Archive for the ‘Girls’ Category

If you are a proud cad of impeccable lust, you’ll amass a string of lovers over your life.

The number of conquests is less important than the ratio of the kinds of memories left in the wake of your snakequake.

A well-pounded man will have accumulated tiers of experiences with the lubricous sex.

The Nostalchicks

These are the girls for whom you will occasionally have pangs of nostalgia, and regret for what could have been but was foolishly discarded. Your heart will swell bittersweetly lingering over a photo from a bygone prom, or when a girl resembling your former lover struts across your view.

The Starlets

She took you on a wild ride. You recall the adventures together better than you remember her name. You never felt more alive, but you were never in love with her.

The Ones

Every man has “the one”, but only a few good men have “the ones”.

The Fillers

Names, faces, vaginas blur together in a memory miasma of fading masturbation fuel. It’s enough to know you had these girls; exact details and oddly nebulous feelings don’t matter. Some were flings, some were one night stands, some were girlfriends. You bid your time with them to avoid solitude, to feel a part of the slipstream of normiedom, to have something to do, and to enjoy until someone better came along. Their role in hindsight was to feed your tumescent….ego. You don’t regret a single one of your nights (or daytime hikes) with them, but you may be surprised how little color you retain of those limbically locked scenes.

The Lessons Learned

You should have bedded a femme fatale or ten. She was wicked, manipulative, cold as ice, and impossible to pin down. She made a beta of you, and you never forgot it. Lesson learned.

The Sex Machines

When you came with her it felt as if a bolt of electricity zapped a region of your brain somewhere behind the eyes and below the frontal cortex. She fucked like it was her destiny to fuck, and loved no one, not even herself. You used her with delight, and hoped the dopamine hits would never stop cumming, but you knew they would one day. And when the intimacy stopped, you left lighter of spirit, ready for your next quest, not looking back. She had her purpose, and that was not to be any man’s muse.

The Forgettable Fraction

Here go the assortment of flings that you would not have missed if they never happened, but which in the aggregate give a minor boost to your self-image: the garbage hour pickups, the crazy chicks, the unhygienic ho-bags, the desperately lonely, the cutters, the broken industry girls, the chubster on the cusp of desirability, the plain jane with a hot bod who liked to snort bumps and cry herself to sleep at night in lovelorn despair, the unfulfilled housewife, the drunken 2am grope-girls whose faces are blank sheets but who leave tiny morsels of memory which flit into your consciousness now and again…the color of a tuft of pubes dangling like ivy over a glistening labia illuminated by moonlight shards through a bay window, the sudden warm smile following your effort to straighten the hat on her head, a delicate hand guiding yours to a musty place, a poem she wrote and recited cloyingly as testament of her sincerity, the graceless flaunting of a taboo orifice offered with an awkwardly charming solicitation, fingertips peeling apart moist flaps in darkness as soft smacking noises betray urgency, the hot flush of cheeks as you descend on her from above…

Maybe not so forgettable after all, now that you think on it.

They didn’t make you a better man; they made you a fuller man.

The First

You remember almost nothing of her but that bright summer day you biked to her house and saw her sunning herself on the front lawn, reclined ass-up on a foldable lounge chair, shimmering silky bangs draped over her eyes which were engrossed in a book. She looked up, blew a bang out of one eye and smiled so big and joyously you could have died right there. Her teeth were the sun, her face a vision, her skin flawless….but that ass, round and firm and pert…it was a miracle of perfect mathematical form. And you won’t know until later, sometimes much later when wisdom has carved your idealism into a workable shape, that The First was also The Last. It will never be like that again, cruel cosmic law.

The ratio of each category of romantic conquest sealed in your memory, which I listed above, should, if you made the most of your womanizing time on this earth, break out as follows:

The Nostalchicks — 20%
The Starlets — 5%
The Ones — 5%
The Fillers — 20%
The Lessons Learned — 10%
The Sex Machines — 10%
The Forgettable Fraction — 30%
The First — all of them and none of them

The key to a healthy repository of memories is to never stop adding to it.

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Angry Gamer, on the Jeff Bozo cringe-fest,

Of course Jeff B is a Beta. Compare him to Trump or Ellison and you will get the full picture.

And of course the Dirty Sanchez opened Jeff up. I would not be a bit surprised if she wore him down in a concerted effort to get her puffy lips around his modestly sized personal Kindle.

Skittles Man is the perfect model of how men should treat women.

Casual gifts that mean nothing are fawned over. Multi thousand dollar rings are looked at contemptuously.

I really think that women have an out of range mental reset built in their hindbrains. You trip it by doing something at the extremes. Give her a Pony she will go gaga. Give her a 10 cent piece of candy “you personally picked out at the Mart” she goes gaga.

This kind of mechanism is the only way to explain Skittles man and Doubling Down. Women are idiot boxes to out of the norm behaviors.

A half-assed cheap gift wrenched from an emotionally distant heart: women swoon.

Thousands of dollars in expensive gift jewelry: women can barely conceal their contempt.

Women’s love doesn’t have to be expensive unless you insist on it.

Then it will get very expensive for you.

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A lot of these pozzed anti-White man ads such as the recent Gillette commercial are targeted at women. White women are the primary buyers of the crap that Poz, Inc sells, so if you want to boycott pozzed companies you have to enlist your gf, wife, mistress to participate in the boycott. I hope your frame is rock solid and your ZFG unshakeable, because the salvation of the West depends on it.

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Vixen signaling.

She looks like she has enough experience to know.

Trevor Goodchild provides the capstone,

This is the ideal Clownworld female. You may not like it, but this is what peak hypergamy and lack of social feedback loops looks like.

Remember the CH post about men experiencing better sex with hotter women? ANALogously, women experience better sex with more inconsiderate men. This isn’t a looks thing for women. A handsome niceguy won’t rock her womb like a beat-up jerkboy will. The Aloof Asshole Attitude is the special romantic ingredient that adds heat to a girl’s pink pleat.

Gently make love to the typical Americunt? Get outta here with that softbore coring. Toss her around like a rag doll and slap her face with your dick? Now you’re cooking with fash!

PS That thing to the t-shirt girl’s right? I bet it calls its dog “ruth bader ginsbark”.


Segueing the topic of this post to Game, Bdog comments,

I heard that exact phrase from a girl I met at a hostel last night (maybe it’s a meme? I wouldn’t know).

Here’s how it happened:

Halfway through the pickup she called me an asshole. I agreed and pointed to an omega guy nearby and said I would introduce her to the dude, since I’m an asshole and he looked super nice.

That’s when she said: ‘Yeah but nice guys cant fuck.’

No need to say what happened later that night.

Btw I 100% recommend offering to hook your target with another guy during pickup – it’s an incredibly powerful attraction spike.

Co-sign. This is a great reframe when a girl INDIGNANTLY *wink wink* calls you an asshole: Agree & Alternative.

SMASHER OF THOTPUSSY: “Yup, I’m an asshole. But that [omega male] over there looks nice. Right up your alley. I’ll introduce you to him.”

GIRL: “Wew, I’m sliding off my seat!”


From commenter sartaglo,

The shirt is available in XXL, for those with massive cognitive dissonance.

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This girl’s ex-boyfriend walked into the club with a new girl on his arm. She sees him. Her expression is priceless. (Commenter: “That is the face of someone who suddenly wants to go home”)

There are three great looks on a woman:

When she’s gazing up at you with her mouth stuffed full of your ocasio-cockas.

When her eyes dance the first moment she falls in love with you.

When her heart sinks at the sight of you with another woman, and her duckface retracts to a slack grimace.

If you cause any of these looks in a woman, you will feel like a KING. Strive to complete the trifecta.

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A few readers suggested it was time for another female beauty ranking contest. I agree. In these Ugly times, we need all the moments of Beauty we can get.

The same rules apply as in earlier Female Beauty Ranking posts:

…rank order the ten photos below, assigning a number between 1 and 10 inclusive for each photo. DO NOT USE A NUMBER MORE THAN ONCE. The photos are in no particular order. [Pics were chosen that] represent a woman at each point on the 1 to 10 beauty scale.

The best way to do this without biasing your ratings is to first look at all the photos before ranking them. Then go back and judge like a god. The idea behind this rather pleasurable exercise is to demonstrate the conformity of men’s attractiveness standards…


I also predict, as before in the first female ranking exercise, that the most disagreement will occur in the middle rankings — 4,5,6 — where a woman’s looks tend to blend in with the masses of other women along the fat part of the bell curve, and at the very upper end where great battles will be fought to decide who is the 10.

I’ve avoided posting pics of grossly obese or very old women, because fat and age obscure any natural facial beauty. For the most part, obese women and old women are zeroes on the female SMV scale.


Girl Next Door ranking:

PS This entire post is an Easter egg of sorts.


The Easter Eggs, in order from top to bottom:

A young Melania Trump
Alexandria Of-Color
Nancy Pelosi’s daughter
Yuki the sexbot
Masha Gessen
David Hogg (lightly airbrushed)
Allison Mack (head groomer for Nvxium sex cult leader Raniere)
Rebecca Reid (new media feminist and distantly former model)
Elke Sommer (Swede, and first name of the very first girl who made me feel all funny inside)
Stephanie something yada yada (just another dumbshit feminist)
Mollie Tibbetts (sacrificed to the Diversity God)

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Hackett To Bits pithily reveals a behavioral tic that indicates a woman is deeply, truly in love with a man.

Geez check out bikini chick Tatiana and her letter. Talk about trying to qualify herself to a dominant man, every sentence she writes is an apology for possibly boring him.
Let that be a reminder: never be deferential and never apologize.

Do hot chicks dig murderous jerks? You bet!

You slave and struggle to earn a keep
Give roses and vows and profess love so deep
But rarely a night do you share your sleep
with a woman who isn’t a 20 stone heap
While murderers bask in the lust of lithe sexy babes
and no effort spent to earn their unfolding labes
It all comes back to a question you evade
“What if all I am is a sexless chump to raid?”

Now let’s look at those love letters from Tatiana:

Women have a lot of compassion for murderers….yet so little compassion for betaboy incels. Funny, that.

Hackett To Bits is right. That letter from Tatiana to the killer “only she can understand” reads like a long form apologia for being a lovestruck woman intruding in an alpha male’s safe space. I mean, this line alone…

“If you’ve gotten this far without throwing my letter in the trash – thank you

…reads like a woman scared to death that her 20-year marriage to the man she loves is on the brink of ending. Except this is a posture of supplication from a woman to a complete stranger who just happens to be in jail for murdering his pregnant wife and two daughters.

She underlined “thank you” to emphasize her gratitude that a murderer had read that far.

When was the last time a doting, supportive, beta male feminist received a letter with anything underlined in it that didn’t say “STOP CALLING ME”?


It’s what’s been missing for so long in America, and particularly from American women.

Make Amerimuffs Grateful Again.

“You to tears yet? That was my goal! Kidding, of course.”

She’s so afraid to lose his interest and approval. Would she ever be this afraid to lose the interest and approval of a law-abiding beta male?


She was so nervous her joke would fall flat that she promptly clarified for him that it was a joke.

“(I would love to tell you more about me. I’m extremely lonely and can use a friend)”

Again, have you ever heard a woman talk like this to a reliable, law-abiding, salt-of-the-earth man? She’s throwing herself at a murderer, begging for his attention. She YEARNS for his friendship *wink wink*. The non-murderous man, at best will hear a, “I can’t do Thursday, but get back to me next week and we’ll see”.

“My brother was incarcerated for a long while.”

The genetic matrix here is fascinating. Are the genes which predispose to criminal men the same genes which, in females, predispose to loving criminal men?

“I hope I’ve put a smile on your face.”

I hope I haven’t bored you.
I hope you’re still reading.
I hope you will be my friend.
I hope I can send you more half naked pics of myself.
I hope you like me.
I hope you will fill my belly with your psychopath champions.

What the typical beta male in her life hears instead:

“I hope you don’t think I see you that way.”

“Please know that there are strangers out there (like me) who care about you.”

Incels would love to know there are random hotties who care about them, too, but they aren’t very lovable. They need more blood notches on their belt before random hotties will care about them. Killer preselection.

Hackett To Bits is spot on. This love note is a woman ENDLESSLY QUALIFYING HERSELF to a dominant man with whom she has fallen in love.

Self-qualification — or supplication — is the number one sign that a woman is deeply, truly in love with a man.

If a woman’s words to you are the equivalent of “I AM NOT WORTHY”, then she is your lovething to do with as you please.

Every angle of your Game should be directed toward provoking self-qualification from a girl, because once she’s in that psychological head space she’ll subconsciously imbue you with much higher romantic value than you would have as just another man who wants to get in her panties.

The corollary to this, as Hackett wrote, is never qualify yourself to a girl. Never defer to her, never apologize for yourself, never get defensive when she presses your buttons, and never try too hard to impress her.

The simple act of NOT being a supplicating man pushes a girl into the role of the supplicating suitor. Script flipping is essentially turning the usual seduction dynamic — qualifying man, judging woman — on its head: qualifying woman, judging man. This is the way of the desirable man.

It’s interesting peering into the soul of a woman in love. You readily observe that such a woman sounds and acts EXACTLY like a run-of-the-mill beta male. That’s not an accident. Love for an alpha male confuses and intimidates women the same way that lust for a hottie confuses and intimidates beta males.

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