Used

Three girls, two guys. One of the guys was obviously gay. (hellOOOO) He had gay face. The girl closest to me, a blonde with a wholesome midwestern look, strokes my jacket sleeve.

“I like the way your jacket feels.”

“Any excuse to cop a feel, eh?”

“What’s it made of?”

“Silkworm. It’s very rare.” I scan the group trying to figure out the social dynamic. One girl was talking to the (presumably) straight guy in intense, eyes locked conversation. She would not cockblock. Another girl was glancing expectantly around the room, perhaps waiting for a boyfriend? She was a cockblock threat. The gay guy was a fat black man playing the role of the mother hen. He was a high risk cockblock.

I address the gay first. “Is your friend here always like this? Touching random stranger’s jackets?”

“Don’t we all!” (Boy, do I know how to call it). “She’s a sweetheart. Isn’t that right, Katy?”

“Yeah, that’s what I want him to think.” She winks at me. The gay turns away and begins sipping his drink through a straw loudly, exaggerating the purse of his lips. He would no longer be a threat. She must have signaled him. I missed the signal. Too subtle.

I talk with Katy for ten minutes before remembering to check her single status. Gotta be smooth when screening for BFs. “How do you know everyone here?”

She gives me the rundown. The other guy is the BF of the girl talking to him. I lean in a little closer to her ear.

“Your friend here,” I motion toward her single friend craning her neck and searching the room, “looks like she’s waiting patiently for someone.”

“Yeah, her boyfriend is coming.”

I lean back and let a few seconds pass. She smiles at me. Ok, I was in the clear. Katy was the odd girl out. Fresh unspoiled meat.

We talk for a half hour. My game is not the sharpest it’s been, in fact I’m a little bit sloppy, but she eats it up like a hungry she-wolf. In hindsight, her extremely positive reaction to my less than stellar game should have been a red flag, but I carried on as if the number close, or even the same night bang, was inevitable. As evidenced by all the arm touching and flicking of hair, she responds very well. Time for a calculated reposition.

“Hey, looks like your friends are pretty busy having fun in their own world. There’s an empty space just over there where we can sit and be a little more comfortable. Let’s move.”

Her smile goes crooked. “Well… I’m waiting for my boyfriend. He’s coming here, too.” She shrugs her shoulders and raises her eyebrows apologetically.

BEEEEEYOTCH.

I stare at her with steely eyes until she gets slightly uncomfortable. I am not smiling at all. I want her to notice my displeasure. I think about calling her out in the manner of Roosh’s campaign to call out cockblocks and shame them in public. Perhaps say something like “I didn’t think you’d be the type of girl to conveniently forget to mention your boyfriend just for attention from other guys. I wonder what he would think of that?”

Instead, I held my tongue and simply gave her the backturn. She didn’t attempt to re-engage. She knew she had committed a grievous lie of omission and the jig was up.

I was used. Emotional rape. She had exacted her tribute — a half hour of my valuable time and energy that could have been better spent on available women. Mission accomplished: Ego validated.

Thinking back, I see a pattern. Girls with boyfriends are often the happiest girls to be the target of my game. They are bored; they need that constant revalidation of their desirability to new men. They may or may not be in love with their boyfriends, it doesn’t seem to matter much. The need for male attention is an addiction that never really goes away, even when they’re 70 and the young man tells them how fetching their blue hair is. Only girls who are deeply in love are granted temporary immunity from the urge to whore attention. This phase usually lasts about 6 months. Two years tops.

Soulmates who never need validation from anyone else but each other are as rare as pink diamonds. If you are in this type of relationship, count your blessings. You have won the quality girl lottery.

Later, I chastised myself for not getting her to cough up the BF information sooner.

Read Full Post »

Inside The Horror Of Bridesmaid Dress Shopping

I had a conversation with a girl who described how she was trapped in the hell matrix of shopping for a bridesmaid dress. Here is her dispatch from the frontlines.

HER: I had to go bridesmaid dress shopping on Saturday. If you thought the baby shower was gayer than gay, you have no idea.

ME: haha. Was it you and the girls?

HER: There were overbearing eastern european megalomaniac high pressure saleswomen. The fattest brides I’ve ever seen. And one woman in a halter wedding gown (white) who was at least pushing 65.

ME: Wow. What gift do you get the blushing bride who has 65 years worth of accumulated stuff?

HER: The saleslady suggested she wear a cape for modesty’s sake. But she adamantly refused and kept parading around haughtily while her withered groomsman, 20 years her junior at least, slumped in the corner with his coffee cup. It was a depressing scene to be sure.

ME: A beaten man. Barely alive.

HER: I tried on like one dress and said “K. Good to go. Let’s just take this one.” But no, they want you to pore over every last detail, photograph them all, revisit the choices. For 3 hours.

ME: Psychotic!

HER: My mom came in to get a mother of the groom dress, and sort of sighed heavily. She’s like “What color will you wear?” “Black.” “Emily!!” “What? I can wear it again for any occasion. Bar mitzvahs… funerals…”. Megan (the bride-to-be) instead settled on a putrid shade of mocha. We’ll look like gussied up turds. Turd cakes.

ME: The minister will be Mr. Hanky. Howdy ho everybody!

HER: It’s just a sea of color swatches and taffeta and a sense of crushing defeat. Not to mention the pitying looks at the bridesmaids for not having “made it”. Always a bridesmaid. Just like the damn Swedes at the world junior hockey championships. The room was pepto-bismol pink. Like being in a turbulent stomach. And she still couldn’t find a dress! So we get to do it all over again! Wheeee!!!! SHOOT ME.

ME: It’s exactly the nightmare most men imagine it to be.

Read Full Post »

Why I Left My Fat Wife

I’m about to reveal something of myself most of you don’t know.

A few years ago, my wife, Marie, and I were at one of those hip downtown restaurants sipping mangotinis and nibbling on injera bread when one of my bosses appeared with his thin trophy wife in tow and patted my shoulder. When I introduced him to Marie, he naturally looked her up and down. I froze.

Marie and my boss exchanged some small talk but I could see behind the polite chit chat that my boss’ eyes flickered with a hint of disgust. I noticed Marie hadn’t put down her fork, upon which was perched a wobbly chunk of eggplant.

“Well, it was good meeting you,” my boss said, cutting short the conversation.

Marie looked at me and shrugged. “He’s not a very friendly guy, huh?” she said, as my colleague walked off to his table.

“Um, yeah I suppose not,” I said, knowing that was a lie. My boss was actually one of the friendliest men I knew. I understood why he walked off so abruptly. My boss may be friendly, but he’s also a winner, and winners avoid fraternizing with losers. My boss took one look at my fat wife, and recoiled from the stench of loserness. Inside, I was mortified.

Technically, I had it all back then, including a gorgeous toddler and a cool job.

What I didn’t have was a wife I felt proud of.

God knows I wanted to be proud of her. Marie is smart and funny and the only person I know who gets off on explaining why the Twilight books are more feminist than vampiric. And if you asked me about somebody else’s stay-at-home wife, I’d be all over the subject, spouting statistics about how important the mother-daughter bond is to girls’ self-esteem and how limiting it is to expect men to mind the home front. But living with her as she became fatter and fatter was completely different.

Maybe it’s because the plan wasn’t for Marie to lose her looks so rapidly. I went to work when she started graduate school, thinking that I’d head back for my own Ph.D. once she was done. I envisioned us as hard-core SWPLs, reading passages from Joyce to each other while I put together a collection of sexy lingerie for her to wear as we reenacted every sex scene from Victorian era period films. Instead, I fell in love with my first job at a modeling agency, and eventually, after a few promotions, I found myself working as a photographer for a fashion magazine.

Things went less smoothly for Marie. By the time we found out she was pregnant – three years into our marriage – she’d been working at a job teaching film for six months and was beginning to gain weight from all the take-out she ate. She began packing on the pounds by the week, and it affected everything about her – her mood, job performance, health, sexiness. The lingerie I had bought her no longer fit, lost in the folds of her burgeoning ass. Still, the minute her pregnancy test flashed its double pink lines at me, I knew I needed to work even harder at my job to ensure my child had the best chance in life.

I worked late nights for six months after my daughter was born while Marie continued, yes, bloating up. In 18 months, she gained 40 pounds. Meanwhile, I was being pursued by the models I photographed. Eventually, I flirted with some of them.

I felt like myself again – flirting, feeling horny, loving the sight of beautiful women, doing the witty-banter thing in the halls with the models. But my marriage started to fall apart. I felt guilty about being glad to go back to work, and in my head, I made it Marie’s fault. Because she had gotten fat, I blamed her when I was working late and had to miss the baby’s bedtime; it was her fault I had to go in early every day, since the fact that she couldn’t stay slim meant that I couldn’t stop myself from checking out other women. And when I got home, I seethed. I couldn’t walk across the living room without tripping over a half-eaten apple pie or an ice cream scoop. The baby was in the same little nightgown she’d slept in the night before. There wasn’t a hint of food in the fridge; Marie had eaten it all. She was home all day-couldn’t she at least run a few laps on the freaking treadmill?

Eventually, communication between Marie and me deteriorated to the point where all we talked about was the baby. Had she gotten enough sleep? What had she eaten for lunch? How could she have run through an entire value pack of diapers in one weekend? “Wait till I tell you what she did,” she’d say every once in a while, as she gazed adoringly at the baby and I gazed around the room to avoid looking at my wife’s Pillsbury rolls. In those moments – watching Marie gently rock her to sleep while singing “Punk Rock Girl” – I was reminded why I had once thought Marie was the sexiest woman in the world. But our sex life was in ruins; I spent all my time in the computer den (AKA pornatorium) or at work-sponsored happy hours with the models. I chalked it up to the transition period all new parents go through. Then one day, I realized it had been almost a year since Marie and I had made love.

Sometimes she’d say, “I really think things would be better for us if we could just be intimate again.” Or she’d put the baby to bed early and come into the living room with two glasses of wine and a book of poetry – our classic recipe for seduction – but just the thought of me touching her cottage cheese thighs and lint-encrusted belly rolls made me recoil. “Maybe I’m just not a sexual person anymore,” I told her, and I honestly meant it. The truth is, I wasn’t attracted to her anymore. It wasn’t that she’d changed on the inside – she still had the same sense of humor, kind heart, and sharp intellect that had literally made me fall in love when I first met her. But in my heart and my head, I’d neutralized her as a sexual being. I wanted to be overwhelmed by the sheer power of her femininity in the bedroom, but I wasn’t. Because I felt like the dumpster diver in our relationship.

We went to see a therapist. “Don’t you think I resent you for how easy it is for you to stay thin?” Marie asked me during one session. “You have these great genes, and I’m home like a slave, running errands, taking care of your shit, and you can’t even spare me five minutes of sex at the end of the day.” I think it was the first time I’d actually listened to what she had to say in years. She said that she was angry with me for always staying out late and partying with slender models, and angry with herself for not being able to turn me on anymore. She said she didn’t appreciate being treated like a nanny-slash-housekeeper-slash-fat disgusting crap to be ignored in favor of porn. But what alternatives was she offering? I had ever so gently suggested she would feel better and our marriage would be happier if she lost the weight she had gained and slimmed back down to the hot wife I knew when I first fell in love with her and married her, but instead all she did was get fatter. We separated a few months later.

In retrospect, I realized I had this preconceived idea of what a sexy, attractive woman should be like. I imagined being married to, well, a good-looking, thin wife with a shapely hourglass figure. Someone whose attractive womanly physique looks pleasant to other people as well as to me. Someone who walks out the door with a sexy dress on, high heels, and a tight ass. Someone who turns heads. Does that make me a sexist? “I always felt embarrassed and guilty – you had all these preconditions for me that I felt like I wasn’t living up to,” Marie said to me after our divorce.

So nobody was more surprised than I was when I went ahead and fell for another funny, bright, kind woman like Marie.

Here’s the difference, though: Magdalena knows what men want – and it’s not a poetry reading over bon bons sitting on the increasingly concave couch. She knows men want to make sweet love to sexy, slender women who can wear the hot lingerie he buys for her without looking like a walrus tangled in a ball of string. Playing with my daughter or painting or translating the writings of Pablo Neruda is fine, but it is only a garnish to the main marriage course – hot, steamy, passionate love with a physically attractive woman. There’s nothing food-obsessed or self-loathing about her. When Magdalena and I are cooking dinner together on Friday nights in a kitchen devoid of cheetos and tubs of Haagen Daz, or trying to drink coffee in bed on Sunday mornings while my daughter dances around us, I’m so attracted to her that it’s all I can do not to rip her clothes off then and there.

Put it this way: Whether it’s me or the sexy figure she’s keeping, I think it’s damn sexy.

This article was sent to various women’s magazines for publication.

Read Full Post »

Valentine’s Day Cleanup

Word on the street is…

Valentine’s Day is the new New Year’s Eve. Any single girls are feeling the sting of loneliness on this day in technicolor sensation, and of those fortitudinal enough to brave going out with their girlfriends and thereby announcing to the world their singledom, the horniness is strong in them.

Like shooting bitches in a barrel.

Read Full Post »

Obama’s Women, Part 2

Here’s this link to a New York Beta Times story about SWPL perimenopausal women having dreams of Barack Obama — psychosexual fantasies and stalkerish glorifications of the Obama family. The NYBTimes has been churning out some truly vomitus copy as of late, but for sheer sickening nausea this story may very well spew the farthest.

One woman wrote that when she couldn’t get to sleep at night, she “lay in bed and thought about the Obama girls in their rooms at the White House. I thought about Marian Robinson up on the third floor. And about Barack and Michelle, a couple who clearly have a ‘thing’ for each other, spooning together in bed. It helped me relax.”

When, generations from now, our Islamic and Mexican overlords have gathered to discuss the exact moment the American empire fell to pieces and reverted to a pre-civilizational Mad Max tribal wasteland, someone will point to this quote in the ancient tablets of the New York Times, and heads will nod in agreement.

I’ve already written about Obama’s women, and the sexual mores of girls who voted for him, so there aren’t many new lessons to glean from this article that haven’t been discussed before. This story has made the rounds, and been roundly ridiculed by many other bloggers. If there were any remaining doubts that giving women the right to vote has been an unmitigated disaster for America, this article should dispel them. Most women, especially single SWPLers and undersexed hausfraus bitter about being married to quisling betas, are simply unserious creatures who will let their emotions guide them to vote away the political and social arrangements that created the modern yenta-fied culture that affords them the luxury of voting like vapid teenage girls. If history is any guide, and if fortune should shine upon the United States before the point of no return is reached, a cooperative, horizontally structured patriarchy will reemerge and supplant the suicidally insane matricentric sick culture and stateless citizen of the world globopuppeteer elites playing “let’s you and him fight” currently running the show. I think it will happen soon, perhaps within five years. It may be violent as the authoritarian sanctimonious Boomer pricks and Gen X lackeys are overthrown.

The other day a friend of mine confided that in the weeks leading up to the election, the Obamas’ apparent joy as a couple had made her just miserable. Their marriage looked so much happier than hers. Their life seemed so perfect. “I was at a place where I was tempted daily to throttle my husband,” she said. “This coincided with Michelle saying the most beautiful things about Barack. Each time I heard her speak about him I got tears in my eyes — because I felt so far away from that kind of bliss in my own life and perhaps even more, because I was so moved by her expressions of devotion to him.”

BOTY candidate right here. Imagine being this bitch’s husband and reading this quote from your wife in the paper. I bet she showed him the article, proudly pointing out where she was quoted publicly humiliating him. “Here, honey, check this out. I’m in the New York Times!” The poor, wretched beta would probably work double time to win his wife’s approval, when he should be doing just the opposite — kicking her cottage cheese ass to the curb.

Relatedly, I was talking to a typical urban slut machine and she asked who I voted for. I said I didn’t vote. She reeled back, shocked. “You didn’t VOTE?!?” “Nope,” I repeated. “Voting is a useless exercise.” She leaned over to her girlfriend and spoke in her ear. They made OMG faces. Both of them looked at me suspiciously, frowning. Their reaction was as if I had told them that I killed a pregnant woman and dumped the body in the Potomac. The Obama Age scales of moral opprobium are completely out of whack. She returned. “What are you registered as?” “Independent.” “Independent? Hmm.” Girls know that when a man says Independent he means “Non-Democrat”.

I got the bang and marked her number in my phone as a “Tier 2” number.

***

In other news, I nearly interrupted a mugging in progress. I was literally five feet away walking down an alley that serves as a makeshift parking lot when an early 20s black dude, thugged out to the max, stuck a gun in the gut of a 50ish well-dressed white man (soft target) walking in my direction, and barked at him “You know what to do”. The middle-aged guy yelped when he apprehended what was happening. I broke out into a half-run and turned a corner off the alley about a hundred feet from the scene. Since this was a city hood on a weekend night, I expected to see a cop car nearby I could flag down. No such luck. No cops anywhere to be found. Did they take the night off? Way to be available, guys. What are we paying you for, again?

After a few minutes, I gave up trying to locate a cop and dialed 911. As I’m standing on the street in the middle of the nightlife crowd giving the description to the lady on the phone, the mugger casually strolls right by me on the sidewalk. He’s walking with a buddy. He’s got bills in his hand that he’s flipping through, and his buddy is cackling with glee. I relayed this information.

I never saw cops arrive. No doubt the guy got away scot free. The US is heading for a meltdown if criminals feel they can act with such impunity and fearlessness that they can blithely walk away from the scene unconcerned about being caught. I wondered who the victim voted for.

As a friend of mine said, “After a certain amount of time living in the city, you either settle down or move to a new city.” He’s right. It’s starting to feel like Groundhog Day. A move is on the horizon.

Read Full Post »

Question For Economists And Libertarians

Hypothetically speaking, if average human population group differences in aptitude, temperament, personality and decision-making exist and are immutable over generational timespans, and those group average differences are greater when the population groups being compared are larger (i.e. ethnicity versus race), would anything change about principal economic theories and concepts (e.g. free trade, externalities, free movement of labor, comparative advantage, public choice theory, opportunity cost, rationality of players, labor force growth)? If so, how would they change?

Read Full Post »

Game Starts At Birth

Game is a social dynamic that children as well as horny adults play. Game has roots deep in the human psyche that appear at a very young age, and thus is immune to the cultural conditioning explanation. My one and a half year old nephew and three year old niece provided excellent test cases of game in action.

Examples

Even though there was a mountain of toys under the tree, some still unwrapped, and toys strewn all over the room, when my nephew saw my niece playing one particular toy with great concentration he decided that was the one he wanted, RIGHT NOW. When she wouldn’t share the toy, he cried (i.e. bitched and moaned in child language).

• Game principle demonstrated: Social Proof. My nephew wanted that toy more than all the others (despite the possibility that the other toys were better) because he saw his sister having fun with it. The toy was preselected by my niece.

When I gave my niece her present, she grabbed it and shredded the wrapping into confetti. Her mom had to remind her to thank me and give me a hug, which she did… absent-mindedly and perfunctorily, like she was fulfilling a tedious social obligation.

• Game principle demonstrated: Disqualification. By freely giving my niece a gift when she most expected it, with no strings attached, I disqualified myself as a person who intrigues her. Had I qualified her first — “Hey, I don’t know if you’ve been a good girl this year, maybe I’ll give your gift to your brother instead” — she would have worked to earn my gift (i.e. compliment) and showed gratitude in the form of a genuine spontaneous hug.

Later, I was deeply engrossed in playing with the cat. It’s a very fat cat that when it sits on you keeps you warm all over, like a wool blanket. My niece saw that the cat was contented, and I was completely focused on scratching it under the chin. I told her she could come and pet it if she was gentle. She bounded over.

• Game principle demonstrated: Pawning. The cat comes closest to competing with my niece for everyone’s attention. She knows a competitor when she sees one. By befriending the high value cat and making it a part of my social circle, I was able to pawn it off and lock in my niece’s attention.

I was watching one of the great classics on TV — Cannonball Run. My niece wanted to play “magic wand” with me again. (Previously, I let her turn me into a frog.) I waved her away. She kept coming back and I kept telling her to move away from the TV. She whined and ran right up to my face, bopping me on the head with her wand and begging me to turn into a frog.

• Game principle demonstrated: Active Disinterest. My three year old niece knows she is the cutest person in the living room. She prances like a princess. In this environment, she is a 10. I gave her an IOD (Indicator of Disinterest) when I showed more attention to the TV than her, and that motivated her to win my approval.

When I finally relented and turned once more into a frog, and made ribbit noises, she squealed with delight. She zapped me with her wand again, and I turned into a monkey. Then a dog. And a bird. Each time I imitated a new animal, she released bursts of joy. But as my list of zoo animals ran out, she began getting bored. When I half-assedly meowed like a dying cat, she said “That animal is boring. I’m bored” and haughtily walked off.

• Game principle demonstrated: Push-Pull. I spoiled my niece by giving her what she wanted. I was “pulling” her by being her dancing monkey, without pushing her away to keep her wanting more. She became bored with her expectations constantly being fulfilled.

My niece pulled out her stuffed animals and arranged them around a few dishes of my grandmother’s fine china. I asked her what the toys were doing, and she said they were having a tea party. I told her the elephant would not need hands because he would suck up his tea with his trunk. Then I pretended to be each of the animals, acting out the scene in progress. “Woof, Mr. Giraffe, would you please pass the bone?” “Excuse me, Mr. Dog, but Mr. Tiger wants to eat you. He likes delicious dog meat with his tea.” My niece parried my every move with a storyline of her own. The character development was better than most Hollywood blockbusters.

• Game principle demonstrated: Stimulate her emotions. I threw logic out the window and immersed myself in the stuffed animal tea party world, and my niece’s excitement grew the more I built up the fantasy world. She was happy to discard logic and run wild with the animals’ dialogue, no matter how little sense it made.

I told my brother-in-law that based on the toys my nephew and niece played with (lincoln logs and princess dolls respectively), there was little chance they would grow up homosexual. His lineage was safe.

• Game principle demonstrated: It’s biomechanics all the way down.

Read Full Post »