Being A Beta Is Worse Than…

…being this guy:

Hope’s boyfriend.

An anonymous reader sent me this photo with the following message: “gets more tail than all the herbs and betas on this site”.

What’s going on here? Clearly, Wolfman has a genetic mutation. Some things we know:

Chicks dig gnarly mutations.
Chicks especially dig gnarly mutations that confer a measure of fame upon the sufferer.
Chicks dig testosterone overload.
Man fur is a leading indicator of big balls swollen with testosterone.

What we don’t know is whether these cute girls* are banging Wolfman or if they’re just posing with him because of the novelty. *(I can’t tell if every girl pictured is the same girl. You know how it is. All look same.) Assuming this is his girlfriend(s), and that banging is going on, you have to tip your hat to the guy. He’s doing better than 70% of hirsutely normal betas whose faces girls can see.

In related news, Roosh rubbed his thick facial carpet while exclaiming “I’m not worthy!”.

I think I will start a new series called “Being A Beta Is Worse Than…”. The comparisons are limitless!

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Sick Game

I’ve stumbled (literally) across a school of game that is even more effective than hangover game: Sick game.

I met up with a buddy at a bar even though I was deep under the influence of a viral load. Cabin fever and the call of the wild coaxed me off my sofa. I warned him ahead of time that I would be absent as a wingman that night.

Coughing, sniffling, and hacking up loogies on the walk over, I dragged myself up to the roof deck and propped myself against the bar, or rather, leaned heavily against the bar to support my weakened body. Three girls situated themselves nearby. Even in my fuzzy mental state I knew a proximity indicator of interest when I saw one.

One of the girls was decent looking, but naturally I was in no mood to attempt her seduction. I just wanted to take in the spectacle, sip my ginger ale, and infect everyone with my contagious joy. But this girl moved closer and it would have been criminal of me to deny her the satisfaction of a proper gaming. So I opened her. Angrily.

“So what’s your deal?”

“My deal? This is my first time at this place.”

“Are those your friends over there?”

“Yes.” She waved at them and they wanly smiled back.

I growled. “Just make sure they don’t cockblock. I need space to sweep you off your feet.”

The seduction continued for fifteen minutes. My body language was… aloof. Sickly aloof. I don’t think I turned my head more than once to give her a sidelong glance. My mouth hung open taking in oxygen. My eyes were watery. My voice sounded muffled ricocheting off my phlegmy sinuses. I barely spoke, prefering to nod or give one word answers when she asked me questions. I didn’t smile once, not even when she tried to be funny. When she laughed, I didn’t laugh with her. When she thrust her impressive bosom in my face, I didn’t take notice. More than a few times I interrupted her conversation by coughing loudly into my hand. I allowed long, uncomfortable silences to linger when she ran out of things to say. Invariably, she would be the one to fumble frenetically for a topic to restart the conversation.

And after fifteen minutes? I number closed her. More precisely, I opened my phone and she grabbed it and punched in her number before I could even finish asking her for it.

Women are always saying they want men to “be themselves”. They want sincerity and candor. Well, nothing brings out the sincerity like sickness. I was truly “being myself”, my glorious, uncaring, indifferent, asshole self. And that’s the man that women love.

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A Sad Day For America: Ted Kennedy Is Dead

It’s a sad day. Ted Kennedy, lion of the left, has passed from this world. A vibrant melting pot of Americans of every persuasion mourn the loss, and hope to carry on his ideals in their own lives.

I, too, shed a tear. With a lump in my throat, I have written a deeply felt eulogy for Senator Kennedy. Pardon the hastily penned thoughts, but the words came spilling out of me like a deluge.

******

You, Senator Kennedy, are the slime and detritus of fish shit and flotsam that collects on the stones sitting at the bottom of the Chappaquiddick brine.

You, Senator Kennedy, are the bloated fermented sack of pestilent traitorous lying filth who helped pass the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 that in its effects has been a de facto genocide by another name against America’s majority and soon to be minority native sons and daughters, and from which calamitous effects you have spent a lifetime hypocritically barricading yourself behind the safe gates of lily white oases.

You, Senator Kennedy, are the greasy smegma that rings the pustuled, syphilitic cockhead of a piss and shit-stained gutter bum washed up on our streets with the help of an unlimited supply of family reunification visas.

You, Big Fat Fuck Ted, are a genuine American Traitor, brazenly disloyal to the American people while blindingly loyal to your twisted, fetid equalist ideology, and who should be thankful a blessed cancer ate your brain to mush instead of a hangman’s noose breaking your neck in the public square.

You, Kennedy scion, are an Avatar of the Great Lie, a repugnant purveyor of damnable falsehoods. The people of Massachusetts shame themselves in endlessly returning you to office.

Benedict Arnold commends you.

MS-13 laughs at you.

And I, Dear Dead Leader, do the happy dance over the gravesite of your lousy rotting corpse.

Rest In Torment, fucker.

(and people wonder why I stay anonymous.)

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The Anti-Cockblock

I was out at an 80s night at one of DC’s popular nightclubs with a couple of women. We had earlier bounced from a lounge to dance the weeknight away in the middle of a crowd dressed in Top Gun aviator suits. Reader “maurice” had assisted yours truly at the lounge when he introduced a cute blonde and her friend. We had a great time, and sparks were flying between me and the blonde, thanks to my incessant teasing. If she had 100 ponytails, my game was the equivalent of pulling all 100 on the playground.

“Maurice” departed when we left for the next club, leaving me to entertain to the fullest extent of my capability the two women in my company. Unfortunately, I was dog tired, so my game was less than sharp. At the club, I took it easy, leaning back and enjoying the spectacle of the crowd, (although not enjoying so much the ear-piercingly loud music). Meatheads were hitting on the blonde in my company all night — I was getting AMOGed (Alpha Male Other Guy) like it was going out of style — but because of my listlessness all I did was smirk from the bar and raise my glass to her as guy after guy came up behind her grinding into her ass. This was maximum aloof game, and it worked because my aloofness was genuine.

After a while, the blonde’s friend, who I had been talking with off and on during the night, leaned into my ear and shouted over the cheesy music that the blonde needed “a lot of attention” and I had to be “really aggressive” if I wanted to have a shot with her. At first, I was skeptical. Don’t all girls “need attention”? But she offered this insider information with such sincerity that I put aside my doubts and decided to shake off my lethargy and march in strong, with Eye of Tiger. I grabbed the blonde, ran my hands up and down her body, danced with her, spun her around, gave her sexy compliments (not too many), and made out. Very nice lips.

The advice was money. It worked. Later, I reflected on the night. The world is full of cockblockers — bitter girls who live and breathe for their chance to sabotage a budding romance between their friend and a cool guy — but once in a while you will have the pleasure to meet an anti-cockblocker. She is the rare woman who truly wishes to help her friend meet a great guy, and if you pass the perfunctory initial tests she will go out of your way to help you.

So here’s to you, cockbuddy, cock accomplice, cockbacker, you make the world a better place, and you made this demon’s heart grow three sizes that night.

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Slut Strikes Back

Occasionally I get linked by the kind of blog which makes my heart swell with pride. This happened recently when the self-professed polyamorous slut over at The Errant Wife linked to my post about identifying sluts and set a new land speed record for projectile menstruating an uncontrollable tizzy. Let’s see what she really thinks of yer ‘umble paladin of slutty truths:

How to tell if you are a premature ejaculating, insecure, mother-fucking cock/asshat/wannabe/loser:

1. You criticize a woman who “talks about sex first” or “ask for kinky stuff.”
What, your “masculinity” can’t handle being asked for something she likes? You don’t like a woman to be interested in sex? This seems odd, given that you like to ‘tap ass’ as you so eloquently put it. Hmmm, maybe you don’t like to be asked ’cause you don’t know how to give it to me? Just putting it out there.

[…]

5. You have a small cock.
Hate to break it to you, darling, but all that ‘cavernous cunt’ stuff you are spouting – not so much a problem with the ladies…

[…]

6. You talk about all the ass you tap, but want wife/mother material with under 3 partners.
You know, I can’t stand a man who can’t handle a girl who knows what she wants. Not to put to fine a point on it – put if you have been with THAT many women to be able to identify THAT many different kind of sluts then we have a bit of a pot/kettle situation here, motherfuckers. And really, I am going to limit myself to three or under sexual partners so I can wear your cheap ring and bear your shallow end of the gene pool dim children? Yeah, I think I’ll pass.

[…]

Let me tell you something: real women, interesting women, women with brains and women that are going places – even if these women have had the three or less sexual partners you require – they are not going to be interested in the likes of you. They want a man who sees them, who appreciates life and people and who is looking for a person and a relationship that is fulfilling for both parties, not someone who is in the market for a misogynist idea and the pretty girl that matches it.

For the record, I a woman of mind and beauty and body, a woman of education and spirit and soul – a woman who has had more than three sexual partners and has enjoyed and adored every one of them – and you are completely unworthy of a woman of my calibre.

I am utterly out of your league.

I admire her spunk (note: not a barely concealed reference to any vaginal toxic sludge). What she lacks in original thinking she makes up for with energetic verve. I bet she piston-fucks like a man.

How much do you want to bet that the guy who wrote the article would respond to that last statement with: whatever, I am sooo not interested? Like that would be an insult.

Although Miss Proudly Polyamorous Cumfunneler wisely blocked out her face, judging by the half-naked pics of herself on her blog, she looks potentially attractive. Late 30s? Body is decent. Given the evidence at hand, I’d respond: “I’d keep the conversation to a sanity-preserving minimum and fuck you all night long into the morning, then eat your leftover chinese food and leave.”

The commenters were unanimous in their love:

Some time ago I wrote something in our blog about what I called the “whiny male bitchassness” women have to put up with when they aspire to and own their sluthood, and that fucktard who wrote the post you responded to is a good example of what I was talking about.

A woman aspiring to sluthood is like a nerd aspiring to social ineptitude. Frame that accomplishment and hang it on the wall, grrl! And what does “own your sluthood” mean? Is it anything like “own your facial”? Femspeak: War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Sluttiness is courage.

On behalf of the majority of men out there I apologize for this scumbag’s post. We all do not think this way and it really does point out his insecurities.

Beta.

i guess this is probably a bad time to tell you that i’ve never wanted you more than i do right now, eh?

Supremo beta.

I read his blog for awhile and while he definitely is prone to humor and satire, actually some pretty good stuff too, the blogger in question does have an overall theme of thinking a good woman is the traditional woman myth. That their man should be their center of their universe and gives them purpose and all other good things. He suffers from a lot of ignorance.

Overall my impression was a talented writer who was a total narcissist who truly does think he knows everything from quick observations into his life where his thoughts of himself and beliefs seem to always magically get validated.

This was from a commenter named Crystal, a woman who is drawn, despite her better judgment, to my awesome vortex of masculine power and devilish charm. Crystal, did you know that narcissism is one of the “dark triad” male traits which compels women to shimmy out of their panties? You do now, sexxxysuga.

OMG I love your rant, so incredibly well said. The guy is a complete ‘fucktard’ & is obviously as intimidated as hell by women who are sexually confident and secure.

Ego-bruised female armchair psychological diagnosis #349 in a series.

I’m not sure what makes my head spin more, this fucktard or all of the comments who appear to agree with him.

Please believe me, all men are NOT like that guy!

Do betas get laid with this lame white knighting suckassery or do they get a platonic hug buddy and blue balls? Rhetorical.

And my favorite comment of all (from a man, no less):

words can’t even express how well — how perfectly — this diatribe responds to the caliber of idiot that is me. “the 16 commandments of poon” — really? “the dating market value test,” segregated arbitrarily into two versions for the two genders society perceives.

i’ve met a lot of amazing womyn in my four years of college but it’s so rare to find a powerful gem like you so far from a place like a university or community center. i could hug you!

“… the two genders society perceives.”

😆

What do you say about a man who seriously uses the word “womyn”? David Alexander’s non-date girlfriend laughs at you. “… it’s so rare to find a powerful gem like you so far from a place like a university”. Oh, my sides! The rot in academia has reached the core. Nuke the cult from orbit and start over.

A lot of the commenters shared the peculiar habit of thanking the host “for the rant”. This is something I’ve noticed is very common on femtard blogs — a shrieking chorus of yes-women and raisin-sacked beta suckups exhaling loudly with deep guttural gratitude for the host’s reaffirmation of their dearly guarded prejudices and prerogatives. It’s as if without the nourishment of a constant cliched drumbeat of “you go girl” in-group agitprop their fragile egos would pack up and leave them a shuddering mess of self-doubt and suicidal tendencies.

I was curious about the Errant Slut, so I read a few of her archived posts.

I am not sure how I am going to blatantly proposition hot class guy if he never comes to class. Seriously, I know the year is almost over – but get your butt in the chair, dude, so I can tell you to put that butt in my bed.

I actually wore mascara today in an effort to better bat my eyelashes alluringly. Pearl earrings to encourage him to give me a pearl necklace. My lucky high boots that say I will fuck you hard, bitch. This is my top game people and no one was there to appreciate it!

Motherfucker. Well, at least I hope he is…

Cross your fingers, won’t you, that I will be able to open my legs.

Slut pride is often a +5 Mask of Empowerment for the insecurities that spring from fear of aging and becoming invisible to men. Many of these sluts are true to their word and sleep around in vain hope of silencing the dread knock at the door by Father Time, but then there are those sluts whose stories are more bragaddocio than truth in advertising. If you’re looking for a no muss no fuss no wedding ring quickie, you’ll want to steer clear of the braggart sluts. By their brazen lewdness you shall know them as cockteases.

Oh sweet baby slut, I found some posts about her husband. Surprise, surprise, the whore cheats on him and gleefully recounts her sexploits in public for guys like me to wield as instruments of psychological torture.

So, where to begin? The background, as is always the case, is huge and undramatic.
Normal and profoundly unsatisfying life. Three beautiful children and a husband who pays the bills and ignores everything and anything I say to him. 10 years of marriage during which I guarantee my opinion has never mattered – I try and try to tell him what I need from the relationship, he agrees and sees my side of EVERYTHING, and yet, there are no changes.
I am talking to the wall.

Rude translation: My attraction for my sexless beta husband is gone. He never challenges me. I now have all the reason I need to rationalize sitting on a carousel of random cock.

I did not go home with him that night but instead commenced a IMing relationship with him. Dirty talk. Friendly talk. Utter Escapism. And then we met. In his apartment.
For an evening of the kind of sex that you remember. The kind of sex where you each have a sheen of sweat. Fantastic. (Fucktastic?) He tastes good. He is good in bed. AND I have no guilt. None. I have realized that I have the one life and I refuse to limit it within other people’s moral structures and I refuse also to be unhappy anymore. If my life as it stands does not make me happy then I will do what it takes to create happiness for myself.

“Not my fault. You didn’t give me what I want.” What we learn:

Women are amoral and will act according to the ethereal justification of their emotions. If she’s unhappy, it matters not how virtuous, devoted, dependable and loving the husband is to her.
All women are cheap whores by nature.
Children will not alter her calculation.
In a woman’s eyes, to be a beta male is worse than anything else. Even serial killer.
Sluts are more likely to cheat. Monogamously inclined men should beware. Players should delight.
Don’t get married!

More from the pit of woman’s soul:

Friends always says “oh, your husband is so nice” – but the reality is that nice will only take you so far.

Niceguys finish cuckolded.

I spent a lot of time in high school having sex I did not really want to have.

I had sex to create something – a feeling, a relationship, an image of myself, an attitude, a perception, an emotional space. Now when my husband wants to have sex with me – and he constantly badgers me – I feel liberated to say no. Liberated to say no in a way that I did not when I was younger.

I would get into situations where I felt bad saying no, where it was easier to say yes, where it would just seem like I might as well. But now I don’t want to have sex that I don’t want to have – and I am sorry if my husband is not happy with that – truly I am – but I am not going to force myself. Forcing myself: closing my eyes and thinking of England, spreading to keep him happy, makes me feel like a prostitute. It makes me feel dirty. Fucking my adorable younger boyfriend does not make me feel guilty, or dirty or anything other than free.

[…]

In an unsettling turn of events, I think the husband may be on to me. Mr Ashley Madison # 3 is sending me emails that are eerily familiar. It is cheesy like the husband, it has appalling spelling like the husband, and there is just something there. When I read them and the things he is saying and the questions he is asking – it is exactly what the husband would say to draw me out. I checked the profile and he also identifies as the same height and weight – although the age is different. I wonder if I am being snaked?

Stare into the abyss and breathe deeply the dank stench emanating from its womb.

The Revolution is beginning to spread to the most blighted corners of humanity, but some are incapable of salvation. They are not to be reasoned with. They are not to be cajoled. They are to be steamrolled with extreme prejudice and sadistic humor. And unlubed anal sex.

And so it begins…

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The Worst (Or Best) Rejections I Ever Got

Culled from a lifetime of pussy hounding (and from what I can remember):

“Why would you even bother?”

“Seriously?”

[Looks at me with a blank stare, saying nothing.]

“Tch!” [Rolls eyes and turns her back.]

“Ok, I’m gonna stop you right there. See, I just saved us both time.”

“Oh my god, not again.”

“It would be better if you talked to her over there instead.”

[Grabs nearest guy and makes a big show of enthusiastically chatting him up.]

“You are SO not my type.”

“I’ve got five boyfriends. All filled up here!” (I thought that one was kind of funny and gave her props.)

“No thanks!” (This was funny considering all I had said was “Hi”.)

“This… right here… isn’t going to work.”

And the winning premeditated soulmurder rejection of all time (Happened in freshman year of high school, when LJBF was just a series of letters to me. She was a smoking hot senior. I was never one to shy away from a challenge.):

“You like me like that? Aw, that’s cute!”

It was this last rejection which ushered forth the demon unto the world.

If you aren’t prepared to brush off the bitchiest rejections like so much gossamer femsnark, you aren’t ready to play this game.

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“I think BJs are gross”

I gently coaxed her head down toward my boner. Her hand vigorously pumped. Handjobs are lame. Most girls don’t do them right, chafing and tugging like maniacs, as if they’re pulling a weed out by the roots. I wanted the mouth upgrade. She resisted.

“No, I’m not doing that.”

“Oh?”

“I think blowjobs are gross. Eww. I don’t like that in my mouth. It’s not the same as going down on a girl.”

She had experimented with women back in the day. I thought for a second about what she said. More gross going down on cock than pussy? No way. It’s the difference between slurping on a hot dog and smearing your face with pubes and mucousy, unidentifiable juices.

“Wow, that’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

She bristled. “Most women don’t actually like it.”

“That hasn’t been my experience. In fact, I can’t think of a single girl I’ve ever been with who didn’t like giving head.” I was being truthful.

“Well, they aren’t going to tell you that they don’t like it.”

“Hmm. Maybe. But if they weren’t enjoying it, their moans of pleasure sure fooled me.”

“I don’t even like sex that much.”

I squinted at her, growing less aroused with each word she uttered. “Uh, ok.”

“Yeah, it’s not all that much of a turn-on for me. I get off when a guy goes down on me. That’s the best.”

Even though her hand was wrapped tight around my rod, I deflated like a week-old balloon. She spread her legs a little wider and began touching herself. She smiled at me and looked down at her pussy. “Mmm, I love when a guy goes down there. Like he can’t get enough of me.” Her fingers glistened with the proof of her arousal.

I admired her gall in the face of her abject hypocrisy. But there was no way I was eating her out. I have a rule I follow which has held me in good stead for my entire copulatory career: I don’t go down on a girl until she has gone down on me first, assuming she smells OK. Exception to the rule: She’d have to be extraordinarily hot, a 9 or above, for me to be inspired by my uncontrollable horniness to munch away in advance of her putting me in her mouth. And it’d have to be obvious by her writhing enthusiasm that she was geared up for some bigtime raunchy sex and a blowjob in due course.

The reason for this rule is simple. You have to make a girl earn your tongue. That means hummers and fucking first. It may sound calculating, but this is the way girls think. If you give her everything she wants for free, she will have less incentive to bend over backwards (literally) to please you in every way you want to be pleased. Blowjobs will seem like “special treats” in her mind that she blesses you with when you’ve been especially good to her. This is not how you properly train your girlfriend or fuckbuddy. Instead, hold back on the oral sex until she’s proven her worth by meeting your demands.

You always want her in the frame of mind of seeking your approval, pleasing you first, and working overtime to enjoy the breadcrumbs of attention you sprinkle on her. *That*, readers, is the foundation of hot, frequent sex. She *wants* to feel the struggle of earning your prize member, and your pricey love. Give her what she wants by withholding what she wants. As in all things women, the paradox is primary.

There are four reasons why a girl would balk at giving blowjobs.

1. She’s sexually repressed. These types aren’t too common in DC, but they do exist. I give sluts a hard time, but her twisted sister, the Frigid Ice Queen, is just as distressing. At the first signs you have a sex-averse girl on your hands, run, do not walk, to the nearest exit. Odds are not good that you will unplug the Freudian sludge that clogs her pussy pipe. You may, but you probably won’t. And the worst decision a man can make in his life is to marry an Ice Queen. Worse even than marrying a slut with cheating whore issues. You will suffer endless blueball torment as her parched snapper slowly drains the masculinity out of you and drives you to the brink of insanity. Red flag: Her father is a preacher.
2. She really doesn’t like giving blowjobs. If you’re like most men and you love getting head, there’s no point sticking it out with a girl like this, no matter how well she cooks. But don’t worry, this kind is rare. It’s been my experience that any girl who is very attracted to you will love sucking your cock. Most girls won’t need to be asked, or have their head pushed into position.
3. She’s testing you. Some girls will make you wait it out for the goodies, teasing you with a lick on the shaft or a tip in their asshole, until you’ve satsified their need to know you are really into them. These types have been burned by men they loved, and regard your infinite patience and heavy balls as evidence that you love her for more than her body. Avoid her. You don’t want a girl in your life who uses sex as a weapon. You don’t want a girl who views sex as an all-in-one tool for self-validating ego-prop.
4. She’s atoning for her past slutty ways. Of the four types listed here, this type is the most loathsome. She’s a brazen bitch. A selfish headcase. Damaged goods. She’s been on a merry-go-round of cock since puberty and woke up one morning feeling bad about it. Now she sees it as her duty to make amends for her whorish history, and you are her experimental beta guinea pig. “I’m not a slut!” pleads her shattered, spooged id. “And I’m going to prove it with this guy!” So she refrains from gobbling your cock, or makes you wait past the 3rd date for sex, thinking she can silence the screaming of the slut as a born-again prude. This is new ground she’s on, so she’s bound to be clumsy about it. You’ll hear her say incongruous things like “Stop pressuring me!” as she’s splayed out naked on your bed, legs spread wide, pussy leaving juice spots on your sheets. Her transparent act II psychodrama will infuriate you. What drives a man nuttier than knowing he’s being deviously denied that which so many other men have boffed freely? But what this deluded girl doesn’t know is that you have game. You have no trouble scoring. She can push you one, maybe two, dates more than your three date rule for sex, but she will inevitably push too far. And the bigger slut she’s been in her previous life, the harder she will attempt to atone for it by crushing your spirit. In a Battle Royale between a Rules Girl and a Player, always bet on player. You will walk, never looking back, your dignity flush with victory and your sack spared her wicked games. She can practice keeping her legs shut on another sucker. You’re not her sacrificial slut redeemer.

Maxim #71: When a girl signals that she doesn’t enjoy blowjobs or sex, do not spend one second more with her. Your libido is too important to gamble on such a girl.

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