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Archive for the ‘Beta’ Category

Soulkill

Would you men like to know what happens to your texts, IMs, emails and voicemails that you regret having sent to girls you tried but failed to bang? I have a story to tell…

Scene: House party. Ten people sitting languidly in a living room, drinking and socializing. Seven girls, three men, including yours truly. The girls are all in their 20s, in the 6-8.5 looks range. These girls are not sluts or lawyer cunts. They are, by most objective measures, “good girls”; exactly the kind of normal, cute girls men would be happy to have as girlfriends, and to introduce to mom.

One of the girls, the second cutest of the bunch, is showing her phone to her BFF. Another girl asks what she’s doing.

She smiles broadly. “That guy I broke up with last week sent me a Facebook message. It’s SO sad! But kind of sweet, too.”

“Ooh, let’s see!”, the other girls practically squeal in unison.

Her BFF interrupts, “Did he send this after you broke up?”

“Yes! OK, so I broke up with this guy last week over email, because I’m too scared to do it in person.”

The other girls titter knowingly.

She continues, “Lemme read what I wrote to him first, so you get an idea.”

She begins reading from her phone and quoting her break-up email, which, paraphrased, went something like this:

“Hi there, [REDACTED], I just wanted to tell you that I had a great time with you, but I’m in a place in my life right now where I don’t want to get involved. I just got over a bad breakup, and I don’t have the energy to pursue another relationship. I’m going to spend some time alone for a while. Really you’re a great guy. But this isn’t happening for me right now. I’m sorry.”

The girls nod sympathetically. The two men and myself exchange knowing glances. We understand what’s about to come.

Heartbreaker girl taps her phone screen and holds it up for the crowd to see.

“Ok, I’m going to read his reply. He sent this like a day later.”

I interrupt her. “Wait, let me read it. I can pretend to be him.”

She cackles. “Haha! OK, here you go.”

I take the phone. A longish email reply is staring back at me, with a thumbnail of a man’s face appended to it. He’s fairly good-looking, and muscular, judging by his neck and traps.

I begin reading his reply in a trembly voice, imitating as best I can a lovelorn beta. Paraphrased:

“Ok, I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping we could date a few more times and see where it goes. I think you are really great, and a very special girl, and I felt we had something between us. I definitely felt we bonded on our dates together. Remember that time playing pool? That was pretty funny. But oh well, if you need some time to yourself, I understand. If you ever change your mind, you know where to email me. I’m willing to give it another try if you are. Ciao.”

I finish and melodramatically lay the phone down, heavily sighing. The girls erupt in a gail of laughter and cloying “Awws”. The two men noticeably cringe. One looks displeased that I have joined, shiv in hand dripping the blood of my victim, in the beta hunt.

Oh, what’s that? You expected me to stick up for the downtrodden beta masses? You wanted a hero to show these girls the malevolence of their ways? No, that would not be any fun. I happily participated in the cruel mockery at the expense of this poor niceguy. Laughs were shared and I would do it again. The id monster obeys no ideology.

Heartbreaker girl chimes in. “See, I told you he’s so sweet. I feel bad about this.” She tries hard to contain a chesire cat’s grin from creasing her face, but fails.

I address the group with a feigned seriousness, “Maybe we shouldn’t have done that to the poor guy.”

Heartbreaker girl responds, still smiling, “I know, I feel bad.” The men look uncomfortable, staring at the wall. One guy grips his girlfriend’s thigh tightly. A moment of moral clarity infuses the room, but it doesn’t last.

A girl in the corner pipes up, “But that was really funny! Oh well. It was kinda cute.” Laughter all around.

I continue, “How long were you seeing this guy? He seems smitten.”

Heartbreaker girls says proudly, “We went on three dates.”

I seize an opportunity to subversively impart game wisdom. “You know, my buddies and I have this golden rule we live by. Never send emails to a girl that are longer than the ones she writes to you.” I turn to Heartbreaker girl, “This guy wrote twice as much as you wrote to him.”

A girl practically shrieks, “Oh my god, you’re so right!”

Heartbreaker girl laughs in agreement, “That’s so true.”

There are ways to inculcate women with the truth of game. You just have to frame it as a remedy for a betaboy’s embarrassing failure.

The next time you feel the urge to send a lovingly crafted email or text or IM to a woman who you haven’t yet banged, remember this true story from the vaults of the Chateau. Visualize the hosts reading your email out loud to the guffaws of a roomful of cute girls who soften their laughter with pitying, and faintly contemptuous, hedges about what a “niceguy” and “sweet guy” you are, and…

STOP, CROP and CULL.

Stay your hand. Turn off the spigot of beta diarrhea. Calm your fiery but unfocused passion. Shut your mouth. Delete that fucking ode. Because it WILL, one way or another, one day sooner or later, be used against you in a kangaroo court of amoral soul flaying. If you want to win at this game, there is only one road to victory —

penis in vagina.

No amount of painstakingly composed and heartfelt emails, yearning voicemails, or chivalric IMs emanating with the faint whiff of beggary will ever match in manly will to power the physical act of fucking. That is your trump card, and nothing a woman holds can beat it.

The modern woman, and her women-are-blameless spokesfembots, ask “Where are all the good men?”

Ladies, you get the men you deserve.

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Beta Valentine

The crack team of Chateau clit crits does not review movies too often because most of what passes for entertainment in theaters is rubbish. However, once every decade or so a movie so bracing, so truthful, and so relevant to the cultural moment comes along that we feel compelled to give it a platform for the readership.

The post ahead contains spoilers. If you are a giant vagina, close your eyes and think of momma’s womb.

Blue Valentine is an exploration of a modern marriage in the process of disintegrating, told via alternating scenes between the couple’s sordid present and their romantically heady past of five or six years ago. The flashback scenes aren’t labeled as such; the viewer knows they are flashbacks by the youthful hairline of Ryan Gosling’s character, Dean, and by the fact that there’s no kid around. The effect of the flashbacks is like a prolonged near-death experience, where the characters’ dying relationship is punctuated by gauzy vignettes of happier times.

Although the theater was filled with SWPL women probably on a bender from Glee house parties, don’t mistake this film for a chick flic. There’s too much truth told in the portrayal of a relationship hitting the skids for this to be anything resembling the typical sappy romance movie. For one, there’s no happy ending. Women’s faces after a manipulative cheese-fest chick flic show the telltale signs of throat-lumped weepiness: the glisten of fresh tears on cheeks. But the crowd of women filing out of the theater after Blue Valentine had only the vacant-eyed look of a shellshocked soldier who has just seen his buddy catch shrapnel. Or, in this case, catch a little too much reality.

Quite simply, there hasn’t been a movie in our lifetimes which depicts the fall of a man from charming nascent alpha to inept needy beta, and the loathing that this engenders in his lover, better than Blue Valentine.

Every male reader of the Chateau needs to see this movie, if for no other reason than to absorb the lessons it offers as a cautionary tale. The movie hits upon a number of powerhouse themes of this blog, and doesn’t flinch from the consequences. It makes one wonder if the director, Derek Cianfrance, reads this humble outpost of id brutality.

Michelle Williams plays Dean’s girlfriend/wife/pedestaled princess, Cindy. The two of them are from lower middle-class backgrounds. She’s a young, knocked up slut with daddy issues (she confesses to a nurse in one riveting scene in an abortion doc’s office that she has had “20, maybe 25” sexual partners, and the guy who got her pregnant — an alpha male wrestler — left her holding the baby bag), and he’s a high school dropout who works as muscle for a moving company who unironically wears American bald eagle sweaters and loves his job because it allows him to drink at 8AM. In other words, they are proles, with tastes, habits and dysfunction to suit.

Gosling and Williams give stellar performances. You will not see better acting unless Daniel Day-Lewis is on the bill. And this is the kind of movie that absolutely requires a high level of acting expertise; the subtle emotions and facial tics that are evoked to flesh out two ordinary people in a downward spiral of contempt, bitterness and fear, victimized not by each other but by ancient, primal mating forces pushing them in opposite directions, are beyond the range of most actors and actresses.

The casting here is important, because an unrealistically good-looking female lead would have strained credulity. Williams is cute, but not hot. She has a thick Teutonic neck, a slight belly roll, narrow hips, and an incipient double chin lurking underneath her long flowing blonde locks. That her cuteness is physically grounded like this helps explain why a guy of Dean’s caliber can feel simultaneously awed by her beauty and motivated by her attainability. Williams’ pedestrian 7 or 7.5 ranking delivers the message that exquisite female beauty is not the only instability factor that can corrupt a marriage; a man’s betaness can do the same.

The critical Chateau (and game) themes this movie hits upon include:

– alpha pump and dumps and beta providers and how women react to each type of man
– negs (AKA teasing) as a pivotal component of successful courtships
– the never-ending cycle of female shit testing
– the flame-out of male shit test failing
– forcing closeness before attraction is built
– the near impossibility of reviving a woman’s love after it has been squandered by beta behavior
– the deviousness of a woman’s female friends
– the well-poisoning that ensues when a woman gains higher social status than her husband
– the absolute irrelevancy of children to influence the modern woman with regard to her relationship choices
– the influence of competitor alpha males on a woman’s relationship trajectory
– the misguided idealism and romanticism of kind-hearted men
– the utter cluelessness of kind-hearted men about the nature of women
– the brute self-denial men practice when they project their romanticism onto women
– the inability of women to understand — let alone control — their own maelstrom of emotions
– the wisdom of the 2/3rds rule when expressing sentiments of love
– the recklessness and stupidity with which the lower classes careen in and out of relationships
– how easily unenlightened men are blindsided by women’s biomachinations
– how easily women can be bedded with simple charm
– how complimenting a woman can turn her off
– how a failing relationship can cause a man to forget what he did to attract the woman
– how a man can lose his sense of self when he allows himself to be defined by the strength of his LTR or marriage
– the foolishness of pursuing a relationship with a single mom
– and the tingle-killer of excessive self-deprecation.

There are scenes in this movie where you will cringe with a mix of disgust and pity. When Dean leans against a door frame, sobbing and pleading with Cindy to “tell me what to do. I’ll do whatever you want to make it better”, you want to slap him hard across the face and lead him to the tree of knowledge that is the Chateau. When he forces a hug upon her in the hopes that it will stir those old feelings and she responds with a stiff-armed turtling, visibly aching to escape his touch, your cringing will reach epic proportions.

Similarly, there is a visceral sex scene, while not very graphic (you only see boobs once in this movie), that you will have a hard time watching. Suffice to say, a woman out of love is no fun to make love to.

The disgust you will feel over Dean’s immolation and Cindy’s cold retreat is made all the more palpable by the flashbacks to times when Dean was the cocky, charming troubadour who swept Cindy off her feet with some solid early game and a hipster ukelele. In what is perhaps the greatest (and thus most realistic) neg ever delivered in a Hollywood movie, Dean says to Cindy, during his second attempt to pick her up, that he “heard pretty girls are nuts. You must be crazy insane then.” Pitch perfect. That, my friends, is how you deliver a competent neg. In fact, Cindy even acknowledges the neg concept when she replies “you have a funny way of insulting and complimenting a woman at the same time.” It wasn’t long after that they fell into bed.

The attention to detail is apparent in Blue Valentine. Cindy gets knocked up by an aloof alpha whom she allows to fuck her raw dog from behind, rutting like animals. He, naturally, cums inside her and issues a perfunctory “Oops, sorry” after he is spent. She rushes to the toilet to urinate out the sperm but it is too late. In another flashback we see her examining a pregnancy stick with fear in her eyes.

In contrast, when Dean first lays with Cindy, he goes down on her. He eats her out dutifully until she has climaxed. We do not see Dean penetrating her during that scene. The message is clear — alphas fuck the way they like to fuck, betas selflessly please their women. Since Dean never has a kid with Cindy despite a flashback scene where he expresses his desire to have one with her, we can assume that either she went on the pill or she required him to use a condom even in the marital bed.

Another message that should not be lost on the viewer: Cindy keeps the alpha asshole’s kid while denying Dean a genetic legacy of his own. She changes her mind while laying down and in stirrups in the abortionist’s office that she wants to keep the kid. Dean seals his fate when he agrees to love and support her and her kid, because he wants to build a family. Cindy, a desperate, broken single mom-to-be, eagerly jumps into a Justice of the Peace marriage with Dean.

But Cindy cannot tame her desire for a higher social status man (read: a bigger asshole), and Dean’s satisfaction with his banal employment, and his profligate flattery of Cindy’s looks, eventually undermine the charm which initially attracted her. Her growing contempt for his beta neediness is so strong that she is willing to cast Dean out and traumatize her kid, who loves Dean because he is a doting stepfather.

This is why you should never treat single moms as anything more than holes into which to dump a few inconsequential fucks. As harsh as that sounds, a worse fate awaits the man who would attempt to build a relationship with a single mom. Every minute of every day, her kid reminds her of the alpha asshole who impregnated her, and whose seed she willingly chose to bring to life. You, as the provider chump assuming the role of the unrelated daddy, will always be second best in such a woman’s eyes, particularly if she chooses not to have kids by you. You will always be that guy who wasn’t quite good enough to burden her with child.

What man would want to live with such a daily reminder of his inadequacy? Well, men without any game, for example. When you feel the restriction of lack of options, you tend to settle for the dregs of womanhood.

Dean is a sympathetic character, so it would have been easy to stoke the audience to his side, but thankfully Cianfrance avoids that pitfall. Though less superficially sympathetic, Cindy is no villain. She is just following the dictates of her Darwinian script. She knows not what she does, and so you can’t really get annoyed with her. She even says as much: “I’m done, I can’t do this anymore!” This is the wail of a woman who feels unsettling guilt for falling out of love with a good man, and yet can do nothing about it.

The only real villain in the movie is the brief appearance of Cindy’s female co-worker, a grade A cunt who shouts “Don’t let him brainwash you, honey” at Cindy as she is leaving the office to calm Dean down. She even has sharp, vampiric teeth which she flashes at Dean through the office glass.

This lack of an obvious foe perhaps explains the blank faces of the crowd leaving the theater; what do you do when there is no one to root for, and no one to revile?

And that really gets at the heart of the matter. The forces that nurture relationships and that break them apart aren’t agents of good or evil. They are laws, like gravity, that we all must accommodate if we want to find love and be happy. Blue Valentine does the best job to date of any movie at illuminating the crass functioning of the mating market and the competing, and mutually alien, desires that animate men and women. It’s a dark and claustrophobic reminder of the fragile contingencies which sustain love. If the movie makes the phalanx of women leaving the theater uncomfortable, it’s only because it hits a little too close to home.

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Is this the worst text game ever? Survey says… yes!

“FF” left this comment:

Hello,

I’m wondering if someone could comment on my situation? I came home for xmas, and went to a xmas party at my friends last Thursday. There was a girl “Amy” there who I got introduced to but didn’t really talk to much during the party. Around midnight, me and 3 (guy) friends wanted to go to a bar. We asked if anyone else wanted to come and Amy came along (she didn’t know any of us 3). At the bar I danced with her, made out with her, and went back to her place. We had sex the next 3 nights and mornings. For the most part, we just met up at the end of the night, though one morning we went out for breakfast too.

Anyway, she had to go back to her parents for xmas, about 2 hours away. The first night she was gone (Sunday) I sent her a dumb drunken text message at 1am:

“no amy tonight! :p ”

She didn’t reply.

That night (Monday), I was out with friends, including Jen (Amy’s best friend) and some of Amy’s other friends. When the two other guys left the room to smoke, all the girls sort of cornered me and were teasing me about Amy (“sooooooo, where’s your girlfriend?!?”). I told them to fuck off and acted (I think) convincingly aloof. Then the next day (yesteday) Amy texts me, beginning this exchange:

AMY: Jen says im like your GF now. Thats really great. I can’t wait for you to meet my parents! 🙂

ME: Haha ok xmas at your place I guess 😉
ME: u back in [my-city] b4 xmas?

AMY: No I’m working. I’m coming back before new years around 29th

ME: guess u’ll need all that time to recuperate :p

AMY: And u can use that time to sleep. and listen to my friends make fun of u

ME: jen gave you your daily [my-name] update?

AMY: Haha. No. Jen just told me how much they were making fun of u. I can’t imagine whats so funny about banging a hot chick 3 days straight, but whatever

ME: two people with mutual friends meeting and then having sex the next 3 nights and mornings is always fun gossip for friends
ME: I dont care I like the whole situation. I loved those big perky boobs, firm butt, picture perfect pussy, and cute face…what more could a guy ask for

HER: Haha. Well when you put it like that!

ME: Seriously tho! ur pussy rocks! I feel all warm inside thinking of that thing up in my face (among other places) 😀

And then that was it. I’ll point out there were long (20 minutes) delays between each message (except the ones without spaces between them) – I was driving on the highway, and she seemed to mimic my slow response time. So it didn’t abruptly end, but still.

I can see all sorts of mistakes in my text-game, but I figured given what went on between us it didn’t matter. To sort of fuck things up more I accidently texted her “im outside” when I meant to text another friend about an hour ago, she hasn’t responded.

So, what is the prognosis on my situation? The girl is quite hot (I wouldn’t be stressing if she wasn’t).

We can sometimes learn more from bad game than from observing good game. In that spirit, here is a rundown of where FF went wrong. This case is of particular interest because FF obviously had some attraction at the outset if she acquiesced to banging him for three days straight. But bad followup game can kill even a powerful physical attraction dead.

Also pertinent, Amy sounds like a class A slut. After all, she didn’t know FF before the party which served as the springboard to a three day bangathon. FF should have been able to surmise, then, that Amy would need hardcore uncaring asshole game to keep her slut train rolling on his tracks.

“no amy tonight! :p”

Right out of the gate FF has poisoned his exuberant three day sexual bender with Amy. Never be the first to admit you are missing a girl. Remember, your job as a man is to hang back and make her chase you. Now she is thinking that hers is the only pussy he wants, or presently has access to, and this impression has surely soured her feeelings for him. GIRLS WANT TO THINK YOU HAVE OPTIONS. The threat of male caddishness causes their hamsters to hyperventilate, which powers up the core tingle generator. The wagging tongue emoticon was a transparent coda to grant FF plausible deniability, but girls see through that shit like fake Chloe bags. It would have been much funnier, and less beta, if FF had left off the emoticon. “no amy tonight!” is suitably ambiguous (it could mean he’s really happy she’s not harassing him for sex again), and thus perfect for firing up Amy’s attraction to uncontrollable levels.

She didn’t reply.

Of course she didn’t. Is any regular reader of the Chateau surprised by this? She probably grimaced when the text came over the transom and had a momentary stab of regret for having hooked up with FF.

all the girls sort of cornered me and were teasing me about Amy (“sooooooo, where’s your girlfriend?!?”). I told them to fuck off and acted (I think) convincingly aloof.

Manipulate girl friends as leverage to maximize your alphaness. That’s what they’re there for. This was the perfect opportunity for FF to calmly say “Girlfriend? I wouldn’t use *that* word exactly.” This response avoids a spiteful sounding denial while planting the appropriate alpha asshole subtext in the girl friends’ minds that he could take or leave Amy. This message would undoubtedly get back to Amy, which would even more undoubtedly (re)stoke her desire for him.

AMY: Jen says im like your GF now. Thats really great. I can’t wait for you to meet my parents! 🙂

FF has spooked her. She is not-so-subtly hinting that she doesn’t want to be pressured into a relationship with him. From this point onward, FF is entirely playing into her frame. She is the puppet master, he the dangling penis on strings. Oh, poor Peenocchio.

ME: Haha ok xmas at your place I guess 😉
ME: u back in [my-city] b4 xmas?

Two of his texts to one of hers. FF has the golden ratio ass backwards. The liberal use of emoticons is not helping his cause, either. He is also tacitly assuming that more sex with Amy is a foregone conclusion. When you assume you make a beta out of u and me. Paradoxically, sluts really hate this assumption by the men they fuck. The tramp doth protesteth too much, and all that. Sluts, having served numerous tours of duty in the testicle trenches, are especially sensitive to men taking their pussies for granted. Most men don’t understand that sluts require more phony paeans to their womanly virtue, such as it is, than do chaste girls. Sluts, despite their propensity to give it up sooner, need to know that the men they jump into bed with don’t view their vaginas as 24 hour convenience stores. It is one of the funnier ironies of the universe, and it is what gives rise to the ludicrous sight of Samantha clones indignantly chastising their fly by night lovers for ignoring their emotional female needs.

So if you want to bang a slut more than once, it pays to pretend like you don’t want to bang her. Don’t worry, her pussy won’t hear you.

ME: guess u’ll need all that time to recuperate :p

More forced sexual innuendo. More manboy syntax. More emoticons. The pussy lips are folding in like a clam under attack.

AMY: Haha. No. Jen just told me how much they were making fun of u. I can’t imagine whats so funny about banging a hot chick 3 days straight, but whatever

When a girl mentions her sluttiness, like Amy is doing here, what you are actually hearing is the squeak of her hamster slowly realizing she slept with a beta, and the little bugger is now angling for the confirming blurt of gratitude from the beta who got lucky. Also, calling herself a hot chick is a dead giveaway that her ego is helium filled, and needs the pinprick of a few missile strike negs. FF did not supply those negs.

ME: two people with mutual friends meeting and then having sex the next 3 nights and mornings is always fun gossip for friends

Still dancing to her frame. How does he change the frame and reverse the polarity? Like this: “Hey, they’re your friends.” Even better: “Hot?”

ME: I dont care I like the whole situation. I loved those big perky boobs, firm butt, picture perfect pussy, and cute face…what more could a guy ask for

A little mystery? Now that she knows exactly how much her pussy captivated you for those three days, what fun is there for her in this? Again, note the two texts to her one. And so wordy! Somebody call an amber lamps. This guy is bleeding out alpha capital. Advice: Save the sex talk for face-to-face, preferably *right after actual sex*. You sound like a needy, and slightly creepy, chump here. “Picture perfect”? Painful.

HER: Haha. Well when you put it like that!

Ok, she gives him what he thinks is a positive reply to his bawdy wooing, (but which is in actuality the type of non-flirty verbal ejaculation you would hear from a woman who is temporarily stunned into disbelief by an egregious display of betatude). And of course, like a happy little puppy, he humps her leg:

ME: Seriously tho! ur pussy rocks! I feel all warm inside thinking of that thing up in my face (among other places) 😀

The nail in the coffin. What aphorism comes to mind?… oh yeah, don’t count your boobies before they hatch. Or: past performance is no guarantee of future results.

“Seriously tho! ur pussy rocks!” might be the greatest game-killing line ever uttered in history. What makes it so great is that in the right context, it could double as a *most excellent* alpha neg, akin to “bring the movies“. What’s the right context? Like perhaps in the glow of post-coital bliss. Or the next morning, sent like a dangling modifier minus the emoticon, and no other texts afterward no matter how she replied. Had FF done that I bet he would be enjoying another three day bangout with Amy.

FF thought that three days of sex would imply a margin of error to fuck up any follow through game. But most girls in this day and age who aren’t virgins are not locked down by a weekend of sex. Simple penetration won’t cut it anymore to win the hearts of our current crop of aggrohos. Now if FF had had three *months* of sex with Amy plus one morning of her staring at him with concern in her big, limpid eyes fretting that she wishes FF would say more pillow talk so that she knows he feels as much for her as she does for him…

THEN he’d be riding a margin for error so wide he could fart in his cupped hand and share the gas of love with her.

Come to think of it, cupping farts and assaulting a girlfriend’s nose with the captured effluvium is not really beta, is it? No, no it isn’t.

FF’s text “game” should serve as a good example of how badly direct game can fail when wielded clumsily, or in the wrong context. Moral of the story: Sex is no substitute for game, especially when dealing with sluts for whom sex is as consequential as taking a dump.

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Reader writes:

This kid just put it up as his facebook picture for the world to share in disgust.  Who took this picture? His coonty girlfriend who is about a 4.5.  This kid in college was the definition of beta, a perpetual LJBF victim who seemed to relish in it. Merry Christmas man.

I understand there is a tiny minority of men who have a cuckold fetish. In the same vein, there are probably self-pity whores out there in circulation who wallow in their failure with women. We all know that one supreme beta who gleefully recounts in lurid detail his endless fuckups with women. He is a veritable self-deprecation machine. It is as if in the telling of his miserable tales he will find redemption and the holy cosmic karma will look kindly upon him soon with a bounty of plain jane pussy.

A Facebook Christmas photo is the internet equivalent of mailing a Christmas photo postcard to friends and family. Some people still do it the old-fashioned way. Christmas photo postcards are a window into the soul of the sender. You’d be surprised how cavalierly people reveal their inner torments when they’re mailing out Christmas photo postcards to friends. Singles will pose as… singles with ridiculously forced smiles and a pet dressed in royal garb. Married couples with kids will pose as… married couples with premature wrinkling who stopped having sex five years ago. And fun-loving unmarried couples without kids will not send a card at all. (But when they do, they send Dos Equis.)

There is a holiday card hierarchy, and it goes like this:

  • Not sending a Christmas card of any sort — alpha
  • Sending a parody of a Christmas photo postcard with you and your lover dressed in gaudy reindeer sweaters as you steady a ladder while she puts the star on the tree, and you are looking up her dress with a huge shit-eating grin on your face. Underneath the photo are the words “Nice beaver!” — alpha+
  • Sending a Christmas photo postcard of you and your girlfriend/wife — beta
  • Sending a Christmas photo postcard of you alone — lesser beta
  • Sending a Christmas photo postcard of you alone with your cat — greater omega
  • Sending a Christmas photo postcard of you alone with your cat that you have dressed in a Santa hat and beard — hard omega
  • Sending a Christmas photo postcard of you alone with your cat that you have dressed in a Santa hat and beard and the cat looks like he wants to LJBFB (Let’s Just Be Feeding Buddies) you — WAYSA?

I really hope none of my readers sent a non-jokey Christmas photo postcard to anyone this year. This blog has standards, people.

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The Player Vibe

Reader Walawala asks:

[H]ow do you deal with chicks that suddenly start viewing [my newfound] self-confidence as being a player. “I’ll bet you have tons of girl friends…” etc..

Yes, these are shit tests, I get that, and can deal. But my problem lately has been chicks that get so attached after I bang them, they break up because they fear “it won’t go anywhere and you have lots of girlfriends”…even though quite honestly I don’t. I’m just confident.

This is a common complaint from men who are starting to see results with game. The answer is to focus on the basics. Forget tricky routines or clever quips or nuclear negs. You would be missing the forest for the trees. The specific reply to this type of shit test isn’t important; what matters is the big picture. As long as you recognize the forces at work in the woman’s mind, the answer you give will be good, regardless of the exact wording you use.

So what do you need to know? Really, just one thing. You need to refrain from playing into the woman’s frame. When a chick says “I’ll bet you’re a player” or some similar variation thereof, she expects you to feel shame, and then to backpedal, apologize, act humbled, or otherwise be a magnificent beta seeking her approval. Are you a beta? Because this is what goes through every beta’s mind, (AKA the twitchy guinea pig, if you will, because women are always using them as test subjects), and in this order:

This chick is hot.
She just said she bets I have a ton of girlfriends.
That’s good, right?
Again, this chick is hot.
I better not say anything to piss her off or ruin this magic moment we’re sharing.
Since chicks don’t like womanizers, I will deny being one.
I hope she is impressed by my answer.
Sex, maybe?

And just like that, you are dancing to her tune. No sex for you!

Now put yourself into the shoes of an alpha. This is what goes through his mind when a girl asks him the same:

This chick is hot.
Is she giving me shit already?
Typical hot bitch.
I’m gonna fuck with her.
Too easy.

Once you have identified the trap and have committed to sidestepping it, the right reply will come to you naturally.

“Yes, my harem is huge. Each girl has a specific job to do. How’d you like to be my grape-feeder?”

The above reply is an example of agree and amplify. It isn’t the only way to answer shit tests, but it is a proven successful technique. There are other, equally good tactics, for dealing with Venus Vajtraps. The specific tactic you use will depend on your personality and the comfort you feel using it. The point is that as long as you recognize framing and have the confidence to avoid approval-seeking behavior, executing a precise alpha counterattack won’t be something you have to struggle to find the right words to convey. A solidly grounded “I am the prize” mentality and a sharp awareness of female filtering mechanisms will make the job of finding the right thing to say much easier.

In Walawala’s specific case, girls he has been banging for a while are preemptively bolting because they tell themselves he is a player who won’t commit. Again, the worst thing Walawala could do would be to try to allay their fears. That’s throwing chum in the water as hungry sharks circle.

His problem isn’t that girls think he is a player. That’s just their hamster squeaking. I have never known a girl to break up with a man because she convinced herself he must be good with women. She may bitch and moan (usually facetiously), but she won’t actually walk away from such a man. Particularly if she is hot.

There are exceptions. Less attractive girls sometimes find the will to walk away from high value men because they subconsciously calculate that his slew of options with hotter girls mean there is no future with him. So perhaps Walawala is slumming it.

Another reason why girls may leave when things are going well is if the man is telling girls about his multiple girlfriends after a few months together, when such surprising news could precipitate a breakup. Walawala says that isn’t the case with him.

Barring those exceptions, his LTR issue with girls isn’t the player vibe, but, more likely, not enough vulnerability game. If he wants these spooked girls to stick around, then he’ll have to soften the aloof edges of his alpha game. This isn’t to say he should jettison the supreme confidence that got him the bangs; it is only to suggest that he needs to show more signs — however shallow — of commitment. Men who sleep around often forget that women possess a duality of heart. They lust for those romantic gestures of fealty almost as much as the alpha strut of independence. It can come as a shock to stone cold players when girlfriends suddenly scoot after the three month mark because they came to the sensible conclusion — from their genes’ point of view — that the alpha stud they luv would make a better short term sperm contributor than a long term backrub servant.

One other point: It has been my observation that sometimes, when women cry “player!”, what they are really saying is “beta!”. If there are unsatisfying aspects of your personality or attitude that she doesn’t like, she will be prone to using the more socially acceptable excuse of “player unwilling to commit” to rationalize her loss of feeling for you and subsequent dumping. Many women are loathe to admit, whether to others or to themselves, that they are leaving a man because he became too chumpy, beta, easy-to-please, predictable, unchallenging, weak, unambitious, sexually tepid, or even overly committed. They’d rather sugarcoat the real reasons so they can sleep at night, assured that their peers won’t kick them out into the icy wastelands for being a grade A bitch.

Do not underestimate just how incapable women are of directly acknowledging the ancient forces that drive their ids. Here, as in so many other matters related to sociosexuality and psychological motivation, men and women diverge markedly.

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Between the time when the suffragettes subverted America and the rise of the dykes of feminism, there was an age undreamed of. And unto this, Arjuna, destined to bear the jeweled crown of Beta Overlord upon a pansy brow. It is I, his chronicler, who alone can tell thee of his saga. Let me tell you of the days of great emasculation…

The Beta of the Year contest is over, but the disease that atrophies the balls of the gender formerly known as men continues plaguing large swaths of modern manhood. If anything, the mass sack shrinkage has reached epic proportions. As soon as I read the title of this Huffpost piece — The Art of Worshiping Women — I knew I was about to be treated to a particularly appalling case of pedestalisus dwindling testicularisis.

Meet Arjuna Ardagh, a self-declared “awakening coach, writer, teacher and public speaker”. A few choice bits of his relationship advice follow. If you had to imagine what the polar opposite of the advice given on this blog would look like, he’s your… “man”.

I’d been out for a walk with Chameli, my wife, one evening. Overwhelmed with the feeling that it just couldn’t get any better than this, I popped a little update on Facebook in celebration of the goddess I’m married to.

Try to control your puke reflex, because it only gets worse from here. As if it needed to be noted, calling a woman a “goddess” is bad game. It’s best to think of obsequious flattery like this in terms of the handicap principle. Abject betaness can be, paradoxically, an indicator of alphaness, if you are high status in some way, or the woman of your cloying cheesiness already loves you. Arjuna Ardagh sells books full of new age claptrap, and speaks to rapt audiences hanging on his every word, and so he has cashed in his high social and presumably financial status for a non-ugly wife, despite his counterproductive relationship advice. And let’s not forget that there is a conspicuous minority of dippy hippie chicks that lap up this holistic chakra new age bullshit. Framing — something Arjuna would be familiar with but will never admit to using in his personal dealings with women — is apposite. You can safely call a woman a goddess if it is wrapped and bowtied in a shitstorm of goofy mysticism.

It reflected on the wisdom of being in worship of the feminine. Not just get along with, or tolerate, or befriend, or cooperate with. Yes, I said what I meant: to worship the feminine.

Worshiping women is the fast track to involuntary celibacy. Women are, on average, biologically higher value than men, so worshiping them will only exacerbate an already skewed value perception and violate their hypergamous impulse. This is why concepts like negs and qualification are so successful; they strip women of their inborn royal decree and raise the value of the man using them.

Anyway, alphas don’t worship. They admire. There’s a difference.

Whether [Romeo and Juliet] liked it or not, they were carrying the inheritance of a conflict that they had each done nothing personally to create.

The same thing would be true today if an Israeli fell in love with a Palestinian, or if a Tea Party member fell in love with a Muslim, or if a Roman Catholic from Dublin fell in love with a Protestant from Belfast.

One of these comparisons is not like the others.

None of these meetings happen in a bubble. They all sit within the context of conflicts that have been generated in the collective. This same is true whenever a man enters into relationship with a woman. Of course, the man himself has likely never raped anybody, or burned any woman as a witch, or denied anyone the right to vote, or forced a woman to hide her face, or barred her from religious or political office, or forced her to perform subservient chores. “No, no,” such a man might say, “I’m a conscious man. I’m respectful of the feminine. I’m fully supportive that you do your thing.” Whether he likes it or not, that man still carries within himself the echoes of the collective masculine and, like it or not, every woman is an incarnation of the collective feminine.

Ah, the age old “sins of the father” tripe. Nevermind that his list of masculine “sins” never really happened the way he says, or in the numbers he believes. Nevermind too that woman have committed equally noxious sins against men that don’t get front page treatment because women tend to execute their evil without the razzle dazzle of physical violence. Cuckoldry, for instance, is a gross injustice against men that rivals serial raping in the evil sweepstakes.

The man carries on cleaning his gun and watching football, waiting for his woman to bring his dinner and his beer. The woman, still locked into millennia of enforced subservience, acquiesces, but bitter all the time, and holding back the treasures of her real love.

Lemme guess, an Obama voter? In the progressive mentality, men are forever perpetrators, women and minorities forever victims. Any other perspective would be… cognitively dissonant.

He distances himself as far as possible from the brutish behavior of his father and his ancestors and bows sheepishly to the newly emerged feminine power. The woman, now rebounding in resentment of how her mother and ancestors have been treated, becomes dominating. She becomes militant, unforgiving, and even castrating. The sad thing is, no one really enjoys this game either.

This is the Iron John bone that slimy creeps like Arjuna throw to their male readers. Don’t be fooled. Those bongo drums in the woods and guttural chants aren’t going to get you laid.

We discover that masculine and feminine are energies, not just biological genders. Every man has some masculine and some feminine energy and so does every woman. The balance we seek is not only between men and women but between the masculine and feminine energy, which are to be found everywhere in life.

What he’s talking about here is vulnerability game. But you must first demonstrate masculine alphaness — either through “leader of men” social status and domination or through “sexy lover” aloofness and cockiness — before you can move to the stage of seduction where she is open to hearing about your feminine side. It should also be noted that this “masculine/feminine energy dichotomy” that books like “Way of the Superior Man” have popularized is a bit of sloppy BS. Couples in sexually polarized relationships are the most successful — and often the most physically beautiful — that we see in the state of nature. Women aren’t drawn to sensitive men; they are drawn to masculine men who display traditionally feminine virtues, such as nurturing and emotional closeness, in a distinctly masculine form.

The feminine way is neither inferior (as we had deemed it for thousands of years) nor is it superior (as some have claimed in the last decades), but it is different. Through a synergy of masculine and feminine strengths, we find the emergence of a whole that is far, far, far greater and the sum of it to individual parts.

Nah, fuck that wishy-washy noise. The feminine way is inferior at building and maintaining civilization. It’s superior at raising brats to weaning age.

The restoration of dignity to the feminine has happened in three stages over the last century. The first took place less than 100 years ago with suffragettes demanding the right to vote. At that time men moved from denial and ridicule, to violent opposition, to acquiescence and finally to support.

And soon, back to global financial and demographic crisis.

The next wave came in the 1970s when women stepped forward to fully participate in the world man had created on his own terms. Margaret Thatcher and Indira Gandhi became heads of state (both in a woman’s body but doing things in a very masculine way). Women became judges and politicians and engineers and doctors and lawyers and ministers and construction workers, all roles that had previously been mainly reserved for men. Again, men’s response began with ridicule in the ’50s and shifted to acquiescence and then awkward support.

Actually, women mostly became PR flacks, HR drones, and bitter single moms. Most engineers, doctors, pols and construction workers are still men. Not sure about the gender balance of lawyers, but just look at the decay that occupation is in. Didn’t Carly Fiorina run HP into the ground?

The third wave of the restoration of feminine dignity has really happened in the last few years. It is sometimes called “The Goddess Movement.” We are, all of us, recognizing that there is a feminine way of doing things just as valid as the masculine. Women are realizing that they don’t have to compete or even participate in the world that man has created on his terms. We realize that there is a feminine expression to spirituality, a feminine expression to ecology, a feminine expression to leadership, and each has a huge gift to offer.

National decline?

Women have been disenfranchised for thousands of years.

Maxim #198: Use of the word “disenfranchised” or other similar nomenclature of deconstructivist post-modern pablum automatically discredits an argument for serious consideration.

Feminine energy has been given very little respect, and we have all lost out as a result. Even if you’ve never disrespected the feminine yourself, the first step is still to say “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what we have done. I’m sorry for what my gender has done. And I come to you with a fresh start.”

“Please accept my application for position of eunuch beta orbiter to you and your girlfriends.”

This is not the stance of shame, but of honesty and self-respect. Please take our words for it, and that of thousands of our colleagues and students: women love to hear this being acknowledged.

What women claim to love to hear and what women actually love to hear from the men they are fucking are often, if not always, at complete opposites.

The second shift that today’s man can make is to fully experience and release the hurts that he has experienced in his relationship to women. It is those very hurts, both personally and collectively, that cause men to dishonor women, if they remain banished out of awareness.

Pussy stubble chafes my shaft. End the hurt ladies. Wax that shit.

The third shift is for man to recognize how much he really loves feminine energy: how much he loves her beauty, her capacity to love, her laughter, her freedom to feel and express emotion. In some senses, she brings vivid color to his world, which can easily become black and white.

All right, this is obviously true. But appreciating and loving feminine energy doesn’t mean you have to act or think like a self-flagellating dweeb with undescended testes.

Man can discover, and then learn to worship, the feminine face of the divine. People sometimes object when Gay and I use the word “worship.” They hear the hierarchy of a subservient relationship.

Paging Robin Hanson’s forager theory. So many self-flattering “progressives” cream their panties at the thought of returning the US to some imaginary edenic past where non-hierarchical foragers with their promiscuous, communal lifestyles free of jealousy, violence and sexual competition rule the day. Be careful what you wish for.

We use the word “worship” in a completely different way, one we found in our dictionary as: “to pay extravagant respect and admiration.”

Maybe menopausal middle-aged women with desiccated pussies like to be extravagantly respected and admired by their high status husbands who could step out with younger mistresses at any time, but a guy who pulls that weak shit on a hot babe in the prime of her fertility can expect a lifetime of aching involuntary celibacy. Even the underarm hair chicks won’t grease up for a blubbery Eastern mystic sycophant if he isn’t leading seminars of captivated audiences.

This kind of worship can easily be a two-way street. Gay and Kathlyn and Chameli and I endeavor to bring this quality of extreme respect and worship in both of our marriages, and it overflows into the rest of life.

Jesus Christ, they’re aging swingers. I’m sure the sex dungeon and vat of Viagra help compensate for their loss of desirability.

Arjuna Ardagh, congratulations! You are officially designated Supreme Universal ÜberBeta (SUUB). Your balls, and the balls of men who listen to you for relationship advice, are hereby tendered to Hillary Clinton where they will feel more at home.

Thank you, mewl again!

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Paying For Sex

Reader “Veterans Abroad” emailed:

The last bastion of feminist influence on the PUA community is the shaming conducted on men who would, now and then, pay an 18 year old freshman to lift her shirt.

For the love of all things unholy, you’ve got to start heavily slamming the metrosexuals who have a problem with that on your blog.

Its completely troll behavior and you know its mostly anonymous feminist lurkers with the addition of “males” not actually practicing game (or bitter about not having any money).

Evil Alpha recently said it right that its about keeping the price way down. Getting a 10 to strip for $5 is more alphathan getting her to strip for $20 and getting her to strip for free is most alpha of all, but not getting her to strip at all and never seeing her again is Gamma.

Here is an oldie but goodie Chateau post about paying for sex. It documents the lives of two very different men who ponied up hard cash for special services rendered.

To the reader, the long and short of it is:

If you pay for sex or sexual enticement (i.e., strippers and lap dances) because you can’t get any loving from women free of charge, you are a beta (or, more precisely, an omega).

If you pay for sex or sexual enticement even though you don’t have to, and because it’s a fun thing to do, you are *not necessarily* a beta or omega. In this case, your solicitation is value neutral.

The man who has a cute girlfriend but lives it up at his buddy’s bachelor party by throwing $20s at a hot stripper is not a sexual loser.

The man who has never had a girlfriend or dates only fatties and washed-up cougars, but pays strippers or whores to deliver him from his dreary, pleasureless existence, is a sexual loser.

There’s nothing more to be said on this matter.

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