Nothing Compares 2 The Wall

So sad, so tragic, the inevitable slide into sexual worthlessness that accompanies women, the withering tick tock of the cosmic clock stripping their beauty in flayed bits of soulletting mignons like psychological ling chi. A sadistic thief in the night etching, billowing, draping and sagging a new affront to her most preciously guarded asset. The comfort of her children, if she has them, acting as meager respite from the awful realization that she has been sucked dry of her whimsy and power.

But enough of that merriment. Sinead O’Connor, the Irish singer who ripped up a picture of the Pope and sweetly sang a remake of a Prince ballad, and who was, not so long ago despite the shock of her change in appearance, cute enough to bang even with her boyishly short hairstyle, has hit the wall hard enough to cause even Wile E. Coyote to wince in pain. The evidence:

Then:

And now (20 years later):

Pixie? No. Not anymore. BIXIE.

Some of you tenderhearted sorts might be tempted to ask why I am torturing a poor woman who has to endure pain enough ensconced in her deteriorating shell. Steady on, bugle boys. I might have a sadistic streak, but I don’t select my targets without some justification which makes the torture that much more pleasurable to inflict. Good old Sinead, fat and unhappy, has an internet blog, of all things!, wherein she laments her lack of a sex life and basically puts out a personal ad for a man to come rescue her from her celibate dreariness. The incomprehensible catch? She makes a list of demands for the type of man she wants.

Complaining of a lack of intimacy in recent times, O’Connor writes on her blog: “My shit-uation sexually/affectionately speaking is so dire that inanimate objects are starting to look good as are inappropriate and/or unavailable men and/or inappropriate and/or unavailable fruits and vegetables. I tell you yams are looking like the winners.”

“Needless to say what I do for a living makes it hard for me to find men that only want me cuz they like my (legendary) arse. Yet I am in the peak of my sexual prime [Ed: No, you’re not.] and way too lovely [Ed: No, you’re not.] to be living like a nun. and it’s VERY depressing.” [Ed: Yes, it is.]

So she’s taken action but O’Connor is not looking for just any man. She specifically wants a middle-aged, sweet, sex-starved man – who doesn’t use hair product, lives in Ireland, loves his mother… There’s a host of stipulations for O’Connor’s would-be sex partners.

Sinead, spinhead, spinster, Irish Lassie, lumpentits… have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re in no position to make ANY kind of demands on men. You should thank your LUCKY FUCKING STARS if you get a homeless, piss-stained BUM to stick it in your distended flabby sowhole.

It’s this sort of insistently aggressive delusion, so common amongst the aging cougar crowd, fat harpies and single moms, that pings my target designation flaydar. This is the kind of bullheaded clown steeped in pretty lies who serves as an excellent test case to be made example of for the benefit of younger, more sensible women who might be teetering on the brink of bad life decisions. You could almost… almost… say I’m a humanitarian.

Let me be clear, if I haven’t already. Ladeeeeez, listen up. When you look more like post-wall Sinead and less like pre-wall Sinead (see above), it’s time for you to ratchet down your lists of demands in men. Any man you manage to get, if you get any, won’t meet them. They won’t even come close to meeting them. I understand it gives you some psychological comfort to pretend you have standards in the face of your horrible disfigurement at the cruel hands of father time, but actually living by those ridiculous standards instead of just hypocritically mouthing them to rock yourself to sleep at night is NOT going to land you a man of any semi-respectable character, intelligence, wit or looks. If anything, such strict adherence will consign you to lifelong celibacy. The men you will find attractive, quite bluntly, won’t find you attractive. At all. You will be worse than invisible to them. You will be repulsive. A monster to avoid or mock.

The time for women to nurse a list of exorbitant demands in the men they date is when they are young, slender and cute. By young, I mean under 25. By slender, I mean BMI 17-23. By cute, I mean the top half of the women in this post. If any of those ingredients are missing, women need to slacken their demands in accordance with the degree to which they veer from the feminine ideal. So if you are old, fat and ugly, the only demand you can make of men and reasonably hope to achieve is that he isn’t a corpse. Even then, it’s a tough sell.

Sinead is an especially illustrative wall splat, as her entitlement complex, rivaling that of kings and queens, is a classic case of projection. She is attracted to men with fame and power, and so she thinks men will be attracted to women with fame and power. She has fame (loosely defined) and thinks that men will love her for it. This is the worst life station that can befall the single cougar: to have the trappings of male attractiveness with none of the trappings of female attractiveness. On paper and in thrall to their hamsters, these powerful older women think they deserve the best. In the reality of the sexual marketplace, they are the forgotten femmes of yesteryear, cavalierly shoved aside by men with options for the younger, prettier girls of their fervid dreams.

But it gets better:

And further posts [from Sinead] brought more. Prospective lovers can be lesbian; may even, she conceded, be christened Brian or Nigel; but anal sex is non-negotiable.

“Any man I contemplate has to be into anal sex …  let me now take time to make VERY clear that yes I ‘do anal’ and in fact I would be deeply unhappy if ‘doing anal’ wasn’t on the menu, amongst everything else$ So if u don’t like ‘the difficult brown’.. Don’t apply.”

When I think of the joys of anal, it’s a cute, young chick whose silky smooth back passage I’m violating. If I wanted to trek through a dank forest and hack away at thick underbrush with a machete while the stench of rotting carcass meat singed my nostril hairs, I’d sooner travel to the Amazon than Sinead O’Connor’s ass.

But I can understand why Sinead has highlighted this demand of hers. Naturally, as women age, they become more willing to experiment with all manner of sexual kink. It’s totally predictable. When you don’t have your cute looks to trade in on anymore, you have to make up the shortfall with some other, usually less intriguing, enticement, like a willingness to lodge your ass into a bottomless hammock and swing onto a dildo machine for the amusement of your loser lover.

I do wonder, though, if the Chateau message is starting to infiltrate the borg collective; if perhaps a great cougar awakening is upon us. An aging single mom writes a blog honestly appraising her low SMV and the Darwinian brutality of the dating market for women like herself.

‘I always had boyfriends when I was younger and assumed I would again after James was born,’ she says. ‘When he  was three, I started chatting online. These chats were fun — and sometimes quite flirty — but if I ever suggested  we meet, the men would often back  off, saying they were not looking for a relationship.’

A dozen or so dates followed over the years, none of them quite right. When she last registered with an online dating site she was 44 — and few men made contact. ‘Forty is a huge cut-off point for a lot of men,’ Ruthie explains. ‘There was just one I met and we had a fantastic evening. I was surprised afterwards when he didn’t get in touch.

‘Six months later, he did contact me. It turned out he’d seen some other women when he saw me and gone on to have brief relationships with them. When those relationships failed, he came back to me and I just felt, “He’ll be off again”, so I didn’t pursue it.’

Youch. This is the kind of crappy male behavior a woman on the downslope of her attractiveness and saddled with bastard spawn can expect from the men she wants to date. It won’t get better if she insists on only dating men she finds attractive. It will only get worse. Men with options simply won’t treat has-been single moms as well as they will treat already-is hot young childless babes. That is, if they deign to treat them with anything but callous indifference. More younger women need to hear stories like hers. It could save a lot of potential heartache.

And then there’s this online evidence for an awakening among older women.

Katie Sheppard, the director of relationships at Match.com, said online dating was now the second most common way couples met across the UK – behind being introduced by friends or family – and for older people it can be a perfect way to “dip a toe back into dating”.

Its research shows that dating is, especially for divorced women, fraught with complication, anxiety and worry. Looking for second-time love when children are a first priority is a challenge. Nicola Lamond, Netmums spokeswoman and mother, said: “Being a single parent can be pretty tough. Single parents describe themselves as lonely, isolated, vulnerable and worthless. There is a real sense their world has shrunk.”

There is a sense their world has shrunk… because it has.

Even Sinead has a hope of coming around to sensibility on her sexual obsolescence.

“Fire-men, rugby players, and Robert Downey-Junior will be given special consideration. As will literally anyone who applies.”

Sometimes, you just can’t give the stuff away for free.

Now is the time to take the message of this blog global. To ostracize the rigidly denialist feminists and to cajole the merely confused into the light of wisdom. To, in a word, increase the sum total of happiness in the world.

It beats listening to me gloat ‘I told ya so’.

ps:

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The Bar Girl, Ten Years Later

Reader whorefinder remembers a tragic story from his past.

Story time: you’ve all heard of Coyote Ugly, the bar in New York City? Many of you who are above 25 remember there was movie about it, which, unfortunately, turned out to be a beta-male-chick-flick as opposed to the semi-porno it should have been. Such a waste…

Anyway, I live in NYC, and have frequented the bar many times over the last 10 years or so. And this is the sad story.

You see, there’s a redheaded bartender who’s worked there since I started going. We’ve chatted a few times over the years, but nothing more–like a good bartender, she remembers my face when I come in, but she wouldn’t know me from Adam if I walked by on the street.

Now, we’re the same age. I started going around age 22, which was, coincidentally, the same year she started working there.

Back then, I couldn’t buy a date. A beta at heart, I marveled at the hot women at Coyote Ugly (hot in a roadhouse skank way) shaking their asses all over the place. The redhead, at the time, was in her physical prime. While not the best looking, her body was banging: slim, curvy, and elastic. She gave off that crazy-fuck vibe like something else. Danced like a motherfucker, looked like a poor man’s angel.

Now I know she was a skank, because each time I moseyed in, I saw a new guy with her. He’d sit down the end of the bar, bored, but occasionally, when no one was looking, she’d give him a kiss. In my early-to-mid 20’s, sad to say, I closed out Coyote Ugly and other bars way too often, and yet still went home alone to punch the clown. And the redhead would, monthly, be leaving with a new dude to get fucked by.

As I grew, matured, and, most importantly, developed game, I actually started to have success with women, and places like Coyote Ugly and strip clubs became distant memories for me, only to be visited for nostalgia, boredom, or shits-and-giggles when buddies are in town. I can pick up a hotter woman now much easier than spending $60-$100 to watch a whorish one be a cocktease to me and feed me bullshit. This is what game does—changes your perspective on everything, makes you disdain what you once would have given an arm for.

Those times I did roll into Coyote Ugly, the redhead would invariably be around. I found out from a bouncer she eventually became the bar manager, hence her hanging around even if not working behind the bar. But her look changed, too.

Years of hard drinking (Coyote girls often drink with the guys, although they invariably will get you to drink way more than them to push up your bill) and smoking outside gave her deposits of fat on her once-pristine body. Years of having a new cock every night left her face haggard, old, and tired, even when she faked a smile. Years of bad food from late night shit shops left her unable to speedplow through dance routines on the bar she once cut like a young farmer in summer. Years of screaming to the bar to “make some noise” and one too many bummed nicotine sticks left her voice low, deep, and gravelly—like the welfare queens you might hear on COPS.

She knew it, too. When she began, she dressed in a bikini top and short, short shorts almost every time I saw her (or ass-tight leather pants). Then, as she withered, she dressed more conservatively (at least for a wannabe roadhouse bar)—longer shorts and looser pants, to the point her tops were more “Jersey Girl out in the 1980’s” than Coyote Ugly. She took to wearing a short sleeve button down when going out for a smoke and then “forgetting” to take it off behind the bar. She wasn’t in denial—just trying to hide Father Time’s and Mother Bad Decision’s abusive marks.

I went in there the other night with a 25 year old Russian hottie I’m banging, for the first time in a year. And saw the redhead. Now 31, her face is permanently jowly from the screaming, nicotine, fatty food, and cocks. She’s well on her way to obesity, and doesn’t even bartend any more, even as a fill in—just a manager. Her once strawberry red hair, which was light and airy, is now stringy, greasy, and worn from one too many guys yanking on it. She even has stretch marks—apparently, she had a kid.

When I walked in with hottie, she was sitting at the edge of the bar, encouraging the new girls to act as she did once, when spring was in her step. She looked up at me and her eyes flickered two painful emotions: recognition of my face, and shame. She was shamed by me, a man who once probably openly salivated at her but was too shy to do anything about it, standing there, now confident, brazen, and cocksure, arm around the waist of a girl ten times hotter than her—and also knowing that I remembered her when she could stop a clock. Now, the only thing that stops for her is a bus.

Long story. I think I’ll cross post at my site.

Somewhere in the readership, a trashy, loudmouthed, has-been skank who spent one too many years walking the trail of pecker tears just cried at her reflection in the mirror.

Cautionary tale, ladies. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

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An Alpha Male And His Women

On this Father’s Day, it makes to sense to honor the lives of men who have forsaken the path of beta domestication, fat mortgages and fat wives to live the swinging single life of the harem king.

Hugh Grant, middle-aged alpha male, canoodles with one two seven college coeds. His face is the picture of unbridled joy. This is one happy man. You will never see this kind of blissed-out look on the faces of men married for years to the same aging wives. Only young, fresh pussy can inspire such a glow.

The photo comes from an article by a 40-something careerist spinster who bemoans the fact that she can’t find love with the men she wants. In her words:

when I look around at my girlfriends – bright, attractive, successful, fabulous women in their 40s who are single – I sincerely begin to wonder: Is there even one solvent, kind, desirable, heterosexual single man in his 40s left in Britain?

My friends and I have a horrible suspicion that the answer is no.

The topic was much debated when I went on a detox holiday in Morocco at Easter with nine single women, ranging in age from mid-30s to late-40s and all looking for love.

At first I thought it would be an oestrogen-infused nightmare, but as I got to know the women, all well-educated and successful (including bankers, a lawyer, a top fashion buyer, a media executive and an art historian), we bonded over our inability to find our male match.

Some of the bankers confessed to resorting to affairs with married men at work, which was depressing, but mostly we concluded we were unable to find what we were looking for because like-minded men of our age didn’t exist.

Like most delusional, over-educated termagants, she believes her accomplishments and intelligence — those things that are more naturally suited to the domain of men — entitle her to a fabulously successful, good-looking and kind alpha male in his 40s. She is heartbroken to discover that most men her age want nothing to do with her, or her similarly situated klatsch of Cosmo readers. One of her friends moans:

My friend Lizzie, a 43-year-old art director, says it was a real surprise to start dating at 40 after her marriage ended.

‘I’ve always had boyfriends before, but I’ve been single for three years now, as I’m not so attractive a proposition any more. I’ve had a child and have responsibility, which these immature men of our age see as terrifying baggage – which is hypocritical when many of them have ex-wives who are bringing up their kids.’

Yes, the reason could only be “immaturity” why men don’t want to date aging single moms. Maybe the reason why men “see” your kid from a previous marriage as baggage is because… wait for it…

it is baggage!

The hamster is in overdrive in this one, his wee tongue hanging out, gasping for breath, the axel on his wheel coming off.

The author has even coined a cleverless gibe to describe these age appropriate men who dare to follow their hearts and date much younger women: “kidults”. She wonders why these older men — who BY RIGHTS should be dating HER, don’t you know it’s how things are done in polite society — treat her with such perfunctory disdain and act as if they are the prize. Well, lady, I got news for ya. When you have aged out of your prime attractiveness years (15-25), the men you want to date ARE the prize, compared to you.

On and on she bitches, with one insult after another hurled at the impertinent men who dare to pass her over for the younger, hotter competition. “Misogynist”. “Hateful”. “Arrogant”. “Vile presumption”. “Secretly hate women”. “Dysfunctional”. Such a colorful repertoire of psychological projection to soothe the butthurt ego. Unfortunately for her, the cold machinations of the sexual marketplace do not operate by adjectival decree. No, the answer why she goes unloved by the men she desires is much, much simpler:

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Low Energy Younger Women

A lot of older men in the comments of this blog complain that they find the frivolity, shit testing and emotional demands of younger women too frustrating to tolerate, so they nix entire groups of women from their target designation list. As one who has dated plenty of crazy whimsical women and enjoyed their company, I can’t wholly commiserate with these men who avoid younger women, but I can understand the reason for their gripes. Compared to women over 30, younger women are a pain in the ass. But they’re also fun and exciting and girlishly feminine and lovesick and sweetly naive and horny and curious and submissive and romantic. And they have perfectly unwrinkled tight asses. There’s your primary trade-off: PITA for PUTA.

However, there is a way around this conundrum. You could date low energy younger women. There is a sizable minority of early to mid-20s women who aren’t high maintenance drama queens. You’ll have to screen for them, but they are out there. They don’t dance on bars or shamelessly flirt, because they find those activities mentally taxing. They won’t constantly shit test because their minds require more peaceful repose than the party girls. They don’t make demands to be entertained because they don’t get easily bored with life. They don’t get antsy sitting still or enduring more than five minutes without male attention because they’re comfortable residing in their own world. They’re certainly cute enough to do all those things, but they don’t because it doesn’t suit their temperament.

The Man Who Was… writes:

I’ve said it before, both the best and the worst younger women like to date older men. On the one hand are the golddiggers and the girls who will indiscriminatly fuck anyone who makes them horny at that moment. On the other hand there are the girls who honestly appreciate your maturity.

But let’s face it the younger a woman is the flakier and more drama laden she is likely to be.

No argument there. Flakiness is very age-dependent. Teens and early 20s girls are the flakiest, then it falls off through the 20s, has a second, but smaller, peak again late 20s up to just past 30, and finally nosedives into and beyond the 30s when no man who isn’t a complete loser will put up with dating a 30+ woman who still flakes. (Sane women intuitively know this, too, which is why older women are so agreeable when you first meet them.)

Flakiness is just another term for having a wealth of options. Or, in the case of the 30 year old single careerist, having a mental breakdown. A woman of 21 simply has more options in the dating market than her older self at 31, and vastly more options than her 41 year old self. Finally, at around 50 years old for most women, their options dwindle to whatever man will have them. Which is close to zero. Paging Naomi Wolf…

So a flake is really just a hindbrain burp from a hot young woman who is beset with male admiration. She flakes because she is uncertain about choosing from amongst many potential suitors. It’s the beautiful agony of nearly limitless choice within a limited time frame.

Here’s another good thing about dating low energy younger women: they age slower than their attention whore counterparts. This must be related to a telomere sparing metabolic thing. Corollary: If you want to know how well your girlfriend will hold up should you decide to marry her, ask her when she hit puberty. In my observation, late bloomers are also late wilters.

The downside to dating low energy younger women? Your game will inevitably… ahem… soften. You need those dramatic hamster chicks to keep your game in tip top shape.

“I am a wiltin’ flowaahhh.”
– Naomi Wolf in her terrifying nightmares

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Science Confirms Another Game Concept: Older Women Need Less Game

Quite a while back there was a post at this Den of Delicious Sadism blog which explained how game changes depending on the age bracket of the woman you are trying to pick up. A few choice quotes from that post:

The 23-27 year old feels she is at her attractiveness peak, despite her peak having passed a few years earlier. This is because she is surrounded by many more high status men than she was while in college (or working at the Piggly Wiggly) who are expressing sexual interest in her. This social dynamic will work to inflate her ego beyond the bounds of her actual beauty ranking. Some consequences result from this.

NEG HARDER. The 23-27 year old will require harder negging than any other age group of women, even the hotter 18 year olds. She needs her ego punctured before her pussy will open for you. […]

The [31-34 year olds] are the kind of women who have sexual flings with college guys, because they can psychologically box those men in as “purely for fun” adventures. But the men the 31-34 year old women really want are the older, established men who will give them a marriage proposal and a family. This is why it is counterintuitively harder to game the older woman who still retains a vestige of her youthful attractiveness: she wants and expects so much more than the younger woman.

Game required: Strong body language, masculine dominance, sharp suits and shoes, easy on the negs and palm reading, emphasis on the comfort stage, lots of travel stories, disqualify yourself from sex on the first date, vulnerability game, avoidance of the beta provider zone. […]

The [36-38 year olds] are at peace with their spinsterhood and their failure in the dating market. A woman in this age bracket will acquiesce easily and gratefully to sex with very little game, as long as you don’t look like a grandpa. Her expectations are so low, it will be a challenge to disappoint her.

That post got a lot of feedback from commenters and emailers who saw in it a deep and profound truth reflected in their own life experiences. Haters, naturally, were livid with pent-up frustration that the mirror would be so impudently turned in their direction, but they at least could retire to their twin-sized beds and cans of cat food tumbling out of the pantry, soothed with the knowledge that no scientific study as yet had proved the bold claims made in that post. They felt they could glide through another day safely ensconced in their comforting lies.

N o t  a n y m o r e.

Reader quetal left a link to a very revealing study in the comments which, like other studies before it, confirms much of what is written here at the Chateau:

Tailor Your Approach to Your Audience: Data collected by Virtual Dating Assistants revealed that while women of all ages respond well to humor, women in their early 30s and above responded well to longer, more thoughtful emails that expressed genuine interest. Women in their 20s rejected these more serious emails, preferring even some slight cockiness – or what some dating coaches call the “Cocky & Funny” approach. In fact, one particular email that is long (over 150 words), expresses interest, draws commonalities (it’s always customized), demonstrates humor as well as a sense of ambition and adventure received a 9.7% response rate from women in their 20s, a 20.5% response rate from 30-somethings, and a 50.3% [response rate] from women 40 and above. This email, according to Scott, was sent to over a thousand women of different ages, so it’s pretty clear, based on these numbers alone, that a one-size-fits-all approach to online dating is a bad one.

Pwned.

You’ll notice that the study’s results square perfectly with the Chateau’s post quoted at the top. Older women on the downslope of their sexual desirability need less game and more signals of commitment to get them in bed than younger women in their sexual primes. Or, to put it more succinctly, younger, hotter, tighter women love assholes while older, uglier, looser women gravitate to beta providers.

The reason for this age difference in women’s reactions to game is clear: Older women have less sexual marketability and are thus more likely to be pumped and dumped by a high value man. Ensuring that the man sticks around is priority number one, so older women look for signs of herbly romantic interest of the kind that you might see a humanities department professor wallow in while stroking his weak-chin-hiding white beard. One of these signs is the long-winded thoughtful email with perfect punctuation. Younger women, in contrast, are playing with pocket aces, and can afford to indulge their animal desires for the aloof, alpha jerk of their dreams.

Now, as a man, which age group of women are you more interested in? Yeah, that’s what I thought. So… turn on your jerk light. Let it shine wherever you go. Let it make a jerky glow. For all the chicks to see.

This blog frequently gets lady commenters proclaiming to the high heavens that they would never date an asshole. After a leetle prying, it is usually revealed that these howling anti-game termagants are north of the Matron-Vixen line. And that they aren’t, how shall we say?, attractive representatives of their gender.

Of course older women don’t go for assholes as much as they used to when they were younger and hotter — their rapidly closing window of options means they can’t afford the risk of satisfying their carnal need for aloof jerks who are likely to leave them as soon as a younger prospect shows up. Younger women have these worries, too, but given their many years ahead of serviceability they don’t feel them as acutely, which explains why you often see the hottest chicks on the arms of the biggest assholes.

So if you want to bang broads teetering on the edge of witherdom with kids and marriage and college funds dancing in their dreams, go easy on the cocky and funny and the negs. The older woman’s ego has taken enough of a bruising from the encroachment of reality; your negs will only push her into self-flagellating withdrawal or indignant lashing out. She needs to know she still has the kind of looks that can turn heads, so your cloying flattery will work wonders on her.

On the other hand, if you want to date hot girls in their 20s and, for a lucky few of them, early 30s, you have to give ’em a bit of the ol’ ultrabadness. It’s the moral thing to do, if women’s pleasure is your business.

Executive Summary: Young women are harder lays. They require game and a cocky attitude. Older women are easier lays. They require flowers, compliments and cuddles. Don’t take dating advice from women. This goes double for women over 30.

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The Subtle Heartbreak Of Female Aging

One of the most famous photographs in history is the “Afghan Mona Lisa”, a pic taken by a National Geographic photographer in the 1980s of a 12 or 13 year old Afghan girl on the cusp of womanhood. In the pic, you can see her nascent, striking beauty beginning to assert itself. Many years later, that girl, now a grown woman, was tracked down and another photograph of her at approximate age 30 was taken. Here are the two pics side by side:

Tragedy. Beauty is but a flicker in the quickly brightening and fading light of a woman’s lifetime. If you think women don’t feel stress competing in the dating market, look at this photo for a helpful reminder of the Damocles Sword of sexual expiration that dangles over the head of every woman. Unlike men whose urgency centers on relieving the pressure valve in their gonads, women are inextricably bound to a powerful, implacable emotional urgency centered on the need to capitalize on their beauty before time runs out. Women have made a pact with the devil — in return for the promise of exquisite beauty, their window to this world of lavish male attention is woefully brief.

But the reason for this post and the inclusion of the photo above is to draw your eye to the nearly imperceptible changes in a woman’s face as she ages a mere 15 years. These changes — so subtle in their alterations — can produce an effect upon the male eye and penis such that she is rendered sexually invisible to him, if not outright repulsive. A tiny droop here, a blotch there, a shadow cast at the wrong aspect — minute changes to facial composition that one would be hard-pressed to pinpoint and elucidate will nevertheless, taken on the whole, turn a woman from a glorious sexual and feminine creature to a sorry bag of undifferentiated human flesh.

For example, let’s closely examine what exactly has changed between the 13-year old Afghan girl and her 30 year old self that she should now look like a witch instead of a blossoming beauty. This will be harder than you think.

– The lips are generally the same shape, but now the corners droop ever so slightly, as can be seen by the diagonal shadow extending from lip to jowl.

– Her skin, while free of acne and disfigurements, has become blotchy. Various hues of crimson compete for real estate on her cheeks and chin.

– Her nose, while still mostly the same shape and size, has acquired a barely perceptible downward tilt and a bonier countenance, cursing her with the aforementioned witchy visage.

– Her eyes have gotten relatively beadier, though this diminution is so tiny as to be measured in units smaller than millimeters. Yet the male brain and eyes, wired and honed to lacerating, and cruel, perfection by millions of years of evolution ensuring that only the most fertile women stake claim to his resource and emotional investments, has no trouble at all judging the tiniest millimeter differences in female facial composition for sexual worthiness.

– Her eyebrows, a little bushier, though again the change is small. But small changes make all the difference.

– The orbs of her eyes themselves have dulled, the glimmer of youthful vitality and emerging sexuality faded after a twinkle in time of only 15 years.

– Her chin has become bulbous. It has added perhaps no more than a half centimeter in the horizontal from her former chin size.

– She has grown incipient jowls, but we cannot tell this from any fat accumulation, which appears minor at best. Rather, we can tell by the “greater than”-shaped shadow that runs jagged from her cheekbone to her jawline.

– There is an ever-so-slight band of darkness under her eyes. The fat pockets that puff out the underlids of the orbital sockets are typically the first to waste away from the ravages of aging.

***

This was a brutal assessment, and the goal was to demonstrate that aging takes its toll on women in ways so subtle, and yet so deleterious and frighteningly fast, that the signs can be easily missed by a woman who has become accustomed to male attention in her late teens and early 20s, and in fact has become inured to the degradation in her sexual value by staring at her face every day in the mirror.

Naturally, some of you will say that Afghanistan is a tough place, and any woman living there would age faster than her pampered Western counterpart. You would be correct, as far as that goes. But the same unstoppable forces — like a tide of horrors — that have ruined the gift of this Afghan woman’s face to the world are at work ruining the faces of millions of Western women blowing away their prime years on mimosas and cock hopping. The only difference are the high tech cosmetics and treatments available in the West that helps stem the tide for a few years.

But that is all it is: a few years. A lucky American woman blessed with good genes and healthy living might be able to put off the withering Afghanistization of her face for perhaps five, or maybe even ten, extra years, holding the witch at bay until age 35-40. Sadly, for most American women, the malignant obesity epidemic has guaranteed that they will lose their beauty long before it is fairly taken from them, if they ever had it at all.

Men, when you remind yourselves of the unimaginable torment that women must experience as their number one asset abandons them with a fury to the cold, uncaring apathetic eyes of the sexual market…

be thankful that you are a man.

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The Elusive 10: Found!

The votes have been tallied and the verdict is in:

Paulina Porizkova was the only babe (in her prime) who got a plurality of 10 votes. Zeta Prime (nee Catherine Zeta Jones) came in a close second with a bare plurality of 9 votes edging out her 10 votes. Here is a better photo of the young Paulina:

Great Zeus’ beard. Her body may be a little too lithe for some of you, uh… drum and bass butt lovers, but there’s no denying her face is perfection. It simply doesn’t get any better than her when she was young. There may be equally beautiful women, but you’d have to search high and low to find a woman objectively *better* looking. Ric Ocasek, inarguably one of the ugliest men in the world, got to bang this ethereal beauty during her prime. He continues monopolizing her pussy today.

Look at their properly polarized body language. She truly loves him. And he her.

From Wikipedia:

Ric has been married three times; he married early in life, but divorced and was married to his second wife, Suzanne Ocasek in 1984. Ric was still married to Suzanne when he made the acquaintance of model Paulina Porizkova during filming of the music video for The Cars’ song “Drive” (directed by Timothy Hutton). At that time, Porizkova was just 19 years old and Ocasek was 35.

Five years after meeting, in 1989, Ocasek and Porizkova married. This was Ocasek’s third marriage, and Porizkova’s first. In 2009, the couple celebrated their 20th wedding anniversary and their 25th anniversary since they first met. Ocasek has a total of six sons, two from each of his three marriages.

Ric Ocasek is a super alpha. He has spread his seed far and wide, and enjoys the love of a beautiful woman. His fame, voice and catchy pop tunes whisked away his ugliness. No ugly woman with talent and fame can claim the same compensating appeal to men. Kathy Bates, a great actress with an ugly face and a fat body, once went on Letterman and lamented the trouble she had meeting men despite the advantages of her money and fame.

Ocasek hit the jackpot with Porizkova, which is why their marriage endures today after 25 years together. He really can’t do much better. Although, as Porizkova ages — and admittedly Porizkova started off her aging trajectory with such an overabundance of beauty that it might take a decade or two longer than the average woman for her to hit the wall — Ric may start feeling that old feeling again and eyeing little sluts with bad intent. I doubt he’d need much more game than taking a chick home and popping in one of his circa 1980s music videos.

Let Ric’s and Paulina’s love be a lesson, ladies. If you want a shot at winning commitment from an ugly-ass rock star, you had better be a 10 with a heart of gold. And preferably foreign-born.

Speaking of Porizkova, she recently had this to say about the occasion of her 40th birthday:

Former supermodel Paulina Porizkova has described the pain and frustration of losing her looks in the ageing process – insisting she has felt “invisible” since she turned 40 years old.

Porizkova shot to fame in the 1980s and became one of the world’s highest paid models, gracing the covers of the most high profile fashion magazines and spending seven years as the face of cosmetics giant Estee Lauder.

The 45 year old has stepped away from modelling in recent years, turning to TV instead with a regular role as a judge on America’s Next Top Model and a stint on Dancing With The Stars.

Porizkova now admits she misses her days as a model and feels “sad” her beauty has faded.

She tells the New York Post, “Nothing ages as poorly as a beautiful woman’s ego. When you have used your beauty to get around, it’s like having extra cash in your pocket. I was so used to walking down the street and having the young guys passing by at least give me a flicker of a look. But once you’re over 40, you become invisible. You’re a brick in the building and it’s sad. It just feels like the sun went down a little bit. It got a little cloudy outside.”

But the former supermodel is adamant she would not consider cosmetic surgery to regain her youthful appearance, insisting her former catwalk pal Janice Dickinson looks worse since she went under the knife.

Porizkova adds, “She was one of the most beautiful girls you’ve ever seen in your whole life. Now she looks like a transvestite.”

Another brick in the building. Any fat part of the bell curve women reading Paulina’s pained regret probably felt their hearts drop into their flabby stomachs. After all, if a ravishing beauty and former supermodel like Porizkova can suddenly become “invisible” to men at the age of 40, what hope do they have? Porizkova looks as good as a 45 year old woman can possibly look (she’s up there with Monica Bellucci for defying the hands of time), and yet even she has noticed the men’s eyes have stopped undressing her.

In comparison, this is where it is so much better to be a man. With an attractive lifestyle and a charming demeanor, a man can enjoy the lustful yearnings of younger women many more years than the average woman can expect to enjoy the pursuits of men, younger *or* older.

I have read that beautiful people suffer more psychologically from aging than plain-looking or ugly people, because they have more to lose. A twenty year deterioration can turn a hot babe into a barely recognizable hollow-eyed zombie of her former self, while an ugly MFer will still look pretty much like an ugly MFer twenty years later. The only thing unusual about Paulina’s observation of her rapidly declining sexual market value is her willingness to publicly acknowledge it. This marks her as a woman of excellent character.

Paulina is right about cosmetic surgery, too. The procedures aren’t good enough yet to slip past the quasi-tranny valley where aging broads surgically altered in the hopes of regaining their youthful glow instead resemble puffy bat-faced transvestites. Hopefully, science will advance on this front and true anti-aging breakthroughs will bless the world with more beautiful women for me to plunder.

***

Some other notes from the “Elusive 10” voting:

Lollygirl got the most 7 votes. The person who submitted her pic as an example of a 10 clearly has a jones for natural redheads. Truth be told, so do I. Unfortunately, Lollygirl was a little too skanky looking to compete with the exquisite beauties on display in that post. May her lolly forever shine on suggestively. Too bad redheads may disappear from the face of the earth.

Seven of the girls got rated a 9. This demonstrates that wide agreement exists on what constitutes 8s and 9s, but once you attempt to nail down feminine perfection, you run up against a dividing line of growing subjectivity past which men have individualistic tastes, and that this taste likely differs based on race. The reason for the boisterous disagreement probably arises from the fact that 10s are simply too rare in the state of nature to have exerted much of a selection effect on men’s mental beauty templates.

10s are not 10% of the population. Whoever claims that is living in a bubble. Female beauty isn’t on a linear scale. 10s are no more than 0.5% of all women. Probably more like 0.01%. You people need to get out in the world to reacquaint yourselves with the sad fact that most women walking around day to day are repulsive warthogs. If you limit your visual scope to non-obese women between the ages of 15 and 25, then you can plausibly claim a lot of women are bangable 6s and 7s, but you’d have to have laser-like focus to erase from your peripheral vision the aforementioned warthogs.

80% of the voters were white. (Voters and readers are not necessarily identical sets.) I suspect, though I cannot prove it, that white men are more transfixed by female facial beauty than are black men, who tend to focus more on the voluptuousness of the female body.

9% of voters were Asian, which far exceeds their proportion in the American population. Perhaps they boosted Hyori Lee’s rank? Of course, some of those self-identified Asians may be subcontinental Indians, in which case Aishwarya Rai got the boost.

The Finnish race represented 2.65% of the Chateau votes. Finns are 0.0008% of the world population. A fling I had with a Finn chick (you can see her arm in this post) was a twilight zone-ish experience. Pleasurable, but weird. She had incredibly soft skin.

Blacks accounted for 4% of the voters. The black girl got 6% of the 10 votes, which means there’s some jungle fever going on! The Finns, gotta be them.

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