When It Is OK To Call A Woman Fat

Commenter and blogger Redacted had this to say from yesterday’s post:

Somewhat off topic, but never, ever neg someone with a reference to their weight. Not even a 10. A buddy of mine got kicked out of a club for saying, “Hey, haven’t you put on a pound or two,” to one of the hired guns.

I don’t disagree with this if we’re talking about women only. (Men can handle jabs about their spare tires.) Women are so incredibly sensitive to criticism of their weight (and for good sociobiological reason) that there aren’t too many scenarios in which you could manipulate their body image issues to your benefit without it blowing up in your face like an overstuffed burrito.

Sure, if a girl punches you in the nads, call her fat. If your estranged wife is cackling across the divorce lawyer’s mahogany table, casually mention she’s a shambling mound. If your sister ratted you out — she’s fair game.

But the most rewarding time to drop a fatty insult on a girl is with an ex. If you ever bump into an ex-girlfriend who had the gall to stop having sex with you, you can hit her with the fatty two by four. (Be sure to use subtlety when you swing the low blow. In-your-face won’t get under the skin as deeply.) I did exactly this with a Russian ex of mine.

Her: [looking skinny and spectacular] Hi, nice to see you!

Me: [looking momentarily stunned] Oh hey, hi.

Her: Wow, so how are you?

Me: Good. [scheming…] You look nice. Did you put on a little weight? It looks good on you.

Her: [jaw on floor] Um, noo… OK, well, I’ve got to go.

Was it petty? Yes. Did I have a smile on my face afterwards? Yes. Did I get hand? YES.

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Girls Love It When I Don’t Take Them Seriously

Girls… oh fuck even grown women… constantly test me. DC women are the worst in this department. You’re trying to have a normal human conversation with them and it’s one challenge after another, forever pushing limits and boundaries to see just how alpha you are under pressure. Most men get frustrated and leave to pay a visit to Mike’s Apartment, but I relish turning the tables on these soul-sucking succubi. No guts no glory hole.

I’ve found girls respond like Pavlovian dogs in heat when you don’t take their shit seriously. Anything they say to get under your skin can be skillfully turned into a reverse Jedi mind trick pressing their attraction buttons. The key is to take nothing they say at face value. I’ve mentioned this before — AMUSED MASTERY is the attitude you want to project. Everything she does is cute. All her shit tests are bratty outbursts. Her silly little opinions are adorable. She is there for you to tease and taunt and patronize. Condescend to her at will.

Refusing to take a girl seriously fills her with indignation… and horniness. She’ll chastise you while stroking your thigh lasciviously. They can’t help themselves! It’s almost like women are at battle with their own secret desires, begging you with their eyes to breach their armament and storm their castles.

Girl: “Do you have a problem with a tall girl wearing heels? I’m a very dominant woman and I like men who are more dominant than me.”
Me: “There’s a homeless guy down the street who’d be perfect for you. He’s never lost a staring contest.”

This is my life.

 

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Keeping Your Woman In Line

Back in the day I lived in a group house with three other guys. It was a great time. As men, we really sharpened our joshing in this environment. I mastered the art of the cutting retort.

One of the guys, a physically imposing 6’7″ laid back dude, had a hot girlfriend – let’s call her Kay – with a great personality. She was every guy’s dream girlfriend. One night, all of us were sitting around in the living room splayed across dirty couches watching TV when Kay started gossiping about inconsequential private matters involving her boyfriend and his family. She meant no harm by it, and we weren’t really paying attention, but he obviously didn’t like the idea of her revealing personal details from his life. Out of the blue, he thundered

“SHUT THE FUCK UP KAY!!”

The room fell silent. Kay blushed a bright crimson and sat immobile, looking at him submissively from under her lowered eyes. She didn’t protest or attempt to defend herself. I think all she said was “OK alright” in a mousy half-exasperated, half-apologetic voice. After what seemed like hours but was only 30 seconds, one of us broke the tension by changing the subject to something stupid on TV.

Later that night, I was awoken by a steady thumping noise coming through the walls. It was loud enough to rouse me to investigate. I walked closer to the source of the thump on the other side of the house (this was a very large house) which was reverberating from one of the bedrooms. It sounded like a heavy appliance being dropped. As I neared the bedroom door I heard the unmistakeable grunts, moaning, and shrieks of delight of lovemaking. Mr. Shut The Fuck Up was fucking his girlfriend so hard that the bed frame was lifting off the floor. His thrusting tempo was precise — you could have practiced piano to the metronomic beat of the thumping.

There are a few impressionable moments in a young man’s life that opens his eyes to the true nature of women. This was one of them.

***

Proposition: I challenge my male readers — particularly my beta readers — who have girlfriends to an asshole experiment. When your GF makes you genuinely angry I want you to yell at her “SHUT THE FUCK UP”. Credibility will be added if you do it in public. This will be tough for you to do, but my presence will be with you, like the unholy spirit. Visualize your balls physically growing larger when she says something that pisses you off.

Email me the results of this experiment, good or bad. What did she say/do? Did you back down or stand by your words? Did you break up or did you have the best sex of your lives afterward? For those of you who have already yelled like this to your girlfriends, your memory of the event will be accepted for consideration. After I have received a number of responses, I will put up a post in the future quoting each contributing reader’s experience. You will be credited for your bravery in the pursuit of truth and understanding.

I believe some of you will become intoxicated by the power of asshole.

PS: They got happily married.

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Hillary’s Lapdog Betaboys

Several readers emailed me a link to this Camille Paglia article about Hillary Clinton surrounding herself with beta males and how this may be hurting her campaign.

First, a reader wrote to Paglia:

I would like to get your feedback on the subject of those who end up in Hillary’s orbit. Can you conceive of a strong, leader-type male ever working under her? An alpha, if you will. And if the answer is no, then why do you think that is?

The men you always see under her are to a person passive-aggressive, sadistic, mean, little, petty beta-male pieces of work who would not naturally succeed in a common male-type hierarchy. […]

Hillary’s persona is simply not compatible with another strong will, male or female — but definitely male, and that itself is a big red flag.

Paglia’s response in part:

I agree that the male staff who Hillary attracts are slick, geeky weasels or rancid, asexual cream puffs. (One of the latter, the insufferable Mark Penn, just got the heave-ho after he played Hillary for a patsy with the Colombian government.) If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say Hillary is reconstituting the toxic hierarchy of her childhood household, with her on top instead of her drill-sergeant father. All those seething beta males (as you so aptly describe them) are versions of her sad-sack brothers, who got the short end of the Rodham DNA stick.

This sounds right. The Supreme Cunt resents her experiences growing up with a strong-willed, domineering, verbally abusive alpha male father and her history of surrounding herself with wretched lickspittle lapdog beta males who probably had to pay to lose their virginity exemplifies her inward yearning to dominate the most important male figure in her life the way he dominated her. Just take a look at the amorphous, greasy, slimeball sexually neutered beta bitchboys she employs in her inner circle:

It is for this reason — the seething vengeance complex the Cunt On High nurses for all alpha males who remind her of her father — that Hillary cannot be trusted to act as President in the best interest of half the American population. See, for example, the way she LOATHES the military. Her Cunterrific Cuntastic Cuntery ensures that in her world it is always women first, women best, women forever victims and men relegated to an afterthought or natural born criminal perpetrators of Orwellian PC crimes, suitable only for reminding her of her ideological righteousness nurtured for decades during the height of the misandrist revolution in a fetid curdled soup of gender bender feelgood lies.

Bill Clinton, alpha male, gradually learned this, and found love and admiration in the arms of younger women unafraid of their femininity and sex roles. I respect him for that.

Ever notice how most alpha males — the guys who know how to give women what they want — are either indifferent to feminism or, when they’re not in polite company, hostile to it? And how many sniveling beta males lick up the runny shit of feminism and ask for more? Something worth pondering.

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State Of Nature

I don’t think people realize just how much condoms and the pill have altered human sexual behavior. To prove this, let’s examine the sexual history of the average alpha male with a healthy sex drive:

10 partners per year.
approximately 1.5 copulations per day for ~545 copulations per year.
about 55 copulations per partner.

Now of course none of this matters in the era of contraception since the odds of him getting any of these girls accidentally pregnant is near zero, assuming he is strict in his adherence to protecting himself from baby blackmail and the girl is not lying about being on the pill. Most guys, especially alphas who have high risk temperaments, aren’t that self-disciplined and get sloppy once in a while and blast inside, so the chance of fertilization is a little higher than zero. It’s probably more like an elevated risk of conception for 1% of the yearly 545 copulations, or 6 copulations randomly distributed have a better than zero chance of turning into 18 years of living hell. Extrapolating outward 10 years, the average alpha male would wind up with one unwanted child. Abortion being the cure for what ails ya, even that unlikely scenario wouldn’t come to fruition.

What are the consequences in a pre-contraceptive world? Using the copulation numbers above and assuming the same high risk and sloppy behavior of the average alpha, a girl who didn’t have access to the pill or abortion and a guy who didn’t have regular access to a reliable condom (which was the case for most of human history) would run a much higher risk of accidental pregnancy. Let’s say he pulls out successfully 80% of the time and the remaining 20% of copulations he isn’t fast enough and a little of his juice spills inside her. Of that high risk 20% (109 copulatory events) 5% result in conception. That’s 5 unwanted pregnancies per year, folks, spread out over five different partners.

If you don’t think that massively transformed risk-reward structure would have any effect on human behavior you are living in a fantasyland. Pre-contraception, women were probably more chaste and permitted internal blasts primarily with provider betas they could be sure wouldn’t leave them in case of pregnancy. Men, for their part, were less likely to pump and dump in favor of winning over these chaste girls with displays of resources. Alpha males still scored better than average amounts of pussy, but the sexual playing field was more level. With abortion, the pill, and ribbed condoms women exercised their liberation from reproductive consequence by rewarding the caddish alpha males with more sex than they knew what to do with.

The pill has been the beta’s worst enemy.

I made a rough calculation in my head how many kids I would have if contraceptives didn’t exist. The number is sobering. At least 125 mini-mes would be roaming the plains of America, and France, today. Luckily, I only have to spend a few hours each year visiting my nieces and nephews, which is a level of commitment that suits me well.

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Hardest Challenges

What is challenging for one man may not be so difficult for another. A virgin might think that getting his first lay is the pinnacle of achievement, but to a singer in an indie band with excellent emoting skills getting laid is an afterthought. There are some challenges however that are difficult to accomplish for almost all men.

• Converting a lesbian

Not a bisexual girl. Those are a dime a dozen. I mean committed lesbians; the ones who have never been pierced by man love and know as much about cabinet resurfacing as Bob Vila. Turn a decent-looking scissor sister into a traitor to her orientation even for one night and you will have earned the respect of your peers. Bonus points if you pick her up at a Vagina Monologues show.

• Threesome

Yeah, it’s cliched, but that doesn’t change the fact that despite the braggadocio of countless pornstars in their own minds this accomplishment is pretty rare. If the average American man has seven lifetime partners it’s a safe bet that he didn’t blow the bulk of his lifetime wad on three nights with six different women. Pull a threesome and your name will echo throughout the realms. Film it and it will echo throughout YouPorn.

• Having sex with a religious girl in a place of worship

Sure, repressed Catholic girls will hike their skirts in the back seat of a car under the watchful eye of St. Christopher, but try and get her to renounce her chaste ways in an empty church pew or in the rectory while a six foot tall crucifix gives her the stink eye. Ditto for other religions. Ever bang a Jewish girl in a temple? A Buddhist in a monastery? Or… wait for it… a non-Americanized Muslim girl in a mosque? You do the last and manage to avoid decapitation your name will be legend and spoken of in hushed tones around campfires and at men’s retreats.

• Staying in love

Falling in love is nothing special. People do it all the time. Staying in love, and having it reciprocated just as strongly, is another trick altogether. Don’t listen to the rainbows and unicorns brigade; the world is not awash in a field of love consciousness. It is instead awash in fear, hatred, anger, jealousy, duplicity, lust, ego… and occasionally love. There is a reason so many people yearn for the life-giving power of requited love and that is because it is so rare. Stay in love with a girl who loves you back and you will secretly be hated by everyone. Kind of like lottery winners.

• Having sex with a girl who is already in love with another man

Why is this so hard? See above. As extraordinary as deep long-lasting love is, seducing a girl in such a state away from the object of her love for an illicit tryst is rarer still. Even the best players advocate learning to recognize the signs of a girl in love with her boyfriend and moving on to more pliable targets. A girl in love gives off a vibe that screams “I don’t even notice other guys”. Try and overcome *that* bitch shield. This is the Holy Grail of male challenges, and if you accept this challenge and succeed your name becomes a powerful symbol of evil in the world, scribbled in angry lettering on the back of notebooks by ostracized goth kids in high schools everywhere.

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When A Girl Needs An Asshole

I met a pretty blonde girl for a first date at one of my favorite lounges (that is to say, the lounge met the requirement of being conveniently located within walking distance of my place). Halfway through the marry, boff, kill game we had the following conversation.

Her: Have you seen that VH1 show The Pickup Artist?

Me: Yeah, why?

Her: The main guy from the show, Mystery, hit on me at St Louis Bar a few weeks ago.

Me: Was he wearing a fuzzy hat with aviator goggles and a Victorian jacket over a t-shirt that said “Mystery”?

Her: Yes! Just like in the show.

Me: [thinking to myself a trip to Poland sounds good right about now] How did he do?

Her: He asked me for my opinion about something, and then made fun of me. I called him an asshole and told him to fuck off.

Me: Lemme guess… you were kind of attracted to him, right?

Her: No! He’s an asshole.

Me: Wow, you’re one of those! I thought you guys were a dying breed.

Her: One of what?!

Me: You’re drawn to assholes. It’s OK, you can be honest. I won’t judge.

Her: [stares at me for a few seconds] I’ll admit that in the past I was drawn to assholes. But there was no way he was getting a chance with me. The guy is a D-list celebrity. Not even! He’s a total douche.

Me: And yet a month later you’re still thinking about that moment.

Maxim #3: Whenever an attractive girl tells you she hates assholes, or describes her experience in the past dating assholes and claims to avoid them now, or recites a laundry list of asshole-y things guys do that she disapproves of, you can bet your weight in gold bricks that she needs you to be an asshole to her.

After this illuminating conversation I knew that I had miscalibrated her and realized I should have played up my asshole side. Consequently, likelihood of a second date was low. When I go out with girls I have a system where I rank them according to how much asshole behavior they will need to open their legs heart for me. I’m usually pretty good at this and can switch on my asshole persona at will.

For instance, if she’s a 10 on the 1 to 10 asshole craving scale, I will occasionally tell her, with a flash of anger, to “shut the fuck up” when she tries to shit test me. If she’s a 1, I’ll be Mr. Nice Guy and compliment her on her choice of shoes. If she’s in the middle of the asshole craving scale (where most cute young girls are), I’ll get her to buy me an expensive drink. Normally, I can accurately assess whether a girl is an asshole craver early in the pickup, usually within the first minute, by how bright her eyes shine when I disrespect her. If she pushes me away in mock indignation, that tells me I’ve hit pay dirt. But this time my date’s calm, intelligent, giggle-free demeanor and conservative dress had me fooled into thinking she had a low asshole craving quotient. A rookie mistake.

A part of me was pleased that I was on a date trying to get into the panties of the same girl that the infamous Mystery tried and, presumably, failed to pick up a few weeks earlier. But a bigger part of me was grossed out by the nagging thought that every girl I’ve dated in the past three years has been hit on over and over by hundreds, maybe thousands, of acolytes of the game all running the same routines and wearing matching armbands and unusual pendants.

Later that night, after the date, I went to another bar and asked two girls how well they knew each other. They said the night before a guy had given them “the best friends test and asked us what shampoo we used.” I made a mental note to pirate the Pimsleur series on learning Polish.

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