Archive for the ‘Girls’ Category

Camel Cock comments,

*** Submission for comment of the week ***

Good show, kid, but ya came up short. This week’s COTW has already been awarded (details soon). Dry your eyes, though, because you submitted excellent Game-related content.

If you are half-way good with girls and live in a smaller city you will eventually run into the same ones especially when you are out on dates. Some girls will wave, some will come up to you and your date and say Hi, and the trully daring will even come up and give you a hug.

The girls (on your date rotation) who hug you when you’re out on another date are the ones who want to fuck you, but only if they can feel like they’re besting another girl to get to your pole position. Prepare for a lifetime of Dread Game if you decide to LTR one of those bitches.

Almost every girl I’ve gone out with has asked “Who was that?” or “Who is that?” The hotter the girl, the quicker my date asks about her.

Of course. This is classic female preselection. Girls judge men by the number and quality of women who keep his company. This is because girls can’t get most of the mate value information they need about a man just by looking at him, so they use a short cut: if other girls like him, he must be hsmv.

Before I used to be vague and say “a friend” “drinking buddy” or “just some girl” but I’ve been inspired by CH’s recent tingle generation talk and a few weeks ago when I was feeling especially zfg I responded, “Your competition.”


I’ve tested this on a few girls and it’s tingle dynamite! It’s mostly in the delivery. When they ask about the other girl. I turn my head slowly, I look them in the eye and with a jerkboy smirk I say “Your competition.”

I believe the reason it’s so great is bc your dating asking you about the other girls is a shit test and most guys justify or play down the other girl…not what a true jerkyboy does.

There is a way to provoke the same effect in your girl without explicitly revealing your game plan. In fact, I’d argue that feigned dismissiveness can be a more powerful intoxicant on the female hamster than can pulling back the curtain and announcing her place in the pecking order. For instance,

HER: who was that?


Leave it hanging right there, and she’ll be spinning her wheel for days wondering what your deal is (aka whether you have a harem), which means she will only find satisfying resolution in sex.

But there is a class of girls for whom a stone cold stunner like “Your competition” will work wonders. These are the kinds of girls who need bold, unmistakable displays of drama to begin lubing up for Act 2.

Oh and if u get shit tested, your delivery or eye contact was off. Most of the times I’ve said it girls get those anime eyes and their jaw drops. They can’t believe u just dropped such a massive tingle bomb. Some trash talk and qualify themselves and try to justify why they are better.

A girl in the defensive crouch is a girl with a torrential pouch.

One caveat, make sure the girl saying hi is slightly more attractive or at least on par with date girl.

True dat. If a fatty comes over to say hi, acting like she’s one of your plates, heisman that hambeast with the quickness.

HER: who was that?

THE WOOD OF WOMP: one of my obsessive admirers. poor girl. so sad.

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It’s no mystery who among Whites supports open borders and the consequent swamping of America with Swarth World spindrift: Single White Women.

As I teased in the previous post, here I’ll explain why Single White Women (SWWs) are in love with the idea of a borderless America that is overrun with Dirt World detritus. I call it the Shiny Object Theory of the SWW Open Borders Welcoming Committee.

My reasoning is simple: sexual selection electrifies all human interaction, and women have evolved to display themselves to catch the attention of high value men.

The fewer high value men there are, and/or the more attractive women there are, the more frequent and intense the sexual display of women. Supply and demand. So, for instance, when men are in short supply, as has been hypothesized was the situation for prehistorical European hunter-gatherers with high male attrition rates from hunting megafauna, the few surviving men are able to afford to be choosy, and they choose only the most beautiful of women from their tribes.

It’s speculated that this is how blonde and red hair, and blue and green eyes, evolved in European White women…a long time ago those choosy men had to be enticed with the biological equivalent of shiny baubles, so women evolved bright, eye-catching accoutrements like blonde hair, blue eyes, big titties, swayback, and exquisite White woman facial beauty.

White male choosiness gave the world White female beauty. God may have made man in His image, but White man made White woman in his vision.

Getting back to the subject of this post, if we start with the premise that the number of high value White Men has decreased relative to the number of Single White Women who want them — a premise which has sound footing, given the surge of economically self-sufficient White women and the retreat of White men from positions of power, influence, and cultural supremacy to languish in faptivity — then there would consequently develop an increase in sexual display by White women to more effectively bait HSMV White men into relationships (or at least into pump and dumps).

Subcultures would spring from this sexual market shift in female strategy, such as Slut Pride, Deep Thots, multicolored hair, skintight yoga pants showing camel toe, wine mommery, and the omnipresent social media attention whore.

One other negative externality would be apparent: SWWs agitating for more Twerk World trash, because nothing sparkles quite as brightly as a diamond in the dirt.

Sweden is overflowing with pretty blondes, so any one blonde doesn’t stand out much (which is probably why the brunette hair color was evolutionarily retained in European White women). Similarly, America was once 90% White (a mere fifty years ago), but its homogeneity and pride of heritage also meant there were a lot of relatively hsmv White men to go around. Back then, SWWs didn’t have to viciously compete for a shrinking pool of hsmv White men.

Today, they do, and these SWWs competing for fewer hsmv White men see open borders as a short cut to standing out in a rapidly muddying crowd. That mousy, stringy-haired sandy blonde plain jane with the muffin top might not be a catch in 90% White America, but she’s a fucking princess bathed in ethereal light in 40% Earth Tone America.

The contrast of hordes of (to White men not named ¡Jeb!) sexually invisible squatamalans relieves the pressure on Mediocre Mauves to signal their sexual readiness or to compete in a losing battle with naturally prettier girls. Thanks to the magic of polychromatic patriotism, the middle of the belle curve SWWs can reap the reward of more hsmv White man attention without incurring any of the responsibility to look and act more pleasingly feminine.

Of course, as I’ve argued, female beauty is objective, universally agreed upon, and biometrically standardized. A millimeter here, a millimeter there, according to God of Biomechanics spec, can mean the difference between involuntary solitude and catching the eye of President Trump. So White men aren’t going to start believing HB5s are HB9s. But that doesn’t matter; what matters is perception. And if even hsmv White men perceive their menu of minxes disappearing under a gloomy tide of boner-killing brown, they might start to consider the romantic appeal of the White HB5s.

These White men won’t be happy, but if the perceived alternative is a tubular desert trekker then they’ll settle for the White HB5 and make a go of it. And comparative beauty isn’t Fake News; we’ve all noticed that a blah girl will look more bangable when she’s standing next to a fug. It’s a trick of the male brain that ensures the human species doesn’t stop in its tracks when the supply of beauties dips below the threshold at which the majority of men feel they have a chance.

Paradoxically, the American obesity epidemic that has gone worldwide in the past two decades may be partly fueling SWW clit boners for rapefugees, by providing fat White women an even less desirable horde of females against which to compare favorably, because the Third World peasantry invading America is increasingly Girth World peasantry.

There really is no end to the ways in which closed border homogeneous White nations are more romantically appealing than open border diversitopias, so make it your life’s work to shame any SWW who shrieks with vitriolic virtue about the blessings of Diversity™. She is literally advocating for the death of your dating life.

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Manly boldness triggers girly arousal (preferably in women, but you might want to watch your bold self around “tender brained” soyboys. Have a fainting couch at the ready. They’ve been known to swoon at the slightest provocation).

As I wrote, a bold unwavering approach triggers a tingle cascade in girls. They can’t help their autonomic responses; the sight of a man confidently striding toward her for the romantic solicitation may not produce love and marriage but it will produce a submissive arching of her back, widened eyes, parted lips, and a delightful shiver in her cock quiver.

The reason for this reaction is found in the fear-arousal axis in women’s limbic picnic basket. The unnerving truth (to those with fragile constitutions) is that fear is tightly wound with arousal in women; it’s why women have rape fantasies and why the dankest of studies have shown a nontrivial percentage of rape victims orgasm during the act (I’m not making this up).

The love of fear as foreplay is likewise why prime lubricity women flock to horror movies, and why they line up to propose marriage to death row inmates.

When a man can incite fear, he has demonstrated dominance cred, which is the male version of T&A to women.

This highlights yet another innate differences between the sexes; fear and arousal aren’t connected in men. When men are afraid, their boners go into hiding; the survival instinct takes over because men don’t have the option of converting themselves into fungible wombs for invading tribes. The only options men have are to avoid the thing producing the fear or to fight it and defeat it. Women can, and often do, spread their legs for the Fear to save their hides.

Now, consciously, women don’t want to be afraid (or to be raped) — unless the urge is so powerful that it escapes her hindbrain holding pen — but subconsciously, where all the Darwinian action takes place, fear and desire commingle in a toxically feminine stew. It’s why the jerkboy is so alluring to girls; his unpredictability, his defiance of polite norms, and his implied threats of easy abandonment, among other traits of the outcome independent man, stoke a nascent and vaginally compelling fear in the fairer sex, a fear which releases a pulse of horniness to her nethers. It’s why even playacting as a jerkboy can quickly invigorate a flagging relationship.

The triggering is the thing that matters, because once triggered a woman becomes much more pliable to further meaty entreaties. When you boldly go where few betas have gone before — right up into her grill for the meet and greet — she is at once overcome with a ripple of desire and a little afraid of what this big strapping man has in store for her. The seemingly contradicting emotions swirl together to excite her innermost submissiveness and feelings of feminine vulnerability, the psychic ingredients which electrify her womanly lust. The bold approach is then an instrument of female catatonia induction, permitting the man a smoother penetrating path to the girl’s neural womb, which is the prerequisite to lowering the defenses on her actual womb.

FYI the bold approach does NOT necessarily mean the direct solicitation. It can as easily mean moving in purposefully on your target…and then negging her or ignoring her to pretend to get yourself a drink to be followed up by some anodyne comment about the crowd. The point is that by your actions — no extended eyeplay or tentative milling about her perimeter waiting for that “perfect” approach invitation before moving in — you create a feeling of being “frozen in place” in the girl, a delightful feeling that presages an unfreezing of her furrow.

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Cock And Awe

Recall a time when you noticed something you needed from across a room, and then, focused on the object or person, you beelined with urgent purpose toward your target when, upon approach, you also noticed that an attractive woman happened to be situated near the thing you were walking quickly toward, and that her face lit up and her eyes widened into a sudden spasm of delight, arousal, and a little fear as you neared her and you realized she probably thought you were moving in her direction to hit on her (you weren’t, but she didn’t know that…all she had to go on was your purposeful stride to where she was sitting/standing).

Unless you have never left your vidjafapatorium, you will have seen something like this in your life. Take the lesson to heart. Chicks dig the bold approach, no matter the discrepancy between her SMV and your SMV. The positive, tingle-betraying reaction of women to a man’s unintentional bold approach is proof that an intentional bold approach — see your mark, move in on your mark, do not deviate from your mission — will have the same effect. Call it Cock and Awe; home in like a pleat-seeking missile and drive through crowds, splitting them like an icebreaker, and drop your ordnance right between her fore- and hindbrains.

Girls love powerful men, and very few actions in this world communicate raw masculine power quite as unmistakably as giving less than zero fucks and blasting through the fog of humdrum daily life to impose yourself on a girl and make her feel like a vulnerable, sexy minx again.

FYI, the above scenario reveals one way to get over approach anxiety. Instead of approaching girls, tell yourself instead you’re approaching someone or something next to the girl to chat up that other person/check out that intriguing thing. Then, when you’re right next to the girl, you suddenly “notice” her and “decide” to talk to her because she looked like she needed the company.

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Jay in DC, doing the job white knighties won’t do (peer behind the curtains hiding the female hindbrain):

“If you get a couple drinks in her in any locale, you and your entire crew of friends can run through her without an issue.”

FTFY, F Street. (yeah I am rippin’ off Cap but the name is hilarious and gives you some gangsta sounding street cred. ‘My nigga F-Street over there’)

I have double teamed wahmen as far back as college after getting them shit-faced drunk and I’ve seen fraternity bros of mine run a train on girls in front of my very eyes. They are pornstars at their core, many of them, and truly love the cock.

I had an ex-GF who’s masturbation fantasy was a “tribe” of guys like 300 style all jerking off around her and bukkaking her body with thick ropey blasts of jizz by the dozens. That made me TRULY understand the depravity of female. This girl was a BALLER btw, 120K a year salary, 130+ IQ, high level corporate bitch. All the trappings of shit-lib corporate success and when you peeled all that away and got down to her lizard brain none of it mattered. What she desired most was to be a cum mat for a tribe of murderous alpha male barbarians. What else needs to be said?

“Frailty, thy name is woman.” -Hamlet

300 Cockas sounds like da GBFM’s debut indie film.

PS Isn’t it conspicuously odd that women will never have a fantasy of 300 provider betas dribbling their soyseed over their splayed bodies? Fantasy is a reflection of real inner desire, and women’s fantasies all tend to, well, look same.

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A crying, whimpering, or otherwise despondent female whose body isn’t encased in layers of blubber is an irresistible opportunity for white knighties and betaboys to prove they are the ones to ride to her rescue. The beta male lives for those moments he gets a chance to comfort a distressed or depressed girl, because the beta male is under the grossly self-defeating impression that comforting words and a shoulder to cry on are the stuff of pussy tingles.

See, men project their experiences with distress onto women. When men are distressed, it isn’t (usually) an act. Life in general is tougher for men (in the parlance of Cunt Wave Feminism, men shoulder a greater burden of “emotional labor”). So distressed men will sincerely welcome a helping hand or a word of encouragement, and will especially appreciate those things coming from a pretty girl. Oftentimes, distressed betas fall instantly in love with a girl who gives them the tiniest morsel of sympathy.

But it doesn’t work this way for women. First, women get distressed all the time, and mostly for ridiculous reasons. It’s very rare that a hottie will be depressed for legitimate reasons; more likely is that she is just venting a toxic build-up of emotions that have accumulated from her roller coaster relationship with a jerkboy, and the act of venting and brooding is itself very pleasurable for her. So pretty girls won’t truly welcome sympathy from men except as a springboard for the girls to play up the damsel in distress angle to extract bennies from betas.

Second, women are sexually put off by men who come on strong with the Sympathy Game, reasoning (rightly) that these men are chicken shits who are trying to weasel their way into women’s panties by role-playing as asexual therapists.

If you see a pretty girl who looks depressed to you, #resist the urge to comfort her. Instead, be the jerk chicks dig and tell her crying’s not allowed unless her dog or her mother died. Then offer her a hanky embroidered with a photo of your smirking face.


Apropos of the theme of this post, a relevant text exchange between Peter Strzok (beta) and Lisa Page (ugly strivercunt):

LISA PAGE*: “[Trump’s] not ever going to become president, right? Right?!”

PETER STRZOK**: “No. No he won’t. We’ll stop it.”

First, thanks for tipping off everyone in America to your coup de tat against Trump! Very informative. Second, Peter, you dumb pencil-necked herbling, an aggrocunt tankgrrl like Page doesn’t want your captain save a ho act. It turns her off to know she has you wrapped around her manfingers. Petey, you were never on top, were you? How often was she behind you, enacting the male role with a strap-on?

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Julia Allison is a media whore, “relationship” blogger, reality TV participant, and poz pusher for esteemed clam mags like Cosmo. In other words, civilization’s late stage dead weight.

At age 37, single and childless, she had a gratuitously delayed revelation. Overcome with the emptiness of her life and womb, seized by the unfamiliar sting of a piercing self-awareness, she felt a rare emotion: Regret.

Oh, she has a family…

A social media addict, she has two laptops, a desktop, an iPad & an iPhone along with two Facebook profiles, four Twitter handles, a Myspace page, a LinkedIn account, a Flickr feed, four Tumblrs, three Movable Type blogs, one WordPress, two Vimeos, one Quora account, two YouTube channels and a photogenic white shih-tzu named Lilly who – yep – tweets (@Lillydog). Combined, her accounts number over 150,000 fans, followers or subscribers.

…but, oddly, remains unfulfilled.

In a self-aggrandizing confessional, she blames a TV show produced by gay men that glamorized the lifestyle of the barren urban slut for leading her down the Plan B path.

Readers, get ready to journey across the pages of ancient Chateau tomes. Every banality of the modren wahman observed and noted in this outpost of love is sounded out in Mzz Allison’s cacophony of rue. There will be cock carousels, rationalization hamsters, Wall impacts, beta bux, jerkboy fux, femcuntery, psychological litter boxes, and more cameos to titillate Chateau guests.

Dating columnist reveals how ‘Sex and the City’ ruined her life

“Sex and the City” premiered on HBO 20 years ago this week, imprinting on a generation of women a love of fantastic fashion and dreams of their own Mr. Big. Among them was Julia Allison, who moved to New York in the early 2000s to live the Carrie Bradshaw lifestyle. She became a dating columnist, a party fixture and one of the first internet celebrities — thanks to Gawker, the site that loved to hate on her. But her pursuits sent her, ultimately, down a path of unhappiness and unfulfillment. Looking back on how the show’s ideals negatively impacted her life, Allison, now 37, tells Doree Lewak: “If I could go back and do it all over again, I wouldn’t.”

Ten years ago, on May 27, 2008, I was on top of the world.

I was riding in an Escalade en route to the “Sex and the City” movie premiere in Midtown with a Bravo camera crew in tow. When the SUV door opened, I stepped onto the pink carpet in my Allison Parris dress and Chanel bag. I felt like a star. I felt beautiful. I felt proud. I was rubbing shoulders with celebs and the goddess herself: Carrie Bradshaw, a k a Sarah Jessica Parker.

Since moving to New York City four years earlier, I’d established myself with my own dating column and graced the cover of Wired magazine. I was a public figure who was regularly photographed alongside such famous faces as Henry Kissinger and Richard Branson. I went to all the glam parties, was fodder for gossip sites, had signed a deal with Bravo for a reality show,

For those of unpolluted mind, Bravo is the gay channel. All gay, all the time, with a supporting cast of f@g hags.

and dated more than my fair share of Mr. Bigs.

Pump and dumps. But if she spoke with radical candor like that she wouldn’t be able to soothe her chafed ego and vagina. Anyhow, it’s funny that she thinks admitting to hopping a parade of cocks like a real life Samantha is both humble and bragging.

I had been profiled in the New York Times, and New York magazine called me “the most famous young journalist in the city.”

The biological clock is wound down, and the Kingdom of Zog is at hand: repent ye, and believe the 14 words.

I was considered by many to be Carrie Bradshaw 2.0. And I was happy to be given that identity for a while, but it was all a lie. At the premiere, I also felt like a fraud, insecure and embarrassed — like I didn’t belong.

But she soldiered on for another fourteen years play-acting as Carrie Bradshaw.

I grew up a nerd in Chicago, more likely to duck into the library than talk to other kids at recess. At 12, I thought I would never be kissed.

Everyone at age 12 thinks this way. The difference is that girls turn it into a theatrical release while boys who don’t bust a move drift into silent celibacy and are never offered paying gigs to write about it.

(Boy, did I make up for that later.)

What every man looking for a relationship worthy woman wants to hear. /s

The show was my road map. Of all the die-hard fans I knew, I was the most influenced by “SATC.”

Dating red flags.

At Georgetown University, where I enrolled in 1999, I started to wear dresses and learned how to do my makeup and curl my hair. The newfound male attention I received felt exhilarating.

Still delusional. Julia, in your late teens and early 20s it wasn’t your dresses and curls that captured the men’s attention.

I even started a dating column for my college paper called “Sex on the Hilltop,” which was modeled after Carrie’s column in the fictional New York Star.

Just the hilltop?

When the last episode of “Sex and the City” aired in February 2004, I hosted a viewing party for 200 guests. It was my swan song as well: Eight months later, I would move to New York, where, armed with my “Sex and the City” DVDs, my transformation really began.

What a headcase.

Based on what I knew from “SATC,” I expected the city to sweep me off my feet. I envisioned nonstop brunching and shopping.

Women really have no idea what their lives would be like if beta males decided to opt out of the civilization building racket. Brunching and shopping fantasies would be replaced by Hobbesian survival fantasies.

It had such an outsize influence on me that — even with a very expensive degree in government — I said to myself: “I’m obviously going to be a columnist.”

Another STEAM grad putting her knowledge to work. Grrlpower!

I later moved to Time Out New York, where I made $750 a week — a huge improvement, but still not enough to buy Manolos and barely enough to afford the $2,500 rent for my 400-square-foot apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.

Cheaper alternatives exist, but that would mean reduced proximity to Mr Bigs.

I lived on food bought for me on dates and the occasional bodega tuna sandwich.

Beta thirst is as responsible for the corruption of American woman as any prime time show on Twat TV.

Different men I dated gave me YSL shoes and status purses, just like Big did for Carrie on “SATC.”

The dirty secret about picking up women in NYC is that the men there are game-less marks who really do try to buy substandard pussy with shoes and purses (and wonder why they get strung along in asexual purgatory). This makes pickup a lot easier for the cockybrah who expects sex without a price tag.

(In 2006, when I landed a six-figure editor-at-large gig at Star magazine,

What talent does she have?
*spreads legs*
Oh yeah.

I also subscribed to Carrie’s ethos when it came to men. There was no such thing as a bad date — only a good date or a good brunch story.

Can you believe she’s still single at the post-Spring chicken age of 37?! What man wouldn’t want to wife up a broad who screws around for years of brunch convo fodder and has the crow’s feet to prove it?

In my writing,

which sucks, btw.

I gave my boyfriends nicknames (one was “Prom King”) just like Carrie and her friends did.

She writes like she’s 14 years old.

I went out with a prince: Lorenzo Borghese from “The Bachelor.” I even dated the British ex-boyfriend of “Sex and the City” creator Candace Bushnell — the original Carrie.

Common denominator: all the men are exes.

He was one of a few men who comprised the composite character Mr. Big.


In 2008, my two best girlfriends and I had just filmed a Bravo pilot for a show called “It Girls” (it wasn’t picked up). We were all invited by a 40-something billionaire to his Miami mansion; he even sent his private jet for us. It was just him, the three of us and his butler and chef. I don’t think this man was used to being told no, and he started chasing me around his mansion. I finally had to lock myself in the bathroom. The worst part: He sent us back on JetBlue.

“No, I don’t do double penetration.”

[Gawker] wrote about me as much as they wrote about Paris Hilton, but I had none of Paris’ resources to defend myself. Their core complaint about me was that I was a quote-unquote “fame whore.”

Gawker nailed that one. Bonus nailing: Gawker is gone.

Then, in 2011, one of my pilots was finally picked up by Bravo. The whole concept of “Miss Advised” was “real-life Carrie Bradshaw.” It was about three single women in three different cities, and I was the dating columnist for Elle in Los Angeles. It was “SATC” meets journalism. Producers sent me to a mind architect, a love coach and a witch in the pursuit of love.

But it came too late: In my heart, I was finished trying to be Carrie. When the show wasn’t renewed for a second season, I was relieved. The experience made me really look at myself: I was trying so hard to be liked that it was coming across as inauthentic and bitchy. Also, it was miserable to have cameras around all the time.

Women cultivate a growing dislike for cameras coincident with their number of years past prime nubility (and nearing prime sterility). How suspicious!

Finally, I cut my ties to New York and moved to San Francisco full-time in 2013.

If she had moved to a small Midwestern town instead of a coastal shitlibopolis, she might have a family to love today.

Finally, I decided to go private for a while. I stopped blogging and writing. I rarely post on Instagram.

Imminent Wall impact will do that to a girl.

These days I work as a change activist,


mounting summits

I bet.

for world leaders and serving as an adviser to startups and entrepreneurs looking to better the planet.

How many flights between Nü York and San Tranny does she take?

I dated a woman for a while

Young lesbianism: experimentation
Old lesbianism: necessity

But dating is not front and center in my life anymore,

…she says as if it was her choice.

although it was all I talked about in my 20s.

There was more conversational material to work with back then.

That’s pretty one-dimensional.

Aging beauties find comfort in scoffing at the preoccupations of their younger, hotter, tighter selves.

Last year, I ended a two-year relationship with a man who ultimately couldn’t [ed: wouldn’t] commit and wanted to be polyamorous.

A man unmotivated to tie himself down with a road worn, has-been slut? Will wonders never cease.

Again, “SATC” and the “lessons” it taught me is the culprit.

Julia Allison fucked her life up and she wants to blame a vapid TV show. “How do I write women so well? I think of a man, and take away reason and accountability.” (Fact: the ultimate culprit is the 19th Amendment.)

The show wasn’t a rubric on how to find a lifelong partnership.

She needed a TV show to teach her how to find a man and start a healthy relationship? Where were all the older female relatives in her life? Where was her brain?

If I was more grounded and had honestly assessed whether this man was a good partner for me, I don’t think we ever would have dated.

Translation: “If I was more grounded and had honestly assessed whether I was still good enough for any halfway decent man, I don’t think I’d be single and writing this pile of crap through tear-stained cheeks.”

Crushed and needing to regroup, I took a sabbatical and lived in Bali for eight months on a healing journey.


I was also celibate during my time there.

I do wonder what my life would have looked like if “Sex and the City” had never come across my consciousness. Perhaps I’d be married with children now?

Lady, I’m certain your arriving spinsterhood isn’t the fault of SATC, unless you’re easily brainwashed. Hmm, have I been overestimating women this whole time?

Who knows, but I can say for sure that, as clever and aesthetically pleasing as the show was

She obsessively stalks this show like it was an ex-bf. Psycho!

— and, as much as I agree with its value of female friendships — it showed too much consumerism and fear of intimacy disguised as empowerment.

It also showed, if she were willing to see, the damaging consequences of slutting it up and cackling about your smashed pussy with other empowered sluts.

It’s like candy: In the moment it feels good to eat it, but afterward, you feel sick.

Women have been warring with their essence for a few decades now, and the battle has been pitched in recent years. The Slut Pride degeneracy and its various cultural tributaries is women — particularly low to middling SMV women who must find novel ways to compete with hot babes — defying their sex-specific emotional burdens and aiming to exert a false, if momentarily satisfying, control over what they perceive as the weaknesses and vulnerabilities of their sex. One of these feminine “frailties” that the modren wahman wants to purge from herself is the undeniable truth that casual sex bothers women a lot more than it does men. Women simply can’t compartmentalize noncommittal sex with the same easy facility that men can. Hence, women like Julia “feel sick” afterward, something that only the soyest of soyboys would feel after licking clean the putrid slits of SATC-aping urban sluts whilst unwittingly grinding their microboners to a climax in the fur of a curious cat sniffing around their nethers.

Whom you’re dating, what you’re wearing, or how good you look at that premiere — none of that s–t matters unless you genuinely love yourself. Solid relationships are what really matter.

It’s funny how aging broads discover solid relationships matter when they start having trouble getting them.

Sure, I could have been a dating columnist for the rest of my life but, honestly, I gave really bad dating advice — and so did Carrie Bradshaw.

If a shiv artist like yours truly had told her that when she was younger and hotter, no doubt she would have lashed out like a cornered alleycat. The ravages of time and the looming threat of insol wonderfully focus the waning slut’s mind.

I want to be a different role model from the one I got. Two months ago, I started seeing someone I never would have dated 10 years earlier.

Cue Mr Beta Bux! Or just Mr Beta. Not many men with romantic options are excited about dating, let alone wifing up, a wrinkled slattern with a vagina that echoes. Luckily for Julia, there are desperate vegetable lasagnas willing to settle for her flabby hide rather than live in faptivity.

Back then, I wasn’t looking to get married or seek a lifelong partner, and that was a mistake.

Reciprocally, it would be a big mistake for any man with an ounce of self-worth to commit to a post-carousel cock holster rapidly nearing her expiration date. Why buy an old cow whose udders dried up long ago when fresh milk is on every slore shelf?

This man is a very reasonable choice, and I’m at a place in my life where reasonable is very sexy.

“reasonable” = passionless. What every woman knows deep in her heart is that the later in life she gets serious about finding a long-term partner, the likelier it is she’ll have to resign herself to settling down with an unexciting herb she doesn’t truly love. The remainder of her life will be a slapstick comedy of fake orgasms, fake headaches, screaming brats, and bathroom retreats with a dog-eared copy of Fifty Shades of Sadomasochism, all the while resentfully rasping through a fog of regret for the alpha males who got away when she was younger, hotter, tighter and thought she had all the time in the world.

Blame Carrie?

Nah. Blame yourself. And if your current relationship with your Reasonable Beta lasts longer than two more months after he reads you admitting that he would have been ignored by you ten years ago when your sexual rejection would have mattered, count yourself lucky. It could be worse. You could find yourself spending numberless weekends at the fertility clinic to birth your autistic twins. Oh wait.

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