Why Women Have A Sixth Sense

Women don’t literally have a sixth sense, but they do have better intuition than men, if casual observation is to be believed. (Readers may correct me if I’m off-base, but I think there have even been studies purporting to show that women do have a more finely developed intuition than men, or that women lean on their intuition more than men lean on theirs.)

If we take it as a given that women are more intuitive, then we can offer two plausible evolutionarily modulated reasons why this sex difference exists.

1. Women need to be better than men at screening out undesirable mate prospects, and intuition is a tool they use to accomplish on-the-fly screening.

Men are more visual-oriented than women, so men can see with a split second glance which women are worthy of their seed and which aren’t. Women, on the contrary, require many input variables to determine a man’s worthiness as a mating partner, including, in great measure, his personality; so women have evolved a preference for intuition — molded by eons of accumulated genetic wisdom — as a guide to help them filter out beta males from alpha males. (Or lesser value men from higher value men.) This intuition is what allows a woman to uncover, through the mechanisms of gut feelings and subconsciously formulated sly psychological “tests”, a man’s strength, character, attractiveness to other women, and ability to take the heat without melting down. Her hamster gets a tingle for the man who passes through her intuition filter, and she responds by physiologically opening up to him.

2. Women need to be better than men at averting and resolving relationship trouble, and intuition is a tool they use to identify early warning signs that the relationship is foundering.

A woman is honed like a machine to be a first responder to relationship crisis. She uses her intuition to pick out subtle nicks in the relationship armor that could grow to chasms if left untended. Women’s attractiveness window for landing a desirable mate is shorter than men’s attractiveness window, so a woman who has invested some months or even years into a relationship will have more to lose than the man should the relationship fail. A man can more easily pick himself up and brush himself off for another go-round in the dating scene. Women therefore have evolved an exquisite sense for sniffing out warning signs that a man is losing interest, or that his love, and hence his commitment, is cooling. This is why men are perplexed when women bring up “problems” with the relationship that the men can’t fathom are worthy of discussion. And yet, women’s refined intuition for evidence of men’s emotional distancing has likely served their sex well over the millennia, helping her head off additional investment that would lead nowhere but to an older and unlovelier version of herself alone again in the mating market.

Men who have experience with a lot of women have acquired an astute awareness of women’s intuition, and have even developed their own to compete with women. Players have a preternatural ability to know when a girlfriend is drifting away, or a lover is about to cheat, or a date isn’t both feet in. They know better than less experienced men when to cut their losses and when to press on, partly based on their own refined intuitions and partly based on a better ability to manipulate women’s intuitive sense for both of their gains. This is why some of the best players beloved by women possess feminine acumen themselves. The alpha male leader of men who cares not for the emotional world of women often leaves the sensitive female cold, and finds himself playing second fiddle to the man who has absorbed female psychology and made it work for him.

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The Problem With Single Women Having The Vote

When you don’t have an alpha male in your personal life to admire and rely on for support (partly because you make your own money and don’t feel a pressing need to have a middle class compliment&cuddle herb around for security), you turn to the next facsimile — the substitute alpha male who promises limitless resources for you and your future sprogling. This substitute alpha male is The State, and its shaman emissary is Obama.

Don’t believe me? Check the polls.

If President Barack Obama wins a second term, he may have to thank all the single ladies: A new poll out Wednesday shows Obama crushing Mitt Romney among unmarried women by a lopsided 60%-31% margin. […]

The Quinnipiac survey found Romney up 54%-35% among married men and 49%-42% among married women. Obama led 47%-38% among single men and  60%-31% among single women.

Single women are bankrupting this country. And they don’t give a shit, as long as they get theirs, which includes tingles.

Marriage does seem to be at least a partial cure, but with overall marriage rates falling, and age of first marriage delayed, it’s likely the Gimmedat Party will soon demographically overwhelm national elections and put the “opposition” into permanent minority status. Couple this trend with the Mexodus where 2/3rds of all Amerindian migrants — and that’s a lot of them now — will vote for Gimmedats no matter what, and you are looking at a recipe for stark, self-interested regionalism and possible secession, coming soon to a deteriorating bread and circus pledge drive near you.

But, cheers, at least you got the latest comparatively advantaged, slave-labor iPhone and some cheap chalupas!

Related, Whiskey left a pretty good comment over at Sailer’s:

I wish immigration WAS a deciding factor for how Whites vote, but it just isn’t. White women don’t get harmed by it, there’s all those immigrant kids to teach, NGO-mind, and status monger over. Who taught me that?

STEVE SAILER.

The marginal vote gained by emphasizing immigration loses two (female) votes; Romney is a numbers guy, its why he emphasized it but not much on the GOP trail, and not at all tonight.

Does anyone think the undecided are going to vote for a guy who wants to deport illegals? Really? When those voters are overwhelmingly White and female? And single?

As Steve pointed out, the declining White share of the vote makes bigger White proportions mandatory for winning. If Romney wants to win, he has to get more than McCain’s 60% of the White vote. That means WOMEN. Since Obama took White single women by over 70%, and has an edge over abortion, contraception, paying for it, female preferences, culture wars, and the like. Romney can’t win them but he can cut say that percentage down by 10%.

And in office he can without fanfare on the margins increase deportations, fines for employing illegals (hit Chipotle hard), and the like. Marginal changes are all we have got, because Whites are smaller percentages of voters.

Do any of you know any actual women? They despise to a woman social conservatism, and anti-immigration measures like deportation as “cruel” and reactionary. Pandering to them is necessary. I’d rather have less bad than awful.

Whiskey is onto something. I swim among single women — mostly white, mostly educated and/or intelligent, in their 20s and 30s — and I can assure you they have a rock hard clit boner for Obama and leftie policies in general. Romney may as well be the anti-Christ when he’s not some buffoon at whom they happily lob insipid snark bombs. I can count on three fingers the number of unmarried girls I know who aren’t reflexively pro-O-face. And even among those women who might have some sympathies for anti-Gimmedat viewpoints, any hint that you were against eternally welcoming open borders to the third world would send them spinning into point and sputter orbit.

This is the reality we live in. It’s status whoring and self-righteous hypocritical white girl preening all the way down. The people have suckled on the Big Daddy Government teat for too long, and they ain’t giving it up. Single women are the worst teat sucklers because it is in the nature of women, before they have had their estrogenic rocket fuel burned out of them by marriage and children, to extract as many resources from the tribe’s public pot as they can manage, and to dispense as much of the public till to sympathetic groups in a showy self-annihilation of pathological altruism.

And men, the majority of them generally being weak-willed betas all too happy to dance to young babes’ tunes, have neither the balls nor the heart to call them out for their vapid politics. Many white men are so manboobed they actually yearn for their dispossession, both demographically and politically, like some cuckold fetishist lubing his palm with his salty tears and pulling forlornly at his purple pud in the corner as he gets psychologically ass-rammed by his gleeful tormentors.

As the day must yield to night, so did suffrage yield to anarcho-tyranny.

So, there is nothing really that Romney can do, that heeds the media’s constraints on his party for acceptable discourse, to win over this group. He has three choices that stand a chance:

1. Become Gimmedat Lite and hope to peel off a sliver of the single mom contingent, and then rule differently once in office (fat chance), sacrificing a second term for the greater good.

2. Maximize his gains among single white men. If he can get that group to vote for him 80-20, then the 70-30 advantage O-face has among single white women is nullified.

3. Hope that the polls are lying because people are saying what they think the pollsters want to hear.

Right now, number one is what’s happening, and even then I don’t think Romney pulls this off. Why settle for a poor imitation of the real thing?

In a future post, I will discuss how crime thinkers such as yourself can successfully navigate the sexual market of leftie SWPL chicks without scaring them off or suffering undue mental distress. Hint: Be a sly motherfucker.

Addendum:

Will white chicks flock to the alpha male, regardless of his politics? That’s a good question. The alpha allure may have met its match against the promises of the sexless, bottomless beta provider of the nanny state government. Romney out-alpha’ed Obama in the debate…

YOU GOT ALPHA’ED!

…but Obama still holds the trump card of being the guy who represents the dream of every girl to have a harem of eunuch beta male orbiters showering her with emotional support and money while demanding nothing in return. It’ll be interesting to see if the polls budge among women in favor of Romney because he looked like a boss disciplining a lackadaisical employee during the debate. Obama’s head nodding while Romney dressed him down was a huge beta tell, and women pick up on that subtle body language stuff. If they are sufficiently turned off, this election could be up for grabs.

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The Dark Romance Genre

chris suggests:

Heartiste, you’re a good writer, given the current popularity of dark-romance novels (i.e. 50 shades of grey, twilight), have you ever considered taking your own shot at writing an erotic romance novel for women, and seeing just how dark and twisted the female sexual psyche is, just for the fun of it?

Examples: Jack the Ripper, a misunderstood man who just loved too much. [ed: i laughed.]
or

SS Nazi Officer, blonde haired Ubermensch, whose steel cold and ruthless determination would give way to heartfelt whispers of love and tenderness.
or

Jaws, a tale of unrequited interspecies romance.

My guess is the second one might actually prove popular if done right.

Have I considered writing a dark romance novel? Who says I haven’t already? 😉

The time is clearly ripe for it. Millions of Western women, removed from the emotional grounding of real struggle, surrounded on all sides by lapdog betas, inflamed to uncontrollable passions by the rare aloof alphas, are screaming out for quenching of their suppressed desires (suppressed, in part, by women’s own lifestyle paths).

I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that sketchy pulp romance porn like Twilight and Fifty Shades of Sadism are currently very popular with women. The contours of our fantasies are most starkly delineated when feeding desire that is least fulfilled in reality. A society of more seductive men would dampen women’s inner world of secret desires. A society of beta males stokes it.

Women, of course, have never been sugar and spice. The female sexual psyche shades and twists in degrees, ebbing and flowing according to social or ecological pressures, but it never ceases being a land of shadow and maze. A subversive romance novel that humanized some alpha male monster via a woman’s love and hamstering genuflection would simultaneously satisfy female desire and send it up. I like the second one, too. SS officer shows soft side, woman who loves him sets out first to win his trust and kill him in his sleep, but can’t help following her heart. He implants his Hitler youth in her womb. Fin.

Here’s another idea:

Unusually cute feminist who writes pointless blog liberating fatties and cunts from bowel-shaking judgment is seduced by lacrosse playing frat boy son of a Republican bigwig. She finds out he has murdered three black prostitutes and buried the bodies in a remote Virginia wood, but by that time her heart swoons for his hot-cold-hot-cold, dread-inducing relationship acumen, and her vagina struggles against her conscience for dominance. One night he takes her to the spot where the bodies are decomposing and asks if she wants to be tied to a tree. Fear and tingles grip her, and she relents despite her misgivings, overcome with hot lust to fulfill a long-held fantasy of getting “play”-raped against a stately oak. He asks increasingly demanding questions, to which she answers affirmatively, her vagina glowing hotter with each reluctant submission. A French poodle trots into the scene, film noirish, and it triggers a lost memory from her youth, when a niceguy beta with a good job and kitchen skills loved her and promised her a life of domestic contentment and backrubs. A single feminist tear creases her face, now ripped by agony and pleasure as frat boy’s turgid paddle rends her furrow. He is wearing a Zorro mask. She mewls like a cougar in the throes of post-meal delight.

Months of dangerous sex punctuate a rise in feminist stardom, but she keeps her secret well, suffering the endless indignities of his increasingly deranged intrusions upon her body and claims on her womanhood, going so far as to construct a locket for her to permanently wear as reminder of his love. The spiral of passion imprisons and releases her, until one day he unceremoniously dumps her after she catches him anally boffing her radical feminist co-editor. Now presumably freed of his inexplicable power over her, she makes plans to reveal his crimes, but every time, just when she is about to pull the trigger, she steps away from the brink to collect her thoughts on long eatpraylove straycations, the last one to Morocco, where a swarthy fellow selling exotic wool carpets that cost five cents to manufacture in a Chinese factory accosts her in a dusty alley and introduces her to sexy jihad. From there, she comes down with an extreme case of Stockholm Syndrome and follows him on a pilgrimage to London, where she is initiated into the chain migration family through one-sided arranged marriage. She becomes a zealous Muslim convert, and feels a love and emotional calm she has never felt before, except when memories of that one man sidle into her dreams…

A tall, blonde-haired figure in an extra-tight European blazer slips into the used book shoppe she now runs with her Moroccan sister/aunt/cousin-in-law. He places a dog-eared tome on the counter: “My Secret Garden”. Her fingers tremble and dance along the spine of the book. A nerve shake sends ripples along her flesh. She peers vainly for his eyes under the fedora with the rim pulled down low. All she sees is a studded metal plate covering half his face and a whimsical smirk.

“It’s you?”

The man taps the book cover with a sinewy index finger. She stumbles at the cash register and rings him up. A knife sits gamely in the pence slot. She stares at it for a second, before composing herself.

She gives him the change. He lets his hand linger in hers as the currency empties into his palm. He taps the book again, and walks slowly out the door. She opens the book and finds a marked page. Nestled between the pages is a skeleton key. She collapses to the floor. The iron locket that has pierced her for ten years presses sharply against her pubis. A note flutters from the book and lands in her lap.

“I forgive you.”

She weeps as a powerful orgasm paralyzes her. The key waits for her. She picks it up, caresses it, and throws it into the trash.

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Laying Down The Law On Attention Whores

A reader talks about how he trains his slut girlfriend:

I have to credit the Chateau to some degree for what has happened in my relationship over the past week.

A little background: We’ve been dating for about 15 months or so, it’s a pretty serious relationship and I am letting her move in with me starting in January. She’s a solid 8, 5’2″, 100lbs and a great body.

I am currently away for work for the next 7 weeks, and it’s put a bit of a strain on the relationship for the first few weeks of my absence. [ed: if you have hand in the relationship — i.e., she wants you more than you want her, or you have more latent options than she has — a long absence will work in your favor.] This past weekend she said she and her best friend were going to get matching tattoos that they’d been talking about getting for years. They were going to get them on their ankles, which I found to be incredibly trashy looking. I put my foot down and said I did not approve and did not want her to get it. She lashed out initially and got upset, saying she felt like she couldn’t make decisions on her own anymore. I told her simply and succinctly that if she was wanting to be in this type of serious relationship with me that there were boundaries. I stood my ground, and was rewarded. Shortly after, her response was that she was not getting the ankle tattoo…and much love was sent my way.

In previous portions of my life I may not have reacted as confidently and strongly. I give partial credit to this site for waking my ass up. Thank you.

Proving a Chateau maxim, tattoos are a leading indicator of sluttiness. The more garish the tattoo, and the closer the tattoo sits to an erogenous zone, the more likely the wearer has taken the cock carousel for an extended after-hours spin.

But tattoos are also kind of sexy, especially small ones in dainty, hidden places, like the ankle or hip. This is why girls both wish to have them, and feel guilt about getting them: tats make women more attractive as short term flings but less attractive as long-term romantic partners.

I commend you for laying down the law. Your spidey sense tingled and telegraphed to you that your girlfriend would become a bigger cheating risk if she followed through with getting the tattoo. And the fact that she wants a tat has made you reevaluate her fidelity risk profile. Yours was a bold move, and chicks dig the bold move.

Naturally, a girl will stamp her wee feet when you tell her you won’t tolerate this or that behavior from her. But if you stay firm and in control of your emotions, and you are perfectly ready to call her bluff should she attempt the ol’ “I’ll find someone else who can appreciate me” counter-maneuver, you will be richly rewarded with her new and improved loyalty. Women love to feel sexy, and nothing makes them feel sexier than submitting, at last, to a strong man’s will. When you properly lead, women can’t wait to fall in line and follow. They are wired to follow, but only behind a man worthy of their relinquishment.

The reader above wrote a week later with an update:

Gentlemen…same guy that submitted about the ankle tat yesterday.

My gf recently discovered the ability of a hot girl to get lots of followers and instant positive reaction from twitter trolls. [ed: trouble brewing.] So this has sucked up a lot of her time over the past couple weeks, and she’ll post flirty pictures and what not. She’s got nearly 600 followers already and probably about 1700 tweets in the last 3 weeks that she’s put out. I’m on twitter as well and following her and vice versa and we interact on there as well as via txt/phone like we always have. I haven’t seen really anything that’s stepped over the line except one instance where I immediately called her out on it. She retweeted a somewhat suggestive comment a guy had made passively referring to her. She immediately took it down and said she was sorry, she didn’t really think of it that way. She said she just found it funny so she retweeted it.

She does interact with other guys on there, and I have indicated that I will not tolerate any sort of flirting with other guys. She offered to take it down last week when we were fighting about all of this, but I get the feeling the offer was simply a trap. I told her I wasn’t telling her to take it down, but that I was not going to allow twitter to be taking my place. My gut feeling on all of this isn’t all that great. I’m away for work until after the election and I only get to see her maybe once a week if we’re lucky.

Thoughts on the twitter? I know what’s going on here…she’s never been the girl that all the guys wanted, [ed: was she an ugly duckling as a child?] and now this lets her soak up all the instant compliments and such. I realize that it’s simply her feeding her desire for validation, but I need to keep it under control. Thoughts?

Be careful. Your girlfriend is transmogrifying into an attention whore right before your eyes. 600 Twit followers from posting salacious pics of herself. Yes, women have so much to contribute to civilization; namely, they passively motivate men to do the heavy lifting. Your GF’s confessed desire for a tattoo was an early warning signal. Twitter is like a gateway drug to evermore dangerous attention whoring highs. The progression usually starts off slowly, and culminates in a raging runaway ego:

Infancy ==> if she’s a cute baby, adults will stare at her longer
Toddlerhood ==> all her antics are “adorable”. uglier toddlers get chastised.
Grade school ==> a constant stream of self-esteem boosting messages from parents, teachers and media begin the malignant growth of her ego.
Social media ==> she has entered the world of sexting, Instagram, Facebook and Twitter. there’s no turning back now.
High school ==> one “innocent” flirty pic of her in a bikini results in 2,314 likes from men of all ages around the country. she savors her power.
College (or working class service jobs) ==> the tables begin to turn, due to the unfavorable sex ratio and the world of ruthlessly aloof cads who are wise enough to not feed her ego. but it’s a short bump along her highway of hubris.
SWPLland! ==> the working world brings her in contact with hordes of undersexed, overcomplimenting beta herbs. the few alpha males shine like diamonds in this rough. she at once gets her ego fed and her tingles satiated.
Alpha male overdose ==> fifty years later, she will remember this one week romance she had with the man who never replied to her texts, except to say “gay”, and who gave her a bag of Skittles as a gift. the Skittles are now moldy, still cherished. she is ruined for all beta males. her ego has exploded.
Bars/nightclubs/scenes ==> not one of her drunken sexpot poses or phony smiles goes unphotographed or unreported for public consumption. beta males virtually hoist her above their heads, like an Egyptian queen. by now, her ego has metastasized into terminal cancer of the soul. deeply diseased women will experience shortness of breath when no one is taking their picture. bar dancing whores will strategically go commando on nights out.
Working world ==> “I don’t even need a man to pay for my shoes!”
Adulthood ==> historically, age 18 ushered adulthood, but times have changed. 30 is the new grown-up. her looks are beginning to show signs of the remorseless fade, but years of accumulated beta male sycophancy have gifted her with an ego able to weather a storm of self-doubt for years past her sell-by date.
Withdrawal ==> whether or not she has managed to land a beta sucker for marriage, she begins to experience withdrawal symptoms from coming off her attention drug. no more likes on FB. Twit pics garner 10 followers instead of 600. her “you go girl” chorus consists of mostly flabby, cat-owning hausfraus. blog commenters mock her thumbnail avatar. even the tattoo artist suggests she get a more tasteful tat on a “smoother” part of her body.
Lashing out ==> the beta hubby, because of his proximity and inborn weakness, suffers the brunt of her bitter spite. she will open her legs for random jerks who can’t be bothered to learn her name. she will nag her husband or BF until he is pulling his pud to gloomy, late-night porn while she sleeps. if he’s lucky, divorce or a break-up will relieve him of his indentured servitude.
Children ==> she will live vicariously through her daughter, enrolling her in creepy kiddie beauty pageants, or, if she’s higher class, seducing her daughter’s horny boyfriends away from her. the drastic shrinking of her desensitized ego will render her a bitchy malcontent, unable to feel pride in any personal achievement, and needing to latch onto others for internal validation.
Ego death ==> arrives twenty years after sexual prime death. decades of self-delusion have taken their toll. she is a shell entity.

Good reader, this is your future if you do not take steps to redirect her away from the siren song of social media aka digital stripper pole. Your gut feeling is correct; it’s a bad sign for your relationship that she’s passively flirting with men on Twitter, no matter how insistently she protests it’s all innocent fun.

Maxim #41: It’s never innocent fun.

If you’re in a solid relationship with a girl who loves you and values you, external validation through social media will never become an issue. She will use Twitter and Facebook to keep in touch with her social circle, and privatize her accounts so random men can’t find her and comment on her photos or daily musings. That is a normal, healthy female response to the lure of social media status whoring. A woman in love is validated by her lover, not by cloying flattery from hard-up strangers.

My friend, between the tattoo and the Twitter whoring, you are getting red flags flapping in a stiff wind over your head. She is constitutionally incapable of finding self-worth without propping herself on a fiber optically constructed sex stage or marking her body for the amusement of the gawking masses. Or perhaps she finds you insufficient as a man powerful enough to sway her from the attention whore spotlight. Or it could be both reasons.

Whatever it is, you have to proceed as if what you have with her is far from locked downed. All girls have an innate desire for external validation, as it is the nature of their sex that external characteristics most define their value in the sexual market, which is the one market to rule them all. But the degree to which women desire this external ego stroking varies by woman, based on variables like psychological predisposition, beauty, family history and being in love. The ideal woman is a pretty girl who got lots of affection *and* character-building discipline from her father, and who’d rather suffer the vagaries of being in love than play head games to avoid being hurt.

Anyhow, you have already once laid (lain?) down the law with your girlfriend, over her tattoo request. So I don’t see a reason why you can’t put your foot down again and tell her to privatize her online accounts. The danger with laying down the law is that overuse of your authority can create an impression, justified or not, of insecurity: the man who needs to be in control of every facet of his woman’s life is a man who is afraid the tiniest taste of freedom will send her running for the exits.

I respectfully suggest your LTR has some issues that need clarifying. Fifteen months is just about the time when both parties will subconsciously judge the quality of their relationship, and decide to keep at it or find a way out. This is especially so in modern America, a strange time of delayed responsibility and celebrated shamelessness, particularly of women. Furthermore, moving in together tends to hasten and strengthen the internal call for judgment. She is acting out because things have just gotten real.

My advice:

Keep a suspicious eye on her. Flirt with other girls to remind yourself you have options should the worst happen and your girlfriend cheats or hints at breaking up. Tell her public tweeting is out; if she really loves you, she’ll gladly accept the imposition on her crass desires. Remind her it’s for her own good over the long-term, and that other girls you have dated had no need to whore on Twitter. At last, begin to instill some dread in your relationship; this is how you will simultaneously test for her faithfulness and fullness of heart, and draw her away from the temptation of external validation. I’d offer you good luck, but I think that even if you “win” this round with her, the future prognosis doesn’t look promising. She’s on the upswing of venturing forth into attention whore land, and it’s hard to bring a girl back down to earth when she’s already catapulting into lookatme orbit.

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“Get lost”

Most girls avoid inciting confrontation. But some girls are constitutionally nasty. All girls can occasionally be nasty if they are pushed hard enough (or PMSing hard enough). American girls are getting manlier and, hence, nastier, so the occasions you will encounter nastiness from a girl in America and her Western satellites are likely increasing in frequency.

Some things a nasty bitch will utter are so grating you feel impelled to haul back and send her to the moon. “Get lost” is one of those things. Of course, you don’t want to do this. Not only will it result in a white knight brigade gang-tackling you in hopes of receiving a pat on the back from some fat hog in flip-flops, it will kill your pickup momentum.

The best answer to female nastiness is calm. As long as your demeanor is calm and you look unflustered, you will knock a nasty cunt off her game plan. She’s expecting one reaction; you’re giving her another.

Calmness is essentially non-reactiveness. When you react, you accede, implicitly or explicitly, to your antagonist’s frame. When you react, you confess defensive insecurity, even if objectively you are not, because perception is all that matters in seduction. Defensiveness is the biggest game-killer, outside of supplication. If you ever observe naturals or experienced players hitting on women, one thing you’ll notice they all have in common is a complete and total lack of defensiveness or supplication. The non-neediness and self-certainty of the inveterate player are so ingrained that he couldn’t be otherwise if he tried.

So, to sum up, when you encounter shocking nastiness from a girl:

1. Stay calm
2. Don’t react
3. Announce your preferred intention

Number 1 is very hard to do if you are a young man full of impulsivity and heavy balls. But it comes with practice. Hot emotions can be corralled and channeled, just like yogis can train themselves to focus inwardly and feel less pain.

Number 2 can be mastered simply by willing yourself to pause for a second or two in mental silence before responding to a girl who has attempted to get under your skin. The pause of alphaness is a powerful technique, and will help you gather your thoughts and keep a poker face. It is also very unsettling to your opponent.

Number 3 is reframing. This is where you apply the proper tension with the words you choose to relay to her. A substitution of her tacit demands with your alternative preference implies your indifference and perhaps mild annoyance. You are not angry or spiteful. You are condescending.

So, for example, a girl says this to you:

“Get lost.”

You would ideally respond with this:

“No, I think I’ll stay right here.”

No anger, no spite, no sulking, no defensive flailing. Just a calm iteration of fact and an imposition of your will on the world, wrapped in an unmovable frame.

If she really hates you, she’ll mutter something like “fuck you” under her breath and walk off, which is the equivalent of taking her ball home and declaring victory. But the perception will be that you will have won, standing your ground like an unflappable mofo. A small measure of self-satisfaction will materialize in a smirk on your face. It’s these little victories that add up to a rich, fulfilling life.

If she doesn’t really hate you, and was just being bitchy because bitch, her reaction will be an amalgam of surprise, indignation and intrigue. All these reactions are better than the alternative, because they all mean her frame has been broken and subsumed into yours. Great love often germinates in such difficult soil.

Now I know some of you are incredulously asking yourselves, “So an alpha male is never supposed to get angry, even when such anger is fully justified?”

No, I didn’t say that. An alpha male should favor being proactive over reactive. What this means in practice is that anger is best displayed intermittently, infrequently, and unexpectedly. It is also best used when its usage is personally advantageous. The rules of the sexual market are not guided by principles of fairness; an angry defensive outburst moves you no closer to your goal of pleasure, and usually moves you further from it.

Bitchiness should be answered first with bemused calm, which steals the bitch’s thunder and robs her of the satisfaction of provoking the expected butthurt response. Preternatural calm and steadfast state control will induce in the bitch complacency, guard-lowering, and second thoughts, from which a seduction may move forward, or from which you may lower the war hammer of ego smiting. Give the bitch room to bitch, implant in her the impression that you aren’t easily provoked and might even be worth getting to know, and then, when she least expects it, reveal the awesome glory of your disgust with her as a person.

Dishing out unforeseen comeuppance is almost as satisfying as sex. But it’s a long game, for those who have the patience and discipline to master not only the egos of others, but one’s own ego.

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Dimensions Of A Perfect Woman

Courtesy of reader Mike, here’s a page from a late 19th Century booklet named “Woman’s Own Book of Toilet Secrets”. The page describes the “dimensions of a perfect woman.”

I’d woo that.*

Here’s what it says, for those with Magoo eyes:

The dimensions of a perfect woman are: Five feet 5 inches in height, weight 128 pounds. Arms extended should measure from tip of middle finger to tip of middle finger just 5 feet 5 inches (the height). The length of her hand should be a tenth of that, her foot a seventh, the diameter of her chest a fifth. From her thighs to the ground she should measure just the same as from her thighs to the top of her head. The knee should come exactly midway between the thigh and the heel. The distance from the elbow to the middle finger should be the same as from the elbow to middle of the chest. From the top of the head to the chin should be just the length of the foot, and the same distance between the chin and the arm-pits. A woman of this height should measure 24 inches around the waist, 34 about the bust, if measured under the arms, and 43 if measured over them. The upper arm should measure 13 inches; the wrist 6 inches. The calf of the leg should measure 14½ inches; the thigh 25; the ankle 8.

FYI, her perfect dimensions are BMI 21.3 and waist-hip ratio (estimating based on chest measurement) 0.70 on the dot.

Sounds like the perfect woman of the early 21st Century, too. And she’s facially pretty, as well.

Now where else have I come across these ideal female measurements? Oh yeah.

Chateau Heartiste: reacquainting the world with turn of the (last) century truths.

Contrary to the delusional claims of feminists and their fellow travelers in the degenerate freak mafia, there has never been a time in history when women weren’t physically objectified, by either women themselves or by men. Objectification of the female form is the manifest nature of sexual selection. Shaking a fist at it and whining for it to change on feminist blogs is akin to forming an advocacy group for the reversal of the earth’s orbit. Except for some minor fluctuations at the margins, these timeless truths of human sexual preference are unchanging. Wailing for the ghost of Rubens won’t spare the resentful, rump-faced rejects from the unalterable truth that a fatopia, or a lawyercunttopia, or a manjawtopia, or a bigfatbeardedfeministtopia has never existed in modern human history, and likely hasn’t long before that. Fat, ugly, unfeminine, and/or older women were never in demand and never considered desirable by men or women with skin in the game.

The feminist, of course, will move the goalposts until her ego is sufficiently assuaged. When the evidence all around her belies her bromides, she will rhetorically assert:

Men liked plumper women in the past!

Nope. Playboy centerfolds in the 1950s fell within the ideal 17-23 BMI range and the 0.65-0.75 waist-hip ratios, just as Playboy centerfolds of today do. (Dec 1953 Playmate of the Month Marilyn Monroe had a 19.6 BMI; Nov 2009 Playmate of the Month Kelley Thompson has a BMI 18.6.)

Ok, then. Men liked plumper women in the distant past!

Nope. Pamphlets from the 19th Century depict desirable women having the same measurements as desirable women of today.

Ok, then. Men liked plumper women in the ancient past!

Nope. Fat “mother goddess” icons were not viewed as sex objects. And Rubens’ contemporaries painted slender babes, adding weight (heh) to the notion that Rubens was a fat fetishist outlier.

Ok, then. Men liked plumper women in the prehistoric past!

Nope. Figurines thousands of years old have been found of thin, young women with hourglass shapes wearing miniskirts.

Ok, then! Fuck you, misogynist pig!

Mmm, I taste your hot, bitter tears laden with saturated fats.

Beauty is objective. Beauty is measurable. Beauty abides universal standards. Beauty is an ironclad cosmic law that can’t be wished into irrelevance. Beauty is the golden ratio that holds illimitable dominion over all. Beauty

is

not

in

the

eye

of

the

beholder.

It is an inherent trait of the beheld. And it is immune to societal reengineering campaigns to reconstitute it for the benefit of those lacking its blessings.

Feminists and equalists, YOU LOSE. GOOD DAY, LOSER. YOU GET

NOTHING…

but eternal torment and anguish until your last breath escapes the prison of your ugliness and lies.

*I can already see the female readers rushing to the mirror with tape measure in hand, to find out how close they conform to perfection. It’s ok, ladies. Your reaction is normal and healthy and reflects a subconscious understanding and acceptance of reality that will redound to your personal advantage. Don’t let some whiny, bloviating porky pig convince you otherwise.

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White Woman

I think white nationalists, though I sympathize with the lie-smashing spirit enlivening their mission, will have to come to terms with something unsavory: their “natural allies” answer to no master save one.

Eh, this pic is too good to not meme-ify.

Scoot over to quickmeme and the “Perverted White Woman” theme. Add your own caption and amaze your friends and secretly dirty little girlfriends!

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