The Only Triggering That Matters

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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Depravity, Thy Name Is Woman

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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The Damsel In Distress Beta Bait

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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The Cock Carouseler’s Lament

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.

Humbleshagging.

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,

poopywork.

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.

EatPraySlut

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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United States Of Schoolmarms

Fapple has decided to be the arbiter of which news their users should read. The company is calling their initiative the “Sanitization Curation”, in tribute to the tech-media alliance’s commitment to not just telling lies, but omitting truths.

Apple’s Vice President of Product Marketing Susan Prescott…

I could stop right there and you would have everything you needed to know about this news story. Runaway credentialism, empowered cat lady, tech company…Heritage America and the principles established and held dear by White men are about to be subverted (yet again). To hammer home the impression, here’s a face shot of Susan Prescott:

Prigiognomy is real.

And now the rest of the story,

Apple’s Vice President of Product Marketing Susan Prescott made an alarming announcement that Apple would be selecting the top news stories that appear in Apple News during the company’s Worldwide Developers Conference on Monday.

According to Prescott, Apple News’ editorial team will be selecting the top news stories of the day for millions of potential readers.

Number of Trump voters on Fapple News’ editorial team: 0

Prescott did not say what the criteria would be for Apple News to consider a source “trusted,” but conservatives will find this announcement particularly alarming.

Last year, Apple announced that it hired to head Apple News Lauren Kern, who previously served as executive editor for the liberal New York Magazine.

Apple’s hiring of Kern raised questions about the Cupertino-based company’s impartiality when it comes to news.

This is what happens when you put women in positions of power: the economy and culture get overrun with hall monitors.

CEO of Fapple, Tim Cook, is a person of bugger, which is essentially the same as Fapple being run by a woman.

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Submission Is Woman’s Calling

i loved that he was so powerful i was nothing.
-O

From anonymous, who misses the mark by equating psychological submission with sex.

one of the pretty little lies of the pua “community”, perhaps the PRETTIEST little lie is that when a woman had sex with a man that she has “submitted”. or that when she falls in love with a man that she has “submitted”. the whole point of birth control, of the state-wielded women’s “rights” bludgeon, is so that women can enjoy sex and power without submitting. she can even birth children without “submitting” via an epidural and C-section.

in every way white women are collectively trying to avoid submitting, unless of course they are forced to. but what happens when society has pretty much banned/demonized all of those traditional ways where women were subjected to submission? game is supposed to be an antidote for ALL THAT. pfffft.

fasteddie said it well above. game is simply a temporary, stop-gap measure. an adaptation to slow, but not remotely stop, the hemorrhaging.

Women have an innate desire to submit…to a worthy man. AKA a dominant man. That’s the catch. Weak men, by constitution or State fiat, aren’t worthy men, and under their tutelage or even in the foulness of their impotent presence it’s of course expected and natural that women would defy submitting to those men. And in fact that women would begin to fight their own feminine instincts to avoid an accidental commingling with a weak man or a weak nation.

And by submission, I mean the hunger that comes from the deep-seated hindbrain place where women frolic in the summery haze of their primeval fantasies. Sex alone is not submission, though with the right man it can be for a woman. The submission I’m talking about is what Pauline Reage described had stricken her book’s heroine: a submission of the soul. It’s the submission of a love felt so profoundly for a powerful man that it never needs summoning, excuse, or rationalization; it is omnipresent and unassailable, proof not only of the man’s worth but of the woman’s worth to him as well.

Women won’t announce this desire, or even consciously recognize it, because evolution has seen fit to conceal women’s truest desires from men, and from women themselves!, to avoid the problem of spoofers and to better assess male mate worthiness (“does he understand intuitively what i really want? then he must be loved by many women and thus worthy of my love”).

If you give women the tools — for instance, via anti-discrimination State mandates to “resolve” discrepancies in outcome and preference between the sexes, or via cultural innovations like the Pill which sabotage the bonding mechanism — to avoid their natural inclination to submission, you get a lot more unhappy women. And that is precisely what the happiness data show since the inception of modren feminism.

When social degeneration forces weaken the native men, their women flee in protest and claim the false god of gogrrl empowerment as their new idol. In their agitated and spiteful escape from their submission-craving femininity, women become increasingly unhappy and unhinged and have no mental template left to help them understand why or to navigate the sexual market shoals. They make things worse for themselves by assuming more aggressive androgyny, man-hating, and anti-femininity are the answer, but the alternative — relaxing into their feminine submission with a strong man ensconced within a State apparatus that celebrates and encourages his strength — is unavailable. Therefore, the idea and the instinctual urge of submission repulses women, makes them ashamed, because they would have to submit to what they view as weak men left adrift by a post-op M2F State hostile to efforts to restrengthen men.

Women in this condition fight endlessly against their nature because on a primal level they’re fighting against pollution by anemic seed. The fight will eventually consume women, but unless strong men backed by a concordant State awaken that latent submissive energy in women these women will never stop availing themselves of products, ideologies, sophistries, technologies, and carousels that serve the purpose of building bigger walls between themselves and the mass of spineless beta males who have forgotten how to excite and inspire women.

Game is one open path to showing men the way to exciting and inspiring women once again.

In the meantime, the poz pendulum continues its arc into Unipolar Ugliness, guaranteeing its return descent will be wicked, swift, and lethal to those who defied the gravitational pull of the sexes into their biomechanically preordained roles.

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