His Adultery Spices Up Marriage

Aristophenes writes:

I want to solicit a bit of advice from the commentariat here. I’m 31, married with two young children. I have a high-status career (I’m in a prestigious doctoral program, and I write for a number of elite publications), I am of average, or maybe above average looks, I dress well, and I comport myself well in conversation. I am not intimidated by famous intellectuals or beautiful women.

However: I married my wife when I was 23 – we were both intensely religious and virgins at the time. Since then my religiosity has waned, my wife has gained a good deal of weight, and I’ve become deeply discontented with my sexless, passionless life.

A few months ago, during a long, boozy night at the bar with some colleagues, a couple of my more attractive (and militantly feminist!) female colleagues opened up about their frustration at the lack of masculine men in our department. I drove one of them home, and when we pulled up to her place, I kissed her and told her I intended to have sex with her. There immediately followed two delightful hours of adultery. Since then I’ve slept with another young woman, and have fooled around on a couple of other occasions. I am shocked by the easy availability of sex, given my nearly decade-long struggle to get laid within marriage.

So far, this change has had positive ramifications for my marriage. My wife doesn’t know everything, but she knows that “things” have happened. At the same time, I’ve become more assertive and less whiny / pitiable. I demand sex more, and she seems pleased. She’s known for years that I want her to lose weight, but she’s starting to make some minimal efforts now.

However good things get, though, this will never be ideal. My wife was not an attractive woman when I married her (I didn’t think that mattered then – see religiosity) and she’s not aging well. I will always live with the knowledge that I have much more beautiful, intelligent, elegant women, who more closely share my interests, and are more impressed with my accomplishments. All things being equal, I’d leave tomorrow. But they’re not equal. I am entirely smitten with our son and daughter, and cannot countenance the possibility of their growing up without a father. So here I am.

Here, finally, is the question: Should I keep up with the extramarital dalliances, hoping to effect a sort of Mad Men modus vivendi, in which a lackluster marriage is supplemented by suspected but politely hidden infidelity? Or should I man up, and fight to suppress my wanderlust, contenting myself with what gains can be made at home? I can see pluses and minuses on either side. What do you gents think?

Frenchmen do it right. Have mistresses, but be discreet about it. Aging wives don’t want it shoved in their faces; they want to let their hamsters whir with hints, thoughts, painfully delicious imaginings that their husbands might be cheating on them. This strategy has the dual benefit of satisfying the man’s natural and completely normal urge for pussy variety while keeping the home and hearth stable and reigniting the marriage with the wife’s newfound dread-induced passion.

But the reader is in a predicament; namely, his wife’s weight gain has made her less attractive to him, and she wasn’t that attractive to begin with. (For the ladies in the audience: your weight gain is as mood-killing for men as a man’s weakness and wishy-washiness is mood-killing for you.) Plus, he’s got hotter, younger hopefuls auditioning for his meaty intrusion. Very few men can withstand that one-two punch to their virtuous restraint.

His problem is the reason why men should not even consider marriage until they are well into their 30s, and then only with women at least eight to ten years younger. A man hits his SMV stride more than a decade — oftentimes two decades! — after a woman hits hers, so it makes sense that men are best served cashing in their chips at the height of their power for women at the height of their power. That is, if chip cashing is what he wants. I’m not keen on marriage so I will generally counsel men that they can get all the comforts and love of marriage without signing a legal contract that obligates them to finance an early retirement plan for the wife should she initiate divorce theft proceedings (70-90% of divorces are female-initiated.)

But this guy is a religious bloke and he wanted kids. If kids are in your future, then marriage is the price you pay to ensure the striplings grow up mentally healthy and shielded from the allure of huffing paint or gobbling cock behind the 7-11. He didn’t say how young his kids are, so assuming they are still forming their identities, I would not advise him to abort the marriage. He needs to stick it out for a while longer.

What the reader needs to do to avoid crippling depression is the male equivalent of Eat, Pray, Love: Meat, Lay, Rove. He’s hitting on all cylinders at this moment in his life and it would be a terrible sacrifice to ask of him — on par with requiring a feminist to carry a rapist’s unwanted baby to term, or to have sex with a bitter omega male for ever and ever — to linger for years in his loveless, sexually arid marriage with a fat, unattractive wife. I suggest many “business trips” to exotic locales where he can sate his desire with beautiful lovers and more easily hide his dalliances from the wife. He should continue pushing his wife to lose weight and hinting ever-so-unsubtly at his growing array of sexual market options.

The very real risk of Meat, Lay, Rove is that our intrepid reader will likely fall in love with one of his darlings. Men tend to do that with women they find sexually irresistible. Down that road lies irretrievably broken marriages, for a wife fears a betrayal of love far more than a physical infidelity.

In the end, he will have to answer to his god, and ask him why he was given a working penis if he was meant to suffer unhappily in a sexless marriage with a fat sow.

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Word Is Getting Out

I was enjoying a punchy bowel movement in a public restroom when I overhead a conversation a man was having on the phone with a woman who was either a friend or the pretense of a friend he wanted to fuck. Droning and masturbatory, my ears perked up when he turned the subject to that Story of O meager rip-off and sadomasochism book by a female author which is currently all the rage among well-heeled urban ladies who fancy themselves feminists. One-way snippets follow.

“Did you hear about this Fifty Shades of Grey book? …Yeah, it’s about a woman who falls for a controlling, dominant guy. He’s even kind of violent. Knocks her around and stuff.”

“It’s a little disconcerting. Are women like this? Do women really go in for this sort of thing?” [laughs]

“I don’t get it, but this is all women are talking about. It makes me think that they want to be submissive. Submissive to a man.”

“I mean, I have to ask… I’m asking you because you’re a woman, and I haven’t slept with you. [chuckles self-consciously] Not that I meant to say I wanted to… or if I would I wouldn’t come right out and say it… but I figure you would tell me the truth since we’re not sleeping together.”

“Have you read this book?… Wow… You too?… You think you know people….”

“Are these degrading things he puts her through… are they exciting for women? I’ll never have a conversation again without thinking she really wants to be tied up and… yeah, women want submission… it’s nuts.”

“Is that what you like?”

I do no fairness to this eavesdropped rambling exegesis on the book that has the yoga and credentialist crowd in titters and tingles, which went on breathlessly for a heady fifteen minutes. (My grass-fed beef movement was extraordinary even for a deucing champion like myself, so fifteen minutes on the throne was not putting me out.) From the sound of his ardor, the man on the phone could hardly believe there existed this secret garden of women’s desires, and having stumbled into it clumsily tried to utilize the subject as a hook for a possible tryst with the woman on the other end of the line. Also from the sound of it, she didn’t bite.

I think this book is something of a watershed cultural moment for the SWPL class, filled floor to rafters with masculinized careerist broads and cloying beta males. Word is getting out among even the mule-headed beta males that women are, most of them and especially those feminist shrikes who’d like you to think otherwise, engines of depraved sexuality who really want to belong to a dominant man — belong in the biblical and servitude sense — and that no indignity is off the table for them should the right badass come along and give them what they truly crave.

Pulp romance and sex novels like Fifty Shades of Grey are the female equivalent of male visual pornography; let there be no doubt, these books are female porn, as salacious and titillating for women as close-up jackhammering is for men. If you decry the one, you must decry the other if you have any interest in being perceived as fair-minded and consistent. But will you ever hear a media darling feminist call out these books for what they really are? Of course not. For what they really are is a technicolor ringside seat spectating into the soul of woman. Fantasy is a reflection of real world desire, and as much as it is true men would hardly hesitate to fulfill in real life a fantasy about intimately plowing a Victoria’s Secret model, it is equally true women wouldn’t hesitate to be the defiled bedroom slave of a charmingly sociopathic, powerful alpha male.

Think about this revelation for more than a Twitter’s length moment. These pulpy romance books targeted at female audiences are all implausibly similar; you will never encounter a plot line that deviates much from the universal script except in the most trivial details. There is a badboy. There is an indignation, or a series of indignations, to which the female “protagonist” consents or endures, and enjoys despite her conscious declaration to the contrary. There is a niceguy the woman feels bad about not loving. There are societal expectations that add drama to the proceedings. There is sexual surrender preceded by interminable verbal foreplay (the “close-up” for the female reader). And there are pages upon pages of delirious, exquisite hamstering.

Feminists rush to claim that these sordid female fantasies are just that: fantasy. But then why is it these books of female porn never showcase a woman having a torrid affair with an attentive, polite beta male who does the dishes and shows up for dates on time? If these desires were outcroppings of the realm of fantasy alone, severed from real desirous thoughts that can be acted upon, then reason dictates women in all their glorious individuality  — nawalt, don’t you know! — would fantasize in the fantasy-dedicated lobes of their brains about a random assortment of scenarios and male archetypes. Yet the thematic universality persists.

The conclusion is obvious: women fantasize about the types of men they do (like the slavemaster from Fifty Shades) because, like men watching porn, it gets them off. And what one dreams about — or reads or watches — to get oneself off is thrillingly close to the same thing that gets one off in earthbound life where flesh meets actual flesh.

It’s a good thing beta males are being exposed to this raw look at female nature in ever greater numbers. From the mouths of (aging) babes. Chalk one up for the information superhighway and its unsupervised off-ramps kicking a peg from under the princess pedestal. Perhaps with this new, unsettling knowledge, more betas will train themselves to become alpha and in turn make more women happier and sexually fulfilled. Or perhaps this cadre of illuminated betas will drop out, resigned to their hopelessness and cynicism, and slowly, inexorably withdraw the funds and the mental fuel that prop up the de facto polygyny society in which they play little part except as mop-up crew after the main attraction has ended.

Either way, the rouge has washed off this whore. The illusion is shattering. No one wants to be a dupe. My prediction is that women will regret having thrown the doors wide open on their whipped and gagged ids, invigorating hordes of disaffected or romantically noncommittal beta males in consequence. The losers in this game will rightly wonder what it has gotten them. And the heretics will say some roars were better left stifled.

In the meatime, as always…

I’ll be poolside.

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Five Minutes Of 18-Year-Old Snatch

Maxim #101: For most women, five minutes of alpha is worth five years of beta.

The importance of the above maxim can’t be overstated. The way to a woman’s heart is through her id.

There’s a male analogue as well.

Maxim #102: For most men, five minutes of a younger, hotter woman beats five years of older, uglier women.

Younger women are, barring a few conspicuous exceptions, better looking, better smelling and better feeling than older women. Career goals not achieved to the contrary notwithstanding, younger women are alpha females. The man who has tasted the succulent flesh of an 18 year old cutie will never again look at, or feel toward, older women with the same excitement, urgency or romanticism. He has been corrupted. His memories, lucid, almost palpable, of intimacies with younger women, will dominate. Five minutes in bed with a young babe will linger longer in his cortical penis extension than five years with an assortment of older women.

James Hooker has doomed himself. But it’s a doom that most men would welcome with open arms, if they could. His relationship — loving, tender, sexual — with an 18 year old babe means, should he find himself single again, that few women his age will satisfy him the way his current younger lover does. An older woman Hooker’s age who wants to extract commitment from him, or even a simulacra of lovingkindness, is going to have her work cut out for her. A man’s memory of an 18-year-old is a more powerful competitor to her than the attentions of real live women her own age.

Men like Hooker, men who have experience bedding younger women, and whose libidos are rocket fueled by powerful memories of young woman love, if they are single, go blankly into that dating field of cougars and cynical spinsters, depressed over the substandard offerings, forever seeking to recapture the intensely pleasurable magic of their time with their lithe lolitas. Their sheer disgust at the socially approved alternatives, and their unbreakable confidence at having inspired the love of much younger women, will help propel them back into the arms of charming coeds. They are men on a mission, and they won’t be stopped, not even by marriage.

Men like this live by one rule: if the cunnilingus feels like a chore, she’s too old.

As a one night stand with an alpha male can skew a woman’s expectations for life, so can a fling with an 18-year-old hottie skew a man’s expectations for life. But there is a critical difference in the sexes regarding expectation levels. It requires little effort for an average-looking woman to spread her legs and permit an alpha male to dump a fuck in her; for men are, on the whole, the less discriminating sex, and will rarely pass up easy lays with normal-sized women when they are offered. A woman’s ego, inflated from birth, will mistakenly regard the alpha’s fly-by-night attentions as validation of her relationship worthiness to men of his caliber. She will, in time, learn a bitter lesson.

In contrast, it requires yeoman effort, whether through the accumulation of wealth and status or through charm and dominance, for an average-looking older man to persuade an 18-year-old babe to relinquish her sex to him. This effort and resulting success is evidence that he has what it takes to consistently attract younger women and have relationships with them. When in the company of younger women, his mate value is self-evident. Thus, such a man’s expectations are more in line with reality than are the slutty woman’s expectations whose value is rightly measured not by how much cock she can hoover, but by how many high value men she can convince to stick around and fall in love with her.

Nevertheless, a continent full of average-looking, non-obese women riding the alpha cock carousel for stretches of their lives, and older men openly ignoring women their age to pursue their desire for the company of younger women, means an end to mutually nourishing beta male-slender female relationships and societally stabler older male-older female pairings. This is probably not going to turn out well for a monogamy-based modern civilization like ours, but it seems the rule that civilizations in the final spasms of decay revert to more primal norms of self-actualizing sexual and romantic fulfillment.

As always, I’ll be poolside.

Corollary to Maxim #102: A beautiful, slender older woman will be a better lay than a plain, fatter younger woman.

This corollary has more relevance today than it would have in the past, because enormous numbers of what would normally be very fuckable young babes have put themselves out of contention by getting fat and gross. Thanks to the Western obesity epidemic, there is a glimmer of hope for the yoga-toned 35-year-old who retains the feminine charms of her younger self. Chin up, ladies, and keep praying that your younger rivals gorge themselves on artisanal cupcakes and 150gram sugar-infused coffee drinks!

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Why Nurses Make The Quickest Lays

There’s a good article in the Washington BetaPost written by a hospital internist who laments the growing disconnect between the reality of death and people living in atomized, urban enclaves whose affluence allows them to warehouse their elderly parents into chambers of horrors death’s waiting rooms.

Mass urbanization hasn’t been the only thing to alienate us from the circle of life. Rising affluence has allowed us to isolate senescence. Before nursing homes, assisted-living centers and in-home nurses, grandparents, their children and their grandchildren were often living under the same roof, where everyone’s struggles were plain to see. In 1850, 70 percent of white elderly adults lived with their children. By 1950, 21 percent of the overall population lived in multigenerational homes, and today that figure is only 16 percent. Sequestering our elderly keeps most of us from knowing what it’s like to grow old.

This physical and emotional distance becomes obvious as we make decisions that accompany life’s end. Suffering is like a fire: Those who sit closest feel the most heat; a picture of a fire gives off no warmth. That’s why it’s typically the son or daughter who has been physically closest to an elderly parent’s pain who is the most willing to let go. Sometimes an estranged family member is “flying in next week to get all this straightened out.” This is usually the person who knows the least about her struggling parent’s health; she’ll have problems bringing her white horse as carry-on luggage. This person may think she is being driven by compassion, but a good deal of what got her on the plane was the guilt and regret of living far away and having not done any of the heavy lifting in caring for her parent.

With unrealistic expectations of our ability to prolong life, with death as an unfamiliar and unnatural event, and without a realistic, tactile sense of how much a worn-out elderly patient is suffering, it’s easy for patients and families to keep insisting on more tests, more medications, more procedures.

The human impulse to detach from the specter of death is strong, so it’s understandable people would want to get away from it as much as possible. I have vivid memories of being escorted through an ICU ward, so heavy with the stink and sight of dying, mechanically assisted bodies contorted in pulleys and displayed in giant plastic bubbles, their lesions and bloat and sickly droop mocking the thread of life they cling to, that I nearly choke on the most fleeting recollection and search for an expedient distraction.

So I have to wonder how people who are surrounded by death all day, every day, manage the burden — families whose old, dying parents live with them, doctors who treat the husks of humans lingering in the limbo between living and the illimitable void. Most condition themselves to it, having honed a preternatural ability to sever their emotions from the constant reminders of mortality that accompany every dying person like a gloomy chaperone.

So what does this have to do with nurses and game, you ask? I have this running compendium in my hed of my lifetime lays, because of all my memories, it’s the ones spent intimately with lovers I strive the hardest to keep well-formed and prevent from dissipating into the murky mists. This is my tribute to their love. Some of these sex memories are technicolor brilliant, some are romantically hazy, some curiously abstract.

Two lays in particular stick out, both with girls who were nurses. And not GP nurses. One was ER, the other worked in a children’s cancer ward. They saw death, the worst kinds of death, on a daily basis. Sex with them was exuberant, unhinged even. There was little foreplay; they couldn’t wait to get their clothes off and my dick inside them. One would impatiently hike her skirt up and drop her panties as soon as I walked through the door, then back up into my daggering manhood, heaving a satisfied sigh upon penetration, like a junkie who just depressed the syringe.

While it was not, qualitatively speaking, the *best* sex I’ve ever had, it was certainly the most frantic, and the fastest from “hi” to “slide it in”. Both of these girls banged on the first dates. They were not ones for drawn-out seduction dramas in the bedroom of the LMR variety; kisses always followed couplings.

This is what those in proximity to death do — they embrace life more fully, and part of that embracing is total sexual abandon. For what besides sex, the generation pool of life, is a bigger middle finger in the face of death? Skydiving while having sex, maybe.

One of these nurses, it should be noted, had a father who was considerably older than her mother. Almost her whole life the looming of her father’s end must have surely weighed on her. Coyness was not part of her vocabulary. Hungry copulation was.

A familiarity with death might put a stop to escalating medical costs as more enlightened people choose to let their old relatives pass into the ether as part of a natural, unimpeded progression. It might reverse demographic decline seen in the form of childlessness, a condition caused in part by insulation from death’s omnipresence among the privileged class which obscures revelation of their finiteness. Familiarity has other benefits: it inculcates a powerful will to live for experience, to grasp that the doorstep of death misses no one, to apprehend that the luxuries of boredom and ennui are the province of the derelict who has fooled himself to believe forever is now.

But my favorite death-accepance benefit: quick lays!

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Hypergamy, Sluts And Smart Women

A reader emailed a recent fascinating study that, AS PER USUAL♥♥♥♥♥♥♥, confirms many core Chateau concepts and related game strategies.

Although robust sex differences are abundant in men and women’s mating psychology, there is a considerable degree of overlap between the two as well. In an effort to understand where and when this overlap exists, the current study provides an exploration of within-sex variation in women’s mate preferences. We hypothesized that women’s intelligence, given an environment where women can use that intelligence to attain educational and career opportunities, would be: (1) positively related to their willingness to engage in short-term sexual relationships, (2) negatively related to their desire for qualities in a partner that indicated wealth and status, and (3) negatively related to their endorsement of traditional gender roles in romantic relationships. These predictions were supported. Results suggest that intelligence may be one important individual difference influencing women’s mate preferences.

Anti-game haters and various sore losers in life: reread the above for comprehension before commenting. You’ll save everyone a lot of scrolling effort to glide by your blockheadedness.

Let’s tackle the conclusions of this study one by one.

1. Smart, educated, careerist women (aka urban SWPLs) are more likely to want to ride the cock carousel (i.e., “engage in short-term sexual relationships”). That old game hater saw that only low self-esteem sluts and dumb skanks like to play the phallus field is the complete opposite of reality. It’s the smart, educated chicks who dig the cock and, by deduction, it’s the smart, educated chicks who will fall for short-term pickup game more than dumb chicks.

In one fell swoop, a cherished feminist and beta male shibboleth gets crushed into dust and blown away.

2. Smart, educated, careerist women are less interested in a man’s money or career status. This dovetails perfectly with the Chateau contention that female economic empowerment has led to a sexual market where soft polygamy — the clustering of financially independent women at the peak of their fertility (and beauty) around charming alpha males — is the new norm in blue state meccas. If money and occupational status mean less to smart girls, then guess what means more to them? You got it. Game. And who loses in this arrangement? Yup, boring provider beta males.

3. Smart, educated, careerist women are more likely to eschew “traditional gender roles” in romantic relationships. So it is the smart girls, not the dumb ones, who say screw it to marriage, dating, fidelity and lifelong monogamy while they are in their primes, and who are more open to fucking around, casual hook ups, cheating and, ahem, serial monogamy. This is, not to put too fine a point on it, a description of a pickup artist’s paradise. Smart girls do eventually get married at higher rates than dumb, lower class girls, but the relevant factor to the typical urban beta male is how many girls in his milieu are ready for marriage and/or long term relationships *during their 20s*, when women are at their most desirable. If the rising age of first marriage is any indication, not many.

Bottom line: your typical slut is a smart, educated woman.

So what does this have to do with that noted force of nature, female hypergamy? Well, if we premise our argument with the claim that female hypergamy always exists, and is always operational and acting upon women’s mate choice mechanisms (a claim entirely consistent with observed female behavior), then, given the study conclusions above, we are presented with the possibility that smart, financially independent chicks emphasize different male attractiveness traits when choosing mates than do dumb, financially insecure chicks. What are they?

Charm. Wit. Looks. Confidence. Social savviness. Social status (as distinct from wealth or occupational status). Charisma.

Most of these male attractiveness traits favored by smart chicks, yes, even including social status, can be grouped under the game umbrella. Game makes men more charming, witty, confident, socially savvy and charismatic. It even boosts a man’s social status. (Being known as a ladykiller is chicknip.)

Looks are the one thing game can’t change, but in most men’s experiences, women’s judgment and emphasis of male looks doesn’t much vary between the lower and upper class women, or the dumb and smart women. The study does suggest, though, that economically empowered and übereducated women probably will put more emphasis on male looks than will economically insecure, less educated women.

Now you know why poor, dumb religious girls swoon (settle?) at younger ages for provider betas relatively more than well-off, smart, secular girls. And why the latter can be found hanging off the arm of your local indie band singer before doing the smart thing and marrying a beta as her expiration date looms.

The trends in female mate choice I have described in this post go a longer way than any economic or class argument I’ve read to explain the coming apart of the white race in America as detailed in Charles Murray’s new book. Anyone who wants to take a long, hard look at social trends and the phenomena of “men dropping out” needs to incorporate into his thinking the cold, merciless, unrelenting reality of female hypergamy. To do less would be… uncivilized.

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Hugo Schwyzer’s Phony Feminism

Our favorite false flag limpwrist, Hugo Schwyzer, is licking the hairy taint of feminists once more in a vomitous piece about the popularity among men of “barely legal” porn. He really tries hard to put a feminist-friendly (read: anti-male) spin on the uncomfortable reality that men naturally prefer the stimulating sight of lithe, supple, fully ripe young women.

Across the web, videos and images featuring 18- and 19-year-olds — or actresses in their twenties trying to look younger — are by every measure the most in demand. “Teen porn” is the most common genre-specific term used in Google searches, and teen-themed videos dominate the top 25 most-viewed videos on YouPorn. (Link is absolutely NSFW.) […]

Beyond Derbyshire, the most common explanation given for adult men’s particularly intense attraction to teen girls is reproduction. But on closer scrutiny that theory falls apart. Women’s fertility peaks between 22 and 26, well after their “salad days” have come to a close.

The argument that men in their 30s, 40s, and beyond are evolutionarily hardwired to lust after girls just above or below the adulthood threshold has less merit than we think.

One alternative answer has much more to do with adult men’s anxiety than with their reproductive longings. In the fantasy world of “barely legal” pornography, the teen girl is an ingénue longing for sexual initiation at the hands and body of an experienced older man. For an older man (the average male porn user is over 30) perhaps intimidated by the erotic and emotional demands of his own female peers, the imagined naïveté of a much-younger woman is a source of comfort. The less experience she has, the less likely she’ll mock his clumsiness and the more likely she’ll appreciate whatever savoir-faire he does possess.

[ed: alert! feminist feelgood twaddle incoming] The reality is that only those who are wise and confident enough to challenge us can help us grow. Age isn’t just a number; that confidence and wisdom takes time to emerge. So when men eroticize the young, the tentative, and the innocent — for whatever reason — they’re possibly just eroticizing their own reluctance to accept adulthood and responsibility. In that scenario, everybody loses.

This guy can really fling the bullshit. Only someone with intimate knowledge of the subject of barely legal teens can so effortlessly BS his way into nonsensical alternate explanations for male sexual behavior that are otherwise easily explained by a naturally evolved male preference for peak fertility women with little baggage. After all, he’s gotta cover his ass for past, uh… indiscretions. As Bill Clinton understood, nothing distracts feminist attention from one’s own very unfeminist lifestyle like mouthing the platitudes feminists want to hear.

I was once a broken, bad man taking advantage of young women, but now I have seen the light! Praise the bog! Men suck! Men have issues! Men are intimidated by older women! Speaking of which, let’s you and I go for a drink after class today and discuss our mutual loathing of rape culture. I’ll pay just the tip. Heh heh heh.

First, Schwyster is wrong about women’s peak fertility. He pulled his number from Wikipedia which should be a clue to take it with a grain of salt. The age range varies in the studies I’ve seen, but basically most peg female peak fertility in the 18-24 year range. Since barely legal porn filmmakers, by law, can’t hire girls under 18, the most important premise of Schwyster’s argument falls apart before he’s even out of the gate. Instead of confirming Schwyster’s fevered pathologizing of normal male sexuality, the evidence that men prefer watching porn featuring 18-21 year old girls, who are within the peak fertility range, simply affirms the evolutionary theory that gives hives to feminists and feminist suck-ups like Schwyster.

Second, men lust for younger women because those women are less likely to be saddled with other men’s children, or to be pregnant by other men. A young woman’s implied virginity means that fucking her results in a greater chance that any kids she pops out will be that man’s kids. This is important to men, as evolutionary theory would conclude, because men, unlike women’s perfect knowledge of maternity, do not have guarantees of paternity. So men must rely on other signals, such as the youth, fidelity and relative inexperience of their lovers.

Anxiety, or that catch-all feminist trope “intimidation”, has got nothing to do with men’s preference for younger women. It’s all about the sexy biology. By way of analogy, if older men are intimidated by the “erotic and emotional demands” of their female peers, then using Schwyster’s reasoning we may assert that women, who exhibit preferences for higher status men and older men, are intimidated by the erotic and emotional demands of younger men and lower status men. Of course, no one ever makes that claim. Because it’s stupid on its face. Much like Schwyster’s claim that men are intimidated by older, less fertile, less attractive women is stupid on its face. Women aren’t attracted to lower status men, just as men aren’t attracted to older women.

Schwyster knows all this, too, which makes him a phonyfuck of the highest caliber. The guy spent his early years as a professor cashing in his higher status for the pleasure of fucking his 18-21 year old students. Maybe he is wracked with guilt, and his current ultrafeminist stance is his form of atonement. Or maybe (and more likely, in my view) his hypocritical feminist sycophancy is a ruse to get in the panties of the deluded naifs who take his classes.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. The difference between me and a lickspittle errand boy like Schwyster is that I don’t go around claiming there’s something psychologically wrong with men for desiring the hot bods and feminine charms of young women. I don’t blame a guy like Schwyster for wanting to stick his dick in his peak fertility students, nor do I stroke feminist egos to earn PC brownie points and page views.

PS Hugo, word of advice. You can get a lot further with better looking, mentally stable women by not sucking up to them so badly. Chicks dig unapologetic men.

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Beta Of The Month: Asexual Purgatory

There are apparently asexuals among us. They claim they have no interest in sex, and it’s not a psychological coping mechanism for involuntary celibacy.

Jenni is one of the estimated 1% of people in the UK who identify themselves as asexual. Asexuality is described as an orientation, unlike celibacy which is a choice.

“People say ‘well if you’ve not tried it, then how do you know?'” says Jenni.

“Well if you’re straight have you tried having sex with somebody you know of the same sex as you? How do you know you wouldn’t enjoy that? You just know that if you’re not interested in it, you’re not interested in it, regardless of having tried it or not.”

I’m trying to picture how musty and cobwebbed her vagina must be. It’s probably fused shut at this point, kind of how the skin of morbidly obese corpses will fuse with the couches they died on. I wonder if she’s ever shoved anything up her puss to get off? If so, that would put the lie to her assertion that she has no desire for sex. More likely, she just fears and loathes male sexuality. I bet her nightmares consists of 3D penises raining down on her like ICBMs scarring the sky with cum contrails.

This is true of Jenni who is heteroromantic, and although having no interest in sex, is still attracted to people, and is in a relationship with 22-year-old Tim. Tim, however, is not asexual.

“A lot of people actually ask if I am being selfish and keeping him in a relationship that he won’t get anything he wants [from] and he should go and date somebody like him, but he seems quite happy, so I’d say I’d leave that up to him,” says Jenni.

Just when you thought the world couldn’t possibly have enough self-hating beta males willing to sacrifice a basic human need for the company of weirdo übercockteases. And is it my imagination, or is the ratio of white and asian beta to alpha getting more skewed every year? Welcome to Generation Puffboy.

Tim is enjoying spending time with and getting to know Jenni by focusing on the romantic aspects of their relationship.

It’s like compliment & cuddle, times one thousand. With no chance for redemption in sight.

“The first time that Jenni mentioned in conversation that she was asexual, my initial thought was ‘hmm that’s kind of odd’,” says Tim, “but then I did know enough not to make assumptions about what that meant.

What a mincing pissant. Tim, when a girl you met has told you that she doesn’t like sex and will never have sex, your first thought should’ve been “I just wasted thirty dates with this insufferable cocktease. How do I get away from her before my emasculation is total?” At the very least, return the favor by using her as a pawn to meet other girls.

[Tim]: “I have never been obsessed with sex. I’ve not been one to have to go out at night and have to have someone to have sex with, because that’s what people do… so I’m not all that concerned about it”.

One reason why betas allow themselves to be LFBFed and used as emotional tampons in perpetuity is that it relieves them of the stress of sacking up and busting a move. You could call it cockooning.

Jenni’s relationship with Tim does have a physical side, as they cuddle and kiss to express their affection for each other.

And there it is. Beta of the Month. Congratulations, Timmy, you sicken the world of normal men and inspire the pity of normal women. When you masturbate away all that pent-up energy, lay down a tarp with a ten yard clearance.

Asexuality has been the subject of very few scientific studies which has led to speculation about why some people feel no sexual attraction.

“There are people who definitely view it as a disorder and are like ‘oh if we give you these pills we can fix it’. Or people who ask you ‘have you had your hormones checked’, as though that’s the obvious solution,” says Jenni.

Maybe Jenni really is clinically asexual. Maybe her brain is missing a few synapses. I can abide that possibility. Or maybe, she feels no sexual attraction because all she dates are betas. In which case, one date with an insensitive jerk who isn’t an uuuuunderstanding wet noodle should clear her condition right up.

“And then you get people who go one step worse, and I have been asked before if I had been molested as a child, which is not an appropriate question to ask somebody to be honest, and also I haven’t been. It was the assumption that ‘hey you have something wrong with you, clearly you were molested as a child’ is just such a terrible attitude to have.”

This is the problem with the modern, equalist society: nothing is wrong with anything. Hey, sweetcheeks, there is something wrong with you. Evolutionarily speaking, there is something very wrong with you. Instead of demanding people pretend you’re normal, embrace your wrongness. Wear it proudly, you princess of deviancy, you queen of crazy.

Let’s have a look at the tense couple.

Now perhaps there’s a chance Timmy is getting some nookie on the side, when he’s away from this sexless cipher. That would mitigate his betaness somewhat. (Only somewhat, because every second with her is a second stripped from more fulfilling endeavors.) I doubt it, though. Look at his face. His pinched, “walk all over me” expression. This is a guy who nurses a secret hard-on every time she hugs him, then rushes home five hours later to drain himself into a couch crease. The least she could do, if sex isn’t her thing and she values his cuddly wuddlies, is give him a tug job to completion. But she never will, because, ultimately, chicks like her are selfish cunts. And when a selfish cunt meets a selfless dweeb, the penis loses.

BOTM: Timmy and his taunted testicles

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