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Archive for the ‘Ridiculousness’ Category

Beta Or Omega Male?

Many readers sent CH a link to this story for inclusion in the Beta of the Year contest. But is he really beta, or is he that lowest of life forms, the omega male?

A Chinese man dropped to his knees for 30 days (and 30 nights?) in an act of contrition to win back his girlfriend. (No word on what he did that pissed her off. Journalism!)

The Beta Male of the Year series is meant as a learning tool. Betas are put under the spotlight to help readers understand the kinds of commonly encountered male behaviors that cause vaginas to snap shut. Extreme supplication like that committed by the Chinaman in the story above isn’t very helpful by dint of its rarity and absurdity. Most beta males aren’t committing treason against their sex in quite so spectacular a fashion.

What this is a better example of is a greater omega male at a loss for what to do when the love of his life (and probably the first woman to sneak a peak at his chicken beak) breaks up with him. He reverts to classic omega form: Prostration, appeasement, self-abnegation, and public humiliation. The funny thing is, he doesn’t appear to be an especially ugly man, yet his theatrics are so off-putting to women that everyone reading this intuitively knows his girlfriend is filling with disgust at the prospect of laying with him again.

Omega males aren’t all sexless basement dwellers. The better species of them sometimes manage to get girlfriends (quality control notwithstanding to the contrary). What usually distinguishes greater omega males from beta males is the facility with which omegas will acquiesce to their gelding and the energy they bring to doing all the wrong things to woo women.

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Lena Dunham is quite the classy lady.

Dunham writes of casually masturbating while in bed next to her younger sister, of bribing her with “three pieces of candy if I could kiss her on the lips for five seconds . . . anything a sexual predator might do to woo a small suburban girl I was trying.” At one point, when her sister is a toddler, Lena Dunham pries open her vagina — “my curiosity got the best of me,” she offers, as though that were an explanation. “This was within the spectrum of things I did.” […]

Lena Dunham never actually writes that she was raped by a mustachioed campus Republican named Barry at Oberlin College. She leads up to it with a long story about her childhood misuse of the word “rape” — she accuses her little sister of raping her and tells people that her father sticks a fork in her vagina when she misbehaves — and dwells on her lifelong fear of being raped. She describes two different versions of the same sexual encounter, in the latter version insisting that she did not consent to what happened. And in a remarkably dishonest turn, she has other people describe the event as “rape,” thereby dodging any intellectual or moral responsibility for making the claim herself. […]

Dunham’s writing all this is, needless to say, a gutless and passive-aggressive act. Barry is not a character in a book; he is a real person, one whose life is no doubt being turned upside down by a New York Times No. 1 best-seller containing half-articulated accusations that he raped a woman in college, accusations that are easily connected to him. Dunham won’t call him a rapist, but she is happy to use other people as sock puppets to call him a rapist. She doesn’t use his full name, but she surely knows how easily it can be found. She wouldn’t face him in a court of law, but she’ll lynch him in print.

This is the last time I’ll write a post about Lena Dunham until she drowns herself in an extra-wide bathtub *fingers crossed*.

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California has lobbed another salvo in the War On Men: Governor Moonbeam signed into law

a bill that makes California the first in the nation to define when “yes means yes” and adopt requirements for colleges to follow when investigating sexual assault reports.

State lawmakers last month approved SB967 by Sen. Kevin de Leon, D-Los Angeles, as states and universities across the U.S. are under pressure to change how they handle rape allegations. Campus sexual assault victims and women’s advocacy groups delivered petitions to Brown’s office on Sept. 16 urging him to sign the bill.

De Leon has said the legislation will begin a paradigm shift in how college campuses in California prevent and investigate sexual assaults. Rather than using the refrain “no means no,” the definition of consent under the bill requires “an affirmative, conscious and voluntary agreement to engage in sexual activity.”

Romance is dead. Long live romance!

I can’t think of many things that would kill the moment faster than whipping out a consent form and a pen as you’re sitting on the edge of her bed. Unfurling a one inch micropeen? Reaching under her dress to grab a handful of frank and beans? Unsnapping her bra to release a bundle of tissue paper and two deflated flapjack tits?

“Every student deserves a learning environment that is safe and healthy,”

Infantilization. Coddling. Child-proofing the cap on women’s brains.

We’ve shifted the conversation regarding sexual assault to one of prevention, justice, and healing.

Poopytalk.

The legislation says silence or lack of resistance does not constitute consent.

Women generally don’t like to verbalize their desire to get banged out. They prefer dropping subtle cues that experienced, confident men will recognize and use to lead the interaction toward the bedroom. They also prefer to put up token resistance before relenting completely. A law that requires women deny these two essential aspects of their nature, or to twist them into something inhuman, is a law doomed to fail… or to “succeed” beyond the wildest dreams of its femcunt sponsors.

Under the bill, someone who is drunk, drugged, unconscious or asleep cannot grant consent.

If a drunk woman can’t grant her consent, then a drunk man can’t comprehend her consent. This legal contortion cuts both ways. But of course only men are responsible for their own actions, so loophole exploited!

Lawmakers say consent can be nonverbal, and universities with similar policies have outlined examples as a nod of the head or moving in closer to the person.

Well, that’s a relief! Put away the consent form, you only need a video camera to provide proof to a jury of your feminist inquisitors that you received the requisite head nod and mutually voluntary personal space encroachment to proceed under legal allowance into a reproductively-thwarted union. Wait, it wasn’t thwarted by condom or Pill? Are you evil?

If it wasn’t a travesty, it would be a farce. Worse, it’s humiliation. The point of these toxic, insane, dehumanizing feminist and equalist laws is humiliation of straight (white, beta) men. That’s it. Never forget it. This is your enemy.

***

Reader 1357 quips,

I see a lot more secret recordings of all sexual encounters “just in case”, happening in california pretty soon.

Oh yeah. Externalities are a bitch. What man worth his seductive prowess will risk bedding a slutty headcase now, without video proof of her writhing arousal and surrender? But it would have to be secretly videotaped; not many women are down with a camera rolling on that first magical night together. Keep the closet door ajar, hide the camera behind cable wool sweaters, and don’t forget to put black tape over the red record light.

How ironic if a perverse law designed to catalogue the organic and nuanced stirrings of mutual consent — aka foreplay — were to have the knock-off effect of flooding the internet with more ill-gotten sex videos of regretful feminist whackjobs!

Reader joe sixpack imagines what convincing a girl to sign a pre-sex consent form would entail:

“OMG, lol, what’s that thing on your head?”

“That’s my new GoPro.

Now just look at me and say the following: “I hereby swear of my free personal will, that I do consent to sexual contact up to and inclusive of sexual intercourse whereby I grant unrestricted consent for your penis to enter my vagina, and I duly swear to hold fully exempt from any future civil and/or criminal litigation resulting from said intercourse.

You may not need the GoPro. There’s now an app for that. Good2Go. Nerds rejoice, they finally have a technical means of determining if and when a girl likes them in “that way”. Naturally, whatever slim chances a nerd gets in his life to have sex will promptly be scuttled the moment he pulls out his Good2Go app for permission to continue fondling the girl’s upper forearm.

On a serious note, this law is unenforceable. Last I checked, judges tend to side with defendants in “he said-she said” situations. (Who knows, though? That could be changing, like everything else in America, for the worse.) A law like this is pure signaling by alpha males and omega females. The former get to flex their power over weaker men and demonstrate through their indifference a prowess with women that will never be threatened by morning-after regret. The latter get to make life harder for better looking women of sound mental health, and much much harder for those creepy beta and omega males who sheepishly and awkwardly hit on them in elevators. The nerve! Then there’s the politics of it all. The War On Women rhetoric has ramped up so loudly (and incongruously) that politicians can score a lot of votes by pandering to the worst elements of womanhood. The rest of the women just step in line with these feminist gorgons, because that’s the direction the herd is heading.

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Homeless Gay Game

A million readers have sent CH links to this video and accompanying story of a purportedly homeless dude picking up girls for sex and flophouse stays.

I haven’t bothered to write about it because, well, watch the video and you’ll see why.

Strong gay vibe. This video is either a production house put-on or a confused gay man’s misdirection. If he’s a rump raider, then you should believe exactly 0% of his words. If, despite loudly pinging gaydar, he’s straight, AND telling something close to the truth, then godspeed exiled git of the vertical slit. Faux gay game has its place in pickup history; many a fine dandy wooed women with their aloof, refined charms.

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An attractive woman emptied her brain bowels online and pinched off a tapered string of sentences so vapid that you would be challenged to find a more inane splatter of poopytalk. From her article at a site called The Daily Love, titled “You do not have to prove yourself to anyone“, in which she tries to prove her point of view to anyone reading, the following nugget is excavated:

As a soul sister to many, I often find myself being called upon for a variety of supporting reasons. Today, I got a phone call from a fellow goddess and she was in absolute disarray. She was, well, a hot mess.

Separately, each of those sentences is empty überfeels nonsense. Together, they create a kind of super storm of silly doublethink (why would a goddess be in disarray?), solipsistic posturing, and infantile prattle.

This is your modern American woman with a cable modem. The internet, among its pantheon of induced pathologies, has had as well the salutary (sadistic?) effect of exposing dim-witted women, and particularly the attractive ones, to criticism and mockery of their forehead furrowing thoughts that they normally would not experience in the real world where people are politer and men more indulgent of non-obese fuckables.

This doesn’t seem to thwart the flow of distaff nonsense, though. Instead of retreating to lick their wounds and go back to doing what they do best — defer to the man of the house — they circle the wagons and soundproof their echo chambers. But the walls come tumbling down eventually. Some of the shivs must penetrate; expect an epidemic of mental illness among our wired women in the coming years.

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The subject of hugs as a social lubricant surfaced recently in the comments. Before continuing, I’ll say that hugs as a tactile ploy to quickly escalate physical comfort with a girl is an entirely different matter than hugs as they are used by girls when meeting friends or even loosely affiliated acquaintances. The former is an established game technique; the latter is, well… emasculating.

Gadfly Amy writes,

This is an interesting observation. I hug people all the time, and you are right, the “alpha” guys don’t really hug back. They don’t freeze up and act uncomfortable or nervous… they just don’t physically react. They make me do the work.

Hugging is all the rage in SWPL-land. And it’s something I could do without. But some social forces are so deeply ingrained that even the mighty iconoclast you know and luv, Highlander Heartiste, must bend to the will of the herd.

Although hugging is a great kino escalation tactic, in nearly every other context it’s phony and suspiciously emasculating. People (mostly women) feel the pressure to hug, and like lemmings they dive right over the personal space cliff to hug everybody from exes to bosses to friends of friends to friends of friends of boss exes. Whatever import accompanied the practice has long ago been stripped mined from it by perfunctory overuse.

Hugging is Depo-Provera for the Androgyne Generation. It’s the final snippity snip of soft castration for men whose testes are already halfway ascended to their diaphragms. It’s a comforting boundary in a world of hair-trigger offense, and a reprieve from busting a move to get the girl.

Hyperbole? Ok, try imagining Don Draper hugging Peggy or Joan or his secretary du jour every time they got together at a party. Try picturing James Bond hugging a woman he had no intention of seducing into bed. Try imagining your father, or your grandfather, or this guy, asexually hugging women at a backyard barbeque.

It is to laugh.

Fact: If you aren’t initiating hugs to fast-track a familiarity that can be leveraged into quick seductions, or you aren’t hugging a girl as post-coital homage to her bedside acrobatics or sympathy for her dead grandma, then the hug you are receiving is beta.

Naturally, if I have to put up with hugging I’m gonna press in real close if the hugger is a cute girl with a big rack. That’s called making smoosh juice out of lemons. And lemons it is, because hugging, besides feeling like a coerced gesture to which one submissively relents, is in most ways subtly desexualizing. I don’t know when or how the practice got to be the go-to social greeting among self-regarding liberal whites (aka alien grays), but I’ve no doubt that many women now deploy it as a means of preemptively dissipating any simmering sexual energy that might radiate from a man who still has stones knocking between his legs.

In some cases, the sexual energy she subconsciously seeks to dissipate is her own. Which is flattering to the man, until he stops to think that the hug is basically the girl pulling a Heisman on him.

Exceptions exist. Hugging is occasionally an overt come-on by a girl who wants to communicate her sexual intent using tools deemed safe and plausibly deniable by broad social acceptance. If you can tell that’s happening to you, then by all means welcome that hug and let your hand drop to the top of her ass.

But more often, hugging is a female power move to claim control of a man’s beastly sexuality. It’s emasculating in the sense that the hugger feels so at ease in your company, so blissfully unthreatened by your percolating sexuality, that she can swoop right into your flaccid body and press her supple flesh into your spirit house. Not in your house? Oh yes, in your house.

The female hug is a nonverbal message delivery vehicle. It can say “Wow, I like this guy and just want to feel his strong swaying manboobs”, or, more typically for your average SWPL betaboy who must entertain upwards of ten friendzone hugs per day, it says, “Wow, this guy is such a team player, but just in case he’s got life left in that microbone of his, I’m gonna arouse him with the proximity of my body and drink of his nourishing despair as he realizes the extent of his paralyzed impotence.”

You don’t want to be that guy. But what to do when the world is hug-happy and refusal would assuredly consign you to the disinvite list?

Based on what I’ve seen charming alphas do, there are two effective countermeasures. One, you can do as Amy observed, and let your body hang in languid repose, forcing the girl by your inaction to assume all the sexual pre-penetrative tension that is always bubbling not far underneath the polite veneer of a hug. Call it, “amused receivership”. The trick is to substitute calm indifference for rigid discomfort. Done right, it’s a great way to non-verbally wedge a girl into the “chaser” role. She’ll feel like she’s doing all the work, so you as a man must be worth it.

The other method requires a more cantankerous personality. When she moves in for the hug, agree and amplify. As she’s hugging, let your hands roam over her back and hips. Exaggerate your pleasure for the entertainment of the crowd or for your own amusement. Smile like you’re getting a hummer and press harder into her. Moan a little. Sexualize the hug. Accuse her of copping a cheap feel, or making you feel dirty. Force her world to accommodate your insolent penile aura. She’ll either be aroused by your manly effrontery and begin to contemplate unclothed transactions with you, or she’ll be thrown into a state of perturbation and think twice before hugboxing you again as if you were a little eunuch doll.

Either way, you win. If the second method should scandalize the gathered, prep them with a clownish attitude. This way there’s less chance they’ll mistake your gropings for anything but physical humor. If she, or her friends, really chafe at your impudence, you shouldn’t be hanging with such uptight pussies anyhow.

Amy continues,

How do your girl friends greet you, then? How do you expect/want them to greet you?

I don’t press up against guys when I hug them, it’s a greeting type hug, quick, and I usually kiss them on the cheek. The only exception is if I’m really glad to see them for a specific reason, i.e. the other night I saw a friend of mine who just recovered from a freak illness that almost killed him. I was so happy to see him out and looking healthy that I hugged him hard. But I don’t think anyone would confuse that with a sexual advance.

You underestimate the proclivity of men to interpret all variety of female attention as a cry for copulation. But to your question, long-time close girl friends I have no intention of fucking may get a hug now and then. Mostly though, there is a tacit understanding that it’s cool to get together without having to grease the friendship wheel with gobs of histrionic symbols of affection.

The French have it right, like they do in so many matters of intersex politesse. If you must have a physical greeting with women you aren’t fucking, the lean in, arm grab, and air kiss on the cheek is sufficient. Otherwise, just chill and go for the high five, pulling away at the last second leaving her hand flapping in empty air, after which you execute the “who’s gay” finishing move.

Failing that, there’s always the fist bump, a gesture which ironically works a lot better to establish your alluring dominance when used on girls than on male friends.

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The datanauts at OKCupid ran the back channel numbers for New York City to find out who among the city’s 400,000 users on the dating site were the “most desired”, an appellation that relied on the simple metric of which users received the most messages from lovelorn horndogs. (More on that later.)

CH has taken issue before with OKCupid’s liberal-leaning data crunching team for sampling bias and misinterpretation of their findings. Analytical flaws aside, this very rough measure of “most desirable OKCupid user” does offer us a glimpse into the radioactive, hyperventilated, full metal jacketed sexual market of New York City, the American city with, arguably, the greatest concentration of 9s and 10s after LA and Miami. What does the crude sampling of OKCupid messages received say about New Yorkers’ sexual tastes?

I’m afraid, not anything flattering. However, there’s nary a fatty in sight, so at least NYC cleared that low hurdle.

First up, the NYC woman “voted” most desirable by OKCupid message ballot count is a heavily tattooed courtesan with a FUCK MY STARFISH cumdumpster gaze:

Cutting to the lace, this chick, as seen here, is a 7.5. CH deems her in her present state totally bang-worthy. But what does she look like underneath her three layers of industrial grade make-up and complimentary lighting? Drawing on my vast reservoir of expertise, I bet she drops to a 6 in the sunshine-y morning sans artificial face. The tats, of course, are a major slut giveaway. Not that sluttiness is necessarily a bad thing; it depends on a man’s perspective. Does he want a faithful girlfriend, or a bedroom adventure?

The impression this girl wants to leave on potential suitors is 1. I’m a fucktoy, 2. I will keep you at a distance and never let you know the real me, and 3. I’m an attention whore with a burdensome and unnecessary high female IQ and a low self-esteem nurtured by doubts about my ability to get a real alpha male player to commit, and so I will pretend I’m the one choosing my inglorious cad-chasing, pump and dumping lifestyle.

If you don’t believe my astute psychological diagnosis, here’s some choice quotes from her:

It doesn’t hurt that Lauren, after getting out of a four-year relationship with a “pathological liar” [ed: chicks dig… ah fuck it, you know the drill] who had a drug problem, isn’t necessarily looking for anything serious. So, in OKCupid’s searchable “I’m looking for …” section, she, like most women, selected “long-term dating,” “short-term dating,” and “new friends.” Unlike most women, she also selected “casual sex,” figuring she might as well tell the truth.

“At first, I thought if you listed ‘casual sex,’ guys would realize that even though I don’t want to be in a relationship with you, we can still go out, get drinks,” she says, but it triggered a vulgar explosion of come-ons. “It’s like, I’m not a prostitute. But they don’t get that.”

The attention, she admits, has been flattering—an ego boost after a rough breakup. She also confesses that she was “never the pretty girl” growing up and appreciates being in the position to approve or ignore other people.

Online dating: Inflating the egos of subclinical headcases since… I dunno, when did this clitshow start?

The finding of Lauren as most desirable NYC OKCupid girl also tells us a lot about what men value in women they meet online: namely, quick sex. Undoubtedly, there are hotter girls than Lauren peep toe-ing along the city’s sidewalks, but they’re not on OkCupid. Or if they are, they’re not as likely to create an image of themselves as around-the-way gothgirls. Lauren’s incomprehensibly vaunted position in the OKCupid universe is symptomatic of the problems with online dating, for both men and women: One, users (especially female users) are a self-selected bunch of marginal SMV participants. The really ugly and the really pretty are, respectively, too dispirited or too romantically successful in the real world to bother with the hassle. Two, women who dress like they spread faster than melted butter will naturally attract the eyeballs of a lot of men looking for a good time. Try to explain this common sensical functioning of the dating market to an SMRT, HIGH IQ city sister and you’ll get an earful of feminist boilerplate in return.

And don’t forget the probable demographic of OKCupid’s male users. Whom do gothgirls with NASA links attract? Nerds. What’s a nerd’s dating life like? The vast empty cosmos. Put the two together and you get a Lauren-sized ego relishing the desperation of 8,000 loveless nerds. 8,000 smart, economically productive nerds who don’t stand a chance against pathologically lying, badboy drug addicts.

I’d fuckin laugh if it weren’t so banal. No wait, I am laughing. Shitting on nerds’ hopes still puts a smile on my face.

Next up, the lesbian found to be most desirable dyke in NYC:

Justin Fuckin Bieber! Lesbians may all be grossly obese and tolerant of their scissor partners’ fatness, but judging by the photo above of most desirable lesbian in NYC, lesbians would prefer to be with very skinny women. Obligate lesbians (as opposed to cute chicks who experiment sometimes) are ugly and go out of their way to look like men, but they retain particulars of the heterosexual female mind, such as a preternatural ability to overlook physical flaws in a lover. Now I wonder if perhaps lesbians secretly desire the love of thin women, just like straight men do, but don’t give enough of a shit to bother with the effort since they know that gardening and softball sublimate nicely for bed death.

Anyhow, enough of this lesbian. I can’t stand looking anymore at those two bones passing for an ass on her.

For prolapsed giggles, here’s the photo of New York’s most desirable gay man on OkCupid:

Can we stop prancing around the subject and just admit that gay men are borderline Peter Panny pedophiles who love dat schoolboy charm? Not that I’d give them too much shit for it. If straight men had the option and the social sanction, we’d all be banging barely legal girleens.

One of the “winners’ was a straight man, but I see no reason to include his pic here. Not much to say, except he’s decent-looking and appears to have a sense of humor and knows how to demonstrate higher value, (of which the latter two traits are likely the greater attributing factors to his OKCupid popularity).

At a dark, candlelit West Village bar, James Hawver, a 29-year-old real-estate agent and New York’s most popular straight guy, is the living embodiment of his OKCupid handle, MyTiesAreSkinny. Preppily handsome, he’s dressed in a well-fitting H&M blazer with, yes, a skinny black tie and matching pocket square. James’s profile is peppered with references to his travels in Nepal and China and self-deprecatingly confident jokes like: “Ryan Gosling could play my stunt double. That is, if I didn’t already do my own stunts.” The whole profile is self-aware, right down to his height, which he lists as five-foot-nine, though he’s an inch shorter. “They say most guys add two inches,” he says, quoting OKCupid’s statistics blog, OKTrends. “I’m already behind!”

He also has a practical grasp of “law of large numbers” game.

But James has a few simple hacks to further improve his odds. He uses both ­OKCupid­ and Tinder, an app that is almost solely photo-based. Both are owned by IAC, the company that also owns Match.com. In the three and a half hours we spend talking, the phone will ping 47 times: On Tinder, 35 women will match with him; 12 women on ­OKCupid­ will either ­message or favorite him. The week before, he took a screenshot of a Tinder notification: 890 new matches, a personal record. And he has a basic strategy. Like a lot of guys, he was wasting time studying the profiles and photos of women who would never respond. Then a friend shared a deviously simple online-dating trick.

“You ready for the secret?” James asks me. “Not to blow your mind, but it’s disgusting …” He picks up his phone. “So, every couple days, I will do this,” he says. He opens the Tinder app, but before
I can see the first woman’s face, he swipes right: interested. If the woman he likes also swipes right, he has an official match. In short: He never swipes left (not interested).

“I will say yes to every single person,” James says. And he never follows up with someone who hasn’t already confirmed her interest. On ­OKCupid,­ he does the same thing: He gives everyone five stars (and if someone gives him four or fives stars in return, the site will notify him of a match). By doing so, he exposes himself to less risk, an appealing upside to James, who’s had two difficult breakups. He’s since had thousands of matches—so many that he’s had to refine his strategy.

By the way, you’ll note that James receives FAR fewer messages from women than Lauren receives from men. A handsome man simply can’t expect the same kind of lustful stampede from hordes of women than a pretty woman signaling sexual availability can expect from men.

“The last person I matched with was Allison,” he says. If he were to send a message to Allison on a Sunday, Monday, or Tuesday, it would read: Hey there Miss Allison. What kind of trouble did you get into this weekend? :) “That’s exactly what I do, every fucking time,” he says, laughing. For Wednesday: Hey there Miss Allison. What sort of trouble are you getting into this week? :) Thursday or Friday: What kind of trouble are you getting into this weekend? :) And if it’s Saturday: What kind of trouble have you been getting into? :)

Kind of a cheesy line, but if you drop it on fifty girls a week you’re bound to hit pay dirt on a couple.

The overall vibe one gets from the current online dating scene is one of self-protectiveness and exploitation. Not that it hasn’t always been like that, but these two trends have accelerated since I entered the plunderdome as a pre-teened, continuously turgid stripling. Some men are wising up to the mechanical nature of female sexuality, and women, in response (or as causal agents) are building emotional, snarl-fueled barriers around themselves, and sometimes even physical barriers like tattoos, which intimidate the beta saps and signal the alpha players to swoop in for the thrill. Women bitch about this state of affairs, but, like always, watch what they do. The vagina speaks louder than a million words.

It’s helpful to keep in mind when trawling online dating site data (you listening Rudder?) that “desirability” and “hotness” are not necessarily the same. A slutty 7 will get a lot more messages than a modest 10 for the simple reason that most men, average by definition, consider attainability in deciding which women to hit up for a romantic evening of ass eating.

And the same is true in real life. It may seem paradoxical, but the hottest girls actually get hit on less often than ordinarily cute 6s and 7s. If you want an explanation why 7s seem to have bigger egos than 9s, or why that fantastic 9 tossed you a lascivious look while that chubby 5 steamrolled right past you, there you go. This doesn’t mean really hot girls don’t know their own sexual value. 8s, 9s and 10s may not get directly hit on, but they experience plenty of indirect attention from men in the form of shell-shocked stares, furtive glances, craning necks and nervous fidgeting. Hotties subconsciously pick up these cues, but consciously may remain unaware just how awestruck men are in their company, which contributes to their frustration with not being approached as often as those subtle attraction clues from men would indicate.

It’s been said on other pickup sites, and it bears repeating: As a student of applied charisma, you’ll be surprised to find yourself having more success with hotter girls than you’re used to rather than with the plainer girls which have been your self-limiting expectation.

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