Man in the back left can hardly contain his joy. Or his perforated ulcer. His fingers grip his super-sized prize like a rock climber dangling from a cliff face with no rope. He’s not about to let her tip over and capsize into her friend. After all, what is better in life than a fat chick with no tits?
Man in the back right is more composed, and maintains a firmer grip on his ballast. He seems fairly aware of the load capacity of his lumberjack arms and cornfed quads, and glows with the inner peace of a zen master who has touched the face of a semi-cute chick with his peen without ever having to touch her porky wet hole with it.
Girl in the front left is straining under the weight (heh) of her phony smile. She despises her reproductive partner, her grotesque starch bomb body, her life. But she loves her BBBFF who always makes her feel special and loved and free to be Princess Gluttony. Her dress sparkles because she knows how to attract the attention of horny military boys with alcoholic astigmatism.
Girl in the front right smiles naturally, smokes and drinks from a red solo cup. She has stuffed her carcass into a slinky cocktail dress meant for women half her size. She exudes self-confidence. Clearly, she is American. She likes her man and has taken many of his loads betwixt her fat girl ta tas. She is destined to cheat on him with a black man.
The conclusion:
The girl in the front right is the alpha male. Remember what the alpha male signifies: He is the man with options, who is dating “out of his league”, according to conventional metrics of date worthiness. Judging by this photo, the man who has made out like a bandit happens to be a woman.
And isn’t that modern society in a nutless-shell? An alpha male woman smothering the life out of a man who can do better, but won’t.
The white knight used to be an object of admiration, but lately he has become an object of derision and even pity. Urban Dictionary defines the white knight as:
A person (usually a male) who sees the typical maiden in distress, and believes that he can help her. A male version of the “mother figure” that some girls become.
Implicit in that definition is the recognition that white knights are dupes who won’t get the sex they think their heroism is supposed to net them. The change in the white knight’s status can be traced to the change in the Western culture and the functioning of the sexual market. As women have become more self-sufficient, more socially and sexually aggressive, more pampered by the ruling elite and their foot soldiers, and less in need of beta male provisioning, the justification for the white knight’s services has been annulled. What was once a legitimate way to curry favor with women and to uphold traditional social mores for the betterment of the ethnically cohesive whole, has become a pretentious clown show neither desired by its intended recipients nor necessary as a stopgap to preserve social mores that have long ceased their operational relevance.
The subject of the white knight was broached in the comments to this post about a guy who walks away from a one-month slutfriend (“girlfriend” seems too generous an appellation) who had her tit grabbed by a co-worker in a bar, and responded to the feminist ur-violation by laughing and hugging her groper. CH agreed with the emailer’s decision to execute a summary dumping, but some readers were less ready to surrender the white knight option.
For example, commenter Erudite Knight wrote,
You are a joke. It is not ‘white knight’ to defend your property. You are excusing your own cowardice.
This is fairly representative of the thinking of the pro-white knight brigade. Woman is man’s property, and therefore a man must defend her honor no matter how poorly she behaves.
A load of tosh.d’oh, say I. First, it’s been a long time in the West since women were men’s property, either legalistically or culturally. Were we living in such a time, duty-bound male impulses like white knighting and chivalry would make more sense. But today, they make little sense, if any at all. A piece of “property” which can cheat on you at will and suffer little in the way of consequences is not any property encompassing inherent rights of ownership deserving of defense against interlopers. Or: If your property can, of its own accord, welcome squatters, you are a fool for assuming stewardship of such a leaky plot of flesh.
Second, women are not children or dumb animals, They have agency and accountability for their actions. At least, they do if you take a typical feminist’s word for it. (A leap of faith, I know.) You as a man are under no moral obligation to rush to the aid of a woman who has proven herself, by her actions, a loose tramp. If she severs her end of the deal, you are free to sever yours.
Third, acting the cat’s-paw for a low woman won’t inspire the respect you white knight advocates think it will, or think it should. What do you imagine percolates in a slut’s head when she has successfully tooled you into laying down your coat for her as her secret office fling laughs knowingly to himself, his pedestal being polished by her hand? I’ll show you:
All you’ve done is embolden her to pull more of the same stunts in the future. Way to go, toolbag.
Fourth, it’s not bravery to stand in the path of a speeding train, or a serenading slut. It’s just plain old stupidity.
If your goal in life is to feel like a big man through the strange alchemical process of getting tooled by manipulative shrews, then have it at governor. Just don’t expect many men of sane mind to join you in adhering to your quixotic code of ethics.
But this post is not solely about the lunkheadedness of the modern day white knight, a loathsome creature who shares DNA with the manboob and the male feminist. (Pervs of a feather…) It’s about those rare times when it’s in your interest, as a man, to white knight. Specifically, that interest is the preservation of your privileged access to the womb of a woman who wishes you to have that access.
If a guy at a bar grabs your lover’s tit, and she reacts with a look of shock and fury, clearly signaling her displeasure with the molestation, then go ahead and be all the white knight you can be. The benefits in such a scenario far outweigh the negatives (unless the other guy is a house, more on that in a bit). A demeaning titty twister (of your hand on his nipple), a strong shove to entice a fight, or even a sock in the gut, are acceptable measures of recourse. You wouldn’t be white knighting so much as kicking out an invading migrant who crossed your border, a border (and this is important) which you know is inviolable.
If the girl is not worth a fight, but you want to slake a vengeful thirst on both of them that walking out simply won’t do, you could follow this advice from anonymous,
How about you bring her and him into a bro shoulder hug, start smooching her, keep one hand clenched on the guy’s shirt while you send your hand up her shirt, and while kissing you give him a bro face slap. “You guys will have a great life together.”
YaReally also has an epic comment about handling really aggressive douchebags muscling in on your girl. He, like CH, advocates the “soft next” for any girl who has proved by her behavior that she didn’t mind the intrusion all that much.
As for much bigger men, make fun of them. “Hey, man, you’re molesting the wrong tit. I think you want the boy tits in the gay bar down the street.” Try recruiting allies this way, by publicly calling out his boarish behavior in front of a crowd, preferably with bouncers and bartenders within earshot. You obviously want to avoid a beatdown that is inevitable because of an unfair size disadvantage, but there are other ways to socially ostracize a big man without having it come to blows.
Of course, if women want the world of white knights and chivalry back, they’re free to abandon their feminist principles and equalist agit-prop any day now. Won’t be holding my breath…
…and a nugget of game truth escapes from the swirl of vapid blather. The bolded questions are being asked by the beta male, and the answers are from girls he attempted to woo but failed miserably.
Do you usually figure out if you wanna do more than make out with someone pretty instantly? Or, is it a slow burn?
Oh, yeah. It is a fact of life that women know within seconds of meeting a man whether or not they would have sex with them. I’m into guys that are overtly confident. I dated a guy once who I had very, very, very strong feelings for. I was crazy about him. The first time we hung out we had sex. And afterward, he walked into the bathroom that was attached to the bedroom and took a shit with the door open.
Really?
I could see him. I could actually see this guy while he was taking a shit right after he slept with me, and for some reason, I just remember being like, “You know what? I respect how much nerve you have.”
Beta males can’t understand how it is alpha males can get away with so much… shit… and still get the girls. This is why beta males fail. The very act of pulling shit around women is attractive to them because it signals the winning attitude of uncaring assholery. And there’s nothing more chicks love than a man who does as he pleases and makes no apology for it.
Naturally, the beta male in this article misses the lesson contained in his interviewee’s answers, opting instead to badger the women with specific details about him that turned them off (or didn’t turn them on).
Was there anything I did wrong that turned you off?
I don’t believe so. I mean, I had a lot of fun hanging out with you. All of my most successful relationships have had a dynamic where we acted like best friends.
The very nature of asking women these sorts of pleading questions is a fine demonstration of doing it wrong. Alpha males don’t ask women for appraisals of their worth. Alphas assume their worth. And besides, alphas know there’s nothing to be learned from women in the matter of the source of women’s romantic feelings, who as a gender are constitutionally incapable of honestly probing the origins of their sexual desire.
Tantalizingly, one woman he interviews makes a glancing blow with an ugly truth (she’s also the hottest of the four women, which should tell you something).
Gotcha.
I just recently learned that the pill can really alter who you’re attracted to. I found that who I was attracted to when I was on the pill may have been different to who I’m attracted to now I’m off. Also, now the type of guys I’m attracted to can be really affected by the time of month.
Like, week one, I’m only into Mexicans? Week two is tall dudes with big feet?
No. It’s more like at a certain point, during ovulation, I’m not really in sync with it yet, but there’s a certain point where I want a bigger guy to throw me around and stuff. During that moment I find myself more attracted to manly men.
Monthly Cycle Game — a CH original — will be hitting bookstands soon. It’s better to err on the side of throwing a woman around too much than not throwing her around enough. The former mistake is recoverable; the latter won’t even give you a shot to recover yourself. Think of it this way:
Throw woman around too much (physically and/or psychologically)
GIRL’S THOUGHTS: He’s such a jerk! I just want him to love me. Instead all he does is fuck me like a rag doll. Maybe if I give him more head he’ll be sweet to me?
GUY: *buys her a bag of Skittles*
GIRL: *SWOON*
Throw woman around not enough
GIRL’S THOUGHTS: Wow just wow this guy is boring. But he lets me talk about anything, like the assholes who are fucking me.
GUY’S THOUGHTS: This is great! She’s, like, right next to me, talking to me! But wait… am I in the friend zone? I better go for a sloppy awkward kiss and remind her why I’m here. I mean, it’s been four months we’ve “been together”, the time is right.
GUY: *LURCHING AIR SMOOCH*
GIRL: *Reeling backwards* Why did you do that? Oh, I’m so sorry… I just don’t see you that way. Yuk just yuk.
***
If you’re asking women why you’re sexually invisible, you already have your answer.
The Beta Male Move of the Day highlights a classic beta male “tell” that women subconsciously register and which then powers down any nascent attraction that they may feel toward the man betraying himself by his beta behavior. BMMOTDs (or, colloquially, “Beta Movements”), can be egregious or subtle; the end result, however, is always the same: more distance between you and the pussy.
Personal Real Life Detail Revealed:
I was in a pricey bar catering to young-ish professionals when I noticed the following Beta Movement.
End Personal Real Life Detail Transmission
That’s all you need to know to grasp the game lesson herein.
The Beta Movement is chicken pecking. Pecking of the head, or whole body pecking, it doesn’t matter; watching a man do this is akin to watching a reserve tank labeled “Alpha Male Attractiveness Fuel” superimposed on his body slowly draining to the flashing red “E”. It’s a neediness gesture that primally offends both women (resulting in lost attraction) and other men (resulting in lost respect). Naturally, no one is going to conspicuously make a look of disgust if you peck while listening to him or her. The more likely response is a slow backing out of the conversation and sideways glances for more powerfully interesting company. Human social interaction is not s series of nuclear bombs going off, but a vast network of sensation-seeking psychological tendrils alternately reaching outward and inward and elsewhere for a foothold on which to attach.
Many men peck. It’s probably a hard-wired instinct that evolved to signal goodwill and concord, and thus facilitate in-group social lubrication. But the fact that many men do it is only evidence that many men are betas. Alphas wouldn’t be alpha if they were numerically superior. (Such a phenomenon, were it to occur, would be very short-lived anyhow as bull-headed jousting for distinction would lead to attrition.) Try to focus on your body and head as you listen to someone of notable social worth (this could be a high ranking man or a hot woman). Self-awareness is vital; if you feel your head bobbing at the neck when you want to express agreement or consilience, make a sound effort to stop doing it. Same goes if you feel your body swaying rhythmically in a similar fashion.
If you find yourself in fulsome agreement with your company, resist the urge to nonverbally and obsequiously express it. Practice maintaining not just unswerving eye contact, but also head and body stillness, when listening to an alpha male or alpha female in conversation. You should be closer to an obelisk, not a chicken. Chicks dig the obelisk.
Dan readied his stick and plunked a ball in a side pocket. Relishing his fleeting achievement, he raised his eyes to check if Nadine had bore witness to his excellence. She hadn’t. Gruff, caustic Robert, his misshapen nose and squirrel’s nest hair coaxing annoyed leers, was directing to a general audience of three girls a crack about drunkenly seeing twelve holes and the improvement to his game that was sure to bring. Nadine was one of those girls, and Dan squelched a perturbation of despondency when he saw Nadine’s eyes shine for Robert’s boisterous wit.
Nadine was Dan’s project. He met her, he welcomed her friends, he introduced them all to his friends, he slept luxuriously fitful nights imagining Nadine warming to him and reciprocating his feelings. Kind, pretty and, lately, eager to hang out with him and his buddies, Nadine was unassailable. Dan allowed renewed confidence in the value he offered her. Soon, he would ask her out. He just needed a private moment. They’d been out together as a group enough that Dan believed Nadine was hoping he would lurch at a pretext to corner her alone and deliver the magical words she’d been secretly anticipating. Dan occasionally wondered if the moment, when it came, would be so flush with spent resolve that they would seal the agreement with a passionate (but endearingly tentative) kiss.
Dan: “D’ja see that bank shot?”
Robert: “That bank shot wasn’t good…”
PAUSE FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT
Robert: “…that bank shot was GREAT.”
Nadine: *laughs*
Dan: *smiles weakly*
Robert: *touches Nadine’s chunky girl friend with chalky side of stick*
PAUSE FOR DRAMATIC REACTION
Chunks: “Hey! Not nice!”
Robert: “Blame Dan. He bet me I wouldn’t do it.”
Dan: “No I didn’t.”
Robert: “Come on, Dan, you’re always causing trouble. Don’t try to hide it.”
Nadine: “He doesn’t look like the one causing trouble here.”
Dan: “Thanks, Nadine.”
Robert: “I knew there was something between you two!”
Dan had always taken to understand that he was a handsome, if aesthetically understated, man. He certainly saw nothing in Nadine’s limpid gaze to suggest extended exposure to his countenance irritated her. If Dan were to count up the hours spent in Nadine’s company, (an exercise which, in point of fact, he did one evening while nervously fiddling with the bracing decision to text her one mere day after they had spoken by phone, the nerve!), the sum of their unspoken love would add to a considerable investment of life energy.
And so it was with naive expectation that Dan foresaw no interference, nor any of the usual social rifts that erupt when the sexes mix, issuing from Nadine & company’s enfolding. He was therefore emotionally denuded when Nadine’s redirected attention usurped his blueprint of steady bonding. A sickening awareness jammed his guts as he recorded the mounting toll of Robert & Nadine’s wet glances, slithery torso feints, forearm grazing entreaties, and joyously faux indignations, each a sharper dagger than the last. He sunk his last shot, and excused himself to “make a call”, which no one heard, nor needed to hear.
Seven years later, Robert would be married to a svelte, head-turner blonde, and they would reside in a charming suburb. Dan would have moved to another corner of the country, met an uninspiring but trustworthy woman, and married as well, settling in a jurisdiction not known for its disruptive temptations, but not mattering anyway. Government statistics would show that Robert worked in a high-stress field and had one child with his comely wife, and that Dan was a productive contributor to state coffers and had two children by his wife.
Acquaintances who knew Dan would say if asked that he was a happy, well-adjusted man. A real stand-up guy, a normal guy. The sort of guy who had everything going for him.
A clue to the sorts of “””men””” who willingly date human tubas is in the photo attached to this fatso’s confessional about getting befuddled stares from people when she’s out in public with her thin boyfriend.
The article is too unintentionally hilarious not to pull illuminative self-contradicting quotes from it.
I’m overweight and my boyfriend’s not. Big freaking deal.
We’ve been dating for 18 months, and wherever we go—whether we’re walking hand in hand through the mall, airport or down the street in his hometown (Glasgow, Scotland) or mine (San Jose, California)—we get confused looks that say, He can do better than her!
When people say things out loud, their comments range from cruel (“Is he blind?” or “He’s only with you to get a green card”)
A reasonable suspicion.
to quips such as, “It’s great he can see past your looks”
😆
or “He’s so nice for being with you.”
😆 😆
I usually respond, “He’s not doing me a favor—he’s my boyfriend!”
When you’re a sexual market loser, the whole world is doing you a favor by tolerating your presence instead of tossing you out on your fat keister to the icy wastelands.
Now and then, even people close to me made unkind remarks. Once, when I confided to a friend, “I can’t believe he likes me!” he answered, “Yeah, I know!”
The more repulsive you are, the harder it is for people to conceal their true feelings in your company.
I have a YouTube channel, Glowpinkstah, with more than 250,000 subscribers, and, as a comic,
She swallowed the belly laughs.
I review beauty products,
At least she understands that female beauty matters. Now all she needs to do is realize that lipstick on a pig just makes the pig look goofy.
answer fan mail,
“I love how you own your fat body! Can you give me tips on how to hide my wiping implements so guests won’t see them when they use the bathroom?”
share my edgy brand of humor
More like rounded brand of humor, amirite?
and details about my life, so they know all about Ali and me.
Does Ali sleep in the piano case with you?
While most are supportive, there are a fair number of bullies:
“She has a boyfriend? What is wrong with the world?”
Shamelessness.
“These two had sex?! Oh god, why?”
Lack of options. Mental illness.
Some have gone so far as to ask how we have sex.
Pulleys, a garage jack, industrial lubricant, and the jaws of life.
I feel like saying, “If you have to ask, clearly you missed an important class back in the fifth grade.”
Whatever that class was, it wasn’t physics! 😉
I just really liked food, and I didn’t think about consequences.
Not thinking about consequences? Sounds like a feminist fantasy world.
Also, I didn’t care that much about the way I looked
We can see.
—but other people did.
They can see.
In middle school, one guy imitated the way my thighs rubbed together when I walked.
I think I was friends with that guy.
While it upset me, I realized that it was more his problem than mine.
That’s just something the targets of cruelty say.
While I was talking about my dreams, he volunteered to decode them. “I study psychology,” he explained.
What a waste of game.
So I gave him my Instant Messenger screen name.
“Pelican Gullet”
Two-and-a-half years later, the miles and time zones between us hardly mattered. We were spending so many hours a week talking online.
A two and a half year talking relationship. For once, a closeted gay man beta dweeb didn’t mind years of blue balls.
I thought Ali was cute too, but I figured someone like him wouldn’t have feelings for me.
Gay men are like that.
I knew he was into big girls—his exes were chubby.
Ah, the elusive fatty fucker. Good news for fat chicks: a few men appear to suffer from brain defects that make them aroused by the sight of undulating blubber. Bad news for fat chicks: For every one of these invaluable fatty fuckers, there are one hundred of you trampling over yourselves trying to get at him.
Some think it’s weird, but it’s like having a thing for blondes: It’s just a preference.
“That’s just, like, your opinion, man.”
– Stalin
Not long after, Ali—who I was now seeing exclusively—told me he loved me. We had yet to meet in person.
She had Skype sex with a turkey drumstick, while he masturbated to photoshopped nudes of Justin Bieber. No one was the wiser.
I turned around and saw him walking toward me with a huge smile on his face. He gave me a hug and kissed me on the lips. I thought to myself, He’s my boyfriend, and he’s here!
“And his kisses feel like I’m kissing my brother!”
Another ex told me, with sincerity: “Maybe if you lost weight, my parents would accept you, and we could be together again.”
Most fatty fuckers are actually loser men who piss themselves in the company of attractive women who would be elated if their fatso girlfriends slimmed down. Of course, the elation wouldn’t last long, as the newly thin girlfriends would quickly dump their loser boyfriends and cash in their sexy figures for love with better men.
I have days when I say, “Why do you like me?” He says, “Because you’re beautiful and for the person you are.”
Those are sweet words of acceptance. Let’s see if he means them.
And he’s been good for my health. I was at my heaviest when we met, and I’ve lost 40 pounds since. My goal is to lose 80 pounds total, and he’s very supportive.
Nope.
Before Ali, I never showed any skin whatsoever, but he makes me feel confident going out in a cute little dress
Aka house gown.
that doesn’t cover me head-to-toe.
More’s the pity.
I can wear a sleeveless dress, shorts
Aka canvas tent.
—things that typically people don’t want to see me wearing—and not care.
Yes, you sound like you don’t care at all.
So, with Ali’s support, I started The Beauty Adjustment, a collaborative video project in which my subscribers help me spread the word that there is no one “normal” way to look or love. Beauty and relationships come in all shapes and sides: brown, yellow, short, tall, thin, fat—and one partner doesn’t have to mirror the other.
Great, more fat acceptance. Just what America needs. An excuse to get galactically fat.
Despite her sweet-sounding entreaties for acceptaaaaaaance, let there be no mistaking her message for what it is: Vile, ugly lies. The more women who heed her comfort food words, the fewer sexy babes there will be in the world, and the unhappier everyone gets. It affects me personally when women think they can bloat up without consequence. And since I am, as a human male, representative of the way most men think, the resentment at having our shared environment stripped of its most beautiful creations is a universal feeling.
At Le Chateau, there will be no acceptance of human garbage. There will be no excuses. There will be only the white hot sting of shame, of mockery, of ostracism. And, in the end, when the losers have gone through the crucible of hell — some burning in everlasting torment, others finding cool relief in self-improvement — will the world be a more beautiful place, and hence, a more truthful place.
The good-looking beta male who takes up with the gross fat chick is a riddle to most people, but that’s because most people have a narrow vision of what constitutes the desirable man. They retreat to a simple and readily-identifiable criterion of worth, e.g., looks, not understanding that such a criterion, while useful as a measurement of women’s sexual worth, is woefully inadequate as a metric for capturing a man’s sexual worth. The good-looking beta male dating the fat chick is not betrayed by his looks; he’s betrayed by his attitude. His psychology. His lack of confidence. His cowardice. His closeted homosexuality.
Whatever those traits are that women love in men are missing in the man who fucks a flesh pierogie when he could be fucking a slender girl. He’s a loser just as much as the ugly fat man who will lay with land whales out of expedience; the differences in each man’s looks are subsumed by their similarities in psychology. It’s the psychology of the feeble, the insecure, the deranged, and the undiscriminating.
How does one do obligatory beta things in the course of a relationship in an alpha way? Wives and girlfriends will not accept skittles as gifts on a regular basis. At some point it will be her turn to pick the movie, and it will usually be a gay selection. How do you share in the celebration of whatever girl milestones she’s happy about?
I recall seeing a good post about alpha ways to propose, but my question goes more to the day to day level. After you’ve been with a girl for 3 months or so, she’s looking for a connection. Constant aloof game will eventually lead to her just thinking you are a negative, critical dick. But being a mushy beta herb is fatal as well. Maybe I’m suggesting a new post “Relationship Game: The Day-to-Day Alpha.”
CH readers who are familiar with the archives know that “aloof game” is not all there is to inspiring a woman’s love and fidelity through all four weeks of the month. Beta reassurance game matters, and in fact will occupy the bulk of your time with any woman who is more than a sexual fling to you.
The reason Chateau Heartiste, and game blogs in general, focus on attraction-building seduction techniques and attitudes is because for most men — and especially for men with a lot of White and Red Nordid ancestry — aloofness and charisma around women don’t come as naturally as, say, white knighting and slow wooing via the display of beta provider signals. The worldWest is changing, and a different kind of seduction is needed.
Most men are betas by definition, and the “art” of buying girls stuff and complimenting girls and tending to girls when they are upset in order to win their favor is second nature to such men. The beta provider’s mental resources aren’t taxed by spending real resources on women. That’s the beta’s bread and butter. In contrast, the beta male feels tremendous psychological distress when his bread and butter isn’t working and he has to delve into the crimson world of exotic seduction tactics to inspire lust in women. This is when the beta, after having endured in crestfallen solitude from the bar room wall the spectacle of sociable alpha males hoarding the pussy, decides to turn to the lessons of applied charisma.
Regarding Sidewinder’s question, the day-to-day relationship stuff is not particularly hard or incomprehensible for the inveterate beta male. He’s been ready since birth to assume his role as the “I’m a caring man and I’ll be there at your side to dry your tears and listen to you bitch and promise you how beautiful you look when the baby is disgorging itself from your wide-open bloody vagina” man that all women claim they desire, but actually don’t desire until times get tough or their oxytocin levels are elevated. (Or the SMV differential between the woman and the man is so great that he can afford to be a beta.)
But just because that sentimental huggy-wuggy stuff comes easy to betas doesn’t mean they’d see no benefit from supercharging their relationship game with time-honored and field-tested seduction strategies. A man who has brought balance to his masculine force — a man who has sharpened his far-focused beta bonding on the whetstone of near-focused alpha allure, and knows how to apportion each by amount and timeliness to induce maximum arousal in his woman — is a man of such rarefied self-awareness that women will die for him. Or at least defend his right to pimp them out.
Building on this premise, tomorrow’s post will be about those “day-to-day alpha” things that men should do to strengthen and invigorate their loving relationships with women.
