More Porn Means Less Rape

Back in August 2007, I wrote in my seminal post on sexbots:

Some of the changes [with the introduction of sexbots] I foresee:

Omegas (geeks, nerds, dweebs, trolls, dregs, dullards, bums, street filth, etc.) – will finally have a satisfying release for their pent-up horniness.  Crime will likely drop as a result.  So will rape.  Widely available sexbots are analogous to cheap, legal prostitution, minus the STDs and needle tracks.  On the whole I think it is a social good to distract the losers from their grinding misery.

Then, in August 2008, I wrote the following in my “Universal Truths” post:

Legalizing prostitution will reduce the incidence of rape.

Well, once again science has vindicated the Chateau worldview. Widespread availability of porn (where porn is similar to prostitutes and hypothetical sexbots in that it provides men a sexual outlet) has reduced the prevalence of rape:

TABLE 3. COMBINED PER CAPITA PERCENTAGE CHANGE IN INCIDENCE OF RAPE.

Aggregate per capita increase or decline in rape.

Four states with lowest internet access Increase in rape of 53%

Four states with highest internet access Decrease in rape of 27%

I find these results to be statistically significant beyond the .95 confidence interval.

[Reporter: That is measuring the changes in rape from 1980 (very definitely pre-internet) to 2000.]

Just as I surmised. Of course, this is all common sense to those with the eyes to see and without an ideological axe to grind. Yes, Jezebel-ers, rape really is about sex. The boner doesn’t lie.

The dark, dreary, ugly landscape of human nature that I drive like a stake through every happy heart holds dominion over us all, forever and ever, amen.

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Younger Women Are Good For A Man’s Health

It’s a truism that oftentimes the things that feel good to us are also good for us. A recent German study found that men live longer if they marry younger women, and that the longevity benefits accrue with each additional year the woman is younger than the man. (Hat tip: reader Conscientious Observer)

A man’s chances of dying early are cut by a fifth if their bride is between 15 and 17 years their junior.

The risk of premature death is reduced by 11 per cent if they marry a woman seven to nine years younger.

Every man reading this is saying to himself “They needed a study for this?”. Every woman reading this is saying to herself “I cream for my oevrlord!”.

And in a shocking… shocking, I say!… discovery, older women are bad for a man’s health.

The study at Germany’s Max Planck Institute also found that men marrying older women are more likely to die early.

What about the fabled cougars and their false bravado boosterism for the delights of hard-up boy toys?

The results suggest that women do not experience the same benefits of marrying a toy boy or a sugar daddy.

Wives with husbands older or younger by between seven and nine years increase their chances of dying early by 20 per cent.

Hilarious. As for women dying younger when married to an older man, that’s a feature, not a bug. Since he’s older and has a shorter lifespan as a man, she’ll die right around the same time as him. Hollywood romance!

The study’s authors theorize why this might be so.

Scientists say the figures for men may be the result of natural selection – that only the healthiest, most successful older men are able to attract younger mates.

“Another theory is that a younger woman will care for a man better and therefore he will live longer,” said institute spokesman Sven Drefahl.

I have a better theory. When a man is banging a hot chick half his age he wants to stay alive as long as possible! Incentives matter.

Maxim #93: The rare older woman-younger man pairing is like a lab experiment gone wrong. It violates the natural order of things, and leaves its practitioners emotionally twisted and in a constant mental race to hyperrationalize their subpar mate choice.

The younger man in such a bizarro world December-May coupling has no interest in her rusty muff beyond dumping a few fucks in her until someone younger and hotter comes along. The older woman knows she is an expedient hole and will never be loved by her boy toy, nor will she ever truly be able to love him. (Women are wired to experience difficulty falling in love with younger men.) Hers is a loveless future of cats and belly roll lint.

And so what you see are weirdo new-age divorcees and rode hard and tossed away wet single moms bleating most loudly about the glories of the younger man, because in point of fact they cannot attract the sorts of men they most want. They wave away their sad predicament with a bowl of sour grapes and transparent sloganeering. There are certain types of women nearly all men avoid for anything more substantial than a few rolls in the hay. Two types that are always at the top of that no-go list are eccentric, deranged divorcees and bitter, emotionally arid, caustically unfeminine single moms.

Go forth, brothers, and sweep a younger woman off her feet. You now have the stamp of science validating your lechery.

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Girls Who Insisted I Use A Condom

It’s interesting to recall who among the women blessed to have crossed lifepaths with the masculine juggernaut that is moi insisted I use a condom on the first night together. (Note: This is a separate issue from whether I decided to use a condom myself.)

A partial selection (because who can remember every girl they’ve slept with?):

Update: I completely forgot the DC lawyer chicks ———– NO CONDOM.

First love — Insisted on condom.
French au pair — Insisted on condom. Rolled it on with her mouth.
Bikini girl — No condom.
Riotgrrl DJ — Insisted on condom.
Library pickup — No condom.
Chinese girl — Insisted on condom.
Asian girl of indeterminate origin — No condom.
Asian girl of painfully tight hole — Insisted on condom.
Amelie lookalike — Insisted on condom.
Indian girl — Insisted on condom for blowjob (!) but not for sex (!!).
Artsy chick (#17 in a series) — Insisted on condom.
Cokehead — Insisted on condom.
Girl who was beaten by stepdad — Insisted on condom.
Ugliest girl I have ever banged — No condom.
Hard-charging MBA student — No condom.
Best friend of hard-charging MBA student — Insisted on condom.
Married Russian chick — No condom.
Russian au pair — Insisted on condom.
Married Polish chick — No condom.
Blonde with boyfriend — No condom.
Short brunette with boyfriend — No condom.
Bartender 1 — No condom.
Bartender 2 — No condom.
Bartender 3 — No condom.
Stripper — Insisted on condom.
Croatian chick — Insisted on condom.
Girl with smelly pussy — No condom.
Girl with five mangy hamsters for pets — Insisted on condom.
Black girl — No condom.
NIH nurse — Insisted on condom for round one but dropped insistence for round two.
Tomboy — Insisted on condom.
Romanian chick — No condom.
Preacher’s daughter (for real) — Insisted on condom.
Niece of semi-famous politico — Insisted on condom.
Blog groupies (6 of 13) — No condom.
Girl with furry ass — Insisted on condom.
Army girl with smelly ass — No condom.
Bulgarian girl — Insisted on condom.
Finnish girl — No condom.
Turkish girl — No condom.
Argentinian girl — Insisted on condom.
French girl with the most beautiful name in the world — No condom.
Girl who mentioned she was a Mensa member — No condom.
Chic Noir — No condom.

Rubbing my chin in deep pontification, savoring every delicious sexual memory, I detect a correlation between how long I dated a girl and whether she insisted I use a condom on the first night together. Here is a graphical representation:

The time I spent with the girl is the vertical axis. The number of times she insisted I use a condom is the horizontal axis. (Condom insistence was usually frontloaded in the dating cycle.) As we can see, the girls who insisted I use a condom on the first night were more likely to be granted the privilege of being my girlfriend. Dirty little sluts who flung themselves at my unsheathed cock had a higher chance of being a pump and dump or short term fling.

The longer a girl insisted on condom usage, the likelier I would treat her like a precious gemstone. But there are diminishing returns to this general rule. If a girl refused to start taking the pill and made me wear a condom well past the four week mark, I cut her loose. This was probably a wise decision by me. One, condoms suck. Two, she thinks I’m sleeping around on her but doesn’t care (this is a bad foundation for a fledgling relationship, even if true). Three, I wonder who else is she fucking?

For solid girlfriend material, you’ll want to aim for a condom usage insistence number of three sexual encounters. This allows her to maintain the fiction that she isn’t a slut, while not pushing you past the point of grudging acceptance into resentment at having your pleasure circumscribed by some smelly latex.

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I Once Banged A Girl Who Was Banged By A Rockstar

A girl with whom I was having a sexual fling (squirter) once challenged me, while we were out together, to pick up a woman sitting at the bar by herself. I suppose the thought of me seducing another woman turned her on. I’ve dated quite a few slutty freaks like her. Naturally, I obliged. Seducing women is why Our Lord Below put me on this good green earth. (I wonder how a beta male would have responded to such a request? “Stop being silly, honeybunny, I’m not going to hit on another woman. That’s just WRONG. I’m with *you* now.”)

Donning my war mask (shit-eating grin and eye twinkle) I sidled up to the statuesque blonde sipping her Guinness. She was around 30, and quite attractive. She had a proudly feminine face of Scandinavian origin and wide, child-birthing hips. Even though she was sitting, I could tell she was very tall, perhaps six feet. Inspired by the jealousy I would provoke in my audience (who was standing only 10 feet away with an unobstructed view of my full-scale assault), I ran some of my tightest game. Blonde warrioress had no chance. She withered into a puddle of warm arousal. Occasionally, I would look over at my date to see how she was reacting (mouth agape) and the blonde would catch me doing this and ask if I knew her. “Yes”, I said, “She’s a friend.” Coast cleared.

I number closed the blonde in fifteen minutes and told her I had to get back to my “friend”. When I strolled back, triumphant, my date didn’t look too happy, but I’m sure she was turned on. I was worried she would attempt to sabotage my chances with the blonde by making out with me right there, so I shuffled us both out of there in a hurry. Later, after a rigorous interrogation, I lied to my date that had I erased the blonde’s phone number. If you’re gonna play a high stakes game, don’t expect the rules to be fair.

A couple days later I took the blonde on a date to my favorite dive bar. We hit it off. Drinks, walking around the park, making out, sliding a hand down her pants and diddling her taint. The only thing I remember her saying was that she once had a two year relationship with Anthony Kiedis. She was a teenager (possibly underage) when she met him backstage at one of his shows. He was bigtime and had just crossed the Pussicon into rockstardom; girls were his for the taking, like so many juicy grapes plucked off the vine.

Intrigued by her admission, I pressed for more details. The thought of her having gotten fucked by Anthony Kiedis inexplicably turned me on. “Wow,” I remember thinking at the time, “I’m gonna bang the same hole that Anthony Kiedis’ supermodel-banging cock has been in. That’s one vulva of separation.”

Turns out that her definition of “relationship” was highly fluid, dependent on the desirablility of the man she was “seeing”. For the typical beta male, “relationship” means “ball and chain”; for a guy like Anthony Kiedis, “relationship” means he continues fucking tons of hot young girls but looks more deeply into your eyes than he does into the eyes of all the other women, thus making everything OK. Which is pretty much how it went between her and him. She was dating him, but would sometimes catch him fooling around at his shows. Despite that, she was never worried that he didn’t love her.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because once he saw me he would immediately drop whichever girls he was kissing and come over to tell me he loved me.”

“I see.”

This was a grown woman saying this.

So two years dating a rockstar and finally they drifted apart. She was divorced (she left a rich lawyer) and had dated other men since, but the only fond memories she had were of Mr. Anthony Kiedis, womanizer extraordinaire who made her heart swell with love when he stopped fucking his groupies for one second to kiss her gently on the cheek. Her ex-husband and ex-lovers may as well have never existed except as feeble also-rans throwing in stark contrast the powerful nostalgic glow of her blood, sugar, sex, magik memories.

On our second date, I drove her home to her cavernous suburban mcmansion and fumbled backwards through the dark into her bedroom, stripping off clothes along the way. I stepped on something rubbery and heard a squeak. Since I was fully turgid and throbbing with urgency, I paid it no heed. In the morning, I woke up first and rubbed my eyes. There were children’s toys littered on the floor.

Nordic Princess woke up. “I guess I should tell you that I have kids.”

“Yeah… interesting. So… how many?”

She replied, sheepishly, “Four.”

“Wow, that’s… impressive. Very, um, active.” I was right about her child-birthing hips.

“They’re with my ex. Two of them are already in school.”

“Uh, huh.”

“Are you OK with that? I was worried you might freak when you found out.”

“Perfectly fine. Kids are great,” I lied.

“They spend a lot of time with my ex-husband. He’s a good father. So don’t worry I’m not searching for a replacement father.”

“No worries!”

We ate breakfast and I kissed her goodbye, promising to give her a call. On the drive home I deleted her number from my phone.

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The Most Exciting Sex

I’ve written before that the path to sexual nirvana is through hot women. The hotter the girl, the steamier the sex. Simple formula. So put away your Zen and the Art of Existential Orgasm books and your handcuffs and mood lighting and liquor and rohypnol and owl masks and instead focus on landing yourself a hot babe. No need to overcomplicate things. Your penis cannot be fooled.

Once you’ve satisfied that basic requirement for nutblasting sex, there are ways to turbocharge the sex into the stratosphere of awesomeness. When you mix together certain ingredients you can achieve paralytic sexual bliss; the kind of orgasm that will stiffen your entire body as if it were a mere appendage to the centrality of your dick, and seize your brain in a white light-pricked near life experience.

Public sex is a necessary precondition. There needs to be a real threat of getting caught. You must also be outdoors in the woods, communing with Mother Vulva. The crackle of twigs underfoot, the sun streaming through a canopy of oak leaves, the chittering of small and not so small woodland creatures, and the invigorating organic aroma of pristine air and decomposing brush will throw in stark relief the animalistic nature of your love. There must be people in the vicinity. The thrill of seeing people while fucking and not being seen by them is incomparable. It’s like a one-way mirror where the observed subjects going about their daily mundane routine act to heighten the depravity on the other side. If some of those people are children under the protective wing of their parents, even better. The wicked ascends on the backs of the innocent. The risk of despoiling in a most evil fashion the purest among us will inflame your lust.

There must also be clothes in the way. You will feel your boner harden like steel-forged nipples when you have to push up a skirt or pull aside running shorts and panties to gain access. Clothes — and the clumsy grappling to move them out of the way — will pump your blood with the urgency of fast and furious sex.

Your woman must be either an angel on earth, or a dirty whore. A middle of the road typical chick with gangbang experience under her belt or a commitment to the three date rule isn’t going to cut it. If you want to lift yourself to the heights of ecstacy you must feel like you are piercing the womanhood of a truly uncorrupted vagina, or, on the opposite end, spiraling downward into the pits of sin with a filthy slut.

One of the most exciting sexual experiences I ever had happened in the woods, mid-day, springtime. We had just finished a hike and I pulled her off the designated path deeper into the wood. She was wearing loose-fitting running shorts. She was married, and I knew this. I was fucking a cheating whore. I pressed her chest against a boulder that fully concealed us from view and yanked aside her shorts for rear entry. We heard voices approach. She balked, unconvincingly. No no no I don’t think this is a good idea. Ignoring her, I drove it in hard hoping to make her yelp in pain and was surprised by the wetness of her pussy. She had lubed up in mere seconds. The voices neared us. Some were the high-pitched squeals of children. I looked around the boulder and saw through the low branches of the trees a troop of girl scouts clambering down the hiking path, a few parents strolling lazily beside them. Forty feet separated the girl scouts from the penetrance of my manhood into my married whore’s cunt. They stopped; I held steady, cock buried to the hilt. A squirrel rummaged through dead leaves on the ground. My lover twitched. I had my hand her throat and felt her pulse with my fingertips. My grip tightened. One of the girl scouts wanted to go in the woods for a pine cone. We heard her pleading with her father. She took a few steps toward our boulder of love, then turned back around when someone shouted “doggie!” and they all went racing toward a labrador that had jumped in a large pond. The voices receded. I resumed my pumping action, inflicting scrapes on my lover’s cheeks and arms from pushing her against the stone. Her knees went wobbly with orgasm and she slipped down the rock a few inches, stifling the moan that wanted to rip out of her lungs. I halted her stumble and with a mighty final thrust unloaded inside her, a river of molten balljuice flooding her hole, my bulk mashing her face into the boulder. White spots danced in my mind as my peripheral vision temporarily faded. I had timed my blast perfectly to the happy squeal of a distant girl scout.

Later we passed them and the wet doggie who had jumped in the pond. I petted it on the head and exchanged pleasantries with the parents.

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Paleocons Are Hedonists

And the god of biomechanics did enlighten thee…

Frequently phlegmatic commenter Thursday posted a link in the comments to yesterday’s slut admiration society post that contained a news item about noted paleocon Roger Scruton marrying at the age of 54 a 26 year old woman:

Scruton did not become a father until two years ago when he and his second wife, Sophie Jeffreys, had Samuel. A second child, Lucy, was born last August. Jeffreys, an architectural historian, is 28 years his junior. They live contentedly on a farm in Wiltshire.

And the Pale Sentinel of the Paleocon Underworld Peter Brimelow was in his 60s when he married the 22 year old cutie-pie Athena:

Bacchus bless these refined aesthetes of poon hounding. Men of wealth and taste…

In other news, commenter Patrick provided a helpful link to MP3s of the “War of the Roses” stunt thats plays on the local DC radio station 99.5. Why do haters bother doubting me? As Patrick wrote:

I can confirm from a quick sampling –especially yesterday’s show– that the shows are indeed real and not scripted, that the presumed-alphas indeed don’t give a shit, and that their duped girlfriends are probably going to get cheated on by default anyway.

A particularly funny segment where a cheating man claims an AIDS test discovered by his girlfriend was due to him having accidentally put on another dude’s underwear at the gym. Obviously he banged some total slut he didn’t care a bit about so the roses trick didn’t work because no man would send even free roses to a whore he suspects to have venereal disease. The other-dude’s-underwear ruse was pretty weak though.

Great post.

Another win for me. I tire of the paucity of challengers to my brilliance. Pissboy! Wait for the shake.

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Hormonal Surge

Conventional wisdom is that human females don’t go into heat — that is, their ovulation is hidden from male discernment — but I believe this is only partially true. The bars and clubs during the last couple weeks have been drenched in intoxicating estrogen. I notice this each year when spring begins, right around the end of March and beginning of April. The women are on the prowl, and the men are slabs of beef dangling from meathooks for inspection.

What does a roomful of sexually excited women look like? ADHD liplicking gigglebombs with perpetual pelvic grind syndrome.

The women jump from one man to the next, heaving their bosoms and smiling with glossed lips, expressing the full sensuality of their bodies in arched backs, thighs rubbing together, fingertips lightly grazing every available surface. They want the men to suffocate on their womanly bouquet, to lose control. Attention whoring is at DefCon “I’m on PornoHub” level. It’s been a hassle lately to keep one woman’s attention for long because their raging hormones are driving them to sample every man within sight, until the best cock they can afford presses its chub against her belly. That’s been the downside. The upside is that there’s a new woman eager to talk to you everywhere you turn.

Unfortunately, this nirvana won’t last long. By mid-April, the estrogen surge will have depleted itself, and most of these horny chicks will have either gotten themselves boyfriends or regressed back to their usual bitchy, arms crossed selves. Your window to act is short. Smart men know that this is the time of year to go out every night of the week to fatten up on the bounty. Be like the crocodiles gorging on the stampede of wildebeest crossing the treacherous river during their annual migration.

Men don’t understand the compulsion of the springtime female hormonal surge because our hormones surge year round. We might have a downtick in our libido now and then, like after brain surgery or a death in the family (immediate relations only), but mostly we’re good to go regardless of the season. I’m especially immune to hormone surges because my libido is at a constantly elevated state. If it goes any higher the tip could explode.

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