The Myth Of The Medieval BBW

Ugly women, feminists, and fat chicks hate that men have attractiveness standards. It’s been as long as I can remember that mustachioed lezbo academics and their impressionable vajlings have been claiming that prehistoric drawings and figurines supposedly depicting fatass broads prove that female beauty standards are malleable and culturally conditioned. Riiiight. My first post-puberty boner at age fourteen for the cute, slender brunette down the street wouldn’t have happened without messages from TV telling me thin chicks are in.

Now it turns out all those ancestral BBW figurines that so enamor the sort of feminists who loathe male desire may not have been sex objects or symbolic mother/goddess figures at all. (Link via Dienekes.)

Made by Neolithic farmers thousands of years before the creation of the pyramids or Stonehenge, they depict tiny cattle, crude sheep and flabby people.

In the 1960s, some researchers claimed the more rotund figures were of a mysterious large breasted and big bellied “mother goddess”, prompting a feminist tourism industry that thrives today.

But modern day experts disagree.

They say the “mother goddess” figures – which were buried among the rubbish of the Stone Age town – are unlikely to be have been religious icons.

Many of the figures thought to have been women [by researchers] in the 1960s, are just as likely to be men.

Somewhere among my readership a fat chick just wept big bloated tears of ice cream.

Even more disheartening for the cultural conditioning crowd and BBW goddess true believers, there is evidence that prehistoric men carved plenty of sexy, slender babes for their viewing pleasure. And in mini-skirts, to boot! Yes, Cosmo B.C. must have been warping teenage minds 7,500 years ago.

“What about Rubens?!” squeal the fatties. Well, many of Rubens’ late medieval European contemporaries, such as Botticelli and Cranach, painted slender babes. And Rubens himself deviated from his fat fetish to paint normal weight women. Furthermore, it is likely that Rubens was not painting masturbation material for the masses. If he was, he probably would have ended up like Francisco de Goya, who *did* paint erotically posed slender women.

Goya was summoned by the Spanish Inquisition to explain who commissioned the “obscene” art.  I don’t know what Goya told them but he lost his job as the Spanish court painter, and this was as late as the early 19th century, though in southern Europe.  Goya’s nude maja comes close to modern erotic pinup art/photography and is the type of art that is most likely to represent the artist’s preferences or those of his contemporaries, but it doesn’t depict an overweight woman.  What were the chances of a painter coming up with something similar when the Church ruled?

If your paintings would have caused hard-ons to spring up among the drooling public, the Church would have had a word with you.

Bottom line: There is no evidence that Rubens’ paintings of unpleasantly plump women were representative of the kind of women that most men of his time considered hot. Except for a few weird outliers like the Mauritanians and fatty fuckers like Rubens, and allowing for some minor variation in female attractiveness standards between the major races, the vast majority of men across cultures and historical generations have lusted for thin young women (BMI 17 – 23) with 0.7 waist-hip ratios and feminine dispositions. No amount of railing against the “system” or engaging in sophistic pseudoacademic hocus-pocus is gonna change this fact.

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Fat Or Not Fat?

In one of my series of posts illustrating the (possibly racially adjustable) universality of men’s taste in women, reader Obsidian mentioned the name of a big booty model he found attractive as an anecdotal counterpoint to the observable reality that female beauty is objective and that men pretty much agree which women are hot. He also claimed most black men like himself would find his ideal big booty model attractive. She goes by the stage name of “Scarlett” and she looks Puerto Rican. Here is a photo:

I’m going to do something different in this post. Instead of asking everyone together to rank the tank in Scarlett’s janx, I will separate the vote tables into “Black Men”, “White Men”, “Asian Men” and “Women”. (I don’t have too many Hispanic readers. You border jumpers will have to choose white or asian.) This is a sociological experiment intended to demonstrate differences between men and women, and between men of different races, in how tolerant they are of chunks of love on a woman.

The voting:

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Best Photo of 2009

Yeah, we’ve got nine more months in 2009, but this photo will not be beat.

Can’t fault the polar bear. He knows a delicious blubbery buffet when he sees it.

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Returning To Abusive Relationships

I left a comment in Roosh’s post about fat people in modern society being OK with their slovenly appearance (my theory: removal of shaming controls and safety in numbers) in response to the following preposterous assertion by another commenter named Heather:

is it possible to be fat and happy? speaking from personal experience: yep. i fully realize that i’m in the minority, but here is the reality: i’m in spinning class three days a week, yoga four times a week, i walk everywhere, been a vegetarian for the last 18 years, shop at the farmer’s market every week, have an enviable boyfriend, a career that i love and that lets me have my own lovely apartment in expensive-ass san francisco, amazing friends, am crafty as a motherfucker….i could go on. oh, and i’m 5′5″ and 185 pounds.

my point? be careful of casting disparaging judgments on an entire class of people. everyone has their own thing going on, and making assumptions about the happiness of others is shallow and ignorant, at best.

Here was my reply to the very large 5’5″ 185lb Heather:

heather, are you familiar with the ethiopian famine of the mid-1980s? millions starving, and a bunch of euro pop stars got together and wrote a song called “do they know its christmas?” and sang feed the world. bob geldof organized charities. the media was streaming video and pics from ethiopia during that famine.

care to guess how many of those ethiopians were fat?
yeah, not a one.
you can try to fool everyone here but you can’t fool the second law of thermodynamics — if you eat less food you will lose weight.

heather, you are a big fat bowling ball. 5′5″ 185 lbs is disgustingly obese on anyone who isn’t a world class male bodybuilder or powerlifter. if you aren’t lying about your exercise regimen and your vegetarianism, then the simple conclusion remains that you are eating way too much plant food or ice cream and/or exercising with the intensity of a slug for you to be that fat. because i guarantee that if you ate 200 calories worth of food per day for the next two months you WILL lose weight. there is no getting around that law of biochemistry.

oh, and i don’t believe you have an “enviable” boyfriend. you are either lying about that or deliberately misconstruing the meaning of “enviable” to assuage your ego. to clear the air, answer the following questions about your BF:

how tall is he?
how much does he weigh?
does he have all his hair?
do other women check him out when you are out with him on the town?
what is his occupation?
does he have an arrest record?
what is his level of education?
does he watch nascar regularly?
how much money does he make?
is he, or has he ever been, a drunk, gambling addict or drug addict?
is he, or has he ever been, in debt?
what happened to his last relationship?
what did his ex-girlfriends look like while he was dating them?
does he talk about his exes a lot?
when did he lose his virginity?
how long have you been together?
how many gifts has he bought you?
how often does he want to have sex with you?
has he ever fucked you with the lights on or during the daytime?
has he ever fucked you two or more times in a row?
does he go down on you?
on average, how long does he fuck you?
is he always asking you for blowjobs?
do you frequently catch him looking at other women?
has he ever called you another woman’s name?
does he watch a lot of porn?
is this porn featuring slender girls, or fat tonka truck girls?

that’ll do for now.

ps: if you think at your grotesque size you aren’t suffering a hit to your attractiveness to 99.99% of men, think again. men are pretty uniform in what they desire in women’s looks. if you have found a genuine fatty fucker, then count your blessings, because the number of weirdo fetish men who like fucking women of size are FAR fewer than the number of fatsos available for them to fuck.

Roosh appreciated the ownage. On second reading, I am inclined to agree.

So what does this have to do with “Shove me, slap me, but don’t ever say you’ll leave me” theme week?
It’s this: Overeating is self-abuse. Except food won’t give you hot sex.
Unless your name is Keith and you stare longingly at butternut squash.

In his perfect world, shame is once again restored to its rightful place as a powerful motivator of human behavior. SWPLers hate shame. Probably because they hate things that make them feel bad but have the effrontery to work.

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Fat Or Not Fat?

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Why I Left My Fat Wife

I’m about to reveal something of myself most of you don’t know.

A few years ago, my wife, Marie, and I were at one of those hip downtown restaurants sipping mangotinis and nibbling on injera bread when one of my bosses appeared with his thin trophy wife in tow and patted my shoulder. When I introduced him to Marie, he naturally looked her up and down. I froze.

Marie and my boss exchanged some small talk but I could see behind the polite chit chat that my boss’ eyes flickered with a hint of disgust. I noticed Marie hadn’t put down her fork, upon which was perched a wobbly chunk of eggplant.

“Well, it was good meeting you,” my boss said, cutting short the conversation.

Marie looked at me and shrugged. “He’s not a very friendly guy, huh?” she said, as my colleague walked off to his table.

“Um, yeah I suppose not,” I said, knowing that was a lie. My boss was actually one of the friendliest men I knew. I understood why he walked off so abruptly. My boss may be friendly, but he’s also a winner, and winners avoid fraternizing with losers. My boss took one look at my fat wife, and recoiled from the stench of loserness. Inside, I was mortified.

Technically, I had it all back then, including a gorgeous toddler and a cool job.

What I didn’t have was a wife I felt proud of.

God knows I wanted to be proud of her. Marie is smart and funny and the only person I know who gets off on explaining why the Twilight books are more feminist than vampiric. And if you asked me about somebody else’s stay-at-home wife, I’d be all over the subject, spouting statistics about how important the mother-daughter bond is to girls’ self-esteem and how limiting it is to expect men to mind the home front. But living with her as she became fatter and fatter was completely different.

Maybe it’s because the plan wasn’t for Marie to lose her looks so rapidly. I went to work when she started graduate school, thinking that I’d head back for my own Ph.D. once she was done. I envisioned us as hard-core SWPLs, reading passages from Joyce to each other while I put together a collection of sexy lingerie for her to wear as we reenacted every sex scene from Victorian era period films. Instead, I fell in love with my first job at a modeling agency, and eventually, after a few promotions, I found myself working as a photographer for a fashion magazine.

Things went less smoothly for Marie. By the time we found out she was pregnant – three years into our marriage – she’d been working at a job teaching film for six months and was beginning to gain weight from all the take-out she ate. She began packing on the pounds by the week, and it affected everything about her – her mood, job performance, health, sexiness. The lingerie I had bought her no longer fit, lost in the folds of her burgeoning ass. Still, the minute her pregnancy test flashed its double pink lines at me, I knew I needed to work even harder at my job to ensure my child had the best chance in life.

I worked late nights for six months after my daughter was born while Marie continued, yes, bloating up. In 18 months, she gained 40 pounds. Meanwhile, I was being pursued by the models I photographed. Eventually, I flirted with some of them.

I felt like myself again – flirting, feeling horny, loving the sight of beautiful women, doing the witty-banter thing in the halls with the models. But my marriage started to fall apart. I felt guilty about being glad to go back to work, and in my head, I made it Marie’s fault. Because she had gotten fat, I blamed her when I was working late and had to miss the baby’s bedtime; it was her fault I had to go in early every day, since the fact that she couldn’t stay slim meant that I couldn’t stop myself from checking out other women. And when I got home, I seethed. I couldn’t walk across the living room without tripping over a half-eaten apple pie or an ice cream scoop. The baby was in the same little nightgown she’d slept in the night before. There wasn’t a hint of food in the fridge; Marie had eaten it all. She was home all day-couldn’t she at least run a few laps on the freaking treadmill?

Eventually, communication between Marie and me deteriorated to the point where all we talked about was the baby. Had she gotten enough sleep? What had she eaten for lunch? How could she have run through an entire value pack of diapers in one weekend? “Wait till I tell you what she did,” she’d say every once in a while, as she gazed adoringly at the baby and I gazed around the room to avoid looking at my wife’s Pillsbury rolls. In those moments – watching Marie gently rock her to sleep while singing “Punk Rock Girl” – I was reminded why I had once thought Marie was the sexiest woman in the world. But our sex life was in ruins; I spent all my time in the computer den (AKA pornatorium) or at work-sponsored happy hours with the models. I chalked it up to the transition period all new parents go through. Then one day, I realized it had been almost a year since Marie and I had made love.

Sometimes she’d say, “I really think things would be better for us if we could just be intimate again.” Or she’d put the baby to bed early and come into the living room with two glasses of wine and a book of poetry – our classic recipe for seduction – but just the thought of me touching her cottage cheese thighs and lint-encrusted belly rolls made me recoil. “Maybe I’m just not a sexual person anymore,” I told her, and I honestly meant it. The truth is, I wasn’t attracted to her anymore. It wasn’t that she’d changed on the inside – she still had the same sense of humor, kind heart, and sharp intellect that had literally made me fall in love when I first met her. But in my heart and my head, I’d neutralized her as a sexual being. I wanted to be overwhelmed by the sheer power of her femininity in the bedroom, but I wasn’t. Because I felt like the dumpster diver in our relationship.

We went to see a therapist. “Don’t you think I resent you for how easy it is for you to stay thin?” Marie asked me during one session. “You have these great genes, and I’m home like a slave, running errands, taking care of your shit, and you can’t even spare me five minutes of sex at the end of the day.” I think it was the first time I’d actually listened to what she had to say in years. She said that she was angry with me for always staying out late and partying with slender models, and angry with herself for not being able to turn me on anymore. She said she didn’t appreciate being treated like a nanny-slash-housekeeper-slash-fat disgusting crap to be ignored in favor of porn. But what alternatives was she offering? I had ever so gently suggested she would feel better and our marriage would be happier if she lost the weight she had gained and slimmed back down to the hot wife I knew when I first fell in love with her and married her, but instead all she did was get fatter. We separated a few months later.

In retrospect, I realized I had this preconceived idea of what a sexy, attractive woman should be like. I imagined being married to, well, a good-looking, thin wife with a shapely hourglass figure. Someone whose attractive womanly physique looks pleasant to other people as well as to me. Someone who walks out the door with a sexy dress on, high heels, and a tight ass. Someone who turns heads. Does that make me a sexist? “I always felt embarrassed and guilty – you had all these preconditions for me that I felt like I wasn’t living up to,” Marie said to me after our divorce.

So nobody was more surprised than I was when I went ahead and fell for another funny, bright, kind woman like Marie.

Here’s the difference, though: Magdalena knows what men want – and it’s not a poetry reading over bon bons sitting on the increasingly concave couch. She knows men want to make sweet love to sexy, slender women who can wear the hot lingerie he buys for her without looking like a walrus tangled in a ball of string. Playing with my daughter or painting or translating the writings of Pablo Neruda is fine, but it is only a garnish to the main marriage course – hot, steamy, passionate love with a physically attractive woman. There’s nothing food-obsessed or self-loathing about her. When Magdalena and I are cooking dinner together on Friday nights in a kitchen devoid of cheetos and tubs of Haagen Daz, or trying to drink coffee in bed on Sunday mornings while my daughter dances around us, I’m so attracted to her that it’s all I can do not to rip her clothes off then and there.

Put it this way: Whether it’s me or the sexy figure she’s keeping, I think it’s damn sexy.

This article was sent to various women’s magazines for publication.

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Visualizing Omega

In my “Defining the Alpha Male” post, I described the detritus of malehood:

Lesser Omega, [Can only get] 0s and 1s, Will never feel love; can’t keep a girl longer than 3 days, Dry spells > 5 years.

I’ve already taken you on journeys exploring the vast wastelands of the beta universe, but that was child’s play. It’s time to pull back the curtain on the shambling mounds and wretched creatures who walk among us; the monsters who inhabit the far FAR left tail of the human bell curve.

Behold, the OMEGA:

When this is the best you can do, you are a lesser omega. You aren’t at the lowest level of dreg because you haven’t dropped out of society entirely and are able, however nauseatingly, to propagate your genes. But really, why would you condemn your future ugly children to a lifetime of misery and self-loathing? The compassionate thing to do would be to refrain from reproducing.

Notice the telltale omega traits (besides his choice of mate): Lowered gaze, meek countenance, leaning into his beastly wife, feeble self-conscious smile, dumbo ears, weak chin and jawline, beady eyes. Yes, he’s in the military, but that is no guarantee of high(er) status. The bottom of the barrel often embrace the soldier’s life because it offers the only chance to raise their value. They risk death as cannon fodder for a shot at respectability. If they’re lucky, they might even return home to a hero’s welcome.

Look at the faces on the groomsmen… abject defeat. Public humiliation. Despair for their unlucky buddy. Disgust. Even the little boy knows what a bunch of losers have gathered here today. The ability to discern a human status hierarchy is ingrained from birth. And they are likely pissed that the bridesmaids are too grotesque to tap.

The brideshogs look a little less morose, probably because they understand that their less-human-than-human hogzilla sister has gotten the better end of the deal by the very fact that she managed to find a man, however pathetic, who would be willing to dump a fuck in her flabby porcine hole.

62% of American women are overweight, with no end in sight to the disfiguration of their most precious resource. They live in towns like Ninety-Six, South Carolina (yes, real name). They have no self-discipline, eating until they explode like Mr. Creosote. Is it any wonder American men with the means are choosing to meet women overseas? When more than half the women in your country have removed themselves as dating prospects, the fuckable ones in the minority raise their asking price through the roof. It’s a vicious predicament.

If you were forced at gunpoint to have sexual relations with one of these women, who would you choose, and how would you do it? The couch crease never looked so sexy.

Sloping brow lardo and inbred omega nerdo in love. Possibly they are both borderline retarded. Ugliness and stupidity correlate. No one wants to look at people like this in the office, so they will probably work at jobs in coal mines or sewage treatment plants where they don’t pollute anyone’s vista. It’s time to end all public support so the genetic lines of the omegas dies out. It’s nature’s way to cull the weak and ugly. Without the cull, the degenerate freaks reproduce, dragging the rest of humanity with them (or chasing them off into gated communities with armed guards). The modern welfare state is responsible for the coming Idiocracy. It was preordained.

You can see the rest of the pictures at this forum, and the hilarious comments in response. The groom even has a Myspace page, so it’s the real deal.

Could this lesser omega have done better with game? Yes. In fact, for a guy this ugly, dorky and meek-looking, game will be especially effective. He can go from getting crushed underneath a heap of garbage during rutting to banging non-hideous 3s and 4s. Nothing short of Steve Buscemi level fame or vast wealth will raise his sexual market value, so the only self-improvement technique at his disposal is game.

I have to think there is no way this guy can get it up for her, no matter how horny or lonely. Below some mininum female ugliness floor, every penis becomes operationally flaccid. Ugly men and good-looking men get turned on by the same hot women, just like fat men and slim men want the same slender chicks. The packaging may change, but the brain remains the same.

While there is room to settle, I think past some ugly threshold a man looks at a pseudo-woman and regardless how motivated he is by the bounty of pity in his heart and horniness in his groin, his junk isn’t going to respond. Turning the lights off doesn’t always help. If she’s fat enough, you’ll hear her blubbery hideousness bumping into furniture and pulling the sheets off the bed. You’ll sink into her cheesy folds. You’ll listen to her grunts and wheezes as she goes down on you. You’ll have to sandblast the dingleberries out of her crack before doing her from behind. Dumpster dive deep enough, and you may as well be doing a man.

If this guy leaves her and decides it makes more sense to drop a few bucks and satisfy himself with a skanky street hooker, he will actually bump himself up from lesser omega to omega. As a man, there is such a thing as ranking lower than a celibate virgin — boffing a monstrous seacow will push you below a man whose only sexual outlet is porn.

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