Female Beauty From 1 To 10

It’s Female Beauty Friday! You know the drill. You rank order the ten photos below, assigning a number between 1 and 10 inclusive for each photo. DO NOT USE A NUMBER MORE THAN ONCE. The photos are in no particular order. I was careful to choose pics that represent a woman at each point on the 1 to 10 beauty scale.

The best way to do this without biasing your ratings is to first look at all the photos before ranking them. Then go back and judge like a god.

The idea behind this rather pleasurable exercise is to demonstrate the conformity of men’s attractiveness standards, even across races. I get a thrill up my leg by smashing cherished shibboleths like “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”, and I especially love watching people twist defensively in the face of stone cold reality as they vainly try to prop up their pretty lies.

In the interest of giving my detractors their due, I’ve gone the extra mile in this post and chosen “real” women from among the submitted female photos (and a few of my own choices) whose rankings are less clear cut than expected. I’ve also included other races, and I’ve avoided using celebrities or otherwise well-known women. Nevertheless, I predict, despite the increased difficulty level, that most of you will agree in the rankings, plus or minus one point.

I also predict, as before in the first female ranking exercise, that the most disagreement will occur in the middle rankings — 4,5,6 — where a woman’s looks tend to blend in with the masses of other women along the fat part of the bell curve, and at the very upper end where great battles will be fought to decide who is the 10. The latter is because once you get into rarified beauty territory personal whim looms large.

Note: Women older than 40 (barring rare exceptions) and obese women are disqualified from the competition, even as fodder for the rankings below 4, because age and fat introduces a potent variable that will skew the results too drastically away from underlying facial beauty. Obesity especially is the Beauty Destroyer, the Leveler of the Playing Field, that can turn a 10 into a 2. The problem with America today is that so many women are fat that they’ve pushed the beauty bell curve into an unsightly leftward bulge, where we are now overflowing with 3s and 4s at the cost of fewer 6s and 7s. Goddamn shame it is.

After the voting is complete, you can compare your preferences to those of your peers, and to me, in the follow-up post I will write.

For those who don’t like arched eyebrows and giant fake smiles, here is another photo of “fur smile” girl.

Did you find yourself lingering longer over some photos than others?

PS: There is an Evil Easter Egg in this post. If you’ve found it, try not to blurt it out too soon in the comments. Give people a chance to stumble into my dastardly ways for themselves.

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Predator Sluts

Welcome to the New Whore Order.

The author of a controversial new book says she was so desperate for a baby she got pregnant ‘accidentally on purpose’ in a one-night stand. KATE SPICER admits that – like many women  – she’s played the same dangerous game…

Three weeks ago, I bought a pregnancy test. As a single, childless woman in my late 30s, my exact thoughts while I was waiting for the result were as follows: ‘If I am not pregnant, then good. I’m happy.

Life continues as before. Panic over. If I am pregnant, then that’s terrifying. But thrilling, too. A happy accident that was meant to happen, whether I stay with the father or not.’

If you’ve been a regular reader here, you could see this coming a mile away. Aging careerist shrikes on the cusp of sexual invisibility, like spent fuel rods from years of putting out for pump and dump alphas who wisely chose not to marry these damaged goods, are feeling the pangs of childlessness. Awash in discretionary income and free of the constraints of social shaming, they could afford to avoid dating the provider betas in favor of slutting it up with the same rotation of cads their girlfriends are banging. Oh, the drama was so enticing!

Then she woke up one morning, pressed a hand against her vacant, nearly barren womb, and shuddered in silence as the icy finger of irrelevant spinsterhood sent a shiver down her spine. She had made a mistake.

So what does she do now?

Why, she tries to rope utterly self-interested guys like yours truly into fun-killing fatherhood!

Some of these women approach the task in a far more ruthless manner than Mary Pols did, purposefully going out and sleeping with men when they know they are at their most fertile.

In America, they even have a name for this – they call them ‘gotcha’ pregnancies. Many of the women involved deliberately avoid birth control and have no intention of letting their unwitting bedfellow know this.

Never mind that these succubi claim to have no intention of hitting the guy up for child support. Women, bless their amoral hearts, are known to change their minds on a whim when it suits them. A woman’s slapdash principles and the vast anti-male legal industrial complex are cold comfort for the modern playboy. You must look out for yourself.

How to spot a potential predator slut with designs on the babymaking power of your ball juice?

There ya go. Just look for the crows’ feet, saggy tits, and chest age spots.

The most dangerous woman in the world to sleep with is the childless, unmarried cougar. Their clock is rapidly winding down, their dying eggs are sending out distress signals, and they have no cuckold beta husband upon which to foist a bastard child. Either avoid them like the plague or double up on industrial strength condoms.

Here’s a handy reference guide for precautionary measures to take when banging the childless woman.

• If she’s under 25, college educated, lives in the city, has had an abortion, spends more than 40% of her take home pay on drinks and clothes, concurrently dates, has slutty girlfriends, and talks about spending a couple years to travel the world:  Skip the condom and enjoy some skin on skin action. Blast inside her, you renegade! Odds are she’s on the pill, and if not, no worries — she’s on a first name basis with her abortionist. Bonus creampie if she’s a lawyer.
• If she’s 25-30 and all of the above, you had better start being careful where your boys lodge themselves. Use a condom for the first few weeks, then tentatively move to rawdogging. Check if she’s on the pill, but that’s not always a guarantee of child-free bliss. Too many girls — woops! — forget to take it the day you shoot inside her. To avoid this breach of contract, exercise the pull out option. Over the years collecting notches, your timing will become exquisite. You’ll be able to calculate down to the millisecond when you’re about to unload, and pull out at the exact moment you jizz. When you get really good at this, the narrow escape, optimal money shot reposition to her belly, back, or eye, and first stream of jizz will all happen elegantly in one smooth motion, like a hardcore ballet dance — The Nutbuster. It is crucial that you wipe her off with a towel or dirty sock yourself. Don’t leave that responsibility to her. I’ve heard horror stories of girls taking a dollop of the guy’s bellybutton load onto their fingers and inserting it into themselves while he was in the bathroom pissing.
• If she’s 30-35 and has a stupidly fluffy cat or toy dog, you are sailing into stormy waters. Why you would even bother with this kind of woman is beyond me, but let’s assume for purposes of discussion that she is well-preserved and has a hot body. Not only is this chick desperate to get impregnated, she is also more likely to be loaded down with a petri dish worth of STDs. If you insist on rawdogging it with her and blasting on her belly or back, scrub her down with sperm killing soap afterwards. You can do this by gently cajoling her into the shower after sex. Keep an eye on her hands, making sure they don’t go anywhere near your spooge or her vaj. If you use a condom, dispose of it in the toilet, not the garbage. Remember to flush!
• If she’s over 35 and without child or husband, you cannot be too careful. Use two of your OWN condoms (pinprick free) and drop them in an incinerator when you’re done. If no incinerator is available, place the used condom in an airtight iron lockbox for disposal at the local landfill or off the side of an ocean liner. If you make a mistake and blast on her belly, vacuum that shit up. Wiping with your underwear isn’t failsafe enough. If you are truly stupid and blast inside her — drop to your knees and start praying to the god of infertility (Jennifer Aniston) while arranging for your accounts to be moved overseas.

Whatever you do, never let a girl dispose of the condom for you. It sounds crazy, but I’ve been with more than one woman who would do just this. She would grab for the soiled condom and say “I’ll take care of that for you.” I was smart enough to know not to trust a woman with my spermed up condom by herself in the bathroom, so I told her she was acting weird, and flushed the condom myself. Fucking nutso broads.

People have asked me: if you don’t want kids why not just get the ol’ snippity snip? If you treasure your glorious package as much as I treasure mine, you’ll understand why I don’t want scalpels anywhere near there.

It’s too bad men don’t have a right to rip unwanted fetuses from the wombs of women who duped them into fatherhood. At the very least, a law predicated on true fairness would allow men to abort their financial responsibility for any child they didn’t agree on having with a predator slut. I won’t be holding my breath for that day to come.

PS: The title of this post is the working title for my coming magnum opus.

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“I think BJs are gross”

I gently coaxed her head down toward my boner. Her hand vigorously pumped. Handjobs are lame. Most girls don’t do them right, chafing and tugging like maniacs, as if they’re pulling a weed out by the roots. I wanted the mouth upgrade. She resisted.

“No, I’m not doing that.”

“Oh?”

“I think blowjobs are gross. Eww. I don’t like that in my mouth. It’s not the same as going down on a girl.”

She had experimented with women back in the day. I thought for a second about what she said. More gross going down on cock than pussy? No way. It’s the difference between slurping on a hot dog and smearing your face with pubes and mucousy, unidentifiable juices.

“Wow, that’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

She bristled. “Most women don’t actually like it.”

“That hasn’t been my experience. In fact, I can’t think of a single girl I’ve ever been with who didn’t like giving head.” I was being truthful.

“Well, they aren’t going to tell you that they don’t like it.”

“Hmm. Maybe. But if they weren’t enjoying it, their moans of pleasure sure fooled me.”

“I don’t even like sex that much.”

I squinted at her, growing less aroused with each word she uttered. “Uh, ok.”

“Yeah, it’s not all that much of a turn-on for me. I get off when a guy goes down on me. That’s the best.”

Even though her hand was wrapped tight around my rod, I deflated like a week-old balloon. She spread her legs a little wider and began touching herself. She smiled at me and looked down at her pussy. “Mmm, I love when a guy goes down there. Like he can’t get enough of me.” Her fingers glistened with the proof of her arousal.

I admired her gall in the face of her abject hypocrisy. But there was no way I was eating her out. I have a rule I follow which has held me in good stead for my entire copulatory career: I don’t go down on a girl until she has gone down on me first, assuming she smells OK. Exception to the rule: She’d have to be extraordinarily hot, a 9 or above, for me to be inspired by my uncontrollable horniness to munch away in advance of her putting me in her mouth. And it’d have to be obvious by her writhing enthusiasm that she was geared up for some bigtime raunchy sex and a blowjob in due course.

The reason for this rule is simple. You have to make a girl earn your tongue. That means hummers and fucking first. It may sound calculating, but this is the way girls think. If you give her everything she wants for free, she will have less incentive to bend over backwards (literally) to please you in every way you want to be pleased. Blowjobs will seem like “special treats” in her mind that she blesses you with when you’ve been especially good to her. This is not how you properly train your girlfriend or fuckbuddy. Instead, hold back on the oral sex until she’s proven her worth by meeting your demands.

You always want her in the frame of mind of seeking your approval, pleasing you first, and working overtime to enjoy the breadcrumbs of attention you sprinkle on her. *That*, readers, is the foundation of hot, frequent sex. She *wants* to feel the struggle of earning your prize member, and your pricey love. Give her what she wants by withholding what she wants. As in all things women, the paradox is primary.

There are four reasons why a girl would balk at giving blowjobs.

1. She’s sexually repressed. These types aren’t too common in DC, but they do exist. I give sluts a hard time, but her twisted sister, the Frigid Ice Queen, is just as distressing. At the first signs you have a sex-averse girl on your hands, run, do not walk, to the nearest exit. Odds are not good that you will unplug the Freudian sludge that clogs her pussy pipe. You may, but you probably won’t. And the worst decision a man can make in his life is to marry an Ice Queen. Worse even than marrying a slut with cheating whore issues. You will suffer endless blueball torment as her parched snapper slowly drains the masculinity out of you and drives you to the brink of insanity. Red flag: Her father is a preacher.
2. She really doesn’t like giving blowjobs. If you’re like most men and you love getting head, there’s no point sticking it out with a girl like this, no matter how well she cooks. But don’t worry, this kind is rare. It’s been my experience that any girl who is very attracted to you will love sucking your cock. Most girls won’t need to be asked, or have their head pushed into position.
3. She’s testing you. Some girls will make you wait it out for the goodies, teasing you with a lick on the shaft or a tip in their asshole, until you’ve satsified their need to know you are really into them. These types have been burned by men they loved, and regard your infinite patience and heavy balls as evidence that you love her for more than her body. Avoid her. You don’t want a girl in your life who uses sex as a weapon. You don’t want a girl who views sex as an all-in-one tool for self-validating ego-prop.
4. She’s atoning for her past slutty ways. Of the four types listed here, this type is the most loathsome. She’s a brazen bitch. A selfish headcase. Damaged goods. She’s been on a merry-go-round of cock since puberty and woke up one morning feeling bad about it. Now she sees it as her duty to make amends for her whorish history, and you are her experimental beta guinea pig. “I’m not a slut!” pleads her shattered, spooged id. “And I’m going to prove it with this guy!” So she refrains from gobbling your cock, or makes you wait past the 3rd date for sex, thinking she can silence the screaming of the slut as a born-again prude. This is new ground she’s on, so she’s bound to be clumsy about it. You’ll hear her say incongruous things like “Stop pressuring me!” as she’s splayed out naked on your bed, legs spread wide, pussy leaving juice spots on your sheets. Her transparent act II psychodrama will infuriate you. What drives a man nuttier than knowing he’s being deviously denied that which so many other men have boffed freely? But what this deluded girl doesn’t know is that you have game. You have no trouble scoring. She can push you one, maybe two, dates more than your three date rule for sex, but she will inevitably push too far. And the bigger slut she’s been in her previous life, the harder she will attempt to atone for it by crushing your spirit. In a Battle Royale between a Rules Girl and a Player, always bet on player. You will walk, never looking back, your dignity flush with victory and your sack spared her wicked games. She can practice keeping her legs shut on another sucker. You’re not her sacrificial slut redeemer.

Maxim #71: When a girl signals that she doesn’t enjoy blowjobs or sex, do not spend one second more with her. Your libido is too important to gamble on such a girl.

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Chronicles Of A 21st Century Bachelor

“Wait, just let me grab my phone.”

She leaned over my lap, arching her back so her round ass was sticking up in the air. Her jeans were skin tight. “That’s a funny ringtone you’ve got.”

She looked back at me coyly, holding her phone loosely in one hand. “What do you think?”

“Of what?”

“This.” She wiggled her rump. “You like my ass?”

“It’s juicy.” I rested my hand on one cheek, proud of myself that I didn’t have to lie about the quality of her ass.

“MMmmm. Would you like to spank me?”

I gave her a playful spank, making sure to hit both cheeks at once. spank.

“Oh, yeees.” Her eyes were closed. “Hi, Mom…. no, I’m fine… I’m at Amanda’s. Yes, Amanda’s… YES! Yeah.”

“You’re talking to your Mom?!”

“Bye!” Her ass scooted up a little more. “She’s always so worried about me. Spank me again?”

spank.

“MMmmmMMMmmm… uh huhh agaaaain…”

spank spank spank.

“Woooo. Do you like hitting my ass?”

“It’s acceptable.” SPANK. SPANK.

“Oh wow, that feels good. I like it when you hit me harder.” Her hips were grinding mechanically. “Keep going. Hit as hard as you like.”

I hauled off on her ass. SPANK… SPANK!

“MM MM MM!” Humid warmth radiated from her crotch. “Harder harder please please please.”

“Did I say you could talk?” I was throwing myself into the absurd unfolding scene. “I’ll be the judge of how hard I hit you.”

“Yes, siiiir!” she chirped. She was considerably younger than me.

Spank spank spank spank. Her phone rang again.

“Hi… yeah, I’m OK…” She spoke more words into the phone. “Okaaaay… *sigh*… I’ll call you later.”

“Your Mom?”

“No, my brother. He’s just checking up on me.” She smiled wistfully. “I love them so much.”

A stimulus package of sadistic contempt surged through my veins. I really wanted to inflict pain on this chick. “That’s… sweet.” I stretched my arm behind my head like a pitcher preparing to throw a fastball and sent it hurtling, open-palmed, as fast and as hard as I could into her fleshy bottom.

WHACK!!

“Unghnuu.. uh huhhhh…. oh god….” Did she just come? “Do you want to use something on me?”

“Stop talking.” WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK.

“Oh oh oh oh… my god… leave a mark.”

“Get off.” I pushed her off my lap and walked into the kitchen to retrieve a big metal spoon. From my bedroom her phone rang with its annoyingly quirky ringtone.

“*words words words*… yes, Mom, I promise… Ok, everything is FINE. OK! I love you too. Bye.”

I walked into my bedroom. She was naked on my bed, on all fours, her ass turned toward me. She looked over her shoulder at me. “I’m waiting.”

“Your Mom again??”

“Oh… yeah. She calls, like, 15 times a night. She doesn’t trust me.” She started drawing invisible figure eights in the air with her arched buttocks.

“15 times? Does she know you’re here?”

“HA! No way, I told her I’m at a friend’s. Come here. I want more spankings.”

I revealed the metal spoon I had been hiding behind my back.

“Oh oh that’s really going to hurt isn’t it?” She didn’t sound afraid.

THWWWWAAACK!

“OWW, fuck.”

THWACK THWACK THWACK THWACK. I tossed the spoon and resumed hitting her with my hand. SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK…………….. WHACK! Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. I was giving it everything I had. The sadism was strong in me.

“Oooh shiiiit… gguuuuhhhhh….” Her legs quivered. I could see red marks on both cheeks, even through the dark of the room and the light brown color of her skin. Her labia glistened with pussy juice. I looked at my palm and saw it was moist.

*ring ring ring*

“Wow, your phone… again.” It was her Mom. I spanked her while she reassured her Mom once more that she was at Amanda’s. There was no doubt in my mind her Mom heard the crack of my palm against her daughter’s exposed butt cheeks. She did nothing to stop me.

“Yes, Mom.”

WHACK!

“Ok, Mom, I know.”

SPANK!

“I love you too.”

CRACK!

“Bye!”

THAAAAWACK!

“Give it to me!” I positioned my cock (I had slipped a rubber on while spanking her) at the entrance of her hole and teased the lips apart with the tip. “I’m scared. Go easy, please. Please.” Scared? I wondered to myself if she was a virgin. No way. Way?

I pounded her from behind so hard, so violently, that I knocked her halfway off the bed. Her head and shoulders were dangling over the side. With each mighty reverberating thrust her head banged against the floor. Cataclysmic release.

…

*ring ring ring*

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” It had been ten minutes since the last call.

“Hiii. No I’m fiiiine. Seriously. Everything’s OK. OK ok ok. YES, I will let you know. Alright! Don’t upset Mom. Thanks. Ok Bye.”

“Lemme guess. Brother again?”

“I have to go.”

“Problem?”

“My brother has, like, this special GPS thing on his phone. He can track where I am by my phone.”

“I see.”

“He probably already knows where I’m at right now.”

“Um. Yeah. Interesting.”

“I should go. He could be on his way here.”

“Fantastic. Are you for real?”

“I don’t know for sure, but he could be coming here.”

“Well then, let’s get you out of here. Metro is straight down Calvert. Go two lights. You could try a cab, too.”

“Sooorrrry… oh god, I can’t find my shoe.”

“It’s here.” I tossed her the black stiletto. “Hey, I’ve got one question.”

“What?” She smiled earnestly at me.

“What does your Dad do for a living?”

“He’s a physician.”

“Huh, a doctor.”

“Well, a physician.”

“And your Mom?”

“She’s a physician too.”

“Nice. Do you have a pillow on your bed that says ‘The princess sleeps here’?”

“Ha ha! I should!”

As she walked out my door, her ridiculous quirky ringtone pierced the air. “Hi, Mom……..”

I deleted her number in the morning.

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Sexbotopia!

It’s coming.

Robo-wife Aiko starts the day by reading Le the main newspaper headlines.

The couple often go for a drive in the countryside, where Aiko proves a whizz at directions.

And they always sit down for dinner together in the evening, although Aiko doesn’t have much of an appetite.

Le says his relationship with Aiko hasn’t strayed into the bedroom, but a few “tweaks” could turn her into a sexual partner.

Le said: “Her software could be redesigned to simulate her having an orgasm.”

I’d bet good money this guy is sticking his peen somewhere in Aiko.

[Inventor Le Trung] said: “Aiko doesn’t need holidays, food or rest, and will work almost 24 hours a day. She is the perfect woman.”

For many beta nerds, the no muss no fuss woman is their idea of perfection.

Aiko sparks mixed reactions in public.

Le said: “Women usually try to talk to her. But men always want to touch her, and if they do it the wrong way she slaps them.”

In this post, I described how our future sexbotopia would shake up the alpha-beta, male-female playing field.

Betas (niceguys with a heart of gold and zero sex appeal) – the more frustrated betas will retreat from the dating scene to be with their sexbots.  They’ll not opt out completely, though.  Having a decent job and a willingness to help raise a family is still a form of buying power.  I see sexbots for betas dissuading them from learning the art of seduction, thus making them even more ineffectual in the field as their already-meager skills atrophy.  He might think to himself, “what’s the point of dealing with the frustrations and delayed gratification of dating mediocre looking women for subpar sex when I have a Rachel Weisz sexbot waiting at home for me?”  A big negative feedback loop could result, where the lower status betas exercise their sexbot option with increasing regularity until they have excluded themselves completely from bothering with meeting women.

Readers doubted such a future could ever come to pass, but if Aiko has to be programmed to slap away men wanting to cop a feel of her robot body, then given the rapid advances in robotics, it’s not farfetched to envision a world where fully 70% of all men (sub alpha and lower) choose to get their rocks off with hot good-to-go robot girls instead of bland game-playing human girls. If present trends continue, and huge swaths of fertile-age women are overweight in the future, then beta males will have all the more incentive to abandon the live dating market in favor of the mechanical one.

What this means for women is self-evident: A cratering of their market position. And a beaver boon to alphas and aspiring alphas. At first, I predict women will welcome their sexbot replacements. The argument will be along these lines: “Hey, if it means annoying losers stop bothering me and only cool men are left to date, I’m all for it!” Gradually, though, as the fallout from sexbotopia emerges, these women will change their tune when simple mathematics has them being used like discount bin cum receptacles by the 30% of alpha men willing to overlook the inconvenience of their targets being human and looting the sexual store for all the free pussy they can carry out. The hypergamy and soft polygamy of today will become the de facto harems and hard polygamy of tomorrow. Marriage will become an anachronism. There will be more lesbian marriage announcements in the New York Times than all other marriage types combined.

Slowly, the tide will turn against sexbots. Women will grow resentful as it dawns on them that their alpha orgasms cum with a price; namely, disposability. There is only so much cock sharing a woman can endure before emotional distress cripples her ability to function like a normal member of society. At this point, I foresee women clamoring loudly for incredible levels of government nanny state intervention to act as beta male provider for their millions of bastard alpha children. Tax rates will zoom through the roof, targeted, naturally, mostly at the beta males happily fornicating into their Natalia Vodianova robots. The economy withers. Crime explodes.

Then the real shit hits the fan. Problem: Sexbots can’t reproduce. Result: None of those beta males who invent stuff like sexbots and cell phones — the kinds of stuff women have no inclination to invent nor shown any capability to invent in the past — will pass on their genes. The more sexbots infiltrate society, the fewer civilizational underpinning beta males will be born. Eventually, the whole technological edifice crumbles, taking the sexbots along with it, and a dystopia of smooth-talking salesmen and peacocked PUAs are left behind to scavenge the scarred savannah of snapper. The West will be reduced to a violent, dreary landscape of African and Central Asian-style tribal conflict, complete with gauche warlords and prison complexes that rival small nations in scope.

You’re shaking your head. Don’t believe me? Thought experiment. Who wins the battle supreme to capture male attention:

 

VS.

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Dirty Photo Album

If I could give just one piece of advice to my hypothetical son, it would be this:

Never take women seriously.

If I could give him a second piece of advice, it would be this:

Make an indecent photo album of every girl you’ve ever banged.

“Trust me, son,” I will say, “when you’re in your dotage, and all you’ve got is your loving but completely asexual old wife, and the young women walking down the street have stopped returning your flirtations, you’ll thank me when you crack open your dusty dirty digital pics and videos to marvel at… and masturbate to… the fine ass you once tapped.”

“But dad,” he’ll argue, “I want to cherish their memories, not splooge on them. Anyhow, I can always turn to internet porn if I want to get off. In 50 years, it’ll probably be holographic.”

That’s when I’ll explain to him that the best way to cherish past loves is to keep their memories alive and fully expressed through the indomitable tumescence of his stiff cock. What an honor to bestow on a woman! Of all the women in the world… of all the readily available porn… it’s *your* naked pic from 30 years ago, dear love, I choose to stroke off to. And then I’ll remind him how much more satisfying porn is when the featured stars are you and one of your exes in the bloom of youth. Nothing brings back the flood of happy memories like a photo of an ex spread-eagled on the bed, her youthful meatflaps illuminated by the nightvision on your camera.

Given that everyone’s sexual future, once over a certain age, likely will be worse than their past, a dirty photo album of conquests from better days will help ease the pain of encroaching obsolescence. It will remind one of the prowess one once possessed, boosting the ego as well as stirring the loins. In my coffin, I would want my dirty photo album placed tenderly upon my chest, to accompany me to hell.

The dirty photo album also serves a purpose in the present. When you are in a rut, and your game has gone soft, a quick glance at the hotties you scored over the years will fortify your resolve, and invigorate you with the renewed confidence that what you once bedded, you could bed again.

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My Life Philosophy

Thought experiment: Imagine you had incontrovertible proof that there was no afterlife. No supernatural entities. No heaven or hell. No otherworld. No reincarnation. No forevermore.

No second chances.

Imagine there was no moral accounting after death of your actions on earth. No supreme being to judge your soul’s worth on the scale of divine justice. No reward or punishment. No appeal to omniscient authority in matters of good and evil.

There was only the endless black void at the moment death. The infinite silence. A complete surrender of your consciousness as the last pinprick of light extinguishes. All your thoughts, your feelings, your sensation, your memories… you… wiped away clean to merge with the great nothing.

How would you live? Given this proof of the finality of death, and of the expectation of nothing once dead, what is your personal philosophy?

At a family gathering, I played with my little niece and nephew, 4 and 3 years old respectively. They tumbled all over me, giggling and shrieking. I held them above the ground and pretended they were airplanes in heated battle with Russian MiGs or, in a nod to my niece’s female sensibilities, a pink passenger jet flying vacationers to a distant, undiscovered tropical island. They did handstands and somersaults and rammed things with their heads. I made animal noises (my monkey impression is quite good) and they would run away in mock terror, then run back to me anticipating more assaults by zoo animals. They fought over toys, yet never held grudges, at least not for long. I mentally noted that they played status games, but were completely ignorant of it. Innocent of their amoral natures.

Afterward, I drove my elderly grandmother back to her assisted living home. That’s a nice euphemism for death’s waiting room. In the community meeting area there were Scrabble boards and an organ. As if impending death wasn’t depressing enough, we bide our waning moments in pursuit of a triple word score. Old people jockey for status, too, but they make no pretense to hide it. They are artlessly cantankerous. After a certain age, when you don’t matter anymore to most people, even your own family, you stop caring what anyone thinks of you. Tit for tat.

Spend time with little children and old people. One is innocent, the other is reacquainted with innocence. Their company is a world away from the drone and ruckus of all the furious humanity in between. At the extremes you will find perspective.

My answer to the philosophical question I posed above is hedonism. It is the only rational conclusion one can draw faced with the premises I presented. When there is no second life or higher power to appease; when our lives are machines — complex misunderstood machines cunningly designed to conceal the gears and pulleys behind a facade of self-delusional sublimation, but machines nonetheless — grinding and belching the choking gritty smoke of status-whoring displays in service to our microscopic puppetmasters… well, there can be only one reasonable response to it all. It makes no sense to behave any other way unless you never questioned the lies.

Are you prepared to embrace the meaning of your ultimately inconsequential existence? If it feels good…

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