Sometimes it’s amusing to hear the Word of CH tumbling from the lips of women with a shred of self-awareness, as they recount their conflicted feelings for the beta males and alpha males of their lives. Here, an old woman phantom menstruates over the tiniest memory of a cad with whom she had a brief fling fifty years ago at her peak nubility age of eighteen. In her yearning recollection, you will recognize the wisdom of the Chateau.
Dark, brooding and with a hint of world-weary danger, he was a cross between a 19th-century decadent poet and a Hollywood heartthrob.
Chicks dig the dark triad, or a reasonable simulation thereof.
I was just a few weeks into my first term at Newcastle University, and determined to lose my virginity at the first opportunity. I resolved that he would be the one to do the deed.
Betas strugglewoo for years to get that pussy; alphas have it FedExed to their laps.
I discovered his name: John Nicholas Harley Pellowe — even that sounded impossibly romantic — and that he lived in Henderson Hall, the most glamorous Hall of Residence…
An important concept of game is the cultivation of mystery. A man of intrigue has hardly much self-promoting to do; the woman will promote him in her mind, filling in the missing details or embroidering the neutral facts in such a way that his allure is only strengthened.
I made it my life’s work to find out where he might be and to be there, too. Alone, I tramped round the seedy jazz clubs of Newcastle whenever I was tipped off about a possible sighting.
Betas spend thousands on elaborate proposals and weddings to capstone the last hours of their girlfriends’ normal weight lives; alphas get drunk, have fun, and break a small sweat trying to avoid stalkers who chase them down at clubs.
Eventually, my efforts were rewarded. I was sitting in the library one day when he walked in. I felt white-hot desire and, propelled by almost insane love and longing, walked over to him. From then on, we started a sort of relationship.
“sort of relationship”
We would meet at parties and other functions
Aka booty calls. How did men booty call before the invention of cell phones? Must have been the old-fashioned way: face-to-face. Much respect.
— at which, I have to admit, he paid me scant attention.
😆 You’d think that would have slowed her down. But no.
But I would interpret any little crumb of affection or interest as undying love on his part.
People value that which is scarce and priced accordingly. A man who gives his affection and interest away for free is advertising to women that he believes he is worth exactly that price. If he’s got at least a little going on, he’ll be used like the free samples at your local farm-fresh SWPLmarket. In contrast, a man who makes a woman work for his affection will be perceived as possessing very high market value, and she will swoon uncontrollably whenever he deigns to gift her with one of these minor victories over his studied aloofness.
I soon lost my virginity to him, in his room at Henderson Hall, and thought my happiness was complete.
What he was thinking: “Ok, how do I get out of here without her causing a scene?”
I was so besotted that I never even noticed another young man lurking along the corridor, named Bryan Ferry.
A beta makes his move!
The Christmas holidays came and I wondered how I could get through them without [Alpha John].
Patience, readers. The beta will require years and countless demonstrations of abject appeasement to complete his move.
When I came back, I thought we were an item.
Hamster gif [REDACTED]. Premature hamster death. Cause: Centrifugal dismemberment.
But he was still being a very reluctant swain, and although keen enough to have sex,
🙄 It’s as much the fate of women to misconstrue sex as evidence that a man wants a loving relationship as it is the fate of beta males to misconstrue emotional sharing as evidence that a woman wants sex.
he never once asked me out, or even seemed to want to be seen with me.
Maybe it’s because you weren’t pretty enough for him? Nah, couldn’t be!
I sort of knew it would never come right, yet, wilfully, I ignored all the warning signs.
But all warning signs are not the same. For example, women have no trouble heeding the warning signs that a man showing interest in them is a beta male. In those cases, nothing is ignored; the beta is jettisoned without a moment’s reflection. If anything, women over-correct for beta male warning signs (gotta protect those eggs from even catching a whiff of limply motile beta male sperm).
After one of our many nights of passion, more in love with him than ever, if that was possible,
Sunk cock theory. She had worked hard for his wang and invested her heart and soul only to be rewarded with his cruelly delicious indifference. Her investment is not going to pan out but she’ll see it through to the last shilling of her sanity. This is Chick Crack 101.
I saw him at the top of the steps of the Union Building and ran up to him.
I wonder if she recalls this level of detail about fleeting moments she had over the decades with her beta hubby?
Now, surely, he would return my love. But instead of flinging his arms around me, remembering the wonderful thrill of the night before, he turned away.
He never spoke to me again.
According to feminist orthodoxy, this proves he was actually a niceguy.
I went into shock, succumbing to a range of illnesses from glandular fever to migraines and strange fainting fits. I would frequently pass out in the street — but at least I hadn’t become pregnant, a girl’s worst fear in those days.
There’s a reason the maestros at CH declared the Pill to be one of the Six Sirens of the Sexual Apocalypse.
My love for John turned to hate. My demon lover had shown his demonic side, and I tried to move on, as we’d say now.
Indifference, not hate, is the opposite of love.
John ignored me totally, never even acknowledging my presence. Not only did he not love me, he didn’t even like me very much.
Fifty years on, you can still hear the hurt in her words. Remember this, when further along in her confessional she engages the usual last-second empowered woman protestation to the contrary.
To add to the agony, he soon had another girlfriend, a proper one this time, and he even seemed keen on her, paying her the sort of attention he’d never bestowed upon me.
If her beta ex-husband, Neville, were reading her diary of tears dedicated to a long-ago flame, do you think he’d feel strong pride that GSS data trawlers have anointed him an alpha male because he had two (paternity assumed) kids with her?
But I could never forget John Pellowe and the memory of my unrequited love for him put a pall on the marriage, with Neville always feeling he was somehow second best. He used to refer to ‘that chap in your past’ — neither of us could even bring ourselves to mention his name, though we both remembered it only too well.
[Neville and I] went out, off and on, for nearly three years before marrying at the age of 21, while we were still students.
It took the beta three years to legally lock down what it took the alpha exactly one nanosecond to sexually lock up.
Which locking system do you think is the more impenetrable? And how many other dudes was she boffing while dating Neville?
In the late Eighties after 20 years of marriage, when our children were 17 and 18, Neville and I divorced.
Ross “Power Brow” Douthat talks a lot about social forces gutting marriage, but is even he, courageous saboteur of the Cathedral, brave enough to grapple with the CH maxim that five minutes of alpha male sexual attention can ruin a woman for the beta males who would be her realistic marital options? Just how many divorces are caused, ultimately, by vivid cock carousel memories?
This time, I sought the help of a trauma psychotherapist to try to get [Alpha John] finally out of my system. He told me that my story was surprisingly common. [ed: :shock:] He asked if I could see John again to help me heal, so that I could finally reach some kind of closure. Apparently this is often very helpful in puncturing the fantasy.
The only fantasy here is the idea that “closure” is anything but brand repackaging for bruised, lovelorn egos.
She goes on a bit describing how she went out of her way to track down her ex-flame and meet with him to experience the aforementioned closure. Despite her dutiful description of his aged appearance (holy crap, people get old-looking!), it’s clear she still tingles for his totem:
Even so, the love and desire, the old passion, rose up in me as we sat and talked over a cup of tea in the café. ‘Is it really you?’ I said in wonder, conjuring up the image of him in his glorious youth.
Men are optic; women are holistic.
I asked him why he’d so cruelly turned away from me and he blamed his ‘ineptness’.
What’d she expect him to say? That she was barely attractive enough for a few rolls in the hay?
As I walked back to the Underground, it was as if with every step I took, a heavy coat was lifted from me. It was the most extraordinary feeling of lightness, and I realised the therapy had worked. I was free of him.
Cue the “last-second empowered woman protestation to the contrary.”
I wrote a book about my adoration of him,
She sounds completely free of him.
I’d forgotten all about the book until recently when an e-book publisher saw it on my website and contacted me about updating it and re-publishing it.
I said yes. In the book, I tried to get to the bottom of this agonising phenomenon that has claimed so many tragic victims…
Heavy coat status: Lifted.
Every now and again, these cruel, uncaring lovers give you a scant bit of attention, and each slight glance pulls you in ever more powerfully.
Uncaring asshole game. Or, if you prefer a more sophisticated nomenclature, “learned charisma.”
When in the grip of such a passion, it’s as if you are taken over by a mind-altering drug and are no longer responsible for your actions.
The tingle trumps the cortex.
It doesn’t really matter whether the object of your affections is married, unavailable, uninterested; nothing will stop the mad passion from taking root and growing, even with little or nothing to feed on.
It’s the lack of nourishment that in fact helps the female passion grow. Kind of like a hydroponic plant.
But what was it about [Alpha John] that made so many otherwise rational, intelligent women fall helplessly at his feet? I think now that he exuded an aura, a kind of force field, that susceptible or vulnerable women picked up.
“Susceptible or vulnerable women” = most women.
One fellow lecturer told me that John didn’t even have to try; that women just flocked to him.
He had the ability, when he was with you, to make you feel as if you were the only woman in the world, even if he ignored you next day.
Aloofness works in conjunction with seductive intensity. Total pick-up aloofness is only possible if you possess extreme fame, or you’re dead.
Even his head of department at Newcastle University, Barbara Strang, one of the few female professors at the time, fell for him. She would have been in her 40s to his 25 or so. So it wasn’t just me, being a daft, lovesick maiden.
It’s funny how women are shocked to discover their alpha lovers only have eyes for them and two dozen other women.
After the shock of John Pellowe’s treatment of me, it never felt safe to fall in love with anybody again — at least not in that cataclysmic way.
Concern for “safeness” is not why she couldn’t fall in love with anybody again. “Comparative dreariness” is why.
It wasn’t Neville’s fault that I came to him as damaged goods, as it were, and he made up for it by being very much in love with me.
Neville, like most beta males, thought if he could just swaddle her in sufficient plumes of love, she’d return the favor. But he had no understanding; you can’t love-trip a woman into reciprocal love.
I must say I always felt much more at ease with Neville than I ever had with John, but I had lost the ability to love in that passionate, all-consuming way.
“At ease.” That’s a telling admission. Yes, women feel at ease with beta males. And maybe that’s the problem.
CH Maxim #44: Women can’t feel impassioned without also feeling a little unease.
However, Neville and I got on famously from the start. Indeed, we are still good friends today — and often meet for a good natter. Neville became a monk several years ago but, to me, he’s still the same man I married.
Picture now fully clear.
Act 1: Exhilarating but excruciatingly short-lived sexual fling with aloof alpha proto-emo.
Act 2: Heart broken in part by adherence to unrealistic expectations formed in the crucible of womb-wracking orgasms with said alpha male.
Act 3: Temporary soothing ego relief obtained on the tear-stained shoulder of a quasi-homosexual beta male with advanced sympathizing and listening abilities.
Act 4: Half-hearted marriage to said beta, made palatable by subconscious realization of fading looks and enticement of low risk domestic settling serenity strategy compared to high risk staying single and seeking reenactment of passionate love plus long-shot alpha male commitment strategy.
Act 5: Spend several decades secretly reminiscing about the five minutes spent with a brooding alpha ex-lover while beta hubby putters around the house, none the wiser.
Act 6: Divorce. Ex-husband becomes a monk after realizing his marriage was a sham and real passionate love will never be his.
Act 7: Write a book about the alpha male ex, claiming to be over him and empowering other women to do the same.
He did not shake the world in general, but he certainly shook mine — and sad to say, he still does, 15 years after his death.
Act 8: Diddle the dusty bean to harder orgasms over the distant memory of a dead alpha male ex-fling than those ever experienced in thirty years with a beta male husband.
After reading a story like this, delivered from a woman’s point of view, you’ve really got to smirk at those guys who diligently peruse social survey data and subsequently conclude that number of children is the sine qua non of alpha maleness. Using that metric, the beta hubby in this woman’s life was the alpha male. But does it seem to you she thought the same about him, the living ex-husband who got half as many mentions as the dead 50-years-past fleeting lover in her article? Or does it strike you as more accurate to conclude that the man she had no kids with, but with whose ancient memory she nevertheless nurtured the progeny of a million wistful regrets and the self-release of a million limbic caresses, was the real alpha male in her life?
The above question should suffice as rhetorical, but, comically, there are those who need the lesson scrawled in neon marker on their eyeballs.