Archive for the ‘Biomechanics is God’ Category

I know, you can easily tell Fake Dykes from Real Dykes by looking at them; the latter are usually fat blobs in overalls, the former septum-pierced coeds in short skirts. But there’s another giveaway: romantic canoodling.

Fake Furburglars giggle a lot while their hands reach between thighs and under shirts for the grabbing of the fleshly delights. They kiss a lot on the ears and neck (the lips seem to be a no-go zone) and get off doing it in public for the benefit of onlookers. They know it’s an experimental phase and they’re gonna live it up.

Real Rugmunchers don’t do any of that. They don’t make a public spectacle of themselves, their hands stay holstered (or wrapped in tender handholding), and they spend a lot of time sharing their concerns about the quality and direction of their relationship. You could mistake them for really close asexual friends if you were eavesdropping.

In short, real lesbians are mannish in almost every way except romantically, in which domain they are more like hetero women — yappity yap with not much snatchity snatch.

Likewise, gay homosexual men are womanish in almost every way except romantically, in which domain they are more like hetero men — jackity jack with not much yappity yap.

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The revolution will be atomized.

Here’s Le Chateau back in 2007 writing on sexbots and the existential threat they pose to the sexual market, and hence to civilization.

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Recently, I had a weird run-in with an ex-fling. First, some background: We had met years ago in a different city while simultaneously exiting a dingy caliph-themed cocktail bar bobbing with the greasy-haired heads of a swarm of swarths; I had then asked her if she was racing out as fast as I was to avoid the douchiness inside. In the time it took her to laugh, I soaked up her package: tall, lean, enticingly angular facial aesthetics, pert tits, ivory skin, ebony hair. The hunt was on.

Two hours later, I had escorted her to one of my public pleasure palaces (a shadowed sofa tucked in the recesses of a hookah bar swirling with mood-smoke) where we made out in between sensually blowing smoke rings. (Gentlemen, you should coax a woman to blow smoke rings whenever possible, because her form will give you a good idea of what she’ll look like when she’s gazing up at you during a blowjob.)

Cutting to the end-of-chase: She went back to my place with me. I unzipped her knee-high boots and stripped her woolly skirt off and caressed her inner thigh with a free hand (the other stuffing a ball gag in her mouth….I keed! or do I?). Gradually, my hand hopped her panty border and day-labored in the fields of her life-giving lips. I listened intently for the liquid smacking of vajlube peeling from vajflesh, and redirected my glistening hand to her freed left breast….whereupon an odor most foul drifted from drenched digitalis to my nose, triggering an olfaction reaction inescapably pronounced. I retched a little.

But the boner reflex is inversely proportional to the disgust reflex; a man with a rager will shawshank through a snapper sewer to bust outta priapism.

So I bore on. And bored on. Or that was the plan, until in the act of ripping off the last tattered shred of her industrial-grade panties my face swooped a little too near her crotch swamp, and the sting of fetid juices actually made my eyes water. Did she notice my fully throttled necksnap to the back? I figured she must have, but she made no indication thereof.

Hyenas are known to marinade their scavenged rotmeat in stagnant pools of sun-ripened toxic water; the matriarchal beasts prefer their sustenance falling off the bone in gangrenous ribbons, much like our current crop of Western women prefer the composition of their nations. But man is not clit-dicked hyena. Notwithstanding my insistent boner to the contrary, my frontal lobe — or perhaps the hindiest part of my hindbrain — overrode my crotchal zone and in a burst of creativity spurred by sensory stinkulation and desperation, I stopped my attack cold and summoned a semi-quasi-pseudo-rationale for why she must politely leave and oh yes I would certainly call her soon and we’ll get together again the next time we will make it count it’s just that I care for your opinion of me and your feelings and I’m a romantic that way trust me you’ll love that I’m not like all the other men…..

Ad fuckin nauseam, she quietly left, a cloud of worry and suspended disappointment encroaching on her pretty face as I closed the door behind her and set upon my bed sheets with a fury, dousing them in Oxyclean and paint thinner. Mid-winter, windows wide open! AHHHHHHH WINTER-CHAN CLEANSE THIS HOME!

So tragic, such a waste of an adorable face, but whaddaya gonna do? Stinky pussy is the deal killer. The boner imploder. The Darwinian dental dam. Unless the girl is a hard 10 and the man is a hard-up 10, a subatomic stink down below will wither any hard-on.

Fast-forward to the near-present: New, far away town, new day. I’m in a store. A woman in black enters behind me. She has orange-red hair and a youthful glow despite her almost translucent skin. Fishnet fuckme stockings carve the contours of her long legs. A fleeting familiarity sparks my mind. I look a bit longer at her; she notices, and reacts with the expected mix of consternation and curiosity. Could this be the same Stinky Pussy Girl from years ago, unbelievably standing right next to me a thousand miles from where we first primed our directives?

It couldn’t be. The hair, and the clear skin. If it was her, she was wearing a wig or had a pro coloring job, and she hadn’t aged a minute since our rendezvous…. our, if you’ll pardon the pun, kerfluffle. Our whiff of a tryst, a long-faded memory, suddenly wrenched to consciousness, as freshly manured as if it had occurred the day before down the block.

I shook off the thought. Then she walked toward the exit. That walk, endearingly clumsy and lopey….I couldn’t possibly forget that walk, no woman I have known walked like her. It was her.

None of this happened all that quickly; I had time to run her down and tell her I knew her from long ago, and possibly (probably!) try for another stab at her stankflaps. But as powerfully as the memory of her face and body and weird walk flooded my corticalleys, so too did her pussy stink. That smell memory — smellory — punched my gut as hard as any pungently hectoring specter could.

So I watched her walk off, dissipating into a street crowd. There you have it, ladies: an incredibly coincidental re-meeting, an opening for love created by divine intervention some would say, and the mere memory of stinky pussy shut the possibilities off a second time as strongly as they were shut off the first time when the stink was fragrantly real and aromatically macroaggressive.

On the way home, all I could wonder was what her kids, if she were to have any, would telegonically or frictionally acquire on their way out of her ill-fumed womb; if for instance the poor sprogs would squirt out in a pigpen-like shroud of green gas that followed them everywhere.

Virgins are prized by men all over the world. It’s a universal desire, so evolution must have a good reason for men to prefer untrammeled twat. Paternity certainty is one given reason; men can be confident the kid is theirs if the hymen blood of their women stains their dicks. But now I think it’s something more conspicuous; whether caused by accumulating cock notches or poor hygiene, a stinky pussy is a warning to men that there’s something off with the talking vessel incubating the spicy vaginey. A tangy clam is nature’s red flag that disease or immune system failure lurks labially and threatens the fitness of any posterity that you might deposit in her belly.

Some of you may ask, “CH, why didn’t you just let her give you a hummer?”

Dear deluded friends of the Chateau, pussy stank is the warmest of air; it’ll rise, right up to my face. I wouldn’t want to deflate in the woman’s mouth and have to bear the guilt of possibly driving her to suicide.

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There are myriad sex differences — physical, emotional, mental, temperamental, and psychological — that anyone of sane mind unblemished by equalist propaganda can observe permeating every aspect of daily life in which men and women interact. But maybe the most pervasive, immutable, and encompassing sex difference is…penmanship. Johnny Redux writes,

I always have found one very fascinating difference between males and females, which can only be explained by brain behavior – pretty much 90% of the time, you can tell the difference between male and female handwriting. That shows how the brain actually behaves and interprets things, when pen is put to paper. It covers all educational levels, and all professions. I am not concerned with primate writing, so I can only speak on what I have seen of my race.

So true, and the Chateau covered this topic a while ago in this post. Cursive summary: the more biologically and irretrievably feminine the woman (according to digit ratio and personality assessment), the more feminine the handwriting. The God of Biomechanics is a prankster who likes to mock our cherished moral aspirations with the flick of a pen.

So if you’re dating a girl who still owns a pen and writes her d’s and p’s with bloated, pregnant relish and tops her i’s with hearts, wife that bitch up.

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Bless her White Thrower heart (it’s in the right place), this girl shows what happens when women try to do a man’s job: Bigly kickback that knocks her small frame off-balance and sends the powered-up candlelight vigil shooting in every direction (hypothetically in the faces of friendlies).

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TV is now a feminist wish fulfillment wasteland, glorifying every White man-hating matrigenic dystopia, from single mommery to race mixing to willing cuckoldry. The latter’s insinuation into popular (read: single White female and gay homosexual) culture has been egregious; willing cuckolds are everywhere, satisfying the female desire for alpha fux and beta bux. There are shows that have blatantly pro-cuck plot lines in which a pregnant slut or single slut mommy has beta phagg suitors lining up to swear their loyalty to the bastard spawn, while the alpha cads that knocked these hos up are either nowhere found onscreen or they come and go continuing to service the sprog-saddled skanks with the least investment possible.

Harry Potter was perhaps the first major shitlib touchstone to vault willing cuckoldry into the wider culture as some kind of moral imperative; it was beta orbiter Snape, a man with the worst case of oneitis imaginable because he was in love with a dead woman who when alive wanted nothing to do with him, who vowed to look after Harry, (the child of his oneitis by another man Snape hated), out of a misplaced sense of loyalty and maybe hope for an afterlife consummation.

Literally “alpha fux and beta bux” from beyond the grave. What independent, empowered modern woman wouldn’t love that?

Jane the Gutter Slut and Girls (if you can believe it) are two more cuntocracy brainwashing pipelines that women love which feature major arcs involving willing cuckold beta males swooping in to relieve the main female characters from the encroaching burden of single momhood, no questions asked, no faux-father responsibilities abdicated. Women cheer, (non-pussified) men reach for vomit bags.

There’s a reason women cheer Cuck Nation. They know that good men, on a gut level that is impossible to sway with sophistic shaming appeals to the contrary, don’t want to raise the bastards of other men. No man wants to be duped into 18 years of servitude to a child that’s not his own. For the few men who walk into cuckoldry with eyes wide open, they never shake the resentment that ceaselessly thrums from knowing they willingly chose to be cuckolds for the chance at regular sex with a single mom.

Women cheer because the fantasy of the willing cuckold saving women from their big mistakes is a repudiation of the intractable laws of Biomechanics, laws which irk women and which they desperately want overturned when personally beneficial. It’s a form of Power Play over men and over Nature, allowing women the (brief) escape from a reality with uncaring rules they must abide if they want a shot at happiness. TV tells them, hey ladies, you can have that happiness without those cumbersome rules. Magic is real!

The male version of this escape from Darwinian dressage is the trope of the nebbishy omega male with a hot blonde shiksa, or nerds exacting revenge on their jock tormentors. Rarely happens outside TVland, unless you count supreme gentleman Eliot Rodger.

Cuck Nation is the acculturation and codification of cuckoldry, both the duped and voluntary versions. Voluntary cucking is in a way more loathsome than unwilling cuckoldry, because it’s harder to fathom the depth of depravity to which a man must have sunk if bartering his cuckoldry seems to him like the only way he can buy sex and love, and with damaged goods no less.

We can say then that Cuck Nation is nothing less than the total surrender of masculinity and any male prerogatives to runaway androgyny and sexual polarity-inverting feminism. It’s the metaphorical equivalent of lopping off a nation’s balls and importing a few foreign stud horses to do all the seeding. And the saddest facet of this DNA-denying degeneracy is that there are more than a few self-flagellating manginas who lap this shit up and hi-five bitterbitches under the false impression that this will earn them a pity handjob.

Reader chris writes,

You can take the feminist definition of “rape culture” and replace every instance of rape with the word cuckold and it will perfectly explain what their agenda is.

Cuckold culture is a concept that examines a culture in which cuckoldry is pervasive and normalized due to societal attitudes about gender and sexuality.

I also propose that the manosphere create a new term.


1) The promotion, advocacy, or support for an ideology of cuckoldry.
2) An ideology that seeks to enable, encourage, celebrate or normalise cuckoldry.
3) An ideology whose central organising premise is cuckoldry and its enabling.
4) Promotion of cuckoldry.

1) A person who believes in, advocates or supports cuckoldism.
2) A person who ascribes to an ideology of cuckoldism.

It will provide a conceptual rallying point for combating feminism, (or at least the parts of feminism that I believe many in the manosphere have a problem with). It will do for the manosphere what coining racism did for anti-racists or sexism did for feminists.

The cuckoldism portmanteau (cuckservative) vaulted the alt-Right to prominence because it was so effective at destroying GOPe credibility.

Then it’s just a matter of propagating emotionally reactive images of cuckoldry in practice and attaching it to that word.

i.e. http://www.reddit.com/r/relationship_advice/comments/mazxi/gf_pregnant_by_another_guy_after_wild_weekend_of/





And Boom! Pretty soon we can shut down any feminist in a debate by accusing her and her argument of being cuckoldist.

This agenda of cuckoldry is easily observed in #Gamergate:

Zoe Quinn cuckolded her boyfriend with 5 other men. He put her on blast for this and this pissed guys off as men don’t like cuckoldists. Then it took on a life of its own as being about ethics in gaming journalism.

But what has been the feminists’ response? To accuse the men of just wanting to slutshame Zoe Quinn. But just think of that for a moment, feminists oppose slut-shaming, by saying this event was about men trying to slut-shame Zoe Quinn they are extending the definition of slutshaming to women who cheat, to women who cuckold. By extending the definition out to such women feminists have made their agenda clear. Their agenda is cuckoldry and they will fight, agitate and advocate for the imposition of a culture that cuckolds men.

And the reason why the term cuckoldry so aptly encapsulates what the left/demoncrats/liberals/SJW’s/SWPL’s is doing to the right/Whites/heteronormative/traditional men and women is because cuckoldry is a form of parasitism, and the left/demoncrats/liberals/SJW’s/SWPL’s ARE trying to parasitise those on the right/Whites/heteronormative/traditional men and women.

A revised CH maxim comes to mind: The goal of feminism (and all anti-Whitism for that matter) is to remove all constraints on female sexuality/anti-White hatred while maximally restricting male sexuality/White prerogatives.

Less “this is my wife’s son”, more to the moon, Alice! please.

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I once dated a hot little minx who was the spitting image of this chick.

In a slinky dress and made up, she would turn heads. Beautiful face, curvy hourglass figure, long legs, pert tits. Men AND women would check her out (former with lust, latter with envy and curiosity and proxy attraction for the CH with her) when we were out together.

But there was a problem. She was an illusionist hottie. Back home, clothes off, her body betrayed a surprising patchwork of unsightly flaws; thigh and ass dimples, creeping cottage cheese, an incipient fupa, and blotchy skin tone (probably from a bad diet). Even in dimmed light, I could see that the road to vajhalla would be a bumpy one.

She didn’t lift weights, and tragically she was one of those girls who could have benefited immensely from weightlifting instead of counting steps on her ClitBit. She was the poster girl for yoga pants as the push-up bra for the booty.

None of her body flaws were deal breakers. But there was just enough taut-less terrain wildly out of sync with her after hours glamour that I could never make peace with the whole package. The world saw one woman; I saw another. Sure, I loved showing her off when out on the town, but my pride was tainted with insider knowledge of the grit beneath the glitz.

It got to be that near fling’s end, I was looking for excuses to leave post-date with the intention of avoiding sex with her. {ed: judge me harshly.} Once, I made a cuddle suggestion when she started heating up during foreplay. COSMIC POLARITY INVERTED.

This woman created the worst dickonance —

dickonance: an incongruous feeling caused when intense arousal for a fully clothed woman clashes with deflating desire for her disrobed form.

— in me I have ever had to compartmentalize. I loved going out with her and soaking up her beauty when she was dressed to the nines, but I was indifferent to sleeping with her afterward. It was never that bad, but the wickedly unfair juxtaposition was needling me to the edge of insanity — I felt like Nature was playing a cruel joke on me, robbing me of the one nonnegotiable pleasure of a hot woman’s love: her stimulating naked form. The wedge between us widened to a chasm of unspeakable provenance.

She never knew the real reason it ended. I supplied a plausible explanation for my receding ardor that required no recourse to the state of her maculation, an explanation which in fact made me out to be a very bad person but bad in an understandable OH GEE ANOTHER NONCOMMITTAL DOUCHEBAG way and not bad in an OH FUCK YOU ARE THE DEVIL INCARNATE way. A few female tears I can handle. A deluge of waterworks that wrack the body and shake the shoulders I prefer not to witness. Or, worse, she might lunge for the kitchen knives in a blind rage.

I had no intention of revealing the stark nature of my un-caged id. She didn’t merit any meanness, so I committed relationship seppuku.

When it ended, friends asked what the hell I was thinking. “She was a hottie! What the hell were you thinking?” was what they said. I lied that we had incompatible personalities. I doubt they bought it, (no one really buys it when a man claims a relationship ended because of personality issues), but I was not eager to sully her lady-honor by exposing the pocked underbelly of our separation. I expose it here, anonymously and obliquely, because I suppose I’m seeking absolution. To confront one’s superficiality is fun and games in abstraction-space, but not so fun in real life with real lovers and their real hearts on the line.

The duality of man is his endless struggle to embrace, and to reject, to free, and to tame, the animal of him.

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