Archive for the ‘The Pleasure Principle’ Category

What Is Allure?

A woman blushing.

A blushing red tide slowly cresting over a White woman’s porcelain-skinned face as she takes in the power of your presence is a sight unequalled in the human kingdom for its primal allure. Only unfolding labia perform similar magic on a man’s swelling pride.

The full body blush is more intoxicating still. Watch as the crimson hue spreads over her chest, her breasts, up her neck, to her cheeks and her ears. Blushing is the body’s betrayal of the heart’s infatuation.

This is another one of those divine traits that White women have as a blessing of their lineage and which is the envy of the world’s nonWhite women. A few lightly toasted women can visibly blush, but you have to look closely, under good light, as the red struggles to emerge from the brown.

The palest White women, like the Irish, blush so hard that it hinders their ability to play coy for men because their true feelings are constantly revealed by the rush of lust to their faces.

When a girl blushes, a man falls in love again.

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A reader comments,

That’s Faith Goldy on the left, an increasingly based Canadian girl, who was kicked off (((Ezra Levant’s))) failing alt lite site “the rebel” for straying into JQ territory. I’m not sure if that’s alt lite cam girl Lauren Southron, but if it is, then, with the conquest of Brittany Petmyboner, it would appear that’s he’s in the process slaying the top tier of the right wing camgirl cadre.

It’s interesting to see how the outlaw bad boy lifestyle, and the accrued benefits, play out in real life. Based stick man (bsm) has been charged and probably has a record. He too to the streets and gained notoriety for engaging in political violence. Those two factors, the publick outing and the brush with the criminal law system, would ruin most of us. It would spell poverty.

Yet he manages to ride it out; parlaying his fame into a bit of shekels and smashing seriously good pussy along the way. But most of us can’t do that. If we went out and started crushing antifa/BLM goons at protests, we’d be charged, many of us would lose our jobs, and no one would care about our crowdfunding pages.

Lesson #1: Be an outlaw

Lesson #2: Don’t apologize for being an outlaw

Lesson #3: Act like you’ve been an outlaw before

Lesson #4: Don’t have a soyboy body

Lesson #5: Be preselected by women (or stay-at-home waifus)

Lesson #6: Whatever happens, your toes are still tappin’

Chicks dig jerkboys. You, too, can be the jerkboy chicks dig.

(Tradthots not exempt from the rules issued by the god of biomechanics)

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The opposite of the Hoverhand and the Chopstick Grip is the Smotherhand. It also goes by the name Hineyhand.

I’m not very familiar with the cast of Maul-Right characters, but this dude is supposedly Based Stickman, caught on camera claiming ownership of two tradthots by laying hands on their asses.

Tweet deleted! Here’s a zoomed-in thumbnail as backup:

A felony record and a waifu at home apparently fine with his road trip meet-ups? Hands firmly palming ass ledges? That’s just the jerkboy magic tradthots can’t resist!

Speaking of ass ledges and impudent palmistry, here’s what the official hand placement guide says about Based Jerkboy’s status with these two tradminxes:

Officially flirting, and scandalously close to assuming boyfriend privileges. Wew I knew there was something between those three!

PS You’ll never catch this God Emperor hoverhanding. Never.

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Proof: ScarJo at the recent Termagant March:

33 years old and she’s already hit the Wall. Shame.

Beautiful women who take up the cause of pussyhat feminism to join the ranks of Nasty Womanhood, Inc. quickly lose their looks and resemble the jewish dykes that front almost every femcunt organization. It’s as if a woman’s corrupted soul manifests in her prematurely aging face.

Extrapolating from the individual pussyhatter to the gynarchy at large, @TheExcruciationator writes,

“Women are the body that reflects the soul of her society” sounds like a pretty nice aphorism, come to think of it.

A beautiful society has beautiful feminine women who age gracefully and love their men. A corrupt, poisonous, ugly society has ugly masculine women who age gracelessly and prematurely and loathe their men.

Corollary: A beautiful society has strong masculine men who age handsomely and love their women. A corrupt, poisonous, ugly society has weak feminine men who age into lesbians and fear their women.

Look at American women: fat, obnoxious, self-mutilating, screeching harpies.

Look at American men: fat or skinnyfat, supplicating, uxorious, whiny nancysoys.

Our society’s soul is sick and our unloveable repugnant pussyhatter women are proof of it.

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Commenter Johnny Redux nails the answer to this post’s title with an ugly truth few men, let alone women, would be willing to confront head on, obliquely, or deniably:

A sexless marriage, in many (if not most) cases, is the result of a man marrying a woman his own age, and after time losing all sexual interest in her as she quickly morphs into an old woman before his eyes, much quicker than he is aging.

Men are maximally attracted to young women.

Men age more slowly than do women. (At least going by outward appearance.)

Men’s sexual worth climbs through their 30s and 40s while women’s sexual worth declines through their 30s and 40s.

Put the three preconditions together, and marriage between “age appropriate” men and women is a recipe for sexlessness, followed by lovelessness, and then finally divorce.

Which is why I advise men, if you’re gonna do something stupid like get married, make sure the deal is as sweet as it can be for you by choosing a younger woman to be your monogamously avowed last fuck. You’ll come to appreciate her extended shelf life when your married buddies are staring down the barrel of a dumpy hausfrau and dreaming of escape. You don’t want to wife up a woman on the wrong side of supple.

PS This post explains the true cause of “mid-life crisis”. The crisis is the rapidly diverging SMV values of the husband and wife. And the cure is trading up, fapping off, or dropping out.

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A comment from Tiberius that had me chuckling,

The strip clubs around here are more circus than anything. We went to one on a friends birthday. The hottest one had only one arm. She dragged the birthday boy up on stage, ripped the elastic out of his underwear, took his belt, wound it tight around her stub and whooped his ass with it. I’ve never seen anything more surreal in my life. I do not get boners recalling this experience.

I’ll take a wild guess which region in the US this “Weird Americana” titty bar is located: West Texas.

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A male friend a few years older than me once took me to a high end strip club. It was my first time at a house of ill repute, and I was underage (but of age in the way that mattered). He knew one of the club’s employees and arranged a deal to sneak me in with him through an alleyway entrance.

I’ll never forget the sounds, sights, and….smell….of that experience. They linger today. Blood red light, thrashing heavy metal, and riotous naked pussy assaulted me. I popped a stiffy before we had taken our seats at a table in the back, to my relief cloaked in cranny dimness.

I had by then notched some innocent quality time with Real World girls, but never had exposure to raw, unbridled female sexuality until that field trip with a buddy I would go on to admire for many years afterward as my chaperone to a parallel pooniverse told in tales of thigh adventure.

I remember my friend had informed me the strippers were “just north of jailbait”. Which meant all the girls were older than me, by a few years. We gawked for a while — rather, I gawked, he pretended to soak it in like a seasoned viewer — and then he slipped a twenty in my hand.

“Should I get change?”

“No, that’s for the lap dance you’re getting.”

He motioned to an unearthly beauty with jet black hair framing cum-white skin. She glided over to us on a cloud of estrogen. Her body was perfection to match her face. Slender hourglass figure, levitating tits, and a pert ass. I guessed she was 18 years old. And a hard 10. They exist.

She and my friend exchanged some words, then she smiled at me, performed a lissome posterior chain maneuver that drew her face and body nearer mine, and her hands pried open my legs. Standing in my manspread zone, she unbuttoned her leather miniskirt. It shimmied unceremoniously to the ground (very smooth, I thought to myself), revealing black panty and….was I seeing right?….a rolling hillock of peekaboo vulva adorned with villous springtime fluff. She lifted the elastic on one side of her panty and pulled my moneyed hand toward the pleasure portal; I slipped the twenty in and made sure the second knuckle of my middle finger got some before she closed the gate.

She was unusually practiced at her art for a girl who shouldn’t have been at this line of work for longer than a year. Gracefully and with a patina of eagerness that I had hoped was sincere, she crossed my southern border and gyrated and twisted and grazed and rubbed and pressed and ground……but the sensation that would grab my hindbrain by the reins and steer it to a catatonia I have found hard to replicate in the time since was the sensation that entered through my nose.

Her aroma. It emanated most powerfully from a moist place, a fog bank, a source of life, and more subtly from every square inch of her body. It was the Engineer’s goo if the goo was pink and smelt of a thousand roses and the richest peat. That scent…I can recall it in an instant, and still it stuns me. Later, reflecting on it in the wisdom of my adulthood, I would realize it was the scent of ripe sex. Of a woman in her fertile prime whose sole purpose in this world was to be inseminated by a warrior poet and birth the next generation. Her natural perfume wasn’t of the material world; it was a divinely endowed advertisement that she was laden with a full basket of the freshest eggs.

I would likewise realize that no matter how many women one has bedded, loved, lost, or loved again, there will be nothing that comes later which can precisely capture the stupefaction and delight of that first sniff of a hard 10’s maximally fecund fragrance. It’s like a first love; you’ll love again, but occasionally your heartthoughts will drift to that sun-dappled sweet sixteen siren, a memory unblemished by life’s inevitable compromises.

There have been moments since when I’ve caught whiff of a similar scent, and I remembered it fondly — as one would the surprising intrusion of an odor that recalled grandma’s kitchen — and every association would come flooding back, filling empty neural nooks with lust. But you can’t go all the way back. The past is unsullied precisely because it exists in a magnified amber constructed of sensation, newness, and promise. Pussy #30, however sweet-smelling, can’t hit with the limbic force of Pussy #1. No shame in that ladies, just don’t expect the same invulnerable adoration from a man when you’re his Thirtieth Act.


I had met a girl a couple months after that trip to the strip club, and I was so relaxed around her she mentioned it to me with a hint of annoyance. “Are you always like this with girls? So…calm?”, she had suspiciously inquired. No, I had replied, hoping to allay her, only with you, because you’re easy to talk to.

Lie. I was relaxed because I had smelled the scent of God, and the girl sitting with me was an aromatic mortal in comparison.

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