Stinky Pussy Girl

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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The Moral Dichotomy Of Women

In the hindbrain of every woman throbs an autonomic neuralgorithm that mimics their genitalia and splits the female soul in two. It’s a sexual dichotomy which women are fated to reconcile into a teetering balance between the limbically juiced pursuit of alpha fux (a sexy charming jerkboy for sex) and the cortically lubed yearning for beta bux (a reliable if boring family man for resources).

Gatekeepers of the prime directive will necessarily be contradictory vehicles for genetic survival. To fulfill the only Darwinian duty that really matters, women have evolved an intricate cognitive system for accommodating their internal contradictions. CH has dubbed this system the “rationalization hamster”. This head-cased hamster ensures that women never think too hard or too closely about the concessions or the exploitations they personally abide on their quest to birth and raise the fittest, healthiest, and most productive kidlets in the merciless sexual and survival markets.

Unsurprisingly, the sexual dichotomy that animates women’s subconscious is overlaid by a conscious moral dichotomy which provides plausible deniability to the amoral compulsions of the subconscious.

On this topic, Cynthia speaks a great truth,

There is nothing that satisfies us ladies more than the knowledge that we are superior to another woman.  I know women who’ve based their entire existence around the pursuit of this feeling.

This explains why women can at once happily jump on the Freak Acceptance bandwagon while secretly satisfying their selfish urge to have their egos diddled and their social status elevated as a consequence of the favorable distinctions they will irresistibly draw between themselves and the freaks.

CH Maxim #91: The irony is that just as women are cloying sympathizers for their lessers, they are also avid pursuers of vaulting their lessers.

The female moral dichotomy is “declare inclusion, indulge exclusion”. The former gives license to the latter.

***

Do men have sexual and moral dichotomies within them? Yes and no. Certainly not any dichotomy at the same advanced developmental stage that women possess. Men haven’t evolved truly dichotomous natures because men aren’t the primary gatekeepers of reproduction. As the chosen sex (although this formulation isn’t absolute), men are Nature’s experimental guinea pigs and come born compartmentalized into a variety of sexual and moral configurations women choose from among, according to the fitness demands of the currently operative environment.

I would say the closest approximation to a male sexual dichotomy is the classic madonna-whore complex — or in modernistic bantz, Marry-Fuck-Kill. Men want the slut for the zero-effort instabang, and the virgin for marriage and mother-of-heirs. But the comparison is limited, since the sexually dichotomous drive is much weaker in men, who as a sex are generally less selective than women and will make easy compromises if a woman is sufficiently desirable (i.e., hot, young, and feminine). For men, women’s looks trump every other consideration so profoundly that any innate male dichotomous compulsion will often be drowned under the deluge of desire.

Likewise, a male moral dichotomy usually amounts to nothing more than spun up pretexts for guiltlessly pursuing NSA sex. The female moral dichotomy greases the id-skids to indulge intra-female status contests and ego gratification; in contrast, the male moral dichotomy has a more pedestrian job: to convince himself and the women who don’t immediately write him off that his love is unconditional, while pursuing the accumulation of sexual market capital that enlarges the scope of his mate options.

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The Prime Sex Difference: Penmanship?

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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Freak Acceptance As Pressure Release Valve For Striver White Moms

An insightful comment by JD (John Derbyshire?) over at the Goodbye, America photojournal, speculating about the reason why so many women, particularly White women, glom onto Freak Acceptance.

Female consumers have perceived weaknesses. “Am I gonna be a good mom? Time to worry… rev up the rationalization hamster”. Female consumer watches freak females “redefining” motherhood on YouTube or Ellen. “If these freaks can cover up their weakness in public then so can I! All I have to do is subscribe to this new idea/emotion of freak motherhood and I can protect my pride, cuz lol, I’ll be a way better mother than some freak in a dress. Hmm maybe the best way to get out this new message of redefining motherhood is through supporting Dove so they can spread this message…”.

Globalization — aka worldwide SCALE — has hijacked the female instincts to conformism, social inclusion, and hypergamous status competition, resulting in multivariate, multinational ad campaigns that push women’s id-buttons as effectively as they push product. JD has identified one of those female instincts: a desire for high social status through approved mothering. It’s an instinct which is a strength in small-scale Dunbar-delineated contexts, but a glaring weakness in large-scale media-driven social organizations that, thanks to the full spectrum infiltration of social media and TV, means your average American mom can compare her mom-cred to moms halfway across the globe and all the way across the threshold of human degeneracy.

This was unheard of for all of human history up until the last couple of generations. That’s gotta have unforeseen consequences, which can already be seen by those not yet succumbed to soyification.

American moms are getting hit by mixed social status pinging messages — they wither with the comparison to glam-moms or humblebragging Faceborg-moms, but cheer up when some cross-dressing man-titted mistake of nature pumped up with a cocktail of bovine growth hormones is glorified by Globohomo, Inc. as an equally plausible representative of good mothering. The Real Moms know in their bones that the Fake Moms are degenerate losers, so the agitprop tranny clown show helps feed the egos of the Real Moms.

PS Speaking of Derb, he has a good article at Unz about the reality of voter fraud in America, and what it portends for the Anglo-Saxon foundation of the Law. (Answer: it portends nothing good, because non-Anglos in specific and non-Westerners in general simply don’t share the same faith and instinctual affinity for the English system of law. As Triggering E puts it,

WEIRDO societies require WEIRDOs to make them work. The less WEIRDO a society becomes, the more being a WEIRDO–characterized by high social trust, reciprocity, political compromise, generosity to those in need, isonomy, etc–switches from being an advantage to being a disadvantage. Social trust declines, reciprocity disappears, political compromise is replaced by a winner-take-all ethnic spoils system, generosity is exploited to the point that it is seen as an entitlement, and the legal system gets hijacked by racial grievance concepts like “social justice”. It’s a vicious circle.

A vicious, tightening noose around the neck of the Anglosphere.

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Why Women Should Leave the Battlefield Badassery To Their Men

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Throwback Thursday with the flamethrower 🔥 *DISCLAIMER : Yes the flamethrower really had that much pressure to kick me back. Yess my hair should have been up in a ponytail. Yesss it could have gone horribly wrong. AND lastly… Yessss if you comment about any of above mention items you are a d-bag 💋* #flamethrower #gunvideos #weaponsfeed #igmilitia #gundose #gunfreaks #gunchannels #sickguns #gunsbadassery #bad_ass_official #jillhensley #teamrocky #weaboutthatgunlife #oneshotindustries #burnmotherfuckerburn

A post shared by Jill Hensley Butler (@jill.hensley) on Apr 13, 2017 at 7:55am PDT

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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Nonlinear Seduction

Vagnette #1:

A past girlfling back in town had spotted me and flounced over to say hello.

HER: “Heeeeey, [Lucifer’s Third Leg], it’s been a while.”

ME: “It has! Heeeeey back atcha.”

HER: “What’ve you been up to?”

ME: “Oh just doing my thing.”

HER: “Your thing? What thing is that?”

ME: “Ah you know, all the things. This and that. Mostly that. I prefer that over this.”

HER: “Hm, you’re still as silly as ever,” she said as her eyes glowed with event horizon gravitingle pull.

We talked more, and she departed with a smile and a promise to MEAT again.

***

Vagnette #2:

A ladyfriend and I were sidewalking when we noticed what possibly may have been a self-driving all-electric test vehicle parked at the curb.

HER: “Check out that car! Pretty cool huh?”

ME: “I dunno. Will it take me to paradise?”

HER: *shoulder punch followed by penis grab*

In the realm of seduction — which is any realm that a man is alone with a woman and he isn’t a sniveling beta orbiter enabling her emotional vampirism — logic and reason won’t work on women. Oh sure women can sufficiently mimic the cadences of logic and reason, and even summon a convincing simulacrum of interest in the worlds of logic and reason when circumstances demand, but it’s not what juices women’s genderpulp. What women want is nonlinearity. Unpredictability. Surprize bantzsex. Cleverness. Or even silliness.

Anything but what they EXPECT the typical beta boob to say to them.

Beta male conversations with attractive women are like the weather. Everyone talks about it, no one says anything interesting. “How about this weather we’re having?” “Yeah, it’s been so nice.” Weatherjive is a fine lube for polite social interaction (I’M NOT A DANGER I TALK ABOUT THE WEATHER) but it’s horrible for lubing sexual tension. The unexpected  — “WEATHER IS FOR PLEBS” — is undiluted snapper stimulant. When you knock a woman off her daily script, her vagina explodes like a CIA-sponsored Syrian barrel bomb.

Logic and reason create civilizations, but destroy vaginations. The evo sike dudes would say that the freewheeling, devil-may-ZFG, out-of-cleft-field, flirty tangents that demarcate charming jerkboys from boring betas are an evolved preference in women to help them discriminate in favor of men who would have the cognitive horsepower to gather ARE RESOURCES when the gathering is tough. Perhaps long ago, that nonlinearly seductive man was equally adept at conniving stuff from other men as he was at stuffing gines.

Game lesson: Don’t sweat your conversations with women. Let it fly. You might say something stupid occasionally, but at least you won’t be a bore. And the hottest chicks hate nothing more than a man who bores them.

Chicks HATE HATE HATE boring men.
Worse than they hate unemployed bums.
Worse than they hate pygmales.
Worse than they hate nümales.
Worse than they hate neomaxizimdweebmales.

Don’t be boring and predictable and you’ll discover women expectantly hanging on your next word. Follow-ups to opening lines become much easier, and convos flow much smoother, when the girl can’t call your next move.

Studiously avoid self-entrapment in the world of “point A-to-point B” sanity. This is the world of women you’re in now, so check your sanity at the door and climb on the ride that is wild.

CH Maxim #14: KEEP HER GUESSING, KEEP HER GEYSERING

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The Illusionist Hottie

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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