It’s Easy To Identify A Slut

Women seem to think that men are too thickheaded and inattentive to identify which of them are cockgobbling cumguzzling sluts. Or they prefer to believe their sly poses of innocence and white lies are good enough to keep men in the dark about their sexual histories. They would be wrong. The dirty little secret is out: Men have finely tuned straydar for slutty women because they are the ones more likely to cheat. Women lie more about their sexual pasts to men and to themselves, or otherwise expend great effort covering it up, because they know that men will downgrade them as potential long term mates if their sluttiness were revealed in all its jizz-spackled bukkaked glory.

Here is a list of tramp tells:

• She broaches the subject of sex first.

The more explicitly she talks about sex before you’ve banged her, the likelier she has a storied slutty past.

• She suggests kinky sex acts.

If you’ve been dating a short while and she eagerly implores you for public sex before the glow of bedroom missionary sex has worn off, you’ve got a slut.

• She’s neurotic and disagreeable.

Emotionally flighty girls are vaginally flighty girls. They are ruled by their vaginas. If she’s the gossipy, backstabbing, conniving sort who drips with sarcasm and generally disdains everyone around her, you can bet her black soul will seek sustenance on a carousel of cock.

• She frequently goes commando.

Yeah, as guys, we think it’s hot when we slide our hands under our girlfriends’ dresses during dinner in a fancy restaurant and discover a panty-less pussy waiting for us, but what if you notice she’s sans underwear while you’re both shopping in Whole Foods? At a family picnic? In church? On a ferris wheel? In a glass elevator? You get the picture.

• She’s got that crazy, hyper, coked-up look in her eyes.

Welcome to attention whore land! Chicks who can’t breathe without being the center of attention are chicks who are unable to control their craving for fresh cock. You want to be on the lookout for manic depressives and girls who can’t make it through a ten minute conversation without screeching in phony excitement.

• She shows a lot of cleavage all the time.

No worries if she’s accentuating her tits on the first date to entice you, but if she’s got those colliding death stars displayed for the world to admire every time you’re out with her, you’ve got a woman on your hands who is addicted to advertising herself. And there will be buyers, oh yes!

• She *really* seems to know what she’s doing in bed.

Hey man, nothing like getting a BJ from a chick who knows how to hit the underside with her tongue, but it does make you wonder how much dick it required for her to reach that level of professionalism.

• She has an impressive collection of vibrators and admits to wacking off to porn.

She’s a high testosterone sex fiend who values sexual novelty more than pair bonding. This type of girl is a creature of her id. High T girls are easy to spot. Check for forearm hair, narrow hips, broad shoulders, a penchant for cursing, a flat ass (adjusted for race), career ambition, and status whoring.

• She asks you how many women you’ve slept with or accuses you of being a player.

One word: projection.

• She seems “hard”.

If she’s got that tough, tankgrrl aura about her, like she’s been through dating hell and back, and her cynicism is worse than yours, you know she’s been used like a cheap whore.

• She’s incredibly circumspect or incredibly forthcoming about her past or sex in general.

In the course of a few dates, occasionally the conversation turns to past loves or sexual experiences, or views on men and women and the dating scene. Normally, these exchanges are blessedly brief and act as useful springboards for other topics, but when she seems like she’s hiding something big you’ve got a right to be suspicious. Listen for tells that give the game away. Stuff like “Oh well, we all have our skeletons”. Or “I’ve learned so much growing up.” Or “Men are pigs.” (The last one usually said by a record breaking slut.) Naturally, you want to write off any girl as GF material who brags about her CRAZY and WILD college years. Believe me, those years included more than college.

• She’s an artsy type.

Or a lawyer. See: Eternal Ingenue and Amazonian Alpha. The paradox of femininity is that it is often both the ultrafeminine and ultramasculine women who have racked up big numbers of men.

• She tells you about all the places she’s traveled.

Yeah, chicks love to travel, but how many have put their dreams into action? If your date has been around the world twice with multiple stops in Rome, Rio, Vegas, LA, or some Appalachian backwater you can be sure she’s “traveled” straight into the crotch of an exotic local at every destination.

• She never has a break between men longer than one week.

If she’s the type who can’t stand to be single and monkey swings from one man to the next, sometimes with sperm-sharing overlap, odds are high she’s a slut.

• You’re tapping her for the first time and she doesn’t remind you to put on a condom.

We men have an excellent fallback system for flushing out the sluts. If we think you’ve been around, we act as if we’re going to rawdog you, only to reach for the condom at the last possible second. If you haven’t reminded us to put one on during the long pre-penetration buildup, and it looks like you’d have been OK taking our unwrapped meat, we have all the evidence we need that you’re a skank.

• She never stops shit testing you.

A girl who is constantly testing you for alpha congruency is a girl who would jump to another man the moment you betatize yourself. Worthy girls keep the shit testing to a bare minimum. Turn on your love light, baby.

• She buys you a lot of gifts.

I’m not sure why this is a leading indicator of sluttiness, but in my experience it is. Especially if she showers you with little gifts early in the relationship. I open the floor to a discussion of theories for this particular observation.

• She’s OK with making out in bars.

Self-explanatory.

• She lets you snort coke off her ass.

Oh yeah, big time slut.

• She’s black.

Sorry, folks, hate to say it, but going by my personal experience and what I’ve heard from friends, black chicks seem to sleep around more. Don’t blame me, I’m just the Deliverer Of Truths Best Left Unsaid But I’m Going To Say Anyhow.

• She has a lot of slutty friends.

Ye shall know her by her support group.

• Her cunt is cavernous.

Some of you wonder if this is an urban legend or a frat boy joke, but it’s got a kernel of truth. If you feel big with most girls, but small with her (and she doesn’t have the excuse of being a seacow), she has a stretched out pussy that has happily accommodated a parade of giant cocks. Why do you think Kegels are all the rage with the city slutterati? Chicks are onto the fact that their distended pussies betray their loose ways, and anything to tighten up that love hole helps them hide their pecker pounded tracks. When I feel humongous with a girl, I know she has a normal sized snatch that hasn’t been used like the town orifice. The more I feel like I’m ripping her insides to shreds, the likelier I am to move her to the front of my cherished girlfriend queue.

• Your gut tells you she may be a slut.

Always go with your gut. It will almost never lead you astray.

****

A lot of guys, particularly artsy fartsy greater beta males whose agenda is to ingratiate themselves to women with a fawning act of white knighting nonjudgmentalism drivel, believe that it is wrong to categorize women by sluttiness, let alone to disqualify them as relationship candidates based on how many hot loads to the face they took over the course of their sexually active lifetimes. “Don’t judge!” is the rallying cry of weak women and lickspittle betas and lesser alphas everywhere. Conveniently forgotten in this social stampede to shame male standards out of existence is the fact that judgement is inherent to human nature. The frontlines of judging eyes are everywhere. We all do it, including those who judge others for exercising their judgement. If sluttiness were just another lifestyle choice with no implications, there would not be a stigma attached to the word, nor a concerted effort to enforce compliance with the equalist world order by the guardians of female prerogative and pushers of beta male submission howling with inflamed passion at the injustice of men who dare to promote less promiscuous women at the expense of sluts for the best of their masculine love and attention.

Note: As a tactical matter, it’s recommended to refrain from being judgemental of the sexual history of girls you are gaming. Naturally, you don’t want to deep six a budding romance before you’ve closed the deal. There will be plenty of time post-sex for you to take a measure of the girl’s sluttiness and screen her for lesser or greater commitment. I think this goes without saying, but apparently there are some commenters who believe being completely nonjudgemental of anything a woman does is the mark of an alpha. In fact, it’s just the opposite. Only alphas have the market value to mercilessly judge the women they choose to bring into their lives.

Men subconsciously judge women’s sluttiness for eminently practical reasons, just as women judge men on a host of alpha benchmarks for similarly practical reasons. No moral equation required. “Slut” is, in fact, a morally neutral term in the context of the sexual market, where a slutty girl is viewed, justifiably, desirably as an easy lay who will go all the way right away, and undesirably as a girlfriend or wife prospect in whom to invest precious resources. With the law and social institutions of the modern west arrayed against male interest as it hasn’t been in all of human history, it is of critical importance that men get this part of choosing girls for long term investmest and wife and mother potential down to a science. Mandatory paternity testing will aid them in this, and I predict such testing will seismically shift the playing field in a way we haven’t seen since the introduction of the pill and widespread use of the condom. While most married men are not soulkilled by cuckoldry, it only takes a radical change at the margins to have a huge effect on the behaviors of the whole.

For those of you new to the Wonderworks that is Poon, don’t bother bitching ineffectually like a wind-up Jezebel lezbot about “double standards“. They are a fact of deeply ingrained sex differences, and aren’t going anywhere. No one said life was fair.

Maxim #41: The more experience you have with women, the more you’ll know which women have experience with men.

Corollary to #41: It is the inexperienced beta male who is most often in the dark about a woman’s sexual history and liable to be victimized by the cheating slut.

The median number of sex partners for American women is 3(!). The average is 8.6. This means that there is a group of super slutty women, let’s call them “girls who live in the big blue coastal cities and work in marketing or PR”, who are shifting the average higher for all women. By these numbers, it is fair to conclude that a woman who has had more than the median number of partners is a candidate for slut designation, and the higher her number the sluttier she is.

0 lifetime partners: Sweet virginal manna. A bit weird, but you’re confident you’ll break her in.
3 lifetime partners: Typical woman. Wife and mother of your children material.
10 lifetime partners: Above average. Proceed with caution.
15 lifetime partners: Well above average. Be dominant or she’ll cheat.
25 lifetime partners: A whole lot. Use her and lose her.
100 lifetime partners: Stopwatch material. You wonder how fast you can get her from “Hi” to “Spread your ass cheeks, I’m going in”.

I suspect that overall female sluttiness (actual penis in vagina sluttiness, not sluttiness as defined by proxy fashion trends) has increased slightly over the past 40 years, with the blue state city chicks fucking around more than ever and the red state religious girls fucking around less. It goes without saying that only the top 20% of men are enjoying the emergent slut bounty.

What men think about sluts, illustrated:

Read Full Post »

Thought Experiments

Thought Experiment #1

All else equal, which girl is more likely to get pumped and dumped?:

a. an “adventurous” girl who played musical chairs with the mouths of five guys in a bar one night and banged a local emo rocker in the coatroom an hour after they met.

b. a virgin.

Thought Experiment #2

A normal, emotionally stable man with a good job has been on one date with a girl he likes. She is into him. He didn’t close, but feels confident it will happen soon. One night, in his favorite bar, one of the bartenders (a guy known to be plugged into the local social scene), unaware that the man has been on one date with the girl in this story, tells the man he saw the girl making out with a random dude a couple weeks before their first date, and that a few months ago she banged one of the other bartenders.

Would this man be

a. more likely

b. less likely

to arrange an inspired, creative second date with her? to pay for her drink on the second date? to see her for longer than three months after they’ve started screwing?

Read Full Post »

Beta Of The Year Award: Husband “Supports” Wife’s Whoring

Previously, I awarded BOTY to the man who petitioned the state to change his last name so he could take his wife’s maiden name in marriage. It’s difficult to write while choking back vomit, but I managed to tough out my nausea and bring his story to the readers in hopes that I could save the life of even one man from such a horrible self-inflicted castration.

I may have been too hasty bestowing the ignominious BOTY award to “wife’s last name” guy. The year isn’t over and we have recently had a new contender for the crown. He’s the husband of a 38 year old woman who got drunk at a college football game and fucked a random dude in the men’s bathroom as people gawked and cheered them on, while he sat oblivious in his seat watching the game.

Feldman, a married mother of three, has been the target of Internet jokes and prank telephone calls today. She was fired this morning from an assisted living center, where she had been an administrator.

Feldman said her husband, Kelly, has been supportive. She said he faults himself for not going with her when she left her seat to use the restroom before halftime.

There are only two things a man should do if confronted with a humiliating betrayal of this magnitude:

1. Say nothing to your wife except these two words: “Goodbye, whore.”
2. As one of my commenters suggested, get retroactive paternity tests done for all “his” children. Odds are high that not all his kids are his.

That’s it. Other than a well-deserved slap across the face before walking out, (something I don’t recommend as American law as currently constituted will not be lenient toward a husband exacting righteous retribution on a whoring wife), this is all he needs to do. Anything more, and he has effectively acceded to his public emasculation. Unfortunately, the “man” in this story has done just the opposite, and so has earned a year-end berth to challenge the reigning champion for Beta Of The Year.

You, the readers, will vote to decide on the winner below.

A couple things jumped out at me when I read this sorry tale of ho. Betas love that word “supportive”. They cling to it like a piece of driftwood in a stormy sea, probably figuring that “being supportive” of their cheating spouses will spark a renewed love they never really shared. Or that this stupidly magnanimous act of phony generosity in the face of such a monumental infidelity will silence the taunting of the alphas that haunt their nightmares. I can’t think of a more counterproductive… or cringlingly pansy-assed response… than to “support” a cheating wife, especially one who cheats so flagrantly. At least avowed masochists derive some pleasure from the whippings.

This is the woman the husband is supporting:

Police ticketed Feldman, 38, and Ross Walsh, 26, of Linden for indecent conduct Saturday night.

A security guard who said he saw the two having sex through a gap in a men’s restroom stall flagged down campus police, according to the police report.

Men’s restroom? Was she really on her way to the ladies’ room and got pulled aside? Or did she have fucking in mind and loitered around the men’s bathroom until an acceptable prospect strolled by?

By the time an officer arrived, about a dozen people were cheering and laughing in the bathroom while Feldman and Walsh were inside the stall, the report said.

The officer pushed his way through the crowd, opened the door and separated Feldman and Walsh, the report said.

Police described both Feldman and Walsh as upset, drunk and uncooperative.

It doesn’t matter that she was drunk. Plenty of married women get drunk and don’t fuck strangers in public bathrooms while hubby dutifully waits for her return. The alcohol was a hindbrain serum, throwing into stark relief her craving to take the cock of an alpha male. Liquor is not a disabler of reason; it is an enabler of desire. Without the alcohol, she might have been a little more circumspect in where and how she cheated.

Then there was this:

She said he faults himself for not going with her when she left her seat to use the restroom before halftime.

Read that line again. Let the sickening gravity of it hit you in the chest with a thud. You are witnessing a peek into the shriveled, neutered, microphallic mini-id of a man who has utterly surrendered his masculinity. A man whose only concept of himself is through others — and specifically through whatever woman will give him the time of day. You want to reach out, grab this schmuck by the shoulders, and open-handedly slap him silly across the face until he comes to his senses. Faults himself?! For her getting drunk and fucking the first guy she deemed an alpha on her walk to the bathroom while onlookers cheered? This is the inwardly twisted thinking of a soulkilled wastrel. This is how a man reacts when he has no confidence in himself to stand up and stare down a woman who has wronged him.

If we were discussing politics, the analogue to this guy is the man who reflexively blames his countrymen for the evil committed by foreign enemies.

What kind of man would willingly accommodate his own dishonor? I’ll tell you what kind of man — a man who lives in fear. A man afraid to lose a woman because he believes he cannot get another. A man who is scared shitless to WALK.

In other words, a beta.

Why do women love cads? The answer is above. Women love men who live without fear.

Read Full Post »

You Are NOT The Father

I was vegging out watching the cultural phenomenon that is Maury Povich’s Who’s The Daddy? specials. I can do this because I delegate all my work to underlings. This particular show was a treat — Maury had on girls who had been on previous Daddy shows and still hadn’t found the real daddy of their kids. One girl had brought two guys with her — numbers 7 and 8 — to see if either of them would pass/fail the paternity test as the father of her cursed child.

Needless to say, except for one glaring exception, the women were beastly. The real dregs of womanhood. One was so hideous the thing looked like a pumpkin placed on top a crumbling mound of feta cheese. The men were thuggish trash, all piercings, sloping brows, and vacant stares. The audience booed and cheered on cue. This is the modern version of the Roman Coliseum, with the physical bloodletting replaced by emotional bloodletting.

The girl who was currently testing numbers seven and eight for paternity of her future ward of the state had noticeably different reactions to the two guys on stage for the latest round. One guy barely muttered a word and looked like an alpha gangbanger. His eyes were beady and his face round. The other guy looked smarter, if smarts can be deduced by looking at a person. He was taller and better looking than the other guy, but not nearly as tough. Compared to the average Linux fanboy, he was an alpha, but next to the musclehead on his right, he was comparatively beta. He expressed some enthusiasm for assuming responsibility for the kid should he be proven to be the father. The alpha thug just shrugged his shoulder and smirked when asked what he would do if the kid turned out to be his.

Alpha was not the father. He jumped up and pumped his fist. A couple buddies greeted him on stage and they all chest bumped. Tongues were wagging. The girl didn’t seem too moved. When the next DNA test result was opened and the relatively beta good-hearted guy was declared free from 18 years of financial servitude, the girl totally lost it and ran screaming from the room.

It might’ve been staged, but if their reactions were close to the real deal, then it was obvious that women have a real fear… and a real need… for beta providers to help them raise their bastard children. When a child is sitting there in a stroller, this need is as encoded as the need to get fucked hard by a badass alpha.

I do not want to ever pay one red cent for any of these kids with my tax dollars. If they all die in the street it wouldn’t bother me one bit. I support exposure at birth.

I was rooting for the beta. In the flood of emotions, he may not have realized it at the time, but he dodged a bullet.

Read Full Post »

Secrets

A while back, I was sitting in my favorite bar savoring a delicious bison burger and a beer which I imagined was the best beer in the world because it had a long German name. It was a slow Sunday afternoon and the bar was nearly empty. Across the bar, about fifteen feet away, a leggy blonde walked in and settled on one of the stools, chatting up the bartender. She noticed me noticing her, and a flicker of nervousness froze her face momentarily. I had banged this girl on two separate nights many months ago. After the second banging, we (her? me? it’s unclear) cut off all contact. This was the first we had seen of each other since then.

A minute later, a guy came in and sat down next to Blondie. He leaned in to give her a kiss and she perceptibly flinched away from his approaching puckered lips. She looked annoyed. He smiled at her doofily while her face was turned the opposite way, then ordered a meal and talked about the game on the TV with another bartender. Every so often, I caught Blondie glancing in my direction. I made sure she knew I caught her.

I remember her mentioning something about a boyfriend she was planning to move in with when we hooked up, but like any well-bred devil-may-care alpha, I breezily dismissed it. An abstract concept. Not my moral crisis. The choice to cheat or not rested entirely with her. And now, here was the flesh and blood boyfriend, sitting mere feet from a man whose dick had penetrated his girlfriend’s wet pussy while he was setting aside separate dresser drawers for her panties, happily oblivious and looking very much like a normal dude.

I wanted fun. Feeling like a cenobite summoned by a fire and brimstone hellgod of the underworld to dispense the cruel justice of a sadist who loves to watch his victims squirm, I walked around the bar and stood next to her boyfriend pretending to get closer to the TV. Blondie wasn’t there; she had gone to the bathroom.

Me: Hey man, I don’t think the Skins can take Pittsburgh. Too much depth. [My inner voice: Your girlfriend’s pussy has depth.]

Him: What? It’s only the half. Pittsburgh falls apart late in the game.

[more sports small talk]

Me: This place is pretty good on a Sunday for watching the game. No drunk college kids. So you and your girlfriend come here a lot? [I saw your girlfriend’s labia.]

Him: Oh yeah, she’s a regular here, so I come once in a while when I’m in town.

Me: Yeah, I’m a regular too. I pretty much know everybody here, but I’ve only seen her around once or twice. So you’re from out of town? I respect someone who can make a long distance relationship work during these times. [I held your girlfriend’s long legs up pointing straight at the ceiling as I pounded her into submission]

Him: I’m planning to move into DC. We’re getting a place together. The long distance thing is tough, but you do what you have to to make it work.

Me: Yup. Number one thing: trust. Long distance can work if you can trust the girl. [She let me fuck her without a condom. I don’t know if I pulled out in time.]

Him: [looking over his shoulder at the women’s bathroom door] And if she can trust me!

Me: You know it! [She has blonde pubes.] Anyhow, if you’ve found a girl like that, hold on to her. I can tell you, those types are rare. [She sucked my cock like it was her last.]

[Blondie exits the bathroom and walks up next to the boyfriend, slowly taking a seat. Her face has gone ghostly white as she sees me talking to her boyfriend. I smile and wink.]

Me: Hey, what’s up. Nice to meet another regular. We were just chatting about the Skins’ chances for making it to the show this year. [Did your clitoris just quiver?]

Her: [eyes wide] Um, hi there. [her voice sounds artificially chirpy.]

If I had a hidden camera I would have taken a picture of her face right at that moment. The expression of fear, shock, shame, and even the blush of arousal was priceless. I detected a hint of nipple hardening. The hamster on her brain wheel was spinning frantically.

Me: Well, anyhow, I’m gonna get back to my food. I don’t want somebody else to eat it while I’m away. Nice to talk with you guys. [I shot a white hot load across the bow of her chest. A blob landed on the pillow next to her head. The pillow you have pressed your face into while sleeping.]

***

Tyler Durden has written about the Secret Society. One where nearly all the attractive women, their best gay boyfriends, and a small number of alpha players share the bounty of glorious pussy. It is an organically emerged society no one talks about, or even recognizes as such. But exist it does, in practice if not in formality. Sluts are left to be sluts. Fidelity is an anachronism; a false morality for those ignorati outside the secret society. Everyone lives for good feelings. People who cause bad feelings are excommunicated. Everyone is cool. No one is beta. No one judges, no one pretends to care. The spice must flow. These are the rules.

Then a real sadistic prick comes along. A gatecrasher. A puppetmaster. The rules were made to be broken, he says. And he does. Gleefully.

Read Full Post »