Archive for the ‘Rules of Manhood’ Category

Trump’s substance — the wall, deportations, immigration moratorium, better trade deals, tariffs, noninterventionism — is what ultimately won over Heritage America. But Trump’s style — his Game — is what is destroying his enemies in and out of the media and keeping the morale of his supporters sky high.

Dawg writes,

It’s basic for Trump he has game and can handle women meaning our feminized elite and their followers.  Our betacons are stuck in the Ol’ Papa Conservative shtick and are utterly useless, Gen Z will pillow the fuck out of them, soon I hope.

Naturally, if Trump doesn’t follow through on his substantive promises, the bloom will eventually wear off his stylistic rose. And, inversely, if Trump had no Game, it’s not a sure bet he’d have been elected, or if he was if he could have manhandled the media and his enemies in the Deep State the way he has so far.

Dawg has hit the clit on the hood. The media/academia/globohomo bureaucracy are full-tilt feminized institutions staffed and womaned by feminized men, indeterminate androgynes, and masculinized manjaws pushing poz and shitliberalism by the metric ton. They are all, in effect, bitter cat ladies and BPD headcases with womanly sensibilities.

And this is why Trump owns them. He has Game. He has a history of seducing and screwing parades of beautiful women and, usually, leaving them better than he found them. Likewise with the female media, he screws them so good that they can’t stand afterwards, and act discombobulated for months on end.

The same Game that seduces the girl in the bar is the Game that seduces the feminized media to commit a series of self-discrediting own goals until they are begging to be loved again. (Which won’t happen, because they’re the equivalent of fat chicks. Hard pass.)

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Entertaining field report from Capogambino about his night almost stealing a sexhibitionist from her borefriend.

I’m at the local pub on a Friday, and a guy walks in with two girls dressed for the club scene. One girl is a bit chubby and totally forgettable. The other, his girlfriend, is a solid 9, full slut uniform, hair, makeup, tight stretch black dress barely covering her ass. At several times during the night, as she’s walking around the bar or dancing, her dress rides up, revealing a juicy crescent of ripe cheek for a few moments before she pulls it back down. All the guys in the bar are staring at her, waiting for the next wardrobe malfunction.
At one point, the group I’m with is sitting at the table next to theirs, and I overhear her say, “I can get any guy in this bar to buy me a drink.” Her boyfriend and the other chic are doubting her, so she calls over to our table, “I need a drink, who wants to get me one?” The guys at my table are staring at her, not sure how to react, the girls looking like they want to set her on fire and feed her ashes to dogs. I chime in first, “Depends. What are you drinking?”
“Ginger snap.”
“Aw, a foofy drink. We should do shots. I’m thinking tequila.”
She looks surprised, and mildly intrigued.
“No, I want a ginger snap.” She’s testing me.
We go back a forth a bit but she won’t come off the ginger snap, so I turn back to my table and start chatting.
I glance over and her friends are looking at her like “ha-ha told you so”, and she’s looking disappointed. She sees me looking over, so she tries again. “So you’re not gonna buy me a drink?”
I stand up, walk over, stand close to her looking down, take her by the hand, and say, “Let’s go to the bar and pick something out.”
Her eyes light up like she’s been hit by lighting. She gets up, takes me arm-in-arm, pulling me close so my arm is pressed against the side of her tit, and we start walking to the bar.
I’m thinking I don’t really want to get into a fight with her boyfriend and get kicked out of my favorite pub, so I pull away a little. She looks me in the eye with a mischievous twinkle, pulls me back in, and starts rubbing my arm against the side of her tit.
At this point I’m wondering whether this girl has any boundaries, and thinking mischievously myself about how to test them. We get to the bar and she still has my arm locked against her tit. As we’re waiting for the bartender, we banter back and forth about what drink I’m getting her, with me teasing her about her wimpy girly drinks. I pull my arm free and move it to her lower back and stroke it slowly. She turns to me, presses her tits into me and puts her hand on my chest. At this point I’m in the bubble and completely forgetting about the boyfriend. I imagine he must have been seething back at the table watching our little scene.
I think maybe my stroking gets her dress to misbehaving again, and she reaches down and starts pulling it back into place, commenting about how she keeps flashing everyone. I snicker and tell her she’s got a great ass, and that all the guys in the bar have been staring at it all night. I give a couple gentle tugs on the back of her dress and say, “Why don’t you give ‘em all a show?” She gives me a naughty girl look, and says, “Go for it.” I pull slowly on the back of her dress. I can feel it coming up, but I have no idea how much, because I’m eye locked with her, and she’s staring back with a look like she wants me to throw her across the bar and ravage. Then she giggles and says, “Not that far,” and starts pulling her dress back down. That’s when the forgotten boyfriend shows up.
He pushes us apart, turns to me and yells “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!”
Part of my brain is telling me to get ready for a fight and start thinking about how to calm him down, but I can’t help just laughing. Then the girl shouts, “Leave us alone!” She starts trying to claw her way past him to get back to me. He turns to her, pushes her back, and yells, “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU!”
“Go away! He’s buying me a drink!” They’re in a little wrestling match as she’s still trying to wriggle around him and he’s holding her back.
I figure this is my chance to exit stage left before things get ugly, so I retreat to the bathroom. I take a piss, then I’m washing my hands as he storms in. “Dude, that was so uncool!” I back up, ready for a fight. I look at him for a moment and decide he’s not gonna fight over it. So I do a weak mea culpa, calm him down, and he leaves.
When I get back to the table a WK friend of mine hits me with “That was just so wrong, you shouldn’t have done that.”
So I say “She asked me to.” I tell the story of what we said at the bar, and we all have a good laugh about it. I can feel the stares of the two of them boring into me. When I glance over, I see them looking at me, him with daggers, her with tingles. They pay their bill and leave, so no chance to seal the deal.

Mate guarding when the whore is out of the barn is never a good look; it’s bound to push the girl even further away. The boyfriend in this tale of ho should dump her post haste because she’s gonna cheat on him soon if she isn’t already.

This girl is a particularly noxious genus of exhibitionist, the “let’s you and him fight” variety who uses the public display of her dripping sexuality as a red cape for any alpha males nearby who could conceivably challenge her boyfriend’s ownership of her and provide her with the ferocious tingles that only two men fighting for her glans can coax.

Similarly, her exhibitionism could have been motivated by relationship trouble (her bf ignoring her, for example) and she was keen to enlist Mr. Stranger Danger to ignite her boyfriend’s jealously so that he’d appreciate her again. Either way, the recruited interloper is playing with fire; he gets the bf’s fury or the slut’s retconned rejection.

Copagambino had some ZFG fun and played his hand well, but in the end an exhibitionist got the drama she needed and Copa narrowly avoided the drama he didn’t need.

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I’m gonna let youze yeggs in on a leetle secret. You want to experience the profound joy of romancing, bedding, and loving many, many attractive women? Then you’ll get far if you do this one weird trick:

Make your intention known.

Now, I don’t mean walk up to girls and tell them you want to bang them silly. Girls require a veneer of plausible deniability. The art of flirting is revealing a hint of a glimpse of what’s on your mind without spelling it out.

I mean, make eye contact, and keep it a tic past the threshold of discomfort.

That’s all you need to get going on your journey of poon. The simple act of telegraphing seductive intent through the eyes and the body will open the door to endless romantic possibility. So many women are starved for the attention of men who can forcefully command their gaze.

Beta males suffer a case of Attention Diffidence Disorder that prematurely kills so many chances with girls it may as well be called crib death for cocksas. Cold approaches from a blind angle are always fun, but nothing stimulates every sense quite like an unspoken invitation to thigh adventure. Show intention and her blood pounds, chest reddens, pussy tingles. It’s just a beginning, with no guarantee of a fulfilling end, but what a sweet beginning it is, the first dulcet notes of a symphony waiting for your conductor’s baton.

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A vasectomy is the equivalent of an alphaectomy because it communicates in no uncertain terms that the man snipping out the channel of his life force has no intention of ever leaving his current termagant to trade up to a hotter, tighter, younger woman who might inspire him to load her belly up with heirs.

The vasectomy is therefore the surgical inverse of Dread Game: it’s Indebted Game. It tells your girl that you’re hers forever, she will never have reason to feel anxious about you leaving her for another woman, and that if she were to leave you it would be a graver blow to your dignity and fortunes because you’d be stuck having to find another woman willing to accept your fizzless jizz. And usually the women willing to agree to that deal are older, low sexual market value women who can’t have any (more) kids themselves. So your lady gets to walk off into the sunset with her options relatively unrestricted compared to your options, beaming as she no doubt will be knowing that it would be difficult for you, Beta, Esq., to find a better looking and hotter woman than herself….in your emasculated condition.

The vasectomy would leave the man victim to the vicissitudes of his girl’s hypergamous tingles. It would render him defenseless, psychologically and seminally. Instead of his girl delightfully dreading his allure to other women and putting in the effort to keep him entertained, she will insightfully appraise his allure as the groinvoid it is and put in zero effort to contain the God-given peripatetic masculinity that he surrendered to the butcher’s scalpel.

Maybe that demonstrated devotion sounds romantic to you, but as regular readers of Le Chateau know, it plays out quite differently in women’s hamster cages, where abjectly domesticated men tied by a whoredeon knot to their women from lack of options on the free sexual market are irretrievably less sexy to those women. Over time, that de-amplification of the sexual polarity will erode the woman’s love and jump start her concubine protocol.

In sum, it pays a man to have his plumbing in working order so his main dame always knows he has the arsenal at the ready to seed the earth with the help of another woman’s welcoming womb. Even if his current girl expressed no interest in having children, the thought alone of her man’s romantic freedom will electrify her hamster-vagina axis of tingle and awaken her suppressed femininity to the job of doting on him exclusively so his wanderlust stays focused on her.

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C. S. Lewis, Christian extraordinaire, knew a thing or two about Game. From his Mere Christianity,

Very often the only way to get a quality in reality is to start behaving as if you had it already. That is why children’s games are so important. They are always pretending to be grown-ups—playing soldiers, playing shop. But all the time, they are hardening their muscles and sharpening their wits so that the pretence of being grown-up helps them to grow up in earnest.

Now, the moment you realise ‘Here I am, dressing up as Christ,’ it is extremely likely that you will see at once some way in which at that very moment the pretence could be made less of a pretence and more of a reality. You will find several things going on in your mind which would not be going on there if you were really a son of God. Well, stop them. Or you may realise that, instead of saying your prayers, you ought to be downstairs writing a letter, or helping your wife to wash- up. Well, go and do it.

Great quote, and I left the second half in as delicious Matt King bait.

The Great Men of Christianity were well-acquainted with the mind-body-penis reinforcing feedback axis, and though Lewis likely would have disapproved of yer ‘umble host’s lifestyle, he would have spared a gentleman’s respect for our shared worldview and perspicacity, though he arrived to our point of confluence via the Light and I via the Dark.

The pretense of being a ladykiller alpha male will help you grow into a ladykiller alpha male in earnest.

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I was holding glans with a girl as we sidewalked past a precious vintage wig boutique. Instinctively, and perhaps subconsciously motivated by a suddenly retrieved pleasant memory of this girl, I steered my accomplice into the wig shop and bought a pair of cheapo matching wigs (styled after REDACTED), on the condition that we both would have to wear the wigs for the rest of the day (and night) without giving our game away to anyone who asked us about our wigly appearance.

The idea was that we’d play it straight, as if the wigs were our naturally matching hair textures and colors, sincerely questioning the confusion of those who’d wonder about the sight of us, and in the suppressed comedy of our little two-character play a rush of sexual frisson would lube our bonding time.

I know this nurtured playfulness sounds like an awful chore to a lot of men, but a couple facts you should keep with you: one, what would be a bore to do alone is a lot of fun with a partner in crime and two, when you see that doggy dinner bowl look that a girl gives you as you sweep her into your flight of fancy you’ll learn to love the power of your whimsy over women.

Chicks dig playful men, of all ages. Maybe it’s because there aren’t many playful men, so the few who do exist are noticed by women. I think instead it’s that women are the playful sex, and they feel a stronger connection to men who can not just match their playfulness but surprise them with their own. Evolutionarily, there is likely a sexual selection effect in women for whimsical men because whimsy reveals a creative mind, and male creativity is a secondary sex characteristic no less alluring to women than strong pecs and a square jaw.

Older men reading here should try hard to be more whimsical. You can be playful with masculine verve too; whimsy is not only the domain of effete artist types. Unfortunately for the mediocre masses of beta males, whimsy and energy are the two traits that rapidly and mercilessly decline with age, until a man’s personality and passion are a shrunken relic of his former pussy-parting glory. But for those men who can keep their energy level up and their whimsy performance-tuned, they will find that younger women will barely blink an eye at the thought of dating them.

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A Student of the Game writes about his journey from LSMV male feminism to normal SMV masculine sexism,

I spent the better/worse part of a decade of my 20’s and 30’s entrenched in radical left politics before I got redpilled. In college I was a member of the campus National Organization for Women. That’s how bad it was. I was constantly around women. A small fraction of them were hot. I didn’t do it to get laid, or at least that’s what I thought consciously. I did it because I sincerely thought I was being a good person. I never got laid, at least not through those avenues. I touted my virtue-signalling bona fides, my ‘street cred’ on every date but didn’t have the calibration to realize virtue signalling turned pussy away like halitosis. It was only when I got into game that I began to realize everything was a lie. Women weren’t these holy angels who were superior to us evil men oppressing them. They were worse in a lot of ways. And treating them worse made them want to fuck me. For years I tried to hold on to both lefty ideals and game but the shit pouring out of women’s mouths was too far from the obvious truth about what attracted them and what made both of us happy in relationships.

The Chateau Maxim you should never leave home without:


For reasons expounded on at length here, women have evolved a need to actively fool men about their true sexual natures, and woe to the man who takes women at their words. But the man who watches closely WHOM women fuck, HOW women autonomically react around different men, and WHY women choose some men over others, is the man blessed with women’s love. For he has broken the ho code, which is, “omg this guy really gets me!”. Commence splooging.

The reformed male feminist did not go gently into that White Knight….he’s seen things he would never have believed. Erect clits like spires off the tip of his tongue. He watched cunts gleam and flitter in the dark near the Bangmaster gate. All those moments will have opened his mind….like same night lays…..from behind.

Some of the most ruthless, cunning, and irresistible womanizers are those men who were former white knight-slash-male feminist dupes schooled in the self-abnegating art of parroting shrew boilerplate, before an epiphany — typically one summoned by accidental jerkboy success with a woman assumed to be an inviolable member of the oppressed — WOKE them in an instant to the true shape that desire takes in women.

There is no virtue signaling in the wench trenches. There is only jerkboy signaling.


Tipsy had a great line,

Virtue signalling is not virile signalling.

Virility signaling will save the West.

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