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Sharon Stone is a long way from her star turn in the movie Basic Instinct as a femme fatale who flashes her vaj during an interrogation. Thirty years on, paying audiences don’t want to see her vagina anymore. And, if the bitterness and sour grapes that drip from this recent interview with Stone are any indication, not many quality men in her real life want to see her vagina either.

After two divorces and decades in the business, Sharon Stone isn’t looking for a casual romance.

How convenient.

The 58-year-old actress opened up to AARP magazine about the effects of aging on both her personal and professional life.

“Obviously it’s pretty easy to get a date,” she said. “But to me, my life is so full. I don’t want to take time out to just go on a date, or to just have sex with a stranger.”

Translating from the hamsterese: “There’s a whole world between ‘sex with a stranger’ and involuntary solitude, but I can’t access it because obviously it’s pretty hard to get a date with a man who doesn’t eat his own boogers as a woman over 50.”

“At this point, I get more satisfaction – physically, spiritually, emotionally – from a smile, a laugh, a warm conversation or a really sexy look,” she told the magazine. “You know the way a man can look at you? Where you know he really sees you? I don’t want to be with someone unless it’s like that.”

The above is what age-related low libido looks like in words.

The aging beauty claims to seek romantic perfection as an ego emollient to avoid the crushing reality that imperfect romance isn’t even an option for her anymore.

Why pick on Sharon? Isn’t her personal torment enough punishment? The problem is that, unlike most aging women who must nurse their fantasies and shill their platitudes in private or to a small audience of immediate family and close friends who know better, Stone has a public platform to spread her lies to impressionable younger women who can’t see through the bravado to the sexual market rejection hurt underneath. At the margins, some younger women could be convinced, to their detriment, by Stone’s false pride that playing the field until late middle age is a viable route to life happiness, instead of what it really will be: a big mistake.

Making an example of Stone is a lesson for the others to avoid the same lonely fate. Prime fertility women need to know with the utmost seriousness that it will NOT be easy for them to get a date at age 58, with ANY man, and an old lady saying otherwise is blowing smoke up their skirts. Platitudes are cute when no one really believes them, but they’re downright malevolent when asserted with righteous authority as truth.

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On my travels to the four corners of the globe, I’ve noticed something very telling about the casual fashion choices White women make within different contexts. Yoga pants, as most of you know, have been staples of the White woman wardrobe for years. Basically, yoga pants are underwear, worn in public. Most styles are extremely tight, some have thigh cuts that are see-through, and all display the camel toe in its full glory, leaving little to the imagination. A few styles cut a crevice so deep in the ass cheeks you can just make out the rusty starfish.

So yoga pants are the striver class-approved slut outfit for SWPL women who want to flaunt their sexy bodies and then bitch about beta males, who have the gall to possess functioning libidos, ogling them. See, proles and SWPL ladies are more alike than not; their goals are the same, but they choose to achieve those goals via different pathways of expression.

Anyhow, to the chewy center bursting with Bartholin’s flavor. In the blacker neighborhoods — the ones gentrifying but still menacing enough to put a pep in the step of Whites who venture out after 7pm or have to walk past throngs of friendly “teens” — you will rarely see White women in yoga pants. They are more conservatively dressed. Jeans are common. Leggings with a long-ish dress or skirt over them are also common. In the heat, shorts are tasteful; no underbutt. I’m talking about SWPL White women here; the ones with mid-paying jobs, sterling Women’s Studies credentials, and big brains they drown in mimosa juice. I’m not talking about the mudshark dregs with the tattoos and needle marks.

In contrast, in the Whitest huetopias, the skin-tight, labia-compressing yoga pants are everywhere. Where da sluttily-dressed White women at? In White neighborhoods. What’s going on here?

I have a thought. Striver White women soaked in a lifetime of feminist tankgrrl indoctrination dress to attract alpha males (while having to deal with the risk of sending the wrong advertising signal to beta males), and they dress to flaunt the power inherent in their number one asset (their figures, culminating to a point at the mons pubis). In White neighborhoods filled with hirsute hipster goons concealing weak jawlines, White women feel unrestricted freedom to flaunt their creases and cracks. This freedom makes them power-drunk, and they love the torment (or thought of it) that they can cause to erupt in the silent skullcases of fearful beta males ogling them from a safe distance.

In the blacker zones, this strategy doesn’t work. Way too risky. Black-on-White women rape is epidemic (leftie White women know this even though they’d never admit it). A darkpool of dindu nuffins loitering on a street corner, veins coursing with the liberating elixir of low impulse control, will not let a yoga pants sloot, with looks that shame the mammoth black beasts the brothers are used to boffing, walk by unmolested. One thing blacks don’t do: cast sidelong, shy glances from a distance while pretending not to notice the lingerie show strutting down the street. They will let a slutty White women know, in so many jungly hoots and howls, that her goods are the sheeeeiit, and they intend to sample them.

Naturally, there will be no White hipsters to white knight for her. And justifiably so. What noodle-arm would risk a five-on-one swarm because he stood up for the honor of some cunty careerist feminist White woman who thought it would be a good idea to display the contours of her vagina to the Congo line?

This, of course, scares feminist White women. Scares them enough that they shelve the yoga pants in favor of more modest attire when blacks are a significant part of the outdoors scenery. Then, in their spite and resentment and bitterness at having to concede the core reactor of their female power to a stronger force (naggers), they will go home and spew a river of Tumblrrhea about misogynist, racist White guys who oppress the POC.

One solution to this impasse: White beta males can start hitting on yoga panties and make them pay at least a small psychic cost for their skanky exhibitionism. The results of shifting White women’s expectation bias are a positive development for White men: Either a more chaste White womanhood emerges that defers as obsequiously to White men as to Machete-Americans, or White betas start scoring more poon which boosts their confidence and swagger and thereby coaxes some respect from the SWPL White women who for now can only spare their respect for the urban orcs that forcefully extract it from them.

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Female suffrage was a big mistake, part infinity in a series.

Austria had an election recently, pitting a nationalist, immigration restrictionist patriot (Hofer) against a globalist, open borders nutjob (Van der Bellen). The vote results confirm a pattern seen all over the Western world: White women are voting in the shitlib traitors who will drown White nations in a polluted sea of third world misery.

hofermen

Men invade, women invite. Right now, White women — especially over-educated White women — have the West’s power structures by the balls, gleefully cutting them off and handing them to migrants, invaders, refugees and general admission Diversity for display in their conquerors’ trophy cases. White men have responded by… well, until the Trumpening struck fear in the hearts of the West’s enemies, throwing up their hands and retreating to pr0n, opioids, and video games.

Trump is the West’s last, best, chance to turn this thing around. If TheCunt wins, it’s GAME OVER for America as we have known her.

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A reader worthy of wielding the obsidian Chateau shiv sends a screen cap of his Tinder response to a single mom-by-choice. The lols are strong (and frequent) in this one. (Reader’s Twatter handle is @FUSigma.)

How to teach cause-and-effect to Millennial Tinderellas & impose sanctions on single mommery:

(It’s especially effective if it’s done immediately, so that the reason is obvious.)

singlemomsand

consequences

A few thoughts:

First, this reader’s Game, however little of it he revealed here, is tight. He promptly starts off with a qualifying question, to which the single-mom-by-choice eagerly feels the urge to defend her skankly honor. The quickest seductions occur when the woman is thrown back in the defensive crouch. In fact, the line “So how normal are you?” could legitimately serve as an effective, all-purpose opener. Don’t even bother with the “hi”, just stroll up and drop that hamster nuke at ground zero. It’ll get laughs from the cool, self-confident (read: thin and cute) women, and that’s practically the same as foreplay.

Second, I commend the sly follow-up leading question; not “are you divorced?” (which can trigger an offended rebuttal), but “how long have you been divorced?” This is assume-the-slut Game, and she couldn’t resist correcting his assumption.

Third, this woman is weaponized American Whore, marinated in decades of feminist cunt indoctrination. Her answer — “I’ve never been married lol” — indicates a confidence with, or an obliviousness to, how she’ll be received by men for admitting she shat out a bastard with a fly-by-night jerkboy. She thinks men will praise her. And why does she think men will praise her shitty life choices? Because she probably has experience on Tinder stringing along thirsty beta and omega pre-op Millennial males to treat her nicely and boost her ego major, in return for a fraction of the sex she lavished in one night on her sperm donor.

Fourth, notice all the “lol”s Alayna scatters throughout her banter. This is a tell-tale verbal tic that hints at the desperation and self-doubt lurking underneath her tough skank facade. Insincere LOLs are an attempt to coax intimacy, and a conversational bonding, that doesn’t yet exist. Beta males do it all the time (which is why  they fail). The scattershot LOL is also a ploy to distract someone from keying in on the LOLyer’s personal flaws (which in this case is the single mommery and Samsonite sprog).

Finally, my opinion is that the best message shiv to deliver single moms-by-choice is the pump-and-dump. Leading her on to get what you want out of her — a quick and dirty no muss no fuss lay while avoiding tripping over her kid’s toys on the way to the bedroom, and then ghosting — will leave bloodier stigmata on her soul than the curt “Unmatch”. The problem is that very few men can pull off this cold-hearted maneuver without getting physiologically attached to the pussy and returning repeatedly to that over-used well, because very few men are alpha males accustomed to living with the knowledge of endless sexual market options. Therefore, an alternative special lesson to teach the feminist-brainwashed squadrons of stupidly proud single moms is what FUSigma did here: the rhetorical pump-and-dump.

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I experienced two unfolding events in one day recently that imo are microcosms of the American sexual market.

Scene 1:

A car was pulling out of a parking garage and for a second the driver didn’t notice a woman pedestrian walking in front of his car until his bumper was almost at her knees. He braked about a foot short of grazing her. She whirled around and, flush-faced, yelled at him to watch what he was doing. He gave the universal non-verbal cue of culpability for a driver misstep — shoulder shrug, head dip, and hands up palms facing outward — but this wasn’t enough penitence for her, and she slapped the hood of his car while yelling ‘fuck you’.

This was an outburst too far. The driver, a pudgeball-faced White dude, rolled his window down a little to yell back ‘hey don’t hit my car you crazy bitch’. The woman, a White, manjawed 30-something who if looks are anything to go by was not ((())), had stomped ten feet away from the car, cursing like a drunk sailor the whole time as families with little kids strolled near. The driver’s impudence reignited her rage, and she whisked around once more to launch into him, a fusillade of “fucking dick”s flying from her piehole.

Then, amazingly, she PUT UP HER DUKES and challenged the man to fight her. AN ADULT MAN. “Why don’t you get out of that car and say that to my face, fucking ASSHOLE”, or words to that effect. Her bony cheeks had deepened to a burgundy hue and she was rocking back and forth on her post-workout sneakers, ready to Amazon Prime drone those hands. She looked every bit the crazy bitch the driver called her. Much screaming and breast-thumping later, coupled with the growing risk she would try to kick out his car’s headlamps, the driver rolled up his window, flipped her the bird, and zoomed off, a final victorious BITCH carrying on his exhaust fumes.

She seethed and as I walked farther away from the scene of the gine I could hear her F bombs reverberating down the street. I remember thinking, ‘that bitch has more testosterone than half the men I know’.

Scene #2:

Not more than a few blocks from aggrocunthighTgirl, I had an opportunity to uncrinkle the lingering disgust etched on my face from bearing witness to a manjawed psychoplath chimping out like a ghetto thug. Turning a corner, I found myself walking behind a vision in a powder blue felt sundress that stopped just below the cutaneous crease demarcating ass from leg, the kind of dress that clings softly to the skin, dipping into valleys where erogenous splits in womanly flesh funnel to downy furrows. The bottom of the dress imitated a lily-lipped bell, which amplified its impact on my horny level, and my thoughts drifted to a stiff breeze catching the parabolic fabric in an upward draft, revealing the snapper clapper inside.

From her tiny, thin waist bobbled a magnificently round ass, and her tits must have been spectacular because I caught a corona of side boob from the back. I tried not to look directly at it, using a mirror instead. She was tall and shapely, a hot rod of pure hourglass humdingery, wavy flaxen hair running riot over her entire back, framed by bare arms of the most delectable peaches and cream hue. I walked closer, thinking this was a va va vooman I had to impose my will upon, or at least had to see if her face was as inspiring as her body.

I wouldn’t have to bother. She heard a voice calling her name and turned toward the direction of its origination, which came from behind me, thus giving me a full view of her otherworldly visage…..

which, by my calculation, was the face of a 14 year old girl.

loleen

The discovery did nothing to thwart my emerging boner, but it did give me a bit of a queasy feeling somewhere nestled in the higher cognition modules of my brain.

The voice belonged to her cow mother, who shambled to her daughter’s side and took her arm, French-style, and they walked quickly away in another direction. I saw no father with them.

Two vagnettes, in my mind, so emblematic of our liberated sexual market. A pugilist city spinster with a man-hating chip on her Crossfit-carved shoulder, and a sexpot teenager whose mother had probably paid for the sexy clothes that would make her daughter look like a much older sophisticated slut.

Woman living vicariously through man, mother living vicariously through daughter. I living vicariously through myself. Pepe strokes his green chin knowingly.

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It’s generally advisable to avoid ever apologizing for any infraction of social or courtship etiquette — particularly if the rules of the etiquette which would constrain you were established by your enemies — if it’s women’s hearts you want to hoard (and men’s loyalty you want to mobilize). However, even alphas with unimpeachable state control occasionally must pay tribute to the strategic, if half-assed, mea culpa. Along the serpentine path to incredible power, extreme circumstances will present which vociferously demand at least a feint in the direction of quasi-apology.

Which is why I give a pass to Trump for his “apology” to Megyn Kelly. (The sneer quotes are very apt, you’ll soon see.)

A reader forwarded this video clip from the interview between Megyn “blood coming out of her wherever” Kelly and Donald God Emperor Trump. She has cornered him into explaining his multiple “retweets” of various tweets that contained references to her, Megyn, as a bimbo. Watch and learn from a Master Charismatic how to say “my bad” like a badboy rogue.

GREAT example of Trump’s charisma in the exchange from 6:12 – 6:25 from interview w/ crazy Megyn.

When a woman wants an apology, don’t give it to her. If she craves it and NEEDS it, give her a simulacrum of an apology, and deliver it with a cheeky grin. Which is what Trump did here. And, unsurprisingly, Megyn’s mile-wide smile right after that charming BROADside testified to the effectiveness of Trump’s coy concession.

By way of making a stark alpha male-beta male comparison, try to imagine ¡Jeb! Bush in the same situation. (Suspend your disbelief for this flight of fancy.) Megyn has put the pressure on Jeb to account for his retweets of Jeb fans referring to her as a bimbo. How do you think Jeb would have replied?

Megyn: “You retweet…bimbo.”

Yeb: “Did I say that?”

Megyn: “Many times.”

Yeb: “I am really sorry. That’s not who I am. It was the heat of the moment, and I got carried away. Geez, my wife — and let me remind everyone how much I respect and love my wife, she’s my hero — my wife would never tolerate such abusive misogynistic language, and she’d never let me hear the end of it if I did anything that looked like I might be approving of it, even if someone else said it……..”

Megyno: *no smile, vagina snapped shut tighter than a clam at low tide, resentment welling* “You sicken me, chauvinist pig.”

***

Update: A readers points out another fine example of Trump’s tight Game in his interview with Megyn.

At 6.35 Trump says, “You’ve had a life that’s not been that easy”

How perfect is this? If you told a woman she had an easy life she’d take it as patronizing; if you told a woman she had a hard life she’d think you were saying she was from the ghetto.

you’ve had a life that’s not been that easy

Look at her face after that! The alpha knows when to misdirect and make it about her again so she can do what women do best at: talk about themselves.

Ambiguity, backhanded compliments (negs), frame control…. these are the tactics of the successful seducer.

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Tattoos are everywhere. I believe more women than men now sport the under-skin ink. While I personally am not put off that much by small, inconspicuous tats on attractive women, what I see parading around lately are women who have disfigured themselves under sheets of blotchy doodles. Why? Why would women — particularly White women whose alabaster skin is a bucket of boner bait no other race of women can simulate — deliberately uglify themselves? Worse, deliberately advertise their sluttiness? (Tattoos are a major slut tell.)

Reader Ang Aamer offers a possible explanation, and it relates to the rapid browning of America,

White girls getting numerous tattoos always struck me as the girls trying to look more like their less white boyfriends. Almost maiming the beauty to fit in more.

I would bet the 40 year old does not feel that she can have any control over her daughter. Because she remembers when she was that age and that she herself was uncontrollable.

Which is why you don’t control the behavior of your offspring you control the environment. If daughter were brought up in an area where South Americans were rare she might hook up with a white bad boy and at least have a daughter with better looks to perhaps break the cycle… Blue eyes could do that. Or even better live in an area without public transportation so the not-whites can’t make it out to court your white daughter … but that’s me.

I will say this pointedly to any fathers out there. Go to your daughter’s school and LOOK at the student body. That is the gene pool of your potential Grandchildren. It takes like 2 minutes to go to the local high school website and look at the graduating class picture. COUNT the colors and do the math. If there is a high probability of you getting a diversity package delivered by the Stork… MOVE.

Reader PA adds,

The rare high-end mudsharks (ones who consort with Talented Tenth or high functioning coloreds and remain members of White society), generally keep normal grooming habits.

The much more common low-end mixers, ones who assimilate into the male’s usually ghetto society, will NEVER keep their hair long and pretty.

Even if in many cases that’s their sole physically attractive feature. It’s usually the Mudshark Facelift, with hair pulled up tight to a bun on top of her head.

As I figure, they do that to avoid antagonizing the black females they socialize with. Also, it’s slovenliness — laziness about grooming — which is congruent with their other defects of character.

But I hadn’t considered your more transcendent point about self-maiming before.

Tattoos in the current year could be seen as a sort of “maimgeld”: the tribute that White women pay in self-disfigurement to a growing Diversitopia they live in that both covets the White women’s exquisite natural looks and hates it to the verge of eliminationist rage. So all these negative body modifications by Whites could be construed as an effort to blend invisibly into the muddying waters of late stage America.

Self-maiming (to alleviate the envy felt by the lesser races of women) and slut signaling (to attract the attention of alpha males on the prowl for easy r-selected sex) are the two big subconscious reasons tattoos have become such a cultural marker for White women.

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