Why So Serious?

The night was late. I was killing her softly with a tune I began playing on my guitar. She eased back, ensconced in the plush cushions of my sofa, and her eyelids lowered a bit as I strummed my grandioso opus for her ears only. A content smile warmed her face and she interrupted me when I paused to work out a chord.

“You look so serious when you play. I like it.”

My serious concentration took a break as I turned to face her. She had lust in her eyes. She sat up and wrapped her arms around my shoudlers. We kissed.

I easily recalled her statement the next day because they reminded me of eerily similar statements said by past lovers in analogous circumstances. When I have redirected my attention from seducing women to performing a solo activity disengaged from their participation, they have responded in like manner —

“I love it when you’re so serious.”

What is going on here? I have a theory.

Women love two things: Passionate men who pursue their mission(s) in life with single-minded focus, and easily distracted men whose interests and hobbies are capable of diverting their attention from the wiles of women. The evolutionary reasons for this can be explained thus:

– Men on a mission who pursue goals with passion are better at securing resources and protection (survivial value) for the women in their lives. Women don’t consciously think this way, of course, but they don’t need to. All their genes care about is getting them to swoon for a man fully “locked in” on whatever challenge he is confronting or purpose he is fulfilling. The rest will take care of itself.

– Men who are easily distracted away from women’s beauty and women’s guile are attractive because they signal a high level of competence and familiarity with women (an “act like you’ve been there before” attitude) that suggests to women a history of success at bedding them. Men who are successful at bedding women bring high replicative value that redounds to the sexual success of any sons the women may have by them. This is why women love to chase after unattainable bad boys who’ve never paid for a dinner or given flowers in their lives.

Moral of this post: Get a hobby, any hobby (except video gaming or Civll War reenacting), and throw yourself into it. Make sure she occasionally sees your brow sweating with passionate single-mindedness. You don’t even have to be that good at it. Her libido will respond right on cue.

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Tough Times Are A Bounty For Betas

Think we might be heading into a double dip recession? Or, worse, a decades-long economic retraction with hyperinflation and a general growing business and government incompetence thanks to a dumbing down of the population? Rejoice, betas! This is your moment in the sun. Chicks who were reminded of their mortality were more attracted to soft, less masculine herb faces, and this preference was most pronounced for women at the peak of their fertility cycle. (Regrettably, their desire to have kids also went up, so make sure you strap on that condom if you’re going to bang a chick recently diagnosed with cancer.) PS: Mortality salience refers to reminders of one’s death.

Previous research has shown that individuals who are reminded of their death exhibited a greater desire for offspring than those who were not reminded of their death. The present research investigated whether being reminded of mortality affects mate selection behaviors, such as facial preference judgments. Prior research has shown that women prefer more masculine faces when they are at the high versus low fertility phase of their menstrual cycles. We report an experiment in which women were tested either at their high or fertility phase. They were randomly assigned to either a mortality salience (MS) or control condition and then asked to judge faces ranging from extreme masculine to extreme feminine. The results showed that women’s choice of the attractive male face was determined by an interaction between fertility phase and condition. In control conditions, high fertility phase women preferred a significantly more masculine face than women who were in a lower fertility phase of their menstrual cycles. In MS conditions, high fertility phase women preferred a significantly less masculine (i.e., more average) face than women who were in a low fertility phase. The results indicate that biological processes, such as fertility phase, involved in mate selection are sensitive to current environmental factors, such as death reminders. This sensitivity may serve as an adaptive compromise when choosing a mate in potentially adverse environmental conditions.

In short, women who thought about their own death suddenly found feminized beta providers a lot more attractive than masculine alpha cads. This preference was largest for ovulating women, who normally show the exact opposite preference when times are good and death is a faraway abstraction.

If you are a beta male, then you will hope and pray for another Great Depression, war, or alien invasion. It seems counterintuitive, (after all, wouldn’t a highly masculine man be a better choice for protection during tough times?), but it makes some sense if you remember that alpha cads also bring with them the threat of abandonment, which would be disastrous for women trying to survive in a bad environment. Since the free-for-all, stoically unjealous polyamorists can’t grasp why male abandonment is a bad thing, the Chateau will helpfully remind them —

In tough times, betas will be especially loathe to assume the child-raising duties of another man’s bastard spawn.

Some more study results:

The present results provide new evidence about how environmental factors, such as the presence of death reminders, can influence human reproductive behaviors, such as mate selection. […]

First, it has been shown that people in a MS condition will adhere more strongly to socially acceptable norms and will react negatively towards those persons who do not uphold these norms (Greenberg et al., 1990; Greenberg et al., 1994; Rosenblatt et al., 1989).

Troubled times breed collectivism. Are the notoriously monogamous, norm-following and shame-avoiding Northeast Asians the product of millennia of living off marginal land constantly raided by tribes to the north?

In the present research, the face selected by ovulating women in the [Mortality Salience] condition could be considered a more average face than faces chosen by high fertile phase women in the control condition and low fertile phase women in the MS condition.

Average = herb. Exceptional = lantern jaw and heavy brow ridge. Interestingly, non-ovulating women showed a slightly lower preference for herb faces when they were confronted with their mortality. So alpha cads are not out of the running completely when the shit hits the fan. But you gotta notice just how upside-down bizarro world the mating market looks when the good times come to an end. This might explain the rise of the beta male during the first half of the 20th century, when world wars wracked societies.

High fertile phase women in the MS condition may have viewed the masculine face negatively because of the association of masculine faces with socially negative characteristics and would view feminized faces more positively because feminized faces are shown to be associated with more pro-social attributes such as being helpful, cooperative, trustworthy, and a good father (Boothroyd, et al., 2007; Jones et al., 2008; Johnston, et al., 2001).

Sure, the herb may be a bad lay, but when the cupboard is bare he’ll be out there scrounging up food for his lady. Personally, Chateau hosts prefer being known for their lay expertise. It’s more fun.

Second, it has been shown that following [Mortality Salience], women and men may find the physical aspects of sex and sexual attraction unappealing, as the physicality of sex may be a reminder of one’s eventual mortality (Goldenberg et al. 1999; Landau et al. 2006). In the present research, it may have been the case that high fertile phase women experienced the highly masculine male faces as associated with physical sexuality and, therefore, death.

Sex is the little death (if you’re doing it right).

Following MS, women who are at a high risk of pregnancy may view mates with highly masculine faces as involving more risk than mates with more feminized faces.

Reminders of death and hardship usher an alternative universe where highly fertile ovulating women prefer pasty-faced betaboys. In good times, just the opposite preference is observed. Ergo, late empire prosperity and decadence may go a long way toward explaining the rise in rates of single mom-hood — in good times, these womb-lubed women choose unreliable alpha cads as fathers, subconsciously figuring that if the alphas bolt it won’t much matter since resources (in the form of ample food supplies and government largesse) are plentiful. Chateau Heartiste wrote about this dysgenic trend nearly three years ago.

In future research, it is necessary to investigate the extent to which highly masculine faces increase death-related thoughts in high fertile phase and low fertile phase women.

Our results suggest that mortality salience may result in an over-ride of the high fertility phase-induced preference for masculine faces and a strengthening of the predisposition for less masculine and likely higher investing mates.

The study results show that it makes sense for a betaface to remind girls of their impending demise. Call it Death Game. You casually mention a lady friend who died prematurely from some rare disease or freak accident, and then lament how little time we all have on this earth to pursue our goals and realize our dreams. Say “Life is so precious, and death is always around the corner, so grab what’s in front of you and live like it could all end tomorrow!” while touching the spine of her back with the chill fingertips of your best Grim Reaper impersonation. Throw in a bit of NLP for good measure: “My afterlife is probably… beLOW me. Sex is a great way to fight death… with me, I love each day I’m alive.”

Our sample was composed primarily of White, middle-class college women who have been shown to express a preference for mates who will invest heavily in her and her children.

D’oh! Talk about saying a lot in so little. How do black and asian women respond to mortality reminders? Are their natural tendencies strengthened, or do they enter a bizarro world just like white women?

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Hank Moody: Chump

Our TV shows, movies and music give us hints about America as she is and where she is heading, at least as filtered through the eyes of a certain cultural or ethnic niche.

A friend told me I must watch Californication. He said the Hank Moody character closely resembled my life. Michael Blowhard, formerly of 2blowhards, also suggested I check out the show for its excellent portrayal of a man who knows how to game girls. Naturally, I was curious, so I watched all three seasons. I could see the resemblance. Spoilers below, so if you haven’t yet seen the show go whack off to cuteoverload.com.

The show is a blast. Smartly written, funny, and bawdy, with just the right amount of emotional gravitas to leaven the barrage of casual sex, cheating, whoring, drinking and coke snorting. I won’t look at Kathleen “tush toot” Turner the same way again.

Hank Moody is the oversexed main character (played effortlessly by a youthful looking David Duchovny — he was in his late 40s when filming began. One wonders just how much supposed sex addict Duchovny channeled his real life for this character). Moody (get it?) is a charming asshole given to bouts of despondency and a penchant for self-sabotage. He’s a writer with writer’s block who moves to LA from New York. His craving for fresh pussy (and his ability to get it) puts him on a crash course with his desire to fully reunite with his one true love, Karen, and their daughter Becca. You might think of the show in these terms: Hank’s multitudinous lovers are his id, Karen is his ego, and Becca a manifestation of his superego. I think the writers of the show added Becca to ground Hank lest he float away on an endless puffy cloud shaped like a mons pubis.

Any man interested in game should watch this show. Hank Moody practically delivers a clinic on how to properly seduce chicks in nearly every episode. He is the consummate cocky funny jerk women can’t help but love. For example, here is a scene where Hank is flirting with a woman he does not yet know is a prostitute (she later genuinely falls for Hank and offers pro bono services):

Hank: Come on, how come I don’t know your name?

Trixie: You haven’t asked.

Hank: Well, let’s not stand on ceremony. [He hand motions for her to say her name.]

Trixie: Trixie.

Hank: Trixie! That is a terrific name… if you’re a hooker!

Beautiful neg, said with a smile. How many of you guys reading right now would have the balls to pull off that kind of neg on a girl in a bar? You need to get those balls, because that is the kind of edgy, teasing game that fires a woman’s loins.

There are plenty more examples in the show of the right frame to hold with women. For that alone, it is worth watching. But somewhere in the middle of the first season, something began to bother me about the underlying message the show was sending. Finally, after Hank gets into yet another fistfight with a random dude who slighted some random woman, it hits me.

Hank Moody is a white knighting chump. A feminist’s dream. The alpha male who will spill the blood of other men and sacrifice his own self-interest to protect the honor of the lying whores and skanky sluts he bangs whose supposed deep-seated decency Hank can’t stop extolling, even when all evidence points to the contrary.

Think about it for a minute. What is the perfect man in a feminist’s eyes? He is first and foremost that charming cad who gets them wet. We all know the tingle is the necessary ingredient on the way to female fulfillment. Second, he is utterly nonjudgmental, no matter how badly the women in his life behave. Everything, ultimately, is his own fault, and he feels deeply sorry for “hurting” women, even when he can’t help but continue “hurting” them. Third, he will defend a woman’s honor at risk to his own well-being, health and reputation, even when the woman in question has little objective honor worth defending. Fourth, he will forgive everything bad women do to him, absolve them of all their sins (they know not what they do, lord, for they have mere vaginas), and fight those who would disagree.

An egregious example of Hank’s knee-jerk white knighting is in his relationship with the character Mia. Mia is an underage sexpot who seduces Hank in a bookstore and fucks him without telling him her age, then adds insult to injury by punching him in the face, hard, during sex. Later, she steals his newest manuscript (the only one he has written. no copies. what a maroon!), reads it, and passes it off as her own, going so far as to show up at Hank’s agent’s office to pitch her “new book” to a roomful of cackling skank-ho broads who, naturally, love this “new voice”. Throughout the later episodes, there is a constant undercurrent of impending doom awaiting Hank as Mia hints at spilling the beans about Hank’s statutory rape if he should ever decide to reveal she is not the author of his book. In fact, the statutory rape specter is the leaden apparition that haunts the entire show, and infuses it with the drama necessary to propel the plotline forward.

And all through this, Hank barely registers the slightest bit of anger or resentment toward Mia. If anything, he is protective of her, like a father, at one point explaining that she’s “not malicious, just mischievous”.

Hank, you silly stupid fuck, you douchebrained fool. Any sane person would agree that a woman duping a man into a possible statutory rape charge, stealing his labor of love manuscript, passing it off as her own, receiving the financial and social rewards of that book while depriving the true author of same, threatening to scream rape should the aggrieved man reveal the truth, and finally having the man’s ass thrown in jail on rape charges…

is a grade A 100% malicious bitch.

And yet, the writers felt it necessary to infantilize Mia and demonize the men who would treat Mia as the calculating succubus she is.

Is there anything more puke-inducing than unthinking white knighting? If his backasswards behavior in the face of such treachery is supposed to humanize Hank Moody, it doesn’t. It just makes him look like a chump. A fun, sexy chump, to be sure, but a chump just the same. Let’s see if the upcoming season four corrects his doleful trajectory and knocks some sense into his hyperchivalrous melon.

My point of all this is that the underlying message in Californication is not pro-male, or even pro-lothario. It is yet another shot across the bow of dignified, bold manhood, whether that manhood is exemplified in the form of the hapless but successful beta provider character played by Dean Coontz, or in the wanderlusting lothario of Hank Moody. It is not different than the message of any other TV show of the past twenty years churned out by Hollywood —

Men are stupid malcontents, and women are paragons of unassailable virtue.

The writers took the easy way out, which is too bad, because this show could have been more than merely entertaining. It could have been a cultural touchstone.

Which brings me to a larger issue. What the fuck is up with statutory rape? It’s a joke law made up by joke legislators without a scintilla of real world experience with women. Am I supposed to request age identification from every full-bodied young woman who comes onto me? There are 13 year olds out there who look like grown women. At the borderline of 16 to 18 years old, many women could easily pass for mid to late 20s. It is well known by neuroscientists and psychologists studying these things that women mature faster than men. Women’s brains gel into adult-shaped contours sooner. A full breasted and wide-hipped 17 year old hottie who flirts with me knows exactly what she is doing and what she wants. She is no child to be coddled. And yet, I could be thrown in jail if I slept with her assuming she was an older girl, even if it was something we both consensually desired.

This is abject bullshit. The law makes it a necessity to demand age identification with every young woman a man might want to fuck who could conceivably pass for a teenager. This means background checks on women in their 20s. And what about women who lie? They exist, lots of them. Is a statutory rape charge for the man the just response — the *fair* response — to a lying woman who wanted the sex as much as he?

It’s time to end the charade of statutory rape. If the “underage” woman is physically developed, and she consents to the sex, there is no rape charge, period. For chrissakes, there are 14 year olds in parts of the world getting married off and pumping out children of their own.

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The Greatest Job In The World (For A Man)

What would be your criteria for the greatest job a man could have in the world? I’ll list what I think should be your criteria:

1. Continual exposure to a variety of young, pretty, naked women
2. Willingness of a significant subset of those young, pretty women to sleep with you
3. An occupational dynamic that requires leadership skills in the form of ordering young, pretty women to do your bidding
4. Very little competition from other men in the field, or on the job
5. Relatively high pay
6. Relatively high status
7. Minimal amount of rote work
8. Maximal amount of fun and creativity
9. Lots of travel to exotic and charming locations around the globe
10. Plenty of opportunity to discreetly cheat, if married or otherwise committed

Is there a man alive with working testicles who wouldn’t agree with my description of the perfect male job? No, I bet not.

So what is the greatest job in the world?

Meet Richard Kern.

Kern has been taking photographs of attractive naked women for 25 years in countries around the world. Young women in various states of undress. Naked women in pools. Naked women in showers. Naked women smoking pot. Naked women combing their hair. Naked women on all fours scrubbing the floor. And, presumably, naked women sucking his dick after work hours.

I know what you’re thinking. Kern is not gay. He’s married to a hot chick more than half his age. Kern is in his 50s, but he looks younger and, more importantly for men interested in picking up younger women, he *acts* like a man half his age. His is a life of unrelenting joy and exquisite pleasure. If there is a heaven on earth, Kern has found it. When asked if he has slept with any of his subjects, he is not coy, admitting that he’s had a number of sexual relationships with the ladies he photographs.

Surprisingly, Kern does a lot of his shooting with a pocket digital camera. He prefers capturing in voyeuristic style the natural beauty of the girl-next-door, the kind of girl you most want to despoil. Kern is almost clinical about the sexuality of his subjects that infuses his work, going on for impressive lengths about the shape, size, color and texture of the great megafauna of breastessesss constantly bouncing in front of his camera lens. Reminds me of someone else.

Some may wonder if it’s Kern’s job that attracts the girls, or if the job is merely incidental to Kern’s seductive alphaness. It’s more the latter, but no doubt photography, and the men skilled at it, are especially attractive to women, probably for the reason that any visual-based skill or artistry, being primarily the domain of maleness, is naturally intriguing to the visuo-spatially challenged sex. But that is a minor effect. The status of Kern’s job, and his status within the field, is the predominant attractor when we separate his personality from his achievements. Men who excel in female-oriented fields are also very attractive to women.

I bet you’re curious about Kern’s wife. I was. So I found this illuminating documentary video of Kern and Martynka. It’s short, about 11 minutes. You should watch the whole thing. It is 11 minutes demonstrating the power of pure game. What comes out of the video is just what a natural player Kern is, and the classic seduction and alpha male dynamics which hold powerful sway over the pretty Martynka’s emotional fidelity to her husband.

Some choice quotes:

Interviewer: Do you ever get jealous?

Martynka: No, I actually… it’s a weird thing… but it turns me on that he’s like shooting 18 year old hot girls. I find it exciting. I don’t get bored of him in that sense, because… I know it sounds weird but I actually thinks it’s cool he’s out, hanging out with like some 18 year old girl in her bedroom, showing him her tits, and um, it keeps things exciting for me, cause that little bit of jealousy makes my obsession last longer.

You don’t say!

I remember when I wrote that “women want you to cheat” post it engendered howls of indignation from my many female commenters. Oh, how you say… what was it again?…. oh yah…

Watch what women do, don’t listen to what they say.

What about the proposal? Certainly an inveterate and experienced womanizer like Kern would know better than to drop to one knee and beg for indentured servitude. Does Richard Kern follow my advice and propose to Martynka like an alpha male? Does a herb load in his pants?

Interviewer: So you guys got married in June. Was the proposal special, was it kind of romantic?

Martynka: It was very Richard style.

Interviewer: What was it?

Martynka: He didn’t really propose. But it was really cute. Cause he was so nervous about it.

Interviewer: So he kind of proposed but didn’t propose?

Martynka: No, he didn’t even say what it is.

[Scene switch]

Interviewer: Tell me about when you proposed to Martynka?

Richard: Oh, um, I couldn’t actually say the words that you have to say to do that, and, um…

Interviewer: Will you marry me?

Richard: Yeah. So, I, um, I didn’t have a birthday present for us, see, and I knew she had to get married to get a green card, so I tried to pass it off as my birthday present.

Interviewer: She said it took like 45 minutes to understand what you were asking.

Richard: Yeah, I never actually said it. [Ed: Richard almost sounds proud of this. Ha!]

But this was my favorite Kern-ism:

Richard: I’m fine with being married as long as I don’t have to talk about it, or acknowledge it.

Talk about a cunt-wetting frame.

By the way, Kern stole Martynka away from her much younger boyfriend. As the internet nerd herd might say: THIS.

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The True Creative Class

Author Richard Florida is fond of theorizing that communities cross a threshold to prosperity and easy living when members of the diversity creative class — loosely defined by him as gays, women, immigrants, bohemians, and anyone who works in the arts or social media — move in and begin to remake the place in their image.

Oh, rilly?

Think of those technologies that make living day-to-day in a modern secular society fun, timesaving, convenient, entertaining, safe, and… *snicker*…  self-actualizing; those things that most distinguish modern societies from more primitive societies and from societies of generations past — appliances, cars (scooters for you side-sitting SWPLs), water treatment, hi-tech medical devices, flat screen TVs, iPods, smartphones, laptops, GPS, digital cameras, wi-fi hot spots, 3G, blogs, Youtube, online shopping, and energy to feed it all.

Who is most responsible for that creative class cornucopia? Non-profit lawyers? Interior decorators? Fashion mavens? Jazz musicians? Art gallery owners? Event planners? PR multitaskers in pencil skirts?

It is to laugh.

Try electrical engineers and computer scientists. You know, incredibly unsexy male nerds.

If tomorrow all the present and future electrical engineers and computer scientists disappeared, after some lag time for the effects to trickle down and the existing devices to decay, Florida’s creative class would find itself in a world of culturally backwards hurt. Those bohemians would suddenly be living their poseur lives for real.

A little perspective folks, on who is doing the real heavy lifting to give you the lifestyle you now can’t live without. And just how precarious is that thin, pale line between materialist abundance and dispiriting drudgery.

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Saving Marriages One Blog Post At A Time

Reader J. writes:

R,

This post changed my life, “Relationship Game Week: A Reader’s Journey“.  The biggest problem in my 8+ year marriage was constantly failing shit tests.  Within hours of reading this, my life got waaaay better.

We’ve had the following “discussion” every month for the past four years.

Before [reading this blog]:
Her: How much did you drink last night?
Me: Eh, just a few.  I didn’t drink that much.
Her: Bullshit.  I could smell it on you when you came home.  Even after you brushed your teeth.
Me: Seriously, I only had 2 or 3 drinks.
Her: What if you got pulled over?  There’s no way you would have passed a breath-a-lyzer.
Me: I’m 37 years old.  I know my limits.  I’m sure I would have passed.
Her: What if you killed some one?  What if you died?  How would I explain that to our children. Blah, blah blah.
Us: [Fight]

18 hours after discovering your blog:
Her: How much did you drink last night?
Me: Oh, I got hammered.  [Buddy’s name] had to drive me home.
Her: *giggle* Shut up!
Me: *smirk* Yeah, go get dressed.  You need to drive me to [next town over] to get my car.
Her: *smile* Yeah, right.

I can’t believe this worked?!? [ed: believe it]

I’ve been reading your blog for all of a week, and I’ve seen numerous mentions of shit tests, “agree and amplify” and “beta baiting”.  Is there a “Shit Test 101” column somewhere?  If not, what is the original source material for this?

I don’t care what the nay-sayers say about “Game”.  This is bigger than you or me getting laid.  If betas adopt these techniques, millions of kids could be spared the agony of their parents’ divorce.  THINK OF THE CHILDREN!!!

Seriously, man.  Thanks.

J.

I’ll be honest. When I started this blog my intentions were less than noble. I had set out to amuse myself by performing sociological experiments with the utmost predator sadism on the degenerate mafia of haters, losers, delusional tards, liars, and sexual marketplace rejects who would be drawn to the bracing truths contained within the walls of this venerable Chateau like gimped moths to the flame. Wailing in anguish, they limped, shuffled, and weeble wobbled over, right on cue, and it was good.

Lies perished. But truths were heralded, too. Dropped like a Heysoosian savior into this cruel fragfest thunderdome, I gave my only begotten sex, love and romance knowledge to the world, gift-boxed in a lament configuration and tied with a bow of barbed wire. Who would be strong enough — clear-thinking enough — to clamber above their human foibles and the limitations imposed by their egos to grasp the knowledge that was there for the taking?

I never wanted anything from this project but the self-pleasure of the soulripper. I didn’t care if no one took the message to heart to improve their lives. That was never my purpose. But then a funny thing happened. The emails from grateful readers started rolling in; men, young an old, and women too, writing to tell me what a positive impact this outpost of wicked illumination has had on their lives. I receive emails like J.’s above on an almost daily basis now. This blog has, despite its dark-robed proprietors’ demonic efforts, healed relationships and saved marriages. Something that an army of Pee Aych Dee wielding credentialissimo therapists and counselors, with their PC playbook of half-baked bromides and knee-jerk misandry, struggle to claim. And that is the burn that singes the denialists and foam-flecked haters deepest. That a despised womanizer could so thoroughly humiliate their comfortable worldview, and do them one better.

“How could anyone who writes such horrible things be a force for good in the world?”

A moment of clarity will give you the answer to your question.

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The Wig

9pm on a weekday night. I leaned like a pillar of masculine detachment against the edge of the bar, blessing the peasantry with my royal aloofness. I sipped a gin and tonic, surprised with myself for agreeing with a buddy to go out on a slow night for some drinks. I doubly surprised myself for being an hour early. My buddy called. He would meet me later at a different bar. I now had an hour to kill at the chic lounge filled with young women and few men. A weekday night miracle!

I surveyed the room for potential sex partners. To my right were two girls, both mid 20s, both bouncing conversationally off each other with an effortlessness that revealed their BFFness. One of the girls was extremely tall (almost my height), foreign looking, and unattractive in the face, though her body was stimulating. The other girl was shorter, olive skinned, and very attractive. She had big Bette Davis eyes, huge tits, and moist, full lips, but her outstanding feature, the one that caught my gaze and held it, was her long thick mane of raven colored hair, highlighted with iridescent streaks of indigo. She talked animatedly with her tall friend, swinging her head around and lashing nearby patrons with streamers of her midnight hair. I wanted to glide my hand through her thatch and yank hard.

Indigo Girl glanced over in that way that showed she was trying to hide that she was glancing over. I had my opening.

“You guys are making everyone else feel uncomfortable for not having as much fun. Have some consideration.” I knitted my brow in faux disapproval.

“What are *you* doing out tonight, Mr. Cool Guy too cool to have fun?” Indigo Girl smiled to flaunt an impressive rack of pearly white teeth, then stood up on tippy toes and did a ballerina twirl for me. I felt movement in my pants.

“I’m waiting for a friend, but plans changed. Now I’m here to support local business.”

Tall Girl laughed. “That’s very noble of you.” She spoke with an exotic Eastern European accent, and I could tell from her first words that she was smarter than the average chick. It is something in the cadence, the articulation. She took a step toward me, presumably to ask me a question.

Indigo Girl dodged in front of her advancing friend and looked up adorably at my alpha nostrils. “We just got back from a show.”

The more I looked at her the more it dawned on me how sexy she was. “The way you’re dressed I’d guess you saw a show at [X].”

“Good guess! Do you hang out there? I’ve never seen you before. But take that as a good thing. I get bored of that clique-y scene over there.” Though she was a little tipsier than Tall Girl, Indigo Girl also spoke with the electric snap of someone sporting a big brain.

“I’m a clique of one. Very exclusive.”

The girls laughed. Well, technically Indigo Girl laughed, openly and without affect. Tall girl, clearly the level-headed one of the two, grinned demurely and circled the rim of her cocktail glass with a long spidery finger. We talked amongst ourselves for twenty minutes. In that time I was able to piece together the scenario unfolding before me, and to then use my new knowledge to properly game these two chicks.

Best friends. Indigo Girl is the classic Eternal Ingenue. She is accustomed to getting her way with men, and she fumes when she doesn’t. She will shamelessly clamblock her girl friends if she notices them enjoying male attention. She is whip smart and Machiavellian, given to breaking hearts and wallowing like a happy sexy sow in the ups and downs of her own heart. Tall Girl is the Amazonian Alpha (literally as well as figuratively). She is used to surrendering the spotlight to her more attractive friends, but this constant indignity doesn’t stop her from being a fiercely loyal friend. She would be a world class maneater if she were prettier. I think she knows this.

It would be very easy for me to play these two girls off each other into a jealousy triangle of the ages. And I did.

We bounced to a two floor social venue a block down the street. It was crowded. The girls bought me a drink and we chatted for a while. I made sure to divide my chat time equally between the two, addressing one and then the other in turn. Suddenly, like a butterfly with ADD, Indigo Girl rushed to greet one of the bartenders, a handsome hipster she knew from her social circle. The greet became a long-ish conversation. Stepping up to Tall Girl, I moved my body so that she was forced to reposition herself with her back to Indigo Girl and Hipster Bartender. I knew Indigo Girl would look over at us if she saw me talking intimately with her friend, and I wanted her to see my hand on her friend’s back and my mouth whispering in her friend’s ear.

It worked. Indigo girl hopped over after only five minutes of watching me talk with Tall Girl. Shit test passed. But I knew that with a girl like her the shit tests were only beginning. Tall Girl, for her part, suspected that my desire was focused on her friend, but my calculated conversation sharing probably nursed a belief in her that she could rob me from Indigo Girl.

It is a great thrill to have two women vie for your attention, but it is an exquisite pleasure to puppeteer two *smart* girls.

I will spare some of the details of the actual gaming. Suffice to say, it was my usual schtick, except smartened up in deference to the targets. By smartened up, I mean palm reading with an occasional three syllable word thrown in.

Two hours later, we walked to Tall Girl’s apartment. I had called my buddy earlier to tell him I would cut the night short to pursue a worthier goal than drinking with him. He understood and informed me he would call in the morning for details. Bro code, you see. At Tall Girl’s place, we all collapsed on her sofa and flipped through her collection of artsy posters. Indigo Girl got up and flounced to the bathroom. I had to be careful. The two of them had surely been signaling the whole night to decide who would be the one to tame this magnificent beast with a chest full of peach vellus. My worst move would be to accidentally insinuate that Tall Girl was the one I wanted to bang. I looked at Tall Girl sitting next to me on the couch, her eyelids sensuously hoisted at half mast. Uh oh. I sprang up from the couch and pretended to read some books on the mantle.

When I turned around, still musing facetiously about the book I was holding, I saw that Tall Girl was sliding languorously down the couch, her dress hiked up mid-thigh and her legs splayed open. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. My eyes locked in on her shorn cunt, unable to tear away from the sight of labia and mons. It took an exceedingly strong dose of willpower to look away and up toward her homely face to remind myself that she wasn’t the one I wanted to bed. When I did, I saw that she was staring at me with sex in her eyes. Her mouth hung partly open. If she had been hotter, it would have counted as one of the sexiest motherfucking vignettes of my life.

As expected, her homely face jolted me back to reality. I put the prop book down and walked to the bathroom. Indigo Girl was rummaging through a box of ornamental scarves on Tall Girl’s bed. She was barking requests at Tall Girl from the bedroom. “I need a scarf that says professional, yet dangerous. What do you have, [Tall Girl]?”

I peered backward into the living room. Though my line of sight was partially obstructed, it looked to me that Tall Girl was stroking her pussy underneath her dress with her left hand. She arched her neck and gazed up at the ceiling.

I addressed Indigo Girl. “Hey, I’m gonna head out.”

Pause.

I continued. “Let’s go.”

It was a risky move. I had to get out of there before Tall Girl lunged at me and claimed me for herself. But I didn’t want to leave heavy-balled. There is always a point in the seduction when a bold move is required; when intentions must be demonstrated clearly and unambiguously. This time was no different.

Indigo Girl’s eyes glittered for a split second as she processed my words. Then she grabbed my hand and we headed out into the mild night.

We talked the whole time on the half hour walk to her place. Words flowed effortlessly. My boner never relaxed, not even when she did what I’m about to tell you.

“Hey, sexy boy I just met tonight, I’ve got something to show you.”

I thought please show me your incredible tits.

She reached a hand up to her head and pulled off her hair. Her beautiful, thick, lusciously long, raven colored hair, indigo highlights and all. Underneath was a head of matted, thin, mousy brown hair, cut short to just beyond the ears.

What the hell was this? Wig game? Was this her last ditch ultimate shit test to screen men just before she surrenders her body to them?

I managed the most poker-y face I could muster. “Wow, you had me fooled. Good thing you’re still sexy with short hair.”

I wasn’t lying. She was still sexy. Well, maybe not quite as sexy, but the drop in sexiness was only a half point. Nothing the god of gonadal stimulation wouldn’t let us into nirvana for.

“Yeah, I like to roleplay. Tonight was wig night. Wheee wigs!” She spun and jumped into my arms, wrapping her legs around my torso. My crotch bulged angrily. This was a girl going to NYU Stern for her MBA.

We made love… no, scratch that… we fucked four times through the night. Her tits were as stupendously squeezeable as I imagined. Her style of fucking was not out of character; creatively flexible, liberally lubed, risk-taking, and impassioned. Also a little slutty. Like purple saguaro girl, she had toys. Lots of them. And not some dimestore, brown paper over the windows low class shit. Her toys were the highest grade. She was a Type A++ personality and leapt out of bed at 8am for a spin class. I showed myself out the door, briefly greeting her gay roommate on the way out.

We dated… no, scratch that… we fucked for three months. The week before she left town, she called at 1am and invited me to her place. I walked over in the still night air instead of cabbing it. I wanted to enjoy the anticipation. Inside, she was stooped over on the bare concrete floor now stripped of furniture, snorting a line of coke with her gay roommate. She motioned for me to join them. The coke line laid out for me on the cold floor was mixed with dust and debris. I watched her be alive, though I was beset with a heaviness I knew would soon be alleviated.

Afterward, we laid on the floor like flower petals. She took my hand, held it, then let it go.

In the morning, on my way out, I noticed her wig was poking out of the kitchen trashcan. I walked silently over and gave it a quick stroke.

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