Archive for the ‘The Pleasure Principle’ Category

You can ramp up a woman’s ardor with a few simple “powerlust moves”. One that has never failed to generate hot hot heat beyond the usual steamy release is when I sidle up to my ladyhawke from behind, put my arms around her waist (one hand slithering to a shaded resting place in her underboob), and, as she begins to twist around to meet my intrusion, whisper in her ear “Ah ah, don’t turn around”.

Her head might swivel backward a little after that, revealing the corner of a lip-parted arousal, and I’ll reiterate, “Don’t look”. Now she’s stuck facing forward, maybe over the kitchen sink noticing tree leaves ripen in the summersun through the window, engulfed by my body while my patriarchy presses into her behind. I lift her dress, or unzip and yank down her pants, and explore like a White colonialist of old. All the time she is yielding to my loving molestation, her back is to me; she never locks eyes. This combination of male entitlement, commanding presence, and her sensual vulnerability is lethal to the female limbic system, dynamiting her dendritic fuses in a volcanic shower of molten gash-ash.

Male dominance is the female rationalization hamster killer. No woman can resist. No man should underestimate the allure of his controlled dominance to women. The Powerlust Moves are about projecting dominance through aesthetic, physicality, and word. Set the romantic scene, invade her personal space, and issue the command. The pussy has been waiting to submit for too long.

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The revolution will be atomized.

Here’s Le Chateau back in 2007 writing on sexbots and the existential threat they pose to the sexual market, and hence to civilization.

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Recently, I had a weird run-in with an ex-fling. First, some background: We had met years ago in a different city while simultaneously exiting a dingy caliph-themed cocktail bar bobbing with the greasy-haired heads of a swarm of swarths; I had then asked her if she was racing out as fast as I was to avoid the douchiness inside. In the time it took her to laugh, I soaked up her package: tall, lean, enticingly angular facial aesthetics, pert tits, ivory skin, ebony hair. The hunt was on.

Two hours later, I had escorted her to one of my public pleasure palaces (a shadowed sofa tucked in the recesses of a hookah bar swirling with mood-smoke) where we made out in between sensually blowing smoke rings. (Gentlemen, you should coax a woman to blow smoke rings whenever possible, because her form will give you a good idea of what she’ll look like when she’s gazing up at you during a blowjob.)

Cutting to the end-of-chase: She went back to my place with me. I unzipped her knee-high boots and stripped her woolly skirt off and caressed her inner thigh with a free hand (the other stuffing a ball gag in her mouth….I keed! or do I?). Gradually, my hand hopped her panty border and day-labored in the fields of her life-giving lips. I listened intently for the liquid smacking of vajlube peeling from vajflesh, and redirected my glistening hand to her freed left breast….whereupon an odor most foul drifted from drenched digitalis to my nose, triggering an olfaction reaction inescapably pronounced. I retched a little.

But the boner reflex is inversely proportional to the disgust reflex; a man with a rager will shawshank through a snapper sewer to bust outta priapism.

So I bore on. And bored on. Or that was the plan, until in the act of ripping off the last tattered shred of her industrial-grade panties my face swooped a little too near her crotch swamp, and the sting of fetid juices actually made my eyes water. Did she notice my fully throttled necksnap to the back? I figured she must have, but she made no indication thereof.

Hyenas are known to marinade their scavenged rotmeat in stagnant pools of sun-ripened toxic water; the matriarchal beasts prefer their sustenance falling off the bone in gangrenous ribbons, much like our current crop of Western women prefer the composition of their nations. But man is not clit-dicked hyena. Notwithstanding my insistent boner to the contrary, my frontal lobe — or perhaps the hindiest part of my hindbrain — overrode my crotchal zone and in a burst of creativity spurred by sensory stinkulation and desperation, I stopped my attack cold and summoned a semi-quasi-pseudo-rationale for why she must politely leave and oh yes I would certainly call her soon and we’ll get together again the next time we will make it count it’s just that I care for your opinion of me and your feelings and I’m a romantic that way trust me you’ll love that I’m not like all the other men…..

Ad fuckin nauseam, she quietly left, a cloud of worry and suspended disappointment encroaching on her pretty face as I closed the door behind her and set upon my bed sheets with a fury, dousing them in Oxyclean and paint thinner. Mid-winter, windows wide open! AHHHHHHH WINTER-CHAN CLEANSE THIS HOME!

So tragic, such a waste of an adorable face, but whaddaya gonna do? Stinky pussy is the deal killer. The boner imploder. The Darwinian dental dam. Unless the girl is a hard 10 and the man is a hard-up 10, a subatomic stink down below will wither any hard-on.

Fast-forward to the near-present: New, far away town, new day. I’m in a store. A woman in black enters behind me. She has orange-red hair and a youthful glow despite her almost translucent skin. Fishnet fuckme stockings carve the contours of her long legs. A fleeting familiarity sparks my mind. I look a bit longer at her; she notices, and reacts with the expected mix of consternation and curiosity. Could this be the same Stinky Pussy Girl from years ago, unbelievably standing right next to me a thousand miles from where we first primed our directives?

It couldn’t be. The hair, and the clear skin. If it was her, she was wearing a wig or had a pro coloring job, and she hadn’t aged a minute since our rendezvous…. our, if you’ll pardon the pun, kerfluffle. Our whiff of a tryst, a long-faded memory, suddenly wrenched to consciousness, as freshly manured as if it had occurred the day before down the block.

I shook off the thought. Then she walked toward the exit. That walk, endearingly clumsy and lopey….I couldn’t possibly forget that walk, no woman I have known walked like her. It was her.

None of this happened all that quickly; I had time to run her down and tell her I knew her from long ago, and possibly (probably!) try for another stab at her stankflaps. But as powerfully as the memory of her face and body and weird walk flooded my corticalleys, so too did her pussy stink. That smell memory — smellory — punched my gut as hard as any pungently hectoring specter could.

So I watched her walk off, dissipating into a street crowd. There you have it, ladies: an incredibly coincidental re-meeting, an opening for love created by divine intervention some would say, and the mere memory of stinky pussy shut the possibilities off a second time as strongly as they were shut off the first time when the stink was fragrantly real and aromatically macroaggressive.

On the way home, all I could wonder was what her kids, if she were to have any, would telegonically or frictionally acquire on their way out of her ill-fumed womb; if for instance the poor sprogs would squirt out in a pigpen-like shroud of green gas that followed them everywhere.

Virgins are prized by men all over the world. It’s a universal desire, so evolution must have a good reason for men to prefer untrammeled twat. Paternity certainty is one given reason; men can be confident the kid is theirs if the hymen blood of their women stains their dicks. But now I think it’s something more conspicuous; whether caused by accumulating cock notches or poor hygiene, a stinky pussy is a warning to men that there’s something off with the talking vessel incubating the spicy vaginey. A tangy clam is nature’s red flag that disease or immune system failure lurks labially and threatens the fitness of any posterity that you might deposit in her belly.

Some of you may ask, “CH, why didn’t you just let her give you a hummer?”

Dear deluded friends of the Chateau, pussy stank is the warmest of air; it’ll rise, right up to my face. I wouldn’t want to deflate in the woman’s mouth and have to bear the guilt of possibly driving her to suicide.

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I once dated a hot little minx who was the spitting image of this chick.

In a slinky dress and made up, she would turn heads. Beautiful face, curvy hourglass figure, long legs, pert tits. Men AND women would check her out (former with lust, latter with envy and curiosity and proxy attraction for the CH with her) when we were out together.

But there was a problem. She was an illusionist hottie. Back home, clothes off, her body betrayed a surprising patchwork of unsightly flaws; thigh and ass dimples, creeping cottage cheese, an incipient fupa, and blotchy skin tone (probably from a bad diet). Even in dimmed light, I could see that the road to vajhalla would be a bumpy one.

She didn’t lift weights, and tragically she was one of those girls who could have benefited immensely from weightlifting instead of counting steps on her ClitBit. She was the poster girl for yoga pants as the push-up bra for the booty.

None of her body flaws were deal breakers. But there was just enough taut-less terrain wildly out of sync with her after hours glamour that I could never make peace with the whole package. The world saw one woman; I saw another. Sure, I loved showing her off when out on the town, but my pride was tainted with insider knowledge of the grit beneath the glitz.

It got to be that near fling’s end, I was looking for excuses to leave post-date with the intention of avoiding sex with her. {ed: judge me harshly.} Once, I made a cuddle suggestion when she started heating up during foreplay. COSMIC POLARITY INVERTED.

This woman created the worst dickonance —

dickonance: an incongruous feeling caused when intense arousal for a fully clothed woman clashes with deflating desire for her disrobed form.

— in me I have ever had to compartmentalize. I loved going out with her and soaking up her beauty when she was dressed to the nines, but I was indifferent to sleeping with her afterward. It was never that bad, but the wickedly unfair juxtaposition was needling me to the edge of insanity — I felt like Nature was playing a cruel joke on me, robbing me of the one nonnegotiable pleasure of a hot woman’s love: her stimulating naked form. The wedge between us widened to a chasm of unspeakable provenance.

She never knew the real reason it ended. I supplied a plausible explanation for my receding ardor that required no recourse to the state of her maculation, an explanation which in fact made me out to be a very bad person but bad in an understandable OH GEE ANOTHER NONCOMMITTAL DOUCHEBAG way and not bad in an OH FUCK YOU ARE THE DEVIL INCARNATE way. A few female tears I can handle. A deluge of waterworks that wrack the body and shake the shoulders I prefer not to witness. Or, worse, she might lunge for the kitchen knives in a blind rage.

I had no intention of revealing the stark nature of my un-caged id. She didn’t merit any meanness, so I committed relationship seppuku.

When it ended, friends asked what the hell I was thinking. “She was a hottie! What the hell were you thinking?” was what they said. I lied that we had incompatible personalities. I doubt they bought it, (no one really buys it when a man claims a relationship ended because of personality issues), but I was not eager to sully her lady-honor by exposing the pocked underbelly of our separation. I expose it here, anonymously and obliquely, because I suppose I’m seeking absolution. To confront one’s superficiality is fun and games in abstraction-space, but not so fun in real life with real lovers and their real hearts on the line.

The duality of man is his endless struggle to embrace, and to reject, to free, and to tame, the animal of him.

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The Daily Stormer, a major maul-right tributary coming close to perfecting that balance between sincere shitposting and humorous ironic detachment, has a hot bake on Natalie Portman’s ugly sister and her Cosmo column imploring Reptile-American women to dump men who aren’t enthralled to be sharing snatch space with a vibrator.

When you do decide to let him in on the fact that you own a vibrator that you would also like to use in bed together, there are two possible reactions: He’s either overcome with joy that your sex life is about to get even hotter (and wants to start immediately), or he’s, well, weird about it. He might say it feels “a little unnatural,” or ask if his penis and sex skills aren’t enough. And if he does, he’s in trouble.

Because if a man is anti-vibrators, you should absolutely, without question, dump him.

Yeaaah, this is dumpsthatneverhappen.txt. I saw your photo, Julia Pugachevsky. The pug part is right. Don’t flatter yourself. If you managed to snag an aryan shivsa with something on the ball there’s no way in hell you’re dumping him. Especially not for something as trivial as refusing to fuck you if you have a purple saguaro pressed against your benumbed clit. And lo and behold, like magic!, her goyboy borefriend looks like he came prefitted with a choke collar.

There’s a whole genre of femmefic tumblrrhea written by Fake Hotties — fat sows, fugs, and striver plain janes — that amounts to egregious wishful projection that the authoress is an independent, empowered, orgasm-demanding riotgrrl HB9 who came here to chew gum and fuck two dicks at once, and she’s just about out of gum. As fiction, it’s so transparently bad that it boomerangs back on the girlwriter. As Whoreschach Test, it’s a perfect mirror of the girlwriter’s bitter heart, revealing a lying phonyfuck cunt who either has never held a man for longer than the time it takes him to get his whiskey dick operational, or is stuck with a mangina cucklet who reminds her by his irritating omnipresence of her low SMV.

Girls who proudly flaunt their vibrators are best avoided as investment properties. If she can’t be bothered to put up at least of facade of modesty, she doesn’t respect your desire and needs as a man. (Hint: most men prefer to save their exclusivity for chaste women.) This goes double for chicks who insist that men tolerate the additional company of an artificial penis during lovemaking. If your girl is that desperate for sexual relief while fucking you that she needs the assistance of a vibrator, she’s either a world-beating slut with a carnal appetite that will guarantee her straying, or you’re not doing anything for her. Either way, this kind of girl should never be promoted from occasional cum receptacle.

Seguing to the title of this post, the final word (in my estimable opinion) on the topic of eatin’ pussy was written off-handedly in this archived gem of Chateau consilience.

Eating a girl out anytime during the first few weeks of dating is beta. When you eat a girl out, you telegraph your incredible horniness for her. Men normally do not want to go down on women and bury their mouths in that fetid, humid mess unless they find her so overwhelmingly hot that they can’t help themselves. Women instinctively know this, so they correctly gauge that a man who goes down on them on the first date must feel he’s with one of the best he’s ever had. This, in turn, will sour a woman’s attraction for a man, since no woman in the history of the universe has ever felt raging lust for a man she believed lower than herself in value.

Cunnilingus later in the relationship is absolved from this rule, because you have already demonstrated your manly ability to use her strictly for the piledriving hole she is.

I’m not anti-eatin’ pussy, but men should be aware of the risks involved (both disease and psychological feedback arousal-damping risks). Very broadly, alpha men don’t eat pussy. Beta men do. And if a man is eatin’ pussy for any reason other than his own pleasure — say, because he feels obligated to help deliver his woman the elusive O which his dick and jerkboy je ne sais cocq can’t summon — then odds are good that he is an appeasing beta male who must endure tongue cramping and oral abscesses to sufficiently please his woman. And if that’s his station in the relationship, his tongue ain’t gonna save him from her inevitably checking out.

There are exceptions to the eatin’ pussy rule. When an alpha male is so overcome with animal lust for his HB9+ that he’s compelled by inner forces to dive downtown and sniff the intoxicating aroma of springtime snapper, then we can say that he’s not beta-tizing himself by the act. Still, it’s smart poon-swooning policy to refrain from chowin’ on the downy before spending a few months crustin’ the cumcatch basin.

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This is a grosspost. If you don’t want to read it, feel free to sashay over to gay bodybuilding forum MPC, where they’re just as gross but pretend to be offended by it.

Every Asian girl with whom I’ve lain (small sample set, tbh) has stuck a finger up my ass during a blowjob, or tried to. Talk about HELLO KITTY. One waifu rooted around down there like a tunnel rat in the ‘Nam jungle.

Wassupwitdat? Anyone else notice that Asian girls have an odd fascination with the male anus (manus) as a portal to mutual pleasure? Or so they envision it. Personally, I was not a fan. One Chinese-American girl looked genuinely crestfallen (as best one can discern emotion on an Asian’s face) when I recoiled and retracted from her probings with Kegelian thrusters set to escape velocity.

I wonder too if this is a fetish peculiar to Asian chicks as an group…or only to Asian chicks making sweet rove to the White Man. What’s the Asian equivalent of a mudshark? Chaddragon? Paleface pirate? Crackerjacker? Ivory poacher? Milk mugger? Frosted Flip? Bang wan wang? Bleached Lee? Fat Man and Little Koi? Ghost in the vajeen? Occiwench? Wog-eater? Epicanthicc? Ah, I see that the slang for it is Potato Queen. Meh.

Anyhow, maybe Asian girls always feel like they’re batting out of their league with White men, and presumably are compelled by the perceived SMV imbalance to extracarnally impress White men with that attention to physiologic detail only an Asian can grind out when the hind’s out.

Or Asian girls are magnetically drawn in by the anus region with a force matched only by gay homosexuals. Any Asians out there in the CH reading audience, man or woman, who can add their nuance to this…fissuring topic?

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There are a few pervasive sexual market myths that cry out for the tender vivisection only a Chateau house lord can lovingly execute. One of these myths is the notion held dear by sour grapes LSMV men that hotties are dead fish in bed.

Reader Passer By comments relevantly,

i remember when an ugly woman (skinny, though) was asking for advice in some men’s forum. She wanted to know if men are going to prefer a pretty woman that rarely makes sex over her, that can offer great sex. The men told her that they will prefer an ugly woman (with good looking body), if she can make great sex, over a pretty women, that rarely makes sex.

So you could give that advice to such women. Sex up!

The men in that forum are lying. It’s what men do when they want to help a distressed woman feel better about herself. But when the rubber meats the hole, men will betray their stated lofty principles and experience hotter, better sex with a hot woman than with a plain jane. Because of this real world dynamic, men will expend a lot of energy seeking one night stand sex with hot women over relaxing in the confines of a secure relationship with a buttaface who puts out more regularly.

Commeter Tarl inserts a pointed shiv,

If you are so ugly that no man will ever climb in bed with you, then your ability to “make great sex” is irrelevant.

True, and it’s a false dichotomy anyway. An unrealistic hypothetical. The “dead fish in bed hottie” is another one of those dumb feminist and butthurt beta male ego-assuaging foundational myths that has no bearing in reality. Hot chicks are actually more passionate in bed because they know their beauty is a turn-on for men, and they get turned on by watching their men lose control. A mind-body arousal feedback loop sets up that can escalate a hot woman’s carnal passion to heights that ugly women only read about in female porn (aka romance novels).

And it’s even more dispiriting for ugly women than that. Not only are hotter women generally MORE sexually wanton in bed than are ugly women, but men are primed to PERCEIVE a hot woman’s sexuality in more glowing terms than they would a plain woman’s sexuality, EVEN IF the plain woman objectively possessed a broader repertoire of sex positions and wider flexibility to accommodate those positions.

There really is no end to the ways in which being a beautiful woman is better than being an ugly woman.


I suspect the dead fish hottie myth first circulated among beta male strivers who had accumulated some experience bedding genuinely hot women. Hot women have hot woman standards, which can play out as sexual indolence on the rare occasions when a hot woman hooks up with an uninspiring beta male. Rejection stings, but sexual rejection is a scythe to a man’s soul, and many such betas cut down by the turtled snatch scythe will rationalize a hot woman’s lack of sexual enthusiasm as her own character defect. The male rationalization hamster exists, though we may say the critter is slower and smaller than the female version.

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