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Possibly inspired by CH posts exploring the connection between jizz payloads and love, reader SRC introduces the concept of the Orgasm Ratio:

One of the most important things when having sects with a girl for the first time is to never be the first to cūm. If she gets off several times before you, especially after more than one encounter, it flips the sexual adequacy frame on its head. Control the orgasm ratio.

As a general principle, I agree with this, but there can be times when the rule doesn’t apply (see below).

The Orgasm Ratio is essentially a hard-to-spoof proxy for the SMV Ratio. If our premise is that men cum harder and quicker with hotter women (tumescently plausible), then a man who cums first is likely with a woman who is his sex-specific SMV equal or better. He can be said to have NO HAND, while she holds all the leverage over which direction the hookup will go.

If a woman senses this SMV disparity in her favor (she will), then over time she’ll resent her man who reminds her by his premature ejaculation that she can do better. This feeling in her — and his recognition of it — will erode the relationship, until rupture.

In love, the time from rapture to rupture can be surprisingly short, and usually catches the man off-guard.

Getting off first tells a girl two things, equally ominous to you as complimentary to her. One, she knows she arouses you. This flatters her. Two, it causes her to wonder if she’s aiming too low. She resents you for this.

The first night together is the most important time to establish an advantageous orgasm ratio. This is when the tone is set that will color the relationship should it develop. You cum first, and she knows she can use her sex to make you dance. Knowledge like this is corrosive to pussy tingles.

But if you can hold off until she cums first, second, and third, well now she’s primed to think of you as a god among betas, a man with whom she can hardly control herself. A properly calibrated orgasm ratio is a major DHV-to-SMV positively reinforcing feedback loop. With each night together that you heroically delay your release, she will cum harder, and faster, as your value explodes to fill every cranny in her brain.

Added to this primal limbic mix is a dread that slowly consumes her; she fears you may not be “all that into her”, otherwise why the seemingly preternatural ability to delay your payload? Now, as SRC wrote, the sexual adequacy script is flipped. All flings begin with the unconscious, biologically driven premise that the woman is “giving” her body to the man, who is “enjoying” it. She is always sexually adequate; he is always proving his sexual adequacy. But the man who communicates his SMV through a leisurely journey to completion, while allowing his woman to orgasm multiple times atop his tutelage, has essentially co-opted her sexual role. He is giving his boner; she is enjoying it.

The benefit of this is obvious. She now is the one trying to prove herself to him, that she can sexually please him, and the downstream effects of her sexual anxiety are innumerable and delightful….home-cooked meals, generosity of body, heart, and even purse, loyalty, faithfulness, unbreakable love, an eager to please disposition, a sudden awakening to the power of MAGA….

When does the orgasm ratio rule not apply? Every so often, as a gift to her, it helps lubricate the relationship and alleviate tension to “lose control” of yourself. A woman likes to know she arouses her man so much that he occasionally goes primal on her, tearing at clothes, ripping at panties, groping at flesh, slamming against walls and mirrors and headboards, and finishing in a violent crescendo of spent lust.

If you do cum first during the first time in bed — and you will if you’re hitting above your league — the momentum can be saved with a short refractory period and a workmanlike second effort.

And if you fail at this, you’ve still won.

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Profound…

How much blame for the low fertility of developed nations can be placed on the disappearance of the geographically convenient extended family? In all the debates about below-replacement TFR I’ve read, this angle is criminally under-explored.

Maybe it’s not just high housing costs (read: high diversity costs) that are the culprit of low TFR; maybe a primary driver of reduced family size and childlessness is the expense of out-sourcing extended family care to unrelated third parties (corporations, daycare, nannies, etc).

If grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins significantly contribute to easing the financial and emotional costs of having children, then their geographic dispersal and separation from any family connections would have a big impact on the willingness of young couples to take on child-rearing.

Globalism and its consequences (free movement of labor, job insecurity, fleeing from diversity) provides incentives to spread out geographically and away from the family “home base”. A low TFR decreases the number of extended family members with each generation, until even extended families that remain local don’t have enough members to assist young parents with the quasi-communal child-rearing.

A vicious negative reinforcement feedback loop sets up, until TFR crashes and outposts of high TFR White subgroups like the Amish inherit the future.

The virus in the code of Western society is the abridged family, and as usual the vectors of this virus are mass immigration, forced multiracialism, and rapacious wage-cutting oligarchism.

PS A reader insightfully theorized that the introduction of child car seat laws had a depressive effect on fertility, because car seats take up a lot of room, and middle class couples who want more children are forced to decide between buying a bigger, more expensive car, or not having that third kid.

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An emailer sends along an excerpt from a book written by the Frenchman Rabelais on the subject of, paraphrasing, “gamed wife, happy life”.

Just came across a redpilled book from the Rennaissance period written by the Frenchman Rabelais.

Project Gutenberg has online copies.

There is a very good section on maintaining frame in a marriage.

It’s a bit difficult to read given that he didn’t use modern grammar and writing style but I have no doubt you will understand the wisdom.

Also, you will find a portrait of the author toward the top of the document. Physiognomy is real. Interesting, when you consider this document also contains a chapter titled: “Rondibilis the Physician’s cure for cuckoldry”.

Here is the section on marriage I refer to (he didn’t use paragraphs).

***

After that Gargantua had most affably saluted all the gentlemen there present, he said, Good friends, I beg this favour of you, and therein you will very much oblige me, that you leave not the places where you sate nor quit the discourse you were upon. Let a chair be brought hither unto this end of the table, and reach me a cupful of the strongest and best wine you have, that I may drink to all the company. You are, in faith, all welcome, gentlemen. Now let me know what talk you were about. To this Pantagruel answered that at the beginning of the second service Panurge had proposed a problematic theme, to wit, whether he should marry, or not marry? that Father Hippothadee and Doctor Rondibilis had already despatched their resolutions thereupon; and that, just as his majesty was coming in, the faithful Trouillogan in the delivery of his opinion hath thus far proceeded, that when Panurge asked whether he ought to marry, yea or no? at first he made this answer, Both together. When this same question was again propounded, his second answer was, Neither the one nor the other. Panurge exclaimeth that those answers are full of repugnancies and contradictions, protesting that he understands them not, nor what it is that can be meant by them. If I be not mistaken, quoth Gargantua, I understand it very well. The answer is not unlike to that which was once made by a philosopher in ancient times, who being interrogated if he had a woman whom they named him to his wife? I have her, quoth he, but she hath not me,—possessing her, by her I am not possessed. Such another answer, quoth Pantagruel, was once made by a certain bouncing wench of Sparta, who being asked if at any time she had had to do with a man? No, quoth she, but sometimes men have had to do with me. Well then, quoth Rondibilis, let it be a neuter in physic, as when we say a body is neuter, when it is neither sick nor healthful, and a mean in philosophy; that, by an abnegation of both extremes, and this by the participation of the one and of the other. Even as when lukewarm water is said to be both hot and cold; or rather, as when time makes the partition, and equally divides betwixt the two, a while in the one, another while as long in the other opposite extremity. The holy Apostle, quoth Hippothadee, seemeth, as I conceive, to have more clearly explained this point when he said, Those that are married, let them be as if they were not married; and those that have wives, let them be as if they had no wives at all. I thus interpret, quoth Pantagruel, the having and not having of a wife. To have a wife is to have the use of her in such a way as nature hath ordained, which is for the aid, society, and solace of man, and propagating of his race. To have no wife is not to be uxorious, play the coward, and be lazy about her, and not for her sake to distain the lustre of that affection which man owes to God, or yet for her to leave those offices and duties which he owes unto his country, unto his friends and kindred, or for her to abandon and forsake his precious studies, and other businesses of account, to wait still on her will, her beck, and her buttocks. If we be pleased in this sense to take having and not having of a wife, we shall indeed find no repugnancy nor contradiction in the terms at all.

Phyzz test, the younger Rabelais:

Rascally rogue. You know this dude was the first man in history to reply “I know” when a woman professed her love for him.

Rabelais’ advice (through Gargantua) is primarily a florid reiteration of Chateau Poon Commandments III, IV, XIV, XVI.

III. You shall make your mission, not your woman, your priority

Forget all those romantic cliches of the leading man proclaiming his undying love for the woman who completes him. Despite whatever protestations to the contrary, women do not want to be “The One” or the center of a man’s existence. They in fact want to subordinate themselves to a worthy man’s life purpose, to help him achieve that purpose with their feminine support, and to follow the path he lays out. You must respect a woman’s integrity and not lie to her that she is “your everything”. She is not your everything, and if she is, she will soon not be anymore.

***

IV. Don’t play by her rules

If you allow a woman to make the rules she will resent you with a seething contempt even a rapist cannot inspire. The strongest woman and the most strident feminist wants to be led by, and to submit to, a more powerful man. Polarity is the core of a healthy loving relationship. She does not want the prerogative to walk all over you with her capricious demands and mercurial moods. Her emotions are a hurricane, her soul a saboteur. Think of yourself as a bulwark against her tempest. When she grasps for a pillar to steady herself against the whipping winds or yearns for an authority figure to foil her worst instincts, it is you who has to be there… strong, solid, unshakeable and immovable.

***

XIV. Fuck her good

Fuck her like it’s your last fuck. And hers. Fuck her so good, so hard, so wantonly, so profligately that she is left a quivering, sparking mass of shaking flesh and sex fluids. Drain her of everything, then drain her some more. Kiss her all over, make love to her all night, and hold her close in the morning. Own her body, own her gratitude, own her love. If you don’t know how, learn to give her squirting orgasms.

***

XVI.  Never be afraid to lose her

You must not fear. Fear is the love-killer. Fear is the ego-triumph that brings abject loneliness. You will face your fear. You will permit it to pass over and through you. And when your ego-fear is gone you will turn and face your lover, and only your heart will remain. You will walk away from her when she has violated your integrity, and you will let her walk when her heart is closed to you. She who can destroy you, controls you. Don’t give her that power over yourself. Love yourself before you love her.

Don’t sacrifice your manly pursuits for your woman.

Don’t supplicate to your woman.

Don’t let your woman make your decisions for you.

Don’t neglect your woman’s need for a dominant man in her life.

Don’t place your woman on a pedestal of incontinent affection.

Fuck your woman good, because that is her prime directive, to be fucked good.

These are the attributes of a man who holds an unshakeable frame with his woman (or women).

Have your wife, but don’t let your wife have you. That is the key to marital happiness.

And to think there are tradcon ignoramuses who assert Game is a modern device of incels or a repackaging of dindu muh dickism. Nope, the great White men of European history knew about Game, practiced it, and preached it, even if they used a different jargon that basically expressed the same ideas in, say, the Mystery Method or at this ‘umble blog.

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Shitlibs more strongly identify along ideological axes. This is why, for instance, they can’t tolerate the company of those with differing world views. (White libchicks are the absolute worst at tolerating those with opposing political views.)

And, although I don’t have confirmatory data at hand, I suspect shitlibs are more likely to wander and become itinerants, always looking for a shiny new city to infest. Personality studies have found that shitlibs tend to be more novelty-seeking, or to put it less charitably they tend to have higher disgust thresholds. This desire for novelty and filth probably contributes to the shitlib “born to run away” compulsion. They just can’t handle too much niceness (read: Whiteness), order, and comfortable functionality. They need to feel distressed. They crave chaos in their lives.

How do I know this? Well, I have been surrounded by shitlibs. I’ve swum in the deepest waters of their subterranean cultures, taking what I wanted from them while leaving behind that which repulsed me. I know them pretty well, tbh, how they tick and what emotional keys are tickled in their hamsterchords.

I bring this up on the heels of the recent exposure of Stephanie Wilkinson, the proprietoress of the Commie Shrew, excuse me, the Red Hen, who hounded Sarah Sanders out of her restaurant and followed her like a psycho down the street screaming libanities at her, as a shitlib vagabond.

The rootlessness of shitlibs is intimately connected to their ideological fence-guarding in a positively reinforcing feedback loop. The shitlib leaves for a strange new locale, loses touch with everyone before her, and finds new friends at work, bar crawls, or expediently through shared housing.

Each move in the shitlib’s life brings more severing of social connections and greater stress finding and stringing together replacement social connections. (Family connections are surrendered for good.) There’s very little organic or authentic thread tying together the nomadic shitlib with her new sets of friends…no common upbringing, no schooling experiences, no history or unique local culture, and most importantly no shared memories which is the most powerful bonding agent.

Into this toxic atomization the one binding agent strong enough to overcome the disintegration of traditional social and family bonds is ideology. A fevered, frantic, hysterical attachment to ideology becomes the substitute for natural bonds, and the shitlib leans on ideological identification — in herself and in those who would be unwittingly auditioning for inclusion in her social circle — to screen for friends who will meet the lowest standard in friendship: someone who won’t irritate her with an opposing viewpoint.

This is why shitlib friendships (and similarly, romantic relationships) in the big blue cities are typically superficial, transient, and transactional: the only common ground is hatred of [X] and how one votes. When ideology is the foundation of friendship, those mystic unspoken bonds of reassuring familiarity get twisted into a grotesque facsimile of affinity, one based on an overweening insistence of ideological compatibility and purity. With nothing else to connect them to each other, the shitlib relies on ideology to shoulder the burden of standing in for the missing authenticity.

And ideology can work, for a while, as a values substitute and proxy for relationship complementarity, to create and maintain relationships (which is why city chicks will stress “shared values” and “Trump voters swipe left” when pole shopping), but woe to the friend who steps out of line one day and utters a deplorable bit of crimethink through the bottom of a cocktail glass. When ideology is the glue, a trivial difference of opinion on a point of order can feel like a gross betrayal.

The problem is a long-run one. Besides the lapses into crimethink, shitlib relationships dissolve easily and perfunctorily with work relocations and life stage changes that demand more social involvement and commitments than simply ideological conformism. The shitlib is bothered by these demands because they throw into stark relief the inauthentic nature of her friendships.

What is evident to the meanly keen observer is that shitlib friendships start to take on the veneer of artifice, fraying at the edges and duct-taped by snark and late nite talk show references. The very fact that shitlibs strive so hard for social authenticity prevents them from ever realizing their goal. They are their own worst frenemies. It’s a variation on the old “if you have try to be cool, you aren’t” aphorism.

De-urbanization and a revitalization of towns and smaller-sized cities geographically dispersed more equitably throughout the country will go a ways to helping shitlibs form real, lasting friendships that can survive the occasional disagreement with a Colbert monologue.

Related:

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From commenter Cultural Resilience,

O/T from Managing hysterically Jealous Girl to see if I’m still stuck in mod
I’ve just played this tactic and it worked a fucking treat. I got the sense that the current long term gf has stopped giving of her best. I know that she has checked my phone before so I changed the lock code to one that she would find easy to break. I’ve been having flirty online text exchanges with a foreign girl and started closing my phone of quickly when ever she came near. Sure enough I come home one day and I immediately recognise the atmosphere.

“Something wrong?” “No!” (In that no means yes tone that only a hurting woman can use). “Ok then” I reply, while thinking I bet she doesn’t last five minutes. Sure enough before my post work drink glass frosting has even begun turning to water droplets. “I’ve found those messages on your phone” which, by the way include hot nude pics. “Knew you would” says I. “I feel like its a betrayal” “I knew it would make you feel like that but it didn’t stop me” “Doesn’t is bother your conscience?” “A hard dick doesn’t have a conscience”

A few sulky days laced with occasional comments about wether or not we have a future, tears and of course picture with no sound. (Its cute how they think that a few days free from continual vocalisation of every empty female thought is a punishment.)

Bam! Hot make up sex, and texts confessing undying love and her desire to make everything right with me. This shit just cannot fail. Its a kill or cure strategy, but it is certain to end in cure if properly executed.

Dread Game is like two Quimfinity Gauntlets of Pussy. Two snaps, and all the snapper promptly dissolves into a frantic bawling mess of lovesick conciliation and devotion.

It’s so powerful it has sex-independent properties; it can work on (beta) males as well, although not as powerfully as it works on women and rarely does it work on alpha males with options (it does work particularly well on hot babes with options because they have no defense against it given that they rarely experience it).

The catch is that you need a shiny set of brass ones to pull it off with genuine feeling. You have to be willing to risk total relationship implosion and be ready to walk, no looking back. Many weak-willed betas don’t have the stones for Dread Game, so they get played relentlessly until their half-committed girls tire of their supplications and execute a mercy dumping. (Many girls get so disgusted with the cajoling, cloying behavior of their beta borefriends that they will throw away a reliable source of resources and sounding board feelz just to get away from their betas’ icky kisses and gimp seed.)

If the girl senses you’re bluffing, she’ll double down and turn cold as ice as she calmly explains why “this isn’t working out”. If you’re unprepared for this, you’ll cave like a Florida sinkhole and beg for forgiveness and a second chance. If you were prepared to end it right there and then, you’ll say “Ok” and watch as everything changes between you and her. Where she had been holding all the cards and leveraging her sex and love withdrawal, suddenly you’re sitting in the cadbird seat and she’s hysterically trying to smooth things over so you’ll stay with her.

It’s a brutal psy ops, but no one said the sexual market was a soft pillow landing of genteel trade and barter. The sexes have competing reproductive goals, and though fraternization is the point the battlefield clashes to reach the victor’s tent are winner take all.

It’s not as insurmountable as it sounds if you don’t regularly swing a heavy sack in all your interactions with women. If your girl has “stopped giving of her best”, you have to tell yourself that she’s already one lab flap out the door. She’s gonna leave you in time if you do nothing, so you may as well take a chance on Dread Game. Either she leaves now (rather than in the near future), and you get a few extra months of character building field experience chewing into fresh meat, or she capitulates and returns to giving you her best.

Dread Game is win-win for any man who has the least bit of confidence in his ability to pick up a new chick. But if you’re a quisling beta accustomed to licking the glitter sneakers of your girl hoping your abject uxoriousness will keep her loveless attendance tethered by a frayed string to your life of endless anxiety, then Dread Game is a grenade you’re holding after you’ve thrown the pin into her trench. You won’t be able to handle it hot, she’ll know it, and the damned ploy will blow up in your face because deep down you’re afraid to risk losing her to be alone, sexless and unloved, straitjacketed by your fear of meeting new girls to find a replacement.

I want to add that Dread Game is so powerful it can resuscitate relationships which by cosmic law should die and stay dead. Exploit it wisely. It’s a great relationship management tool for corralling and bringing back under your tonically masculine auspice a wayward girlfriend or permanent girlfriend; but it’s a devil’s bargain if you use it to keep a determined, manipulative whore in line. Accept that if the girl isn’t right for you, Dread Game offers tremendously satisfying short term rewards at the cost of long term frustration and cancerous resentment. If the mutual love is poisoned or missing, you’ll have to administer a constant PIV drip of Dread Game to keep what is essentially a zombie barge afloat. Some men have enough ice in the veins (and fire in the main vein) to happily sign on for such a commitment. But most don’t. Dread Game administration for the duration will eventually heighten the loveless disconnect until it explodes with a fury or deflates to a perfunctory, impassive goodbye long past its due date. And by then you may wonder why you didn’t just cut the cancercunt out sooner so you could spare the time saved for other women who would be a better fit for you.

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A jealous girlfriend isn’t necessarily an obstacle to an award-winning relationship. In fact I’d argue that a woman’s jealousy is the solar energy of sustainable romance. When she’s jealous, you’re desired. And when you’re desired, she’s not MIA for twisted bedsheet time.

Ideally, you want to stoke a little jealousy in your woman, sporadically and with varying intensity and duration, so that it’s never predictable and she can dismiss it as another one of your effortgoads to secure her love. Too little jealousy is a recipe for cuntplacency. Too much jealousy risks a relationship blowout. Be baby bear’s porridge.

Inciting bouts of manageable jealousy is the heart of Dread Game. However, there will be times you overstep and drive your girl insane in the femmebrain with self-doubt and fear of loss. When this happens, I have a mitigation plan that won’t let you down. When she melts down accusing you of cheating or some other affront to her faithful womanhood, put on your best amused mastery face and, smiling broadly like a cat who just caught a mouse, reply,

“Wow you are REALLY jealous right now. This is so awesome!”

She’ll check herself before wrecking herself. Expect her to be confused or charmed (in women, these two states are often the same), and watch as the ire and anxiety drain right out of her. She might murmur something like “how is this awesome?” or “oooookaaaay…” which is her way of processing an unexpected information flow. (She was expecting your defensive denials.) You will continue in the same vein,

“You love me so much. It’s sweet.”

Her: blah blah don’t think so blah blah you’re so arrogant blah

“I better watch myself around other women! If I check out a cute girl you might buy me a Corvette.”

At this point, she’s either laughing or fuming, or both. Either reaction is good news. The fear has dissipated; thanks to your ASSUME THE SALE and AGREE & NOTIFY ministrations she’s realized how silly she sounded and is mad at you for making her feel that way. The madness will in short order give way to gladness and then to missionary tradness.

The above can be used by stone bold jerkboys who got caught cheating for real but don’t yet want to give up the dream of building a de facto harem of slightly obsessed loverladies.

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Here’s a good litmus test to determine if the girl you’re dating (read: boffing) is committed relationship material. I call it the Abortion Test, and as a measure of a woman’s commitment worthiness it’s almost as good as the Cock Count Test.

When you get a chance, pry her about her abortion history. Best Girls will not have had abortions, of course, but the CDC reports that upwards of 1 out of 4 American women have had at least one abortion in their lifetimes. (The White woman ratio is likely lower than that; the abortion industry disproportionately serves women of color.) So as an American man you have to figure there’s a decent chance your princess has had at least one prenatal princeling vacuum pumped.

If she confesses to having had a past abortion, gauge her response as she recollects it for you. Is she full of regret and pain in the retelling? She might pass as LTR material. She made a mistake and knows it; she still has a feminine soul.

Or does she recount it with the dead black eyes of a psychokiller, utterly unmoved by remembrance of the ordeal? Perhaps even dismissing it with a selfish “and THANK GOD I did, because I never would have made it through Lotsa Cockas University with my Slut Studies degree if I had to take care of a kid.” Double bag it and hide the valuables, because you, sir, are getting laid tonight! Just remember to leave before the first morning light and never contact her again.

A reader addressed the topic,

…people gravely underestimate the emotional damage [abortions] do to a woman, it leaves them broken, unable to interact with children in a normal way for the rest of their lives.   Everytime they see a child, think of a child, somewhere deep inside a little voice asks what would the child I murdered look like today what would it be doing.

…and the kind of women who aren’t emotionally affected by their abortions?…..you don’t want to be with those kinds. Those women have lost an essential piece of their womanhood, which they aren’t getting back. Or they never had that piece to begin with. Taking a broken bird like that into your kingdom is taking in half of a woman; and the half that’s missing can never be filled by anything a man could offer.

They are affected, they just won’t admit it, they are the most dangerous, they are emotionally ready to explode at any time.

With sexperience, a man will be able to discern which women are sincere in their insistence of emotional disengagement and which women are faking it to protect their tissue paper thin egos. I’ve met both kinds, and while the latter are more common, the former are downright chilling. An emotionally dead woman is a faint echo of womanhood; her coldness on matters fetal belies a pact made with the devil: the nurturing part of her feminine essence in exchange for a veneer of empowered self-guidance.

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