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I was out recently with a buddy who knows of the DC blog scene and occasionally reads my blog (HIIIIIII dude!!!!). We went to a club that has a cramped basement dance floor. Very loud, very crowded, and very sweaty. This is the type of place that affords much illicit groping if that’s your bag. I didn’t go with any intention to hit on girls, or even to flirt much, so I leaned back against the bar and watched my buddy work a crowd of four chicks. As I leaned masterfully, one of the girls in the group sauntered over adjacent to me to buy herself a drink (or a timeout). I sized her up with a cocked eyebrow and a calculated frown. She was cute, early to mid 20s, long brunette hair, and short, with an ample bosom. That old notorious feeling came back again. You can’t keep the inner cad locked down for long.

I opened for the kill.

“Lemme guess. You’re with a bachelorette party.”

She winced. “Nooo! Thank god, I hate those things.”

I studied her reaction while musing to myself that perhaps a patented CH meme is getting out into general circulation. I had my opening. Finish her!

“Wow, I could have sworn you were assigned to accost men for your engaged friend. I’m relieved. Cheers.”

I suspected she was smart enough to know the word ‘accost’, and would appreciate my use of it. She stared at me blankly for a few seconds registering what I had just said. She turned her head away slowly, then whizzed right back around again to face me. I suspected correctly. She roughly grabbed my hand.

“Come out and dance with us! You do realize you’re at a dance club?”

“I don’t dance.”

“Oh, right, I forgot, men don’t like dancing.” She rolled her eyes.

“True.” She was still holding my hand. I made sure to pull away first. “You’ll have to get yourself a gay boyfriend for dancing duties.”

She laughed. “Oh, is that what they’re for?” Enough of her frame. It was time to reframe so that she was following my conversational lead.

I placed my hand on her forearm. “You don’t seem at all like the type of girl who would be happy in a place like this.” This wasn’t a line. She really wasn’t the type who normally goes to this place. Not phony enough.

“What do you mean by that?”

Reframe established. Subtle neg delivered. She was in the tingle-generating defensive crouch.

“Look around. Most of these girls are faking it. Can you fake it as well as they do? If you can, then I guess I was wrong about you.”

Remember, gentlemen, conversations with women don’t have to make logical sense. They just need to sound sexy.

She smiled and cocked her head in that way girls do when you’ve pleasantly surprised them. “Do you want a drink?”

Ah, the first real shit test. Now we were getting somewhere. Men, take note. When a girl is standing right next to you at a bar, and she asks “Do you want a drink?”, be careful! She is really asking “Will you buy us a drink?” Smart girls know how to massage this shit test so that they maintain plausible deniability.

“No, thanks.”

Passed.

“You’re not going to drink tonight??”

“No, I’m just not in the mood for a drink right now. You know, when you dance, don’t forget to twirl. Like this.” I took her hand and she happily spun around for me.

We gabbed some more while standing at the bar. Eventually, her ass gingerly found its way into my crotch and a tame simulation of bumpngrindage ensued. She liked when I moved her hair aside to kiss her neck. I liked it too. Her feminine aroma — a mix of youth, sweat, and perfume — was intoxicating. Maybe a half hour in we were making out, sometimes right in front of her friends who didn’t seem to mind at all. She must have signalled them earlier that she didn’t want or need a cockblock. But I was always sure to break it off first, and quickly, wary to ever let our lips linger locked for long. This wasn’t so much a game maneuver as a practical consideration. I didn’t want to be recognized making out with her in public.

After a short while dancing with her group, I leaned into her and told her I was going upstairs, while reaching for my coat. She looked surprised and chastened. I leaned in again and said I’d like her number, and that she should come upstairs to give it to me. I walked off.

It was a calculated move. If a girl likes you, she’ll be willing to abandon her posse to meet you at another location for continued enrapture. If this girl was on the fence even a little, she would not likely have met me upstairs like I told her to do. I only needed to wait upstairs for thirty seconds before she showed up. She smiled when she saw that I was still there.

This was a textbook seduction. It reminded me what so often makes or breaks a man’s game. It always seems to come back to this, the core principle of game, of mastery of women’s desire: Aloofness. The concept is simple, although its proper exeuction can belie its simplicity. I didn’t care that night about hooking up, or impressing girls. This cavalier nonchalance must have been exuding from my every pore, in my words and body language. Not giving a shit about the outcome — note that this is different than not giving a shit about the woman, for those of you who are too twisted in pious hate to understand the difference — is like catnip to a woman. They can’t resist it.

I realized early on that I could have pressed and taken this girl home that night. The number exchange was a mere formality. There was no need for me to stop at the number. She was into me enough for a same night close. Logistics were favorable. But I stopped myself short. It was then that I had a revelation and stumbled upon what is the greatest obstacle to a man’s success seducing women….

Guilt.

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When I first read this news story, I doubted its authenticity. It reads like something Snopes.com would later discredit. But I looked around and the story is repeated in multiple media outfits.

Transsexual performer vomits on Susan Sarandon

Oscar winning actress Susan Sarandon has had a bad time of it lately. The actress recently separated from her long time partner, actor Tim Robbins. Sarandon attended the third anniversary of The Box in New York’s Lower East Side.

A transsexual cabaret performer named Rose Wood engaged in projectile vomiting on stage and hit Sarandon with it .

Standing nearby were Scarlett Johansson and Liev Schreiber.

According to Wood it was not intended as an affront to the actress and she didn’t take it that way.

“Apparently [Sarandon] got a big kick out of it. She squealed with surprise and loved it when several handsome gentlemen wiped it off of her. She had a ball! I saw her assistant downstairs afterward, and he was moved by it! She was in great spirits,” Wood told the New York Press.

Wood explains that vomiting on people is fitting is this establishment. “[It was a] fitting time for an outrageous act: the third anniversary of The Box. Everybody wants to offer safe and ordinary, not The Box!”

Was the vomit fake? The news outlets reporting on this story didn’t mention anything about the vomit being fake, so it looks as if an actual stream of hot, chunky puke hit Sarandon. If she was sitting down in the first rows, it is likely the projectile vomit splattered her upper body and face. Where does getting vomited on rank compared to other incredibly disgusting affronts to one’s dignity? Leaving aside for purposes of this discussion the creatively exotic ways in which the tortures of the damned might be executed (e.g., feeding severed genitalia to the writhing victim), I have ranked in descending order the top three most disgusting things that could happen to a person.

A tranny crapping on you. (Bonus points if face is the bulls-eye.)
A tranny projectile vomiting on you. (Again, bonus points for face.)
A tranny — assuming he/she still has a dick — jizzing on you. (Despite the terabytes of pornographic evidence to the contrary, I’d imagine that, like Clarice Starling, most women would not appreciate receiving an unwanted hot load to the face by a complete stranger, whether or not that stranger was doing “art” on stage. If we were to restrict our ranking to straight men, I’d place jizz in face above vomit in face, but just slightly below crap in face. If the crap was small, hard, and pellet-like, I think most men would even take that over jizz in the face. I once saw a porno clip of two guys on one girl and one of the dudes accidentally jizzed into the other dude’s face as that dude was kissing the girl. The reaction of the jizzed-upon dude was priceless. He jumped back instantaneously and retched, swinging his arms around blindly for a towel to wipe off on. I bet his nightmares will haunt his sleep for years.)

Was Sarandon auditioning for “two old leftie hags, one cup”? And what the hell was Scarlett Johansson doing there? Did she partake of the pukage? I’ve gotta say, nothing can desexify a hot babe faster than a little dribble of puke falling down her cheek, like a sad, gross tear.

This story has so much win it’s hard to know where to begin. First of all, it happened to Susan Sarandon. This is better than if it happened to Bono, although not as good as if it happened to Katie Couric. Secondly, the melding of elitist status posturing with the fraud that is modern “art” is perfectly symbolized in the caulking of the latter’s vomitus to the former’s face. This is meta-art that illuminates far more than the actual art.

Idiocracy isn’t confined to the plebes and riff raff. A counterpart idiocracy is simultaneously at work degrading the elite. A sure sign of a culture’s death rattle is its elite abandoning all pretense of taste and class in a vain effort to prop a barrier between themselves and the hoi polloi. The fraud that is modern art has served this function well for the past 50 or 60 years, but it is finally reaching its inevitable resolution, as it always would, devolving into a repulsive farce that says more about professed elite admiration for it than about the art itself. At one time, there was piss christ, which the elites could happily use as a club to bludgeon the unsophisticated into submissive apologia. But pretty (and not so pretty) lies are like ravenous beasts that must continually feed until ultimately they turn on their advocates. (See: Any multicultural society’s paeans to diversity.) And so we have the scorching parody of an elitist like Susan Sarandon suffering a stream of projectile vomit from the beast she helped breathe to life, and then being forced by a combination of circumstance and cognitive dissonance to betray her own disgust reflex at the altar of lifestyle liberalism.

Susan Sarandon’s defiled face and subsequent feint of enjoyment and poseurism is a symbol of the late Caesarean implosion of our putative overclass. Tim Robbins’ dumping her must have hit her hard. (Another high status man dumps aging wife! News at 11.) The “several handsome gentlemen wiped it off of her” line is telling. Rose Wood knows what a wrinkled, sexually worthless woman wants to hear. On the other end of the social spectrum, People of Walmart race to the bottom free of any need or desire to ape the habits of their betters. And who could blame them when their betters are the likes of Sarandon, vomiting trannies, and enabling art critics and media mavens? All the while, the rapidly shrinking sane middle is beaten like a pinata by an unholy alliance of the hermetically warped elites and the wretched bottom dwellers, of which such end-gameplaying is sure to have deadly serious consequences.

Here is the truth of the incident. You, Susan Sarandon, got puked on by a freak degenerate performing nothing remotely resembling art except in the fevered imaginations of bathhouse Baudelaires and serial killers. It wasn’t cutely “outrageous” and it wasn’t conceptually deep that only you and your inner circle of pretend snobs could recognize its artistic merit. And those “handsome gentlemen” in attendance took pity on you, the kind of unwelcome, soul withering pity reserved for the losers and the lost. Of which you are now one.

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HIIIIII!!

I was sitting at one of my favorite social venues when a disturbance behind me erupted. A woman had just arrived and greeted her mixed group of friends with an exaggeratedly pronounced “Hiiii!!!” All the women already sitting at the table, and the couple of men who were with them, replied nearly in unison with an even louder and prolonged “Hiiiiii!!!”. The “Hiiii!!” was annoying beyond belief; a sing-song-y, off-key yenta battle cry. It’s hard to describe the sound of a spoken word, but imagine a musical “Hi” divided into two notes with the accent (upbeat) on the first note (Hii-) followed languorously by a longer downbeat on the second whole note (-iiiiiiii), spoken in adagio and fortissimo. Would a girl saying “Hi” like this sound phony? Yes!

It’s pretty common knowledge that DC stands at the top in per capita phoniness. There is a higher density of phoniness per square mile here than even in vaunted phony cities like New York. The whole reason of DC’s existence is to persuade other people to throw money, perks, or props your way, so a finely developed skill in the art of phoniness is a requirement before stepping in the ring. But this latest incarnation of phoniness is breathtaking even to a jaded cynic like myself. And these were not teen girls. They were grown-ass women with non-profit jobs and rich daddies to pay their exhorbitant rents.

To all the girls reading this post who greet each other and their gay best boyfriends this way, I ask: Are you *really* that happy to see your friends whom you just saw last week? Or is phoniness the new black? Maybe you think the phony Hi and the accompanying fake phony smile are supposed to be feminine, but I assure you, it is not. Fingernails on a chalkboard? Yes. Feminine? No. I’ll go out on a limb here and hypothesize that girls who are fakers when greeting people are also fakers in bed.

Here’s what I think is going on. The thuper duper edge community gay culture and the girly follower female culture have fused and become as one — a vortex of caricatured, trannyfied pseudofemininity spewing nebulae of jutting manjaws, wildly faggy gesticulations, and conversations that sound downright operatic. It is a vortex of suckage that any straight man would find baffling, which come to think of it, may be the point. But I can definitely tell you what it is *not*. It’s not attractive. This illustrates another great dividing line between the sexes — our respective reactions to phoniness. In general, men loathe phonies. Women cherish the company of phonies, and embrace the phony scene with gusto. Without phonies in their lives, women would have nothing to be catty about behind closed doors.

There is a powerful feeback loop in effect when girls and gays join forces. Where does this great culture meld between city girls and city gays end?

Half the moves in men’s figure skating look like reach arounds.

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Reader Mailbag

For whatever reason, I’ve been getting more emails than ever from men thanking me for the blog and the improvements my writing has made to their love lives. I need an assistant to handle the boatloads of reader emails I’ve been getting lately. Any cute girls who like to wear schoolgirl skirts without underwear up for the, uh… position? Pupu? You seem the naughty type.

Email #1:

Most benevolent schlongmeister:

I have a quandary. I have shared my cliffs notes (consisting of links to your essays, or me getting them drunk and hollering at them) on the crimson arts with some of my nerdly friends, in hopes of making them more studly. These guys have had a lot of success; one guy went from “depressed middle aged schlub who got dumped by his fishwife, and who pines for his nerdy looking lady friends,” to “skewering 20 year old hotties by the half dozen” in a matter of a few weeks. Another was a long single fella; good looking dude, talented, keeps fit, went from “passive guy who never gets a date” to “boinks all the girls he desires.” There are other examples; I feel a benevolent fatherly glow, watching these good fellows grow from boy to man in this important area of their life.

My quandary: many of them seem unable to keep a woman. I think the seduction boards talk about this, they talk about accomplished seducers who have “something missing,” and never seem to have a girlfriend. They say stuff like the guys are so focused on the seduction process they can’t actually relate to the ladies, and so they can’t keep their girlfriends. I think that’s total girlie horse shit; “relating to women” is something fags do when they go shoe shopping with them. No, my extensive research (I asked the chicks who dumped them) indicates these dudes didn’t fuck their lady friends properly. That’s what is missing. Probably, they were taught some feminist bullshit about focusing on the clitoris like some kind of guppy fish,  or else they just lack the animal drive to fuck ’em like an enraged gorilla. Whatever it is, I’m kind of at a loss on explaining this. I figure if I say, “learn to squat 400lbs, then fuck them like a rapist,”  they’ll just give up; either that or they’ll do something lame and serial killer-like.

You’re much better at breaking crap like this down, so maybe you can do an article on the subject some time. I figure 90% of “relationship game” consists of fucking them so hard, their stupid hamster wheel never has a chance to spin up on you. The other 10% consists of acting like you can fuck them hard enough to make their hips crack the rest of the time; aka “being da man.” Personally, I make it a policy to not hang around with women I’m schtupping unless I’m actually screwing them: I got too much crap to do to rot in front of a TV or go on “hikes” or whatever most people do to kill time, because they have nothing better to do. This is probably part of it too; lame sex + TV = getting dumped. Hot rutting + elusive man of mystery who makes the time fun = stalkers.

sincerely,

-[reader requested anonymity]

First, a general observation regarding this reader’s email. A sneering accusation often heard from the arid, anti-seduction crowd is that the self-professed pickup gurus are never seen with a girlfriend, or otherwise have trouble keeping a girl for longer than a few weeks. Pay it no heed. It is the feeble bleat of the envious and the insecure. While I don’t have a data sheet of rock hard, throbbing numbers to arouse the nerd brigade in attendance, from casual impressions I don’t see the smattering of men who are public game advocates having any more or less success than the average beta bear finding and maintaining relationships. Neil Strauss has had long term girlfriends. I think he’s in an LTR now. Lance Mason, the founder of Pickup 101 is, or was, last I heard, in an LTR. Stephane Hemon, possibly the wackiest of the game teachers who profits from his knowledge, is married (to one woman). Some of the local men I know who follow and use game principles in their lives are informally hitched. Even Mystery, narcissist extraordinaire and player supreme, has had long term commitments, though undoubtedly of the more dramatic sort that would give hives to men who weary quickly of women’s mental masturbatory games.

That aside, let’s assume for the moment that the impression that pickup artists have trouble keeping girlfriends is accurate. Two reasons would account for this. One, many men who come into the game have had a lifelong history of trouble with the ladies. When they are finally handed the skeleton key to the gated secret garden, their enthusiasm for “skewering 20 year old hotties” will often trip up their good sense in the area of managing long term relationships. It is a tightrope, balancing the skills that get the girl with the skills that keep the girl, and most men will favor the former at the expense of the latter owing to the established scientific fact that for men, variety is its own reward.

Two, when someone gives you the power to attract and seduce multitudes of women, would you immediately put your newfound power to use seducing just one woman, and then calling it a day? Let’s just say that all those girlfriend-less pickup artists are crying all the way to their well-used, rumpled bedsheets. Or, to put it another way, if the choice is between an endless string of unstable, short term flings and no women at all, which do you think most men would choose?

Ok, now to the reader’s email. There is some truth to the observation that freshly minted players have trouble connecting with women on the level that would be required to sustain an LTR. Part (not all) of the mindset that is needed for pickup is antagonistic to the mindset needed for successfully navigating an LTR. When a man is hopped up on the thrill of meeting new women, he often loses sight of the little things that a girlfriend would want from him to strengthen their emotional bond. And so we see weird things happening to PUAs, such as Mystery losing his cool and his Russian girlfriend to a slaphappy roommate, and students of pickup workshops complaining a month later that the girls they banged aren’t interested in LTRs. What is happening to these men is a blunting of the psychological acumen needed to fulfill a girlfriend’s desires by heavy use of those alternate psychological ploys that serve masterfully as seduction tools. Listening with love to a woman is one of those key skills that seems to take a backseat to the wicked art of seduction.

But like the emailer, I too, find that an overwrought emphasis on “relating to women” is counterproductive for men, and also a little faggy. A lot of forlorn betas and sackless wonders will read “relating to women” as a ewe-like war cry to show more emotion, be more sensitive, and find more commonality with women on women’s terms. Let’s be clear: Couples shoe shopping is not going to fix your LTR. Men and women will never find commonality, and nor should they, because men and women by the hand of the double helical godking are designed from the origin point to exist in two separate spheres of perception. From a man’s correct point of view, women are not meant to be “related to”; they are meant to be seduced, fucked, cared for, laughed with, and loved a little or a lot. Don’t go looking for self actualization in a relationship.

The emailer says that the women he spoke to suggested it was a lack of proper rogering that turned them off from consdering their lovers as long term potential. I find this plausible, barring the usual caveats to take whatever women say with a silo of salt. A good bit of advice I could give to men who might suspect this is the problem is to focus less on tender lovemaking and more on raw, Discovery Channel savannah-style humping. Don’t worry about giving her an orgasm. If you bang with abandon, sweaty and unprepossessed, like a majestic lion king who just fatally bit the necks of twelve lion cubs and assumed by force the position of alpha male of the pride, with all the perks therein, it won’t much matter if she has an orgasm. For women, just as much stimulation is gotten from the feeling of being pumped like the submissive animal creature she is as from the actual crest and resolution of a physiological orgasm. If the thought of dominating your woman in bed shrivels your scrote, may I suggest a long and sexless marriage to a hag shrike who writes a feminist blog?

Email #2:

Chicks don’t dig jerks. They dig men who _can_ be jerks.

What’s jerkiness except taking without reciprocating, doing and saying what you want, and generally enjoying yourself without concern for the cost to others? We all want to be jerks. In fact, the easiest thing in the world is to be a jerk. But only some people can get away with being jerks, and most have to work hard to avoid jerkery. That is, only some people can take what they want without fearing the anger of other men. Perhaps fewer still can take what they want without fearing the anger of women.

The upshot for your readership is that women don’t have some special attraction to jerky actions per se. Instead, they are attracted to powerful men who have no reason to temper their preferred state of jackassery. Maybe fake it until you make it applies here, but I’m guessing most men can only push the limits of their asshole potential rather than break out of them entirely.

All the best,

C

The above was written by a woman going by the handle “Candy Fox”. If that’s her real name, I salute the gumption she’ll need to handle the challenges that lie ahead of her in the quest to marry up in social class.

The first line stuck out: “Chicks don’t dig jerks. They dig men who _can_ be jerks.” This is semantics. The men who *can* be jerks are often the men who *are* jerks. Why? Because they can be. It’s similar to an assertion I recall longtime commenter and sprightly feminine ingenue Alias Clio made, which went something along the lines of “Women don’t fall for the asshole behavior. We fall in love *despite* the asshole behavior.”

From most men’s perspectives, it’s inconsequential whether women fall for the jerk despite his assholery, or because of his assholery. The bottom line is that here, there, and everywhere, women (and particularly women of the highest sexual market value) are falling in love with, and having raunchy sex with, a rogues gallery of assholes, dicks, jerks, cads, boors, and even serial killers. So you’ll excuse the less fortunate in love men for not much caring about the rationalizations that women employ to assuage their guilt over falling for men Mom would not approve of, (but would secretly cream for).

The contention itself is false, anyhow. A simple thought experiment should suffice to show why this is so. If women were truly falling for jerks *despite* their jerkiness, then it stands to reason that the men women fall for would be randomly distributed from amongst the male population, as the positive traits that are presumably attracting these women would be found equally in jerks and non-jerks. But this is not what we see. (Note that marriage rates and marital choices are not indicative of what women truly desire in a sexual partner, especially when those women are forced into a corner by delayed singledom and aging cougarification to settle into a lame marriage with a peabody puffboy out of expedience.) Instead what we see is a notable sexual preference by women for men who aren’t particularly nice.

If women wanted nice, the beta store is fully stocked with saintly men. Candy Fox contends that women want nice, but they want it in a package that is capable of threatening jerk-like actions. But how is a woman to know a man is capable of jerkiness if he doesn’t demonstrate it? Answer: she can’t know without demonstration. And when is that demonstration of jerkiness most pertinent to a woman’s subconscious need to gather mate value information about a man? Answer: right at the beginning when she is deciding whether to have sex with him.

So we can easily conclude from my little thought experiment that women indeed do fall for jerks *because* of their jerkiness. Alias Clio would say that jerks have concomitant desireable traits that are actually responsible for her feelings of sexual arousal. She might say that a jerk’s jerkiness is not desireable, but his charm and cockiness are. Leaving aside for purposes of argument the telling observation that charm and cockiness are more often found in jerks than in niceguys (hello… ladieeees ;)), it is the height of hamster rationalization to presume there is no connection between a jerk’s charming attractiveness and his jerkiness. It is as if women wish to argue that loveable, sexy jerks are really two separate men in the same body, a Dr. Jerkyl Mr. Sly bipolarity that has infected the known human universe like a vampiric plague.

It’s a cop-out. An ego escape clause. A semantical nimbleness of tongue. The jerk makes his jerky presence known almost from the instant you meet him. It’s exhibited not just in his actions, but in his irresistible aloofness. No, one of the things women love about a jerk is… his jerkiness. And that is why, ladies, you will get more of what you love.

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“Issues”. That’s a twinkletoes word, isn’t it? “We have issues, dear.” “I think we need to discuss some issues.” Almost as bad as “closure”. What makes “issues” ambiguously slippery is the fact that the issues that matter to men diverge so wildly from the issues that matter to women. Women normally leave relationships because of issues having to do with nebulous smoke and mirrors concepts like “compatibility” and “fulfilling her needs”. As all of you must know (since you read my blog) these excuses by women are merely handwaving bromides to conceal the crass tingle generator under the skirt that is actually responsible for her decision-making. Nonetheless, the relationship “issues” that matter to women are indeed a bit more complicated than those that motivate men to either stay with or leave a lover. A woman’s 463 bullet point checklist is a real phenomenon and dwarfs most men’s checklists for acceptable partners. If you don’t like tofu AND you fart in bed AND you voted for Ron Paul, she just might spend sleepless nights agonizing over whether you are The One. (My advice: Ignore 99% of a woman’s “needs”. Attempting to fulfill more than 1% of a woman’s needs will brand you with a big fat “B” for beta.)

Men are fairly clear and even simple in their (usually) unstated reasons for feeling the need to flee a relationship. Essentially, two uber variables are responsible for how men feel about their lovers. One, how hot is she? And two, how novel is her pussy? That’s pretty much all there is. Sure, minor details like compatibility and shared values will have some influence over how warmly men feel about their partners, but these factors pale in comparison to the hotness and freshness of the pussy in question. For example, a man who just met a babe ranked 9 is going to want to fuck her nonstop and dream of slaving away to give her the world. On the other hand, a man who has been with the same 5 ranked woman for years will be able to go weeks, if not months, free of any desire to fuck her as his thoughts are preoccupied with visions of skirt-hiking the bounty of babes he sees on his morning commute every day.

These two important variables influencing men’s feeling of commitment to a lover can be represented in the following handy graphs.

As we can see from the above, most men couldn’t be bothered to bang 5s and below more than once per day. But anything over a 6 and a man’s sexual urge shoots through the roof. 8s, 9s, and 10s are really nature’s natural viagra. A 90 year old who hasn’t sported wood in twenty years will suddenly spring to life if Zooey Deschanel sits naked on his lap.

In this graph we see that the novelty of the pussy has a big impact on how often the man wants to do the woman. Pussy that he’s woken up next to for ten years is unlikely to stir his loins at all, while brand new pussy will remind him why it’s great to be alive. An ugly truth of life is that men, unlike women, simply get off on sexual variety for its own sake. Don’t take it personally, ladies. We’re not cads. We’re just formed that way.

This post should serve as a valuable guide for women wanting to figure out just how deeply loyal their boyfriends or husbands actually feel towards them. A man’s strength of commitment can be measured surprisingly accurately by these two variables.

(Note that I’m referring to a man’s “strength” of commitment, not his “lack of options preventing disloyalty”. These are two different concepts. A man with lots of options on the dating market — i.e. an alpha — will only feel strongly loyal — and hence, unlikely to cheat or withhold resources — to a girlfriend who is hot and piping fresh. This strong emotion-directed loyalty is a separate beast from social- and peer-influenced loyalty, and is the type of loyalty that burns brightest but is also quickest to fade. Betas also lose their sense of strong emotional loyalty, but unlike the alphas their lack of options means they are pretty much stuck with the same old same old, mouthing platitudes on anniversaries and birthdays to keep the mutli-horned ball-smashing divorce demon from breaching a portal to his world.)

So, ladies, if you want to know how commited he is to you, a simple test (and one that requires being bracingly honest with yourself) is to tally how many times per day on average he desires you intimately. Is he constantly groping you? Good news! He hardly notices other women. Has it been a week since he last fucked you? Better start combing through his cellphone texts.

When I start feeling like I could go a day without fucking my girlfriend, that’s when I seriously mull the option to reenter the dating market with purpose. I start flirting with other women and running game again like I was single and horny. And I notice more clearly when other women are flirting with me. This may seem like I’m placing some hard-to-please demands on my women, but the woman who can keep me sexually entertained for years will know she is a worthy lover indeed.

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What Is A Beta Male?

I catch flak from some readers complaining that there is no way to draw a valid distinction between alpha and beta males. I don’t know what planet these readers live on (planet Delusional Tard?), but instead of pointing them to my dating market value test for men, I’ll just let a video speak for me. If this doesn’t help clear their muddled thinking, nothing will. Behold: Baba Beta!

“My teeth are a 10!” Howard Stern in his prime was comedy gold.

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Valentine’s Day is probably the one day of the year which presents special difficulties to the harem king attempting to juggle his multiple lovers. Birthdays and anniversaries are scattered and Christmas absences can be excused by claiming to spend time with family. But Valentine’s Day is that one day of the year that every girl in the known universe expects to be spending with the man who is laying intimately with her. So what does the Man With Multiple Lovers do on this most romantic of days?

I can tell you what the harem king doesn’t do: Tell the truth. There is some literature in the seduction community dealing with harem management (or “multiple long term relationships”) for truly advanced players, but what is counseled is something along the lines of 1. be honest, 2. reframe, and 3. be exceptionally high status. For most men, satisfying condition nmber 3 is unlikely, which is the most important variable in being able to successfully and *openly* manage multiple lovers. There is a reason that seduction community advice for handling MLTRs is so sparse and half-baked — it’s damned hard to do. The fact is that most successful players — alphas and greater betas alike — will lie out of expedience to enable the gravy train of multiple concurrent pussy to keep rolling. Honest and open MLTRs of the sort extolled by pickup instructors who are scared of being labeled misogynists are very rare. I estimate less than 0.5% of men can pull it off for longer than a few months. Eventually, one or more of the girls will tire of the arrangement and opt out, and it will usually be the highest quality [read: age 18- 25, BMI 17 – 23] concubine in his harem, because she is the one with the most options on the open sexual market.

As for reframing, yes, if your game is exceptional and your aloofness unshakeable, you can execute a smooth reframe with all your women and avoid lying to them about sleeping around. But I mean your game has to be tighter than an Asian chick’s virgin anus. And don’t expect it to last much beyond the four month mark. If you think kickass reframing will net you three hot, faithful, simultaneous long term girlfriends who dote on you for years, you need to come down to earth. Your game is not that good. Even pinnacle alpha males have trouble with this. You think Angelina Jolie would tolerate for long a second lover in Brad’s bed? Sure, she likely looks the other way at his dalliances (in much the same way Elin Woods ignored the evidence of Tiger’s blatant cheating for years until the dam burst), but Brad upholds his end of the bargain by LYING about those dalliances, either forthrightly or by omission. I’m assuming Brad is cheating, because the odds of a man of his status not cheating on a rapidly trannie-mogrifying wife like Jolie are infinitesimally low.

An alternative to psy-ops pimp-style harem management for successfully operating an open and honest MLTR is to relinquish your male prerogative as sole pussy possessor. If you state up front to your girls that your desire to bed a variety of women means it’s only natural you don’t place the same expectations of fidelity on them, you can amp up your aloofness game to maximum overload and actually pull off the coveted Open and Honest MLTR. Upside: You never have to worry about covering your tracks. (Roosh recently wrote a good post about track covering). Downside: You may be swimming in polluted vaj. The downside risk to this alternative is so anathema to the majority of men, that even if they have mentally rationalized their way to embracing the wonders of the open, polyamorous relationship, they will likely find it nearly impossible to control their emotions should they suspect one of their favored mistresses is fucking another man on the side. The god of biomechanics, the one true god, is not to be trifled with. This also explains why the denizens of professed polyamorous arrangements are usually ugly, fat, middle-aged hippies with greasy hair. When the grotesqueries you are banging are practically worthless in the sexual market, you don’t much care if they screw around. You aren’t losing much.

I don’t mean to be a complete downer on the concept of the open MLTR. There is a chance, not insignificant, that following the precepts of the open relationship by establishing early on with your women a very loose code of conduct could redound in your favor. Women aren’t linear in thought or action, so telling them they have the option to fuck on the side since that is what you will be doing does not mean that your women are actually going to follow through and fuck on the side. It could just as well result in them wondering in awe at your alphaness that you don’t care if your concubines “cheat” on you. This is aloofness game taken to the nth degree, and can often send the rationalization hamsters spinning so furiously that your multiple girlfriends won’t have the mental energy to expend seeking out additional male partners. They will instead spend their spare time analyzing the smallest details of your words and actions. Remember, too, that it is not in the nature of women to sleep with more than one man at a time, so the open relationship is often open in name only. What normally happens to open relationships is the primary (most attractive) girl bolts after a few months while the lesser girls squabble for sole rights to your time.

Which brings us back to Valentine’s Day. How does the man with multiple lovers deal with V-Day? Well, as I’ve amply demonstrated above, he doesn’t tell the truth. That would be sexual suicide for most men. He prefers not to blatantly lie either, not because of his tender concern for upholding a moral order in the universe, but because as a practical matter it’s hard to keep up with lies. And the inveterate player never lets his eye too far off the practical matters, even for men such as myself with a strong streak of romanticism. No, what he does instead is EVADE. And evasion is best accomplished through planning and foresight.

Let’s say you are currently banging three girls, rated 8, 7 and 5. You’ve been with the 8 for six months, the 7 for four months, and the 5 two months. (The 5 is your guaranteed booty call when you MUST BUST RIGHT NOW.) Obviously, the 8 is going to receive the bulk of your loving attention, and you will be most upset if she were the one to leave you. So you set up the official Valentine’s Day date with the 8. Plan to do the usual stuff with her — nice restaurant, flowers, charming flattery, wild sex. Two weeks before V-Day you call the 7 and tell her to make sure she keeps the weekend before Valentine’s Day free, because you are going to take her out and show her a good time. Then you call the 5 and tell her to be free a couple of days after V-Day. Why do you do this? By preemptively arranging dates with your lesser girls around Valentine’s Day, you buy yourself plausible exemption from having to spend time with them on V-Day itself. They will be so happy that you’re taking them out they won’t be too bothered by the fact that it’s not on Valentine’s Day. If they ask why you aren’t taking them out on V-Day (most girls won’t ask, as it would be an admission of their doubts about their worthiness to you), tell them you spend Valentine’s Day with your family. Or just say you’ll be out of town, so you wanted to see them before you leave. If the spirit moves you, have some flowers delivered to them on V-Day, which they will receive with warm smiles while you are blasting a glorious load in the face of your number one lover.

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