Whole Lotta Link

Over at GLPiggy’s, a ripping good discussion about feminists’ loathing of fathers and fatherhood ensues.

and one more thing that seriously gets short shrift in these discussions of “men dropping out”: it’s a lot easier to say “fuck it all” to the mother of your children when she’s bloated up into a disgusting fat sow. men quickly lose their desire to support women (and their kids) who are physically repellent to behold.

I find it funny how few pundits in any media capacity address the female obesity problem and its role in destabilizing the mating market. (Bill Bennett wept.) Women might get offended — correction, fat chicks and feminists and their lapdog manboobs and tradcons might get offended — by my assertion that looking like a diseased dirigible will lessen the willingness of men to “man up” and support, financially or emotionally, such ghastly beasts, but those who balk at these impertinent suggestions would do well to think of this apropos analogy:

As unemployed, shiftless men are to women’s desire to be loyal and committed wives, so too are gross fat women to men’s desire to be supportive fathers and husbands.

***

Another mischief maker pretends to be a celebrity, and women mist their muffs.

Fake celebrity game. Who says your status has to be backed up by real accomplishments? Chicks dig the illusion.

***

Robin Hanson has a follow-up post to his review (sloppy love kiss?) of Sex at Dawn. He quotes from a new book titled Sex at Dusk (hey, where have I heard that before?), which is critical of Sex at Dawn‘s premises, and consequently adjusts his view on the frequency and nature of prehistoric hunter-gatherer/forager promiscuity.

Even so, [author Saxon] does successfully undercut many Sex At Dawn arguments. In humans, sexual jealousy is a universal, females are picky about sex partners, penises aren’t over-sized, testes are small, sperm production slow, and the evidence doesn’t suggest a great deal of sperm competition. Female chimps have little extra-group sex, bonobos don’t usually mate face-to-face, and many Sex At Dawn quotes are misleading, given their context. […]

A key question, to me, is what percentage of our forager ancestor kids were fathered outside pair-bonds. That is, what fraction of kids were born to mothers without a main male partner, or had a father different from that partner. This number says a lot about the adaptive pressures our ancestors experienced related to various promiscuous and polyamorous arrangements today. And hence says a lot about how “natural” are such things.

As one of the commenters noted over there, no evolutionary psychologist ever denied that female promiscuity was a part of human sexuality. We’re only arguing over the degree of female sluttiness, not its existence. And on that count, the free love authors of Sex at Dawn shoot wide of the mark.

I argued similarly to Sex at Dusk (royalties, please?) that the existence of male jealousy, possibly the most powerful emotion in the known universe after the feeling of bliss that accompanies a strong bowel movement, is alone enough to disprove the polyamorists’ contention that humans are wired for wild group sex, constant cheating, and happy ascent to infidelity and polyamory. Any cursory brush with reality will tell you that we’re not; paternity reassurance, female virginity and faithfulness, and other signs of long-term commitment and disposition for loyalty argue convincingly that the norm, at least until relatively recently, has been evolving toward a more monogamous system. Interestingly, we may be evolving *away* again from monogamy and back to our slutty forager roots, thanks to the pathologically altruistic largesse of the mighty West encouraging women to favor the alpha seed capture strategy over the beta provider capture strategy.

PS Robin goes into lengthy and somewhat labyrinthine explanation about how women’s cries during sex are evidence for a promiscuous past. (Read it there, I’m too lazy to summarize. Basically, he says it’s about bragging.) But I have a simpler asnwer: women moan and gasp and shriek to induce orgasm in themselves, and in their lovers. Female orgasm has been scientifically shown to aid fertilization. This is why a woman will scream with pleasure even when you’re screwing her in the middle of the woods and no one is within twenty miles to hear her.

Just sayin’.

***

Some equalist utopian claims that “desire modification” will be the next big tech innovation. Hmm… desire modification…. now what kinds of people were the sorts who believed human desire could be reengineered… let me think…

Human desire will never be modified. You can only modify the symptoms of desire, not the foundations of desire itself. But I’m sure plenty of fat chicks would love it if one day men were reformulated to desire rolls of buttery lard, like they were living in some Brave New Shallow Hal World.

I predict in the distant future congenital equalists are going to try to biogenetically reengineer away human differences, to equalize the playing field with respect to IQ and other assorted beneficial personality traits, and then once the deed is done claim victory over the forces of bigotry and prejudice and stereotypes and white privilege and dildos that don’t adequately tickle their prostates.

You heard it here first.

***

Not only do chicks dig jerks, but the hottest chicks dig the biggest jerks the most.

So who’s the daddy?

The former “Girls Next Door” star, 32, says that it’s her boyfriend of just nine months, party promoter Pasquale Rotella. “Holly and I are so excited to announce that we are going to be parents,” he tells People. “We’re in love and counting down the days until we meet our beautiful baby. I can hardly believe how lucky I am.”

Having a baby is certainly a bright spot for the CEO of Insomniac Events, who is currently out on $1.2 million bail after a grand jury indictment handed down 29 counts against him and three of his business partners after it was discovered they had bribed an official at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum with $2 million to allow them to throw the Electric Daisy Carnival and other dance parties at the venue, as well as at its sister location, the L.A. Sports Arena. The charges — which Rotella denies — came about after an investigation into the 2010 death of a 15-year-old girl at the EDC party after overdosing on ecstasy.

Breathe deep the cynical gloom,
Watch idealism fade from view.
Beta male dupes look back and lament,
Another day’s useless romantic gesture spent.
Impassioned criminal wrestles her cunt,
Law-abiding man cries for love and has none.
New mother picks up her bastard spawn son,
Beta is on the hook and wishes to get some.
Cold hearted gene that rules the night,
Removes the divine from our sight.
Black is great and white is RACISSSSSSSSS.
But we decide which is truth.
And which is a useful lie?

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Donation Nation

Supposedly, it’s protocol for internet content providers (ha!) to rattle the tin cup twice per year. So here we are. Donate here, or (more easily) use the donate button to the right on the main page, just under the blog banner heading.

Have you learned from this castlemonium deluxe? Have you been treated with the requisite haughtiness? Has your psyche been vigorously penetrated? Most importantly, has this stone-front, gated internet retreat nestled deep in the misty meadows of medieval France gotten you laid with the women of your choice?

If so, show your appreciation!

If not, fuck you.

In the meantime, here is what the future holds for Le Chateau Sensuality:

1. A book (or two!). (Pending defeat of personal laziness demons.)

2. In-field stuff. (Might include guest spots.)

3. More reviews of game material. (There’s a pile of ebooks and manuals to read laying disconsolately on the sofa, currently being sniffed by an overfed dog.)

4. More movie scenes of game in action.

5. More real-life stories. (Expect calculated timeline distortion and detail restructuring to misdirect the haters.)

6. More science. (Sorry, it’s a CH favorite.)

7. Fewer adjectives. (Yeah, we’ve heard you.)

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The Curse Of The Player

Beware the blessings of gratification.

The relationship. The long-term relationship. The Holy Grail for some. Purgatory for others. Serene limbo for most.

The relationship — aka marriage, when in its most loathsome permutation — is supposed to be the culmination of romantic transcendence. It moves lovers beyond lust into the realm of silent covalent bond. But this bond, unspoken and understood, can’t form out of any primordial soup; it requires the presence, and the absence, of specific ingredients. The rarity of the founding broth is the reason why poets elevate inviolate love to the sublime. One isn’t liable to effuse about the commonplace or the trite, which can spring like weeds from the craggiest soil.

In every relationship, there is a transition period; that window of time when a man senses he has crossed a boundary from experimental abandon to tribute paid in increments of freedom. A man stands at the Gates of Pudenda and makes his decision for Eros: to step through, committing himself to a revised moral code etched with broad brushstrokes of obligation and the peculiar rewards accrued therein, or to turn back to gallivant another day.

The decision at the moment of transition is not the same for every man. If you haven’t experienced multiple lovers, your transition into an LTR will be easier. You won’t sacrifice much in leaving behind your life of infrequent elation for the rhythmic reassurance of content stability. Players with a lurid, technicolor memory plate filled with many women will find it harder to accede to the straitjacketing of an LTR because of an acute sense of something missing, of what could still be had for the taking, and of withdrawal from the thrill of the hunt. The man who has bedded in his lifetime more than two or three lovers (the average number for the typical beta male) has a feature length film of past and present conquests running in a continuous loop, instantly evoked, as H.H. would say, on the “dark innerside of his eyelids”, in perfect optical replication, to effortlessly remind him of the incomprehensible pleasure of vulvic variety and of all the women waiting in oblivious anticipation for the arrival of his plunderprong.

The memory and the knowledge are the curse of the player. Memory stokes the wanderlust with insistent, torrential recall of scores of curvaceous bodies and rippled vulvae. Though in theory one vagina is no different than the rest, in a man’s mind each furrow is an ecological feature etched into strange planets across the galaxy. Every vagina is a new world to a man, some more exotic than others, and the unbridled enthusiasm he will feel planting his flag on fresh colonizations is no accident of evolution. Contrary to feminized misappraisal, this is not the pretentious joy of shame or escape; it is the sincere joy of pleasure that needs no reason.

The knowledge that the player possesses at his whim the skill to seduce women is the twin sabotage that undermines relationship endurance. A player will see the world of women lit from every angle, exposed to his exploration, if he knows, through experience, through the touch of a thousand fingertips, that he can bed women fairly consistently, and with manageable effort. The psychological emollient of knowing this power is his is enough to burden the heart of a man contemplating even a facsimile of fidelity. Bound to his lover by, in turns, conscience, social opprobrium, and legal sanction, the streams of waiting conquests slipping past like rivulets of glimmering intimacies, taunting his parched loin loosely moored to the ballast of loyalty, is the torture of a lifetime of short-circuited ejaculations.

In contrast, to be the grateful man with no history of sexual plenitude, for whom omnipresent sensual possibilities seem as remote as the twinkling stars in the heavens and thus unlikely to stir his ancient calling, is to be released with the gift of the constrained vision. Where possibility is dead, or unfathomable, so is dangerous yearning. He is now free to step back from the beautiful painting and dryly ponder its geometric contours. When this man falls in love with an accessible work of art, one he can call his own, he has little else to compare its grip on his imagination. He cherishes his chosen muse, blissfully ignorant of the carelessness and glibness with which he would succumb to, and love, the millions of competing muses were they to be more tangible to him than airbrushed magazine cover placeholders.

The curse of the player, then, is ultimately illumination, tactile and cerebral. His own success in love betrays his quest for the ultimate love. He has seen vistas he cannot unsee.

He is not a disbeliever in everlasting monogamous love, quite the contrary; but his eternal search for it has corrupted the destination. Each step of his journey lands like the heavy stamp of slash and burn machinery, decloaking the mystery of the source at the mouth of the tributary. He is as certain to destroy underfoot the elixir of redemption as he is to finally catch it, leached of its nutrients.

Ironically, the man (or woman) best situated to find divine love is the one whose efforts aren’t excessively profitable.

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Spot The Beta Male Tell

A “relationship advice” guy who writes for Yahoo/Match/Tyrell Corporation published letters from readers who described the crazy things they did for love. Now, there is an alpha way to do crazy-in-love, and there is a beta way. Read this first letter and see if you can identify the tells that mark the writer of this letter as a beta male.

I went to bat for her engagement ring 
“My girlfriend and I had been together for about three years, and I was sure she was the one I wanted to marry. Problem was, I didn’t exactly have enough money to get her a good engagement ring. So, in order to raise funds, I put my collection of baseball trading cards on eBay. We’re talking a collection that spanned, like, 20 years, thanks to some cards handed down by my dad. I was totally bummed to part with them because they were so important to me, but I really, really loved this girl. I ended up making more than enough money to pay for a ring. Problem was, when I got down on one knee, she told me that she couldn’t see spending the rest of her life with me. I should’ve stuck with Shoeless Joe Jackson.”
— Owen, 26, Chagrin Falls, OH

Chagrin Falls is appropriate. Often, when reading these sad sack stories, one has the nagging feeling that a better grasp of the market value of the players would clarify why this or that venality visited the protagonist. Discerning the sexual market value of a woman online, when no photo is available, is tricky; women will aggressively lead the reader to believe, absent hard visual evidence, that they are desired by most men. The sexual market value of men is a bit easier to root out in written, online mediums because I find that men are a little more careless about revealing their beta cores. Reading between the lines for male and female beta tells is a fun pastime that I heartily recommend.

Back to the letter: you might be tempted to think that getting a girl an engagement ring is pure beta male, but because so many men fall into the diamond industrial complex trap, it’s not quite the tell that it should be. Instead, the big tells are the writer’s baseball card collection, his willingness to trade one of his most valuable possessions for a rock to slip on a girl’s finger (betraying his father’s love in the process), and, worst of all, his bended knee proposal.

Collections of the sort that are particularly unappealing to women are leading indicators of betaness, because a man who is good with women and able to get sex will not have the patience or motivation to amass piles of mostly useless junk that don’t add to his attractiveness to women. Baseball cards are the province of little boys and grown betas.

But it’s a forgivable tell. Alpha males have the systematizing instinct as well, and collections that can be categorized and subcategorized are addictive to all kinds of men. The bigger beta tell was this guy’s willingness to sever a holy bond, via baseball card, with his father to enrich his girlfriend. The man who sells off a bequeathed treasure from his dad to please his woman is an unprincipled cipher of beta provisioning. No woman with the least bit of character would, if known to her, allow her boyfriend to hock his pop’s heirloom for a blood diamond. Most American women don’t have the least bit of character.

Finally, the cringe-worthiest beta male tell was the bended knee beggary. If anything, since men give up more to get married, it’s women who should drop on bended knee thanking their boyfriends for making honest whores out of them. I don’t care how super alpha you are or how much self-handicapping you can endure without penalty, dropping to one knee is exquisitely, insufferably BETA. Ignore my advice to skip the nuptials for loving LTRs, but for the memory of millions of ancestors who harnessed the power of testicular fortitude to usher you into this world, don’t get down on your knees before a woman. You’re just asking to be treated like the dog who waits dutifully at the door with the leash in its mouth.

Three beta male tells, each worse than the last. The coda to this miserable letter should surprise no one, but I bet it surprised the letter writer. No woman wants to share her life with a man she has to look down at to see.

For shits and giggles, here’s another letter that represents the exact opposite of the one above.

I found out the hard way that our love wasn’t going to go the distance
“My boyfriend of a year and four months had to move for his job. It wasn’t dramatically far away, but it was still three states over. I was living in Ohio then, and he had to move to Maryland. We talked on the phone, wrote letters and all that, and I could tell that he was getting increasingly homesick. I decided to surprise him by ducking out of work early one Friday, driving over to see him — it’s about five or six hours by car — and cheering him up. Turns out I didn’t need to, though, because when I showed up at his apartment that night, I found him having dinner with a woman he met at work. At least I didn’t need to worry about staying awake on the long drive home — I was too upset to fall asleep.”
— Jackie, 27, Manhasset, NY

Spot the alpha male tell. Lessee… was it when he got himself a new woman who would be locally available for poundage sessions, so he wouldn’t have to spend months of his valuable life celibately pining for faraway pussy? Could be!

“Manhasset”, indeed.

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The Most Flattering Words You Can Hear From A Woman

Some of you naive souls may be thinking, “Oh, I know the answer! Me! Me! Look over here!…. ‘I love you’. Did I win?”

No, you did not. You LOSE, madam. You get NOTHING. Good day to you.

The answer is this: “How can you be such a jerk and so lovable at the same time?”

Gentlemen, if you hear that from a woman, particularly a girlfriend or wife, you will know you have penetrated her heart and mind to the soft, chewy center of her hamster’s id, which is one id level deeper than her own human id. You cannot possibly hear anything more flattering from a woman unless it’s a breathless demand to scour her cervical wall with your proud protuberance.

“How is being called a jerk more flattering than just being called lovable?”

Oh, you silly, anatomically ambiguous acculturated automaton. Don’t you know how to read girlcode? It’s like hieroglyphics, except less understandable to the average man. When a girl calls you a jerk, you have enflamed her vagina. When a girl calls you lovable, you have palpitated her heart. When a girl calls you a jerk AND lovable, you have made a slave of her. Recline in the pillow-soft comfort of your testicular allure, because from that point forward you can do no wrong.

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Shacking Up Vs Tying The Knot

What advantage accrues a man who decides to cohabit instead of marry? Well, for one (and it’s a BIG one), women tend to let themselves go once they’ve extracted marital vows from their men. Here’s a referenced study which shows that once a woman gets what she wants from a man, she doesn’t (subconsciously) care anymore about pleasing him. (Study title is hilariously droll: “Entry into romantic partnership is associated with obesity”.)

Several studies examining longitudinal changes in romantic relationship status report a differential sex effect of entry into marriage, with greater weight gain in women (9,10,30). Women may be differentially impacted by transitions in romantic relationship status; for example, through increased social obligations encouraging consumption of regular meals (31,32) and larger portion sizes (33), resulting in increased energy intake (30). Further, entry into cohabitation or marriage is associated with decreased physical activity (34) and a decline in desire to maintain weight for the purpose of attracting a mate (6). In contrast, obese women may be less likely to marry (35). Our longitudinal findings suggest that both men and women who enter marriage are more likely to become obese, consistent with findings from another large, racially diverse sample of young adults (36). Moreover, we found that individuals who lived with romantic partners for a longer duration had higher likelihood of incident obesity suggesting that shared household environmental factors may contribute to changes in obesity.

Cohabitation may not be good for society in the long run (we’ll see how Scandinavia turns out), but in the here and now it is very good for the individual man, and most people think in the latter terms. As a friendly reminder, a wife bloating up and disfiguring her womanly profile is as repulsive to a husband as he would be to his wife if he lost his job and confidence and skulked around the house with his chin buried in his chest, begging for morsels of sexual release.

Again, we come back to incentives, latent or blatant, and their influence on human behavior. Men have “hand” within cohabiting relationships, while women have hand within marriage. Women are on their best behavior — read: their least bitchiest and gluttonous — when they are cohabiting with men who can leave them at a moment’s notice with little cost to the men. A woman in such a precarious circumstance feels inchoate pressure to maximize her sexual appeal, both physical and temperamental.

Conversely, wives who are not kept in desirous thrall to their husbands — read: hubby became a mincing betaboy or lost his social or economic status, or the spark simply vanished from the passage of time and mundane familiarity — gradually slip into their worst behavior, which includes getting fat and ugly, as the science and conventional wisdom demonstrates. Now, women who do this in pre-marital relationships can easily be dumped; but within marriage, not so much, at least not without SEVERE cost to the disillusioned husband. Women know this, on a very deeply primitive apebrain level, even if they don’t discuss it or acknowledge it outright. Which leads to…

Maxim #204: Modern marriage is a waiver of liability that relieves wives of the responsibility to remain attractive to their husbands.

Corollary to Maxim #204: The modern marriage waiver of liability does not extend to husbands, who must remain optimally attractive to their wives so long as the marriage is intact and the cost of failing in this responsibility is excessive.

Let’s be clear about this, so you don’t get the wrong impression reading these issues in the stark, remorseless light in which I prefer to present them. Social, sexual and romantic incentives and disincentives don’t operate in a coldly calculating way — it’s not like a wife punches numbers into a mental spreadsheet or draws up wistful pros and cons lists before willfully deciding that an extra tub of Ben & Jerry’s won’t matter since her husband can’t divorce without losing a lot of money and the house and kids. The differential power structures of various relationship models aren’t grasped by the bit players in anything more than a gut feeling.

No, these still-human behavioral reactions work on the level of the id. Without really thinking about it, the existence of an incentive to behave a certain way subtly and slowly influences a person to act in accordance with their self-interest. What that self-interest is varies by context and circumstance. A single woman seeking love will avoid overeating and take a lot of yoga classes so that her tight bod will catch the eyes of, hopefully, some high value alpha males.

A married woman who has achieved her objective of locking a man into long term commitment backed by the strength of the state will feel imperceptible undertones or impulses that guide her along paths which take her away from staying sexually desirable and toward fulfilling her other hedonic needs. It doesn’t help her attraction for her husband that the threat of state sanction effectively neuters him by rendering his choice to remain married to her one of coercion rather than mutual delight.

Game is a useful ameliorative to these natural human instincts, (and I know how much asserting that gets under the skin of anti-gamers). But I’ve seen it in action; a husband who uses game (or charisma, if it helps your digestion) on his wife will mold her incentive structure so that selflessly pleasing him takes precedence over selfish solipsism. This will happen because, as I’ve said previously, up-front, near, tangible incentives trump downstream, far, less tangible disincentives. A sexy husband woos a wife better than a powerful state and natural inclination woos her away from him.

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His Adultery Spices Up Marriage

Aristophenes writes:

I want to solicit a bit of advice from the commentariat here. I’m 31, married with two young children. I have a high-status career (I’m in a prestigious doctoral program, and I write for a number of elite publications), I am of average, or maybe above average looks, I dress well, and I comport myself well in conversation. I am not intimidated by famous intellectuals or beautiful women.

However: I married my wife when I was 23 – we were both intensely religious and virgins at the time. Since then my religiosity has waned, my wife has gained a good deal of weight, and I’ve become deeply discontented with my sexless, passionless life.

A few months ago, during a long, boozy night at the bar with some colleagues, a couple of my more attractive (and militantly feminist!) female colleagues opened up about their frustration at the lack of masculine men in our department. I drove one of them home, and when we pulled up to her place, I kissed her and told her I intended to have sex with her. There immediately followed two delightful hours of adultery. Since then I’ve slept with another young woman, and have fooled around on a couple of other occasions. I am shocked by the easy availability of sex, given my nearly decade-long struggle to get laid within marriage.

So far, this change has had positive ramifications for my marriage. My wife doesn’t know everything, but she knows that “things” have happened. At the same time, I’ve become more assertive and less whiny / pitiable. I demand sex more, and she seems pleased. She’s known for years that I want her to lose weight, but she’s starting to make some minimal efforts now.

However good things get, though, this will never be ideal. My wife was not an attractive woman when I married her (I didn’t think that mattered then – see religiosity) and she’s not aging well. I will always live with the knowledge that I have much more beautiful, intelligent, elegant women, who more closely share my interests, and are more impressed with my accomplishments. All things being equal, I’d leave tomorrow. But they’re not equal. I am entirely smitten with our son and daughter, and cannot countenance the possibility of their growing up without a father. So here I am.

Here, finally, is the question: Should I keep up with the extramarital dalliances, hoping to effect a sort of Mad Men modus vivendi, in which a lackluster marriage is supplemented by suspected but politely hidden infidelity? Or should I man up, and fight to suppress my wanderlust, contenting myself with what gains can be made at home? I can see pluses and minuses on either side. What do you gents think?

Frenchmen do it right. Have mistresses, but be discreet about it. Aging wives don’t want it shoved in their faces; they want to let their hamsters whir with hints, thoughts, painfully delicious imaginings that their husbands might be cheating on them. This strategy has the dual benefit of satisfying the man’s natural and completely normal urge for pussy variety while keeping the home and hearth stable and reigniting the marriage with the wife’s newfound dread-induced passion.

But the reader is in a predicament; namely, his wife’s weight gain has made her less attractive to him, and she wasn’t that attractive to begin with. (For the ladies in the audience: your weight gain is as mood-killing for men as a man’s weakness and wishy-washiness is mood-killing for you.) Plus, he’s got hotter, younger hopefuls auditioning for his meaty intrusion. Very few men can withstand that one-two punch to their virtuous restraint.

His problem is the reason why men should not even consider marriage until they are well into their 30s, and then only with women at least eight to ten years younger. A man hits his SMV stride more than a decade — oftentimes two decades! — after a woman hits hers, so it makes sense that men are best served cashing in their chips at the height of their power for women at the height of their power. That is, if chip cashing is what he wants. I’m not keen on marriage so I will generally counsel men that they can get all the comforts and love of marriage without signing a legal contract that obligates them to finance an early retirement plan for the wife should she initiate divorce theft proceedings (70-90% of divorces are female-initiated.)

But this guy is a religious bloke and he wanted kids. If kids are in your future, then marriage is the price you pay to ensure the striplings grow up mentally healthy and shielded from the allure of huffing paint or gobbling cock behind the 7-11. He didn’t say how young his kids are, so assuming they are still forming their identities, I would not advise him to abort the marriage. He needs to stick it out for a while longer.

What the reader needs to do to avoid crippling depression is the male equivalent of Eat, Pray, Love: Meat, Lay, Rove. He’s hitting on all cylinders at this moment in his life and it would be a terrible sacrifice to ask of him — on par with requiring a feminist to carry a rapist’s unwanted baby to term, or to have sex with a bitter omega male for ever and ever — to linger for years in his loveless, sexually arid marriage with a fat, unattractive wife. I suggest many “business trips” to exotic locales where he can sate his desire with beautiful lovers and more easily hide his dalliances from the wife. He should continue pushing his wife to lose weight and hinting ever-so-unsubtly at his growing array of sexual market options.

The very real risk of Meat, Lay, Rove is that our intrepid reader will likely fall in love with one of his darlings. Men tend to do that with women they find sexually irresistible. Down that road lies irretrievably broken marriages, for a wife fears a betrayal of love far more than a physical infidelity.

In the end, he will have to answer to his god, and ask him why he was given a working penis if he was meant to suffer unhappily in a sexless marriage with a fat sow.

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