselves with fleshlights. At your age with your one long-term girlfriend, you are, in fact, right smack in the middle of the oat-sowing bell curve.

Second, don’t fret about consistency in picking up chicks. From my experience and from what I know of naturals who do well with women, you will have brief periods of scarcity. This is the ebb and flow of the sexual market. Don’t panic and try to force your way out of those normal, cyclical downtimes. Foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of beta minds. If you get into the self-defeating habit of ticking off the days and weeks since your last lay you will poison the well of your carefully cultivated alpha essence. Alphas never care about time since last bang because they don’t operate from a scarcity mentality; they know another woman is always within reach.

It is a feeling I can only describe as amazing.

Just wait until you jizz up her nose and she sneezes it out.

Do I think you can be an asshole at times? Yeah.

Don’t forget a narcissistic prick.

I’m biased because it’s my life, so it feels much more immediate, but just the fact that what you’re publishing on your site has been this useful, not to merely manifesting happiness, but virtually constructing it, in this one important arena of a man’s life – washes away a multitude of sins.

You wrote something important here — happiness is not granted from on high nor is it a wispy feeling that randomly alights on your mood. Happiness is constructed. It is the direct result of actions taken that further your genes’ goals of survival and reproduction. The better a man becomes with women, the happier he will be. Only monks dedicated to stripping themselves of their humanity and disembodying their consciousness from their physical shells can be said to rise above this happiness equation. Sure you could be a monk, but it’s easier to learn game. And a lot more fun.

Email #2

I met a girl with a ‘prior engagement.’ She lives with him, and likes him but somehow found herself on my lips. It was on an overnight cruise. She was receptive to my touch; every kiss, however, would end with her withdrawing and looking down in shame, touching. She did not reveal to her friends this dalliance of hers.

How would you overcome such resistance?

Note: This question is more hypothetical in nature; I did not take her number.

bien respectueusement

A.M.

She’s feeling like a cheap whore. As well she should. Your job, should you decide to accept it, is to communicate your nonjudgmentalism and the premium you place on secrecy in your affairs. “I believe that a good life, a fulfilled life, is one where we explore the possibilities, and never deny ourselves genuine happiness. There is nothing worse in life than regret, wouldn’t you agree?”

When she looks down, draw her attention away from her great shame. Take her hand and pull her to another location, point out the birghtness of the moon to her, and force her mind to occupy itself with positive feelings. You want to drown her guilt in a cascade of competing emotions. Venue changing is of utmost importance. So is establishing an immoveable frame. When she mutters regret under her breath, or looks down at her lap after a makeout, ignore the beta bait. Pull back and talk about random things. In her horror at the surge of her own uncontainable desire, she may blurt out details of her ‘prior engagement’, as if you should care. Ignore her. These are the words of a woman in the process of rationalizing what she is about to do despite her misgivings. Never attempt to engage her logically by talking her into an affair. That will backfire. Always… ALWAYS… remain in the realm of feelings. Good feelings. Whimsical feelings. …HORNY feelings.

Email #3

Feel free to publish this but don’t include my name or address.

She cheated. I don’t want her back. I want to crush her ego to the point where she will regret this action forever.

You know the answer.

Anon

Unlike the spineless pissboys and pissgirls who infest the ranks of our postmodern society (and this blog) with their limpdicked self-help dribblings to “move on” and “be the better man”, I will give you a chalice of hearty vengeance straight up and garnished with a gleeful cackle. Drink it down and feel it nourish your soul. After all, revenge is as sweet as love, and as natural. We would not possess the feeling if it did not most times work to our benefit.

First, I have to assume something about you and her. If she is crawling back to you hoping to wash away the stain of her sin by offering her only begotten womb to hang on the shaft of your cock, take her one more time. Keep the video camera running out of view while you are ripping apart her anus. Have bra and panties from another woman (purchased if necessary) lying strategically under your pillow for her to find during or after sex. When she has run crying out of your home, send a copy of the video to her parents with the words “A girl who was raised right” and a copy to the man with whom she cheated with the words “She loves you.” Go to a payphone in another city where you cannot be traced and call her employer, notifying them that she has been pilfering company property, and as you are a friend of another employee of that company who tipped you off (do some research and find out who her friends are where she works) you thought they should know. Tell human resources you must remain anonymous because the tip-off friend is worried that she (your girlfriend) has an explosive personality and might do something drastic.

If, on the other hand, she is not coming back for more sex, your options are more limited and you will have to do additional legwork to exact your vengeance. Do you have old sex vids of her in possession? Do what I wrote above. If you don’t have sex vids, find out if she is still seeing the guy she cheated with? If so, go to him in the spirit of two brothers meeting to discuss a family matter and offer him cash to make a lurid sex video of her and pass it on to you for public exposure. Your goal is to drag her reputation through the mud; girls live and breathe by their reps. If the new guy loves her, this tactic probably won’t be fruitful, unless you are willing to pay handsomely.

If the sex vid option is unavailable, do some research to locate and meet all her ex-boyfriends. Almost all exes would be happy to stick the shiv in for shits and giggles. Dig up as much dirt, true or not, as possible from them, along with pics and any love notes or saved emails, compile it into a prurient email novella and pass along to all her friends using an anonymous remailer so you cannot be traced. Be sure to have taped recordings of your ex bad-mouthing her current girlfriends (almost all girls have called a BFF “fat” or “slutty”) and insert them into your email as an audio file. Start a blog called “Mylovenoteto[name of your ex].com” and update daily with pics and torrid gossip. Always deny involvement.

Godspeed, Avatar of the Light!

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April 2009 Beta Of The Month

Drumroll please. Presenting the reader submitted nominees for the April 2009 Beta of the Month contest…

April 2009 BOTM Candidate #1 was submitted by reader Ben. It’s our first video submission for BOTM. It needs no introduction. I dare you to watch this all the way through without retching. If you’re short on time, start watching around the 5:30 mark.

Feeling nauseated? Some of you may be so aghast that you doubt the authenticity of this magnificent specimen of beta. Surely this must be a satire of lovesick losers? A frat hazing joke? Sorry, I’m afraid it’s the real deal. From his comments to the video:

“Love Story” Genuine real life love story of one man’s journey through time as he gives his all for one chance at a dream. Entirely filmed, produced, and directed by the man you see and him alone over the course of nine months. […]

I believe the person I made this video for is living somewhere with her family and I truly hope they are all happy and doing well. I made this video to present on youtube because it was the only way I felt I could reach out to her to let her know how I still feel.

Everyone should fully respect her privacy and wishes because I don’t know how she views me now after all this time. We were together for two years and I don’t know why for certain she was gone. I sincerely only want her to be happy even if that means me being out of her life. She is an awesome person who deserves the very best and I just hope she is able to see this.

File under: Oneitis.

Yeah, buddy, listen… this cheesy cornball shit won’t work to do anything except strip you of your last shred of dignity. Your flexing biceps can’t save you now.

This guy is a great example of the sort of suckass whose supplicating weakness you don’t notice right away. He’s good-looking, well built, and smiling like an idiot. But those muscles are painted on. Underneath the surface lies the beating heart of a natural born beta. Which just goes to prove that the tell-tale mark of the beta isn’t how you look, but how you behave.

I guarantee his ex watched this video in horror, her vaj slowly sealing shut like King Tut’s tomb. After the pity wore off, she recaptured her feminine essence by letting her new guy take her anally. There would be a little rectal tear.

The female commenters are hilarious:

this is so sweet, i can’t wait until i meet the guy who will care so much for me as you care for loren.

It never ceases to amaze how women can lie to themselves so effortlessly. Are women that removed from the workings of their own desire that they can’t recognize their true natures? Any beta with thoughts of romance reading the above will get the wrong idea and the vicious cycle will continue — girls saying they want one thing, logical guys with neediness issues giving them what they want, girls getting annoyed and dumping logical, needy guys.

***

April 2009 BOTM Candidate #2 was submitted by reader Five. It’s the cringeworthy love story of the billionaire owner of the Red Sox who pours his heart out for a nascent cougar who, in turn, plays him like a fiddle.

It reminds us a little of a Lifetime movie: Fabulously rich Red Sox owner falls head over heels for an attractive, much-younger woman who initially rebuffs her bigshot suitor but ultimately relents and begins planning a wedding.

“Initially rebuffs”. Yes, she played him good. I’m sure it was a great sacrifice for her to “ultimately relent”. A smart, aging broad with the wall rapidly approaching knows to pull every trick out of her playette’s handbook to land a Daddy Warbucks pot of gold. Especially when he’s a groveling beta. Rule #1: Delude the chump that her depreciating pussy is worth more than it is. There’s a billion dollar lotto to win, and a state-sanctioned half-billion (pity poor Mel Gibson, the fool) if she can get him to sign on the dotted line and leave him when she gets bored by his obsequious fawning.

Now, if I had a billion dollars, I would leverage that pile in conjunction with my game to pull a steady stream of hot stripper pussy until I’m lying cold in the grave. Vagina varietals, if you will. No wedding ring required. But this guy, this titan of industry, this captain of capitalism, what does he do? He pens sappy love poems to a has-been 6:

Dear Linda,
A man needs a muse. Well, he doesn’t really. He doesn’t need nearly as much as he generally thinks he does. A man is greedy. Greedy for what he doesn’t think he has and what he thinks he wants.
We probably wouldn’t have wandered far beyond the basic necessities without that pushing us. Progress is one of its most important byproducts.
So you will ask, “Why are you writing this?” Because a brief encounter-and-a-half with you gave a cool spin to this little blue planet from my vantage point.
We feted the Celtics tonight and the skies opened. The sun emerged and created a giant rainbow between the city and the park. We were transfixed.
You only saw it if you were in the right place. I was in the right place when I noticed you.
I barely know you. I don’t have any illusions about capturing your heart. But the world is brighter, better, lighter and warmer when a man imbues a woman he knows — even tabula rasa — with the attributes that I believe reside in you. It’s the small things that ultimately matter, the subtle things.
I am honest. I don’t play games. And I see no reason not to say that I’ve been smitten by you and you’ve done me a great service.
You’ve very innocently made my world brighter, better, lighter and warmer.
So thanks.
No response is necessary because a man doesn’t need nearly as much as he thinks he does.

Here’s a pic of the Billionaire Beta’s muse:

Yenta-rrific!

This was her e-mail response to his passionately putrid overture:

A man may not need as much as he thinks he does, but courage and honesty should be acknowledged. I am not so naive as to believe I actually possess the qualities you attribute to me. But thank you.

Like a Stradivarius. No doubt she was actually turned off by his betatude, but with that much money in play, it makes sense to feed his delusions and keep him chasing. Why are so many rich dudes so goddawful with women? Is it low testosterone? A belief that their cash buffers them from their worst instincts with women? A refusal to learn what makes women tick? Or is it that all that dough allows them the luxury of indulging their most cloyingly romantic beta impulses?

There’s a theme to this month’s BOTM contest: Superficially alpha guys betraying their beta souls.

The voting:

Addendum

I noticed in the reader submissions that some of the female readers don’t quite grasp the concept of “beta”. For example, here’s a submission from Bhetti:

A 42-year-old man who authorities say fathered 14 children with 13 different women in Genesee County and owes more than $530,000 in child support has been jailed for dodging payments.

Thomas Frazier was ordered jailed Thursday and could spend 90 days behind bars if he doesn’t pay $27,900, The Flint Journal reported. Court records say he hasn’t made payments in the child support cases in six years.

“I tried to find someone who would love me for me,” said Frazier, who also described himself as a victim of a poor upbringing. Frazier said he thinks he fathered only three of the children – two daughters and a son.

Helpful hint: A guy who fathers 14 kids with 13 different women is the dictionary definition of an alpha. I understand you women may not see it that way, but the only judge that matters in this high stakes game of American Alpha is the pussy. Betas don’t father bastards. Betas father other men’s bastards.

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Who Wrote This?

“Woe unto the Race if ever these lovable creatures [women] should break loose from mastership, and become the rulers or equals of Man.”

Hint: It was written in 1890.

Answer: Ragnar Redbeard (pseudonym), from his book Might is Right.

If only he were alive today to see how right he was.

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Game Will Help Ugly Guys

I was lounging in placid contentment on a sofa in a local lounge like a proper post-history, citizen-of-the-world nihilist enjoying the flume ride down the rump of American decline when I spotted a somewhat unkempt man with awkward mannerisms take a seat at a small table to my right. He was a little more homely than the average man, nearing 40, and bereft of any fashion sense. (For those who need the catharsis of another 800 comment thread on race, he happened to be black.) He moved in an ungainly way, as if hobbled by a long-ago hip injury. I watched bemused as he tinkered about his table, moving his chair in and out, fussing with napkins wedged between the ketchup bottle and salt shaker, and generally projecting an air of Rainman-like social unease.

A minute later, a woman approached him for what appeared to be a first or second date. Looks of recognition led me to believe they had met before. He clumsily stood from his chair, his motions so quick and jerky that the chair made a loud screeching noise as it was pushed back violently from the table. She was a black woman, in decent shape (read: not fat), and a point or two higher than him on the cross-gender physical attractiveness scale. He took a couple steps toward her and held his arms out for a hug, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. I surveyed her facial expressions. She was clearly not enthused about being there. She walked tentatively toward him, a crooked smile perched on her face, and prevented him from achieving his goal of a full-contact hug by arching her body away from his and giving him the long-distance “two pats on the back” pseudo-hug.

“So great to see you!” He blurted out the words like a burp and maneuvered for a tighter hug and kiss. She deftly evaded his sneak attack and left him stranded, kissing the air a few inches from her right cheek, his lips pursed outward in puffy, parched hunger for soul-nourishing reciprocation that would not come.

Impatient with his bumbling overreach, she snippily replied, “Ok, let’s sit down.” He vigorously nodded his head and mumbled “Ok, ok” and they both sat at the tiny romantic table next to the window that would not be able to works its magic that evening on this couple. I turned away, unable to bear the sight of their slo-motion heart wreck any longer.

******

Game could have saved this man.

Pulling up in a Ferrari would not have helped him. Receiving a standing ovation by the staff and patrons when he entered the eatery would not have closed the deal with his date. She would have raised an inquisitive eyebrow at his Ferrari or his mini-fame, her loins would have briefly stirred, but she would still be left sitting across a man with crippling beta mannerisms. Her smile would have rapidly decayed to disgust. Her disappointment would have been palpable.

But had he not jumped up from his chair when she arrived; had he not lunged desperately toward her for the hug and kiss his demeanor suggested he hadn’t gotten since his Mom saw him off on his first day of school; had he teased her humorously about the scarf she was wearing on a mild spring day; had he moved slowly and gracefully with the practiced insouciance of a wanton Casanova used to bedding women much hotter than her; had he been dressed with a little more care; had he stopped smiling like a vapid goofball for two seconds; had he qualified her about her worldliness and sense of adventure —

— he might have gotten the lay. Maybe not a 100% guarantee of getting the lay, but a damn bit better than the 0% chance he had BEING HIMSELF.

Recently, the Audacious Epigone challenged Game as egalitarian wishfulness. He, like so many others who have yet to delve deeply into the world of Game for themselves, claims that game will only help those who are already gifted by genetics with good looks or income-boosting and social adaptability-enhancing high intelligence. Now I am not one to shy away from the ugly truths, so there is merit in what he says; given equal facility with game, a good-looking man will do better than an average-looking man. A rich man will trump a poor man. A witty man will pull more than a dull man.

But rarely is skill with game distributed so equally. As I mentioned in the comments to Audacious’ post, excepting fame and vast wealth the most powerful lifestyle change the typical man can make to improve his lot with women is to learn game. The psychosocial dominance and alpha mimickry that game teaches is worth a garage full of Ferraris. Give a beta a Ferrari and he’ll look alpha while driving. Give a beta the self-confidence and swagger of someone who drives Ferraris and he’ll look alpha all the time.

Realistically, homely betas wielding the power of game won’t bang dime pieces (much). But they will begin to experience the pleasure of banging chicks 1 to 3 points higher on the looks scale than what they are used to scoring. And for most lifelong betas, that nontrivial step up the pussy ladder will feel like nirvana.

It is no exaggeration to say that game would have elevated the status, and hence the pussy-lubing power, of the clumsy, homely beta at Busboys far beyond his natural no-talents. And for a mere fraction of the cost in time and energy than he would have spent raising his status in more conventional, and socially-approved, ways.

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