Stupidest Anti-Game Meme On The Internet

“The alpha male isn’t the one who can get the most hot women, it’s the one who leaves behind the most children. By that measure, childless gamers are beta.”

This is so silly it hardly deserves a rebuttal, but I’m in the mood to ruin some femicunt’s or whiny promise keeper’s lunch.

Alpha males who use game to attract women are doing those things which favor passing on their DNA in the state of nature, but they are thwarting the final step in the reproductive process with modern contraceptives. The use of the condom or Pill to prevent pregnancy does not render the successful alpha male womanizer any less alpha; a legal ban on all contraceptives would quickly restore his primacy in the snot-nosed litter market.

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Feminist Gets Pumped And Dumped By PUA

A masochistic reader (you’d have to be in love with your own pain to read any of the yeasty discharges fouling up Jizzabel) sent along this turgid confessional from a feminist who got banged out by a player four hours after they met for a first date drink. Her account of the date leaves the distinct impression that she was played by a guy who knows game very well. Let’s examine the techniques he employed to snare his prey.

I went on a date a month ago with a boy I met on an online dating site. “Met” meaning he’d sent me a few witty messages and his pictures were decent enough to warrant an IRL pass.

No long-winded phone calls making his interest in her obvious. Just a few witty (translated from the femspeak: terse/cocky/funny/asshole-ish) emails which implied his non-neediness and her interchangeability. So far, he’s off to a good start.

He was a strong conversationalist. We talked politics and he impressed me with a nuanced understanding of the debt ceiling debate. He knew about the Arab Spring.

How does the old saw go? Treat a lady like a broad and a broad like a lady. Mr. PUA knew he was dealing with the typical urban feminist slut who would swoon over a man who flattered her intelligence. So sprinkle in a few ledes he read in the NYBetaTimes about the Arab Spirng and , voila!, instant charma.

We discussed the unexpected but peculiarly gratifying direction our late 20s had taken both of us.

Again, translated from the femspeak: She was glad he assuaged her ego with comforting euphemisms about being an unmarried childless woman in her late 20s.

He made me laugh.

“He made me tingle.”

One drink turned into two,

Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker!

two neighborhood bars into three,

This is the standard game tactic known as “bouncing”, or “time distortion”. By taking a girl to a number of places on a single night, you leave her with the impression that she’s known you longer than she has. It’s very effective at building comfort, as we will see.

and when he kissed me in the street, I was elated.

When a PUA gets a street kiss, that’s a green light to go for a same night lay. Women don’t make out in public places unless they are really into the thought of sex with you.

He wanted to see me again, he said. I agreed, the enthusiasm audible in my voice.

Audible enthusiasm is also a SNL green light. Also, note how he doesn’t set up a day and time to meet again. He just says he wants to see her again. Make your intentions known, but make them known vaguely, without promise, so that they could plausibly be misinterpreted, or misconstrued, by women. Chicks dig ambiguity even more than they dig ambivalence.

As he walked me to the train, he asked me if I would come over for a nightcap. Just one. He offered to pay for a cab to take me home afterwards, as I had to work early.

Always escalate, until you have hit her limit. Push, push, push. It’s what women — even, maybe especially, feminists — secretly crave from men, their protestations to the contrary notwithstanding. There’s no worse feeling than having a pussy in the hand, only to see it disappear because you pulled back at the last moment out of some quaint deference to dating etiquette or mangina virtue. Or fear.

I — like many women I know — harbor a quiet but persistent internal voice that cries, “If you like him, don’t go!” The voice that says men don’t respect women who sleep with them too quickly. The voice that says despite the fact that you’re turned on, you’re a grown-ass adult and goddamn it you want to, as the female you should be the one to decline, to demur, to hold off for another night.

I’d never understood the reasoning behind that voice.

Silly feminist. The reasoning is simple, if you would free your mind of its stifling propaganda shackles. Men really do devalue women who put out too quickly. Sexual evolution has granted men the insight to recognize that slutty women are likely to continue being just as slutty after committing to them, and that is bad news for men who want to know their children are really theirs, and who want to avoid the divorce raping that inevitably follows when a wife pursues the feral eat, pray, love self-actualization life trajectory. Those pesky little feelings that swarm around your cortical ham, if you would stop drowning them out with femcunt agitprop, are early warning signals to behave in a more stereotypically feminine manner lest you harm your reproductive fitness.

I suspected I was internalizing cultural judgments about “easy” women.

Culture does not spring up out of the ground unseeded, like a summoned monolith. Human genetic disposition seeds the ground and creates culture, unleashing a macro feedback loop where culture and genes interact in perpetuity. Those “cultural judgments” you so recoil from are actually subconscious reinforcements of ancient biological truths.

The traditional refrain, “don’t buy the cow if you can get the milk for free,” which implies women should withhold sex to ensnare a partner, insulted me.

What’s a horny slut with daddy issues to do? Listen, lady, either embrace your sluttiness and stop kvetching to the cunty choir, or keep your legs closed. You can’t have your cock and keep it, too.

Years of dissecting dating mishaps with my friends taught me that if you want a relationship or even just the potential of one, it’s best to wait.

Betting is now open on how many cocks she has satisfied. We’ll start with 30.

In my mind, the waiting period was for no other reason but to increase the odds of a relationship. It was like dating lore passed on between friends. We don’t know why it works but it does.

It’s amazing that women have to relearn this common sense in their late 20s, after a decade or more of cock carouseling. Was there a wholesale abdication of parenting in the last two generations? A massively successful brainwashing campaign? Rhetorical.

Nevertheless, it’s best if women don’t start making men wait, because I was getting used to the easy peasy sex. Feminism has been very, very good indeed for men who want to play the field, and have the skills to do so. A return to patriarchal norms would really cramp my style.

But the way my date kissed me up against the brick wall outside the subway stop was enough to convince me my internal voice was an antiquated Debbie downer, squawking nonsense irrelevant for the modern woman.

Pushing a woman up against the wall to kiss her and grope her unleashes powerful, primitive, quasi-rape-y forces of submission within her. It’s one of my go-to moves.

I went to his house. We headed straight to the bedroom. Sex — intense, unexpected, rough and satisfying. Afterwards, as promised, he called me a cab.

By 3 a.m. I was home. And utterly freaked out.

I think it would bother women to know that men NEVER feel the urge to freak out after a one night stand. Not even the weepy beta males. Nope, slipping into sleep with a huge grin plastered on our faces is closer to what happens.

I hashed this over with multiple friends during the next few days. One suggested I just forget about the guy and be happy I’d had good sex.

The group Samantha.

Another brought up respect — if he wanted a real relationship with me, he would have proceeded with more respect for my body.

The group fatty.

I received a single lackluster text from him a few days later.

And that kid went ha haaaw! Who couldn’t see this coming? Apparently, her.

She should be thankful she got to experience a night of pleasure from a man who knows how much women crave being gamed. But women being what they are, (bless their overstimulated hearts), the fleeting waves of pleasure quickly gave way to self-absorption and tedious reinterpretation. The rationalizations that follow are some of the best frenetic hamster spinnings you will read in a long time.

Still distraught over the experience, I told [my mom] the bare-bones version of the story: I slept with someone four hours after meeting them and now I felt shitty and I couldn’t identify why.

I wanted to know what she — a world-experienced, non-judgmental woman — thought about sleeping with someone you’re interested in dating so soon? What she said was the best argument I have ever heard for waiting to have sex.

When you first meet someone, she said, you don’t actually see them. You see a flimsy construction of their personality, created by your interpretation of the signals available. The way they make eye contact. How they interact with the bartender/waiter/homeless man asking you for change. The facts they choose to divulge about themselves. Because you have no other point of reference, every little detail resonates with added significance. Your mind, faced with a scarcity of information, is forced to create a projection of them. […]

The mirage is sexy. But herein lies the danger. The potential for a schism to exist between the mirage and reality is huge. The probability of being disappointed is gigantic. That disappointment is compounded when intimacy is involved. You sleep with a stranger. You feel like you know them. But you likely don’t at all.

This may not be an epiphany for other people. But it was for me. After that night, I felt shitty not because I’d been “slutty,” whatever that means, but because I felt foolish.

I slept with an idea of a man. I slept with how that man made me feel. But that man didn’t exist, except in my mind. When I realized this, I felt… blah blah blah

Zzzz… zzz… *snort*… zz… huh, wha… oh, hai there. Must’ve dozed off. Wow, yeah, totally see what you’re saying. Totes. I bet you’ve learned a valuable lesson from all these experiences.

I’m still going out with guys and getting tipsy

Well, you know what I (sometimes) say… be true to yourself! Whatever that means.

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Before And After: The Hilarity Of Self-Deception

Nothing better illustrates the destruction that fatness visits upon a woman’s attractiveness than before and after pics of her weight gain. A website has posted a bunch of these types of before and after shots and the results are stunning… stunningly depressing. Every single one of the girls went from highly bangable sexy tarts to asexual lumps of disfiguring blubber. (Note: A couple of the comparisons from that website are obvious photoshops.) Want to watch your boner deflate in fast forward? Check these:

A crying shame. For girls who are gaining weight, the uglification of their looks can sometimes take months or even years to register in their consciousness, because the change is relatively slow and thus more easily psychologically accommodated by their hamsters which are loathe to contemplate the true nature of the horrors they have committed against themselves. But when you put the thin and fat pics side by side the comparison is so stark there is no running from the cruel truth: these girls have destroyed their sexiness. They have become monsters. And the widespread (heh) existence of these monsters distorts the sexual market so badly that game becomes the only answer to successfully navigating it.

Female obesity is not just bad for women; it’s bad for men, too, who have to wade through tons of sunbathing walruses before finding the lean babe on the beach, competing furiously for access to her overpriced vagina. (Fat men are no great shakes either, but due to the nature of sex differences in attraction, fat men don’t suffer the same penalty in the dating market that fat women do.)

But that is not the primary message of this post. Check out this comment left by a putative girl named “janeway” at that website:

Yes, let’s see what junk food does to guys! Eating is not why these women got bigger. NOT eating and destroying their health and subsequently their metabolism in order to attain impossible standards is why they got bigger. And in most cases, hotter.

Is there a better example of self-contradictory nonsense than what is spouted in this comment? And it’s not the only one like it; that board is filled with similar comments extolling the virtues of fatness while chastising those who put up pictures of fat girls. “Janeway” is by no means an exceptional specimen of human inanity; the world is filled with women — and men whose testicles haven’t descended — who think just like her. Lies and ego-salving bromides come as easily to them as eating another piece of pie.

Let’s break down Janeway’s comment line by line, smirking sadistically as we do it.

“Yes, let’s see what junk food does to guys!”

This bold challenge implies that Janeway thinks fatness is repulsive. Premise established. Janeway knows that it would hurt the image of guys who bloated up from eating junk food, otherwise she wouldn’t have taunted the authors of the original post; a taunt, it should be noted, which was ended rather confidently with an exclamation point.

“Eating is not why these women got bigger.”

Janeway can string some words together, so we know she’s not clinically retarded. Therefore, she must know that eating a lot of bad food is how people get fat. Yet, her ego is so invested in denying this obvious reality when it’s women’s fatness that is the subject of scrutiny, that she has found refuge in blurting a blatant lie so ridiculous that it’s clear the lie was meant for her own psychological well-being than for any audience to consider on the merits.

“NOT eating and destroying their health and subsequently their metabolism in order to attain impossible standards is why they got bigger.”

Janeway apparently has convinced herself that people get fat from breathing air while trying to reach “impossible” standards that millions of people around the world manage to reach. Also note that Janeway admits the women got bigger.

“And in most cases, hotter.”

Ah, the coda to this excruciatingly insightful comment. Janeway believes, or rather, pretends to believe, that fatter means hotter. And yet she has admitted, directly or tacitly, in the previous three sentences that –

1. Eating a lot of junk food will make guys fatter and uglier.

2. The women did indeed get bigger.

3. The women got bigger because they destroyed their health and metabolism trying to reach impossible standards via a non-eating mechanism that eludes less open-minded scientists.

4. The impossible standards are desirable, otherwise women would not try to attain them.

5. And yet, given all the above premises, fat women are hotter than thin women.

Well, Janeway, if bigger is hotter, why are you so hopping mad to defend these fat chicks from judgment? Their hotness should be self-evident, no? Do you get mad when pictures of slender supermodels are posted on the web? No, of course you don’t. That is because you, Janeway, are filled to brimming with lies you tell yourself to forget the muffin top you sport that causes your belly shirts to constantly roll up so insouciantly.

Janeway = 100% dumbass. And 95% fat.

Janeway is just a prototype, a pawn for the purposes of this post. You could see this same infantile sewer logic expressed by just about any female commenter on any blog discussing fatness, sexual market value and universal, immutable beauty standards. It goes like this:

***

A is not fat and ugly.

Fat and ugly is actually beautiful.

I bet B is fat and ugly!

A got fat and ugly trying to be thin and beautiful.

No man likes anorexics.

***

And this same bizarro formula applies to other low sexual market value women and their nonsensical defenders. To wit:

Single momhood is not bad for my dating life.

The reason I’m not dating is because I’m careful about having men meet my bastard children.

Men don’t care that I have kids.

Men run when I tell them that I have kids because they are intimidated by confident single moms.

No, really, I’m OK with loveless one night stands.

***

I’m not a has-been cougar.

Men love sexually experienced older women.

I bet you can’t get anyone but has-been cougars!

Men who date younger women are intimidated by confident older women.

It’s good that I don’t have to play games anymore.

***

I’m not a slut.

Sluttiness is empowering.

Only low self-esteem sluts would fall for game.

All women are sluts by society’s impossible standards.

Girls don’t like judgmental men.

***

Self-deception: a renewable resource that actually increases the more you use it.

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The Most Beta Song Ever

“Calling You”, Blue October.

Here’s a sample of the lyrics:

Theres something that i cant quite explain
i’m so in love with you
you’ll never take that away

and if i said a hundred times before
expect a thousand more
you never take that away

well expect me to be
calling you to see
if you’re ok when i’m not around
asking if you love me
i love the way you make it sound
calling you to see
do i try too hard to make you smile
to make a smile

well i will keep calling you to see
if you’re sleepin are you dreamin and
if you’re dreamin are you dreamin of me
i cant believe
you actually picked…me

Truly puke-inducing. A non-rockstar taking the message of this song to heart would ensure himself years of involuntary celibacy. Shame, too, because it’s a catchy tune. And therein lies its nefarious power. The music lulls you into a false sense of comfortable masculinity while the lyrics fill your head with a message that would shrivel the testicles of a bull moose.

Runner-Up Beta Song:

“She’s So High”, Tal Bachman

Any nominees for most alpha song of all time? And no cheesy tunes like “Born in the USA” or anything by a 1980s hair band singing about banging chicks on car hoods or riding the road alone. Although I would accept “Hot for Teacher” as a legit contender. I got my pencil! Not sure if the early 90s grunge era qualifies. Nirvana and Pearl Jam sound superficially alpha but their messages are borderline limp-wrist. They were the emo prototypes, after all. Music in the 2000s took a decided turn for the beta, which should tell us something about the quality of “men” now populating America. Arcade Fire and MGMT make great music, but let’s face it, they’re kind of faggy. Muse might be the closest thing to an alpha band we have at the moment. (I consider rap and hip hop to be cartoon versions of alpha, which is not as bad as being beta, but not up to amused mastery levels. Rap is like the bellowing douchebag at a bar who assertively but sloppily hits on a girl, gets rejected, and then calls her a bitch.)

It’s looking more and more like the last of the great alpha songs ended sometime in the late 70s. This perfectly mirrors the general decline of America. Discuss amongst yourselves.

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Why Is The FDA Moving To Ban You From Freely Accessing Your Genomic Data?

An FDA official has been caught on video in a lie under oath making claims about the research being done by genetic testing companies. The FDA is seeking to institute onerous regulations that would ban you from accessing your OWN genetic information without a doctor’s authorization, based on some flimsy justification that the data constitute a “medical device”. This is, in a word, tyrannical.

Any lover of liberty should be appalled by this move by the FDA. They — and make no mistake, the FDA poobahs are firmly entrenched members of the ruling elite; true Phase III overlords — are trying to restrict your access to your genetic profile. Want to know what your genes say? Too bad, you now need a doctor’s say-so before you can see that information. Want to know if that kid is yours? Not until a doc signs off on the testing, which, unsurprisingly, could take quite a long time after the red tape is disentangled and the lawyers have been paid.

Why is the FDA attempting this run-around basic human liberties? A few explanations jump to mind.

1. It’s the smell of money. The FDA wants to hold onto its power as reviewer and arbiter of medical information. Cheap and easy genetic testing by startup companies threatens their stranglehold over the industry, and over your right to know your own goddamned genetic profile.
2. Paternity testing is going to be big business, and the FDA and docs want in on it. As Bill said in a comment over at Steve Sailer’s site, “It’s a backdoor attempt to squeeze more money out of family law/child support issues. If any guy could send in a cheek swab of himself and his putative child to ascertain paternity in an open market, why, that’s hundreds of millions of dollars per year that would otherwise be handled by “qualified medical professional[s]” who would be assured a steady stream of court-ordered tests.”
3. The feminists are grumbling, and that’s all the excuse the power-hungry FDA needs to restrict access to one’s genetic information. As predicted right here at the Chateau, a feminist utopia is one in which quick and easy paternity testing is banned or made difficult to acquire. It’s happening right before our eyes.
4. The government (and this includes the FDA) is deathly afraid of what we all might find out by our sequenced genomes. Oh, it’s not the release of any one individual’s genome that bothers them; it’s the… ahem… impolite patterns and interpretations that can be discerned from the open knowledge of millions of sequenced genomes. The implications of this should be obvious to anyone who understands the fear that motivates the deceitful actions of the tabula rasa crowd.

Email this guy Shuren at jeff.shuren@fda.hhs.gov, the lead actor behind this push by the FDA to stifle knowledge. Tell him what you think of corrupt, lying bastards who try to suppress truth with the levers of the government.

You know, there was once a time when Americans could, with few exceptions, count on their government and those they elect to work for their interests, and not against them. Those days are long gone.

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Women Prefer Laconic Men

My date kicked me hard in the shin under the table. I was gazing at her cleavage into her eyes, so she must have wanted my attention.

“Ow! What’d you do that for? You hit the bone.”

She leaned forward over her entree and put her hand up to her cheek to shield her face from possible lip readers.

“See that couple sitting next to us? Don’t look over! Just listen to their conversation.”

I suffered grievous injury because she wanted me to eavesdrop on a conversation. Goddamn, chicks really love inserting themselves into the drama of other people’s lives. I looked over. A man in his late 20s, neatly if blandly dressed in a button-down and slacks like a freshly pressed widget off the yuppie assembly line, was seated across from an attractive MILF-y brunette who appeared a few years older than him. She had that frozen grin on her face that people get when they are listening to someone talk and trying to seem interested.

“What am I supposed to be listening for?”

“Just listen!”

It wasn’t hard to do. The man was talking incessantly, and loudly, punctuating important points with open-palmed axe chops of his hands, like a politician giving a stump speech. His face was animated and he thrust his head forward in his date’s direction for emphasis, as if he believed what he was saying was handed down to him from the heavens and she would soon be converted. And what was he saying that merited such self-enthusiasm? Tales from work. Name dropping. And, I shit you not, stock movements.

I moved closer to whisper to my date over glasses of wine. “He’s talking about his job. Kind of a bore. But an excitable bore, like a small child. Maybe he just got a new gig and he thinks he’s suddenly a member of the ruling elite. That could make anybody a bore.”

“I know, a total dud! He won’t stop talking. He’s not letting her get a word in. Listen, he keeps cutting her off.”

It was true. He would breathlessly regale her for what seemed an eternity and she would try to gamely interrupt with a “Yeah, it’s true. That’s like…”, and he would cut her off with a hyperactively blunt “Right!” that may as well have been shouted through a bullhorn into her face, before continuing where he left off. This cycle would repeat itself through the course of the night, each passing minute eliciting a more pinched expression from the woman.

“Hey, at least he sounds like he has a good job, mingling with power brokers,” I said half-facetiously. “And he’s not bad looking. Any woman would be happy with such a catch.”

My date smirked at me dubiously. “Yeah, right. Look at that poor woman. She’s in pain. She wants to get away from him but she’s stuck.”

“Maybe she could excuse herself and escape through the bathroom window.”

“You’ve done that, haven’t you?”

“Come on now, I’m not that kind of guy. I leave through the kitchen.”

She listened some more. “There’s no way she’s seeing him again. Name dropping! That is so lame. This is a first date and she’ll be relieved to get out of here. He’ll try to call her but she’ll ignore him.”

“Oh, I don’t know. She’s getting up there. She might be thinking that’s the best she can do.”

“You’re such a jerk sometimes. I feel bad for her. Lucky for her she won’t see him again.”

“You seem happy about this love connection failure.”

“Yes. We women are very sympathetic to other women sitting through bad dates. We understand what it’s like. There’s nothing worse than a guy who won’t shut up.”

“Even if he has a lot to talk about?”

“Especially if! Leave a little mystery. You didn’t tell me anything on our first date. Lord knows why I saw you again. Anyhow, guys who dominate conversations are probably bad lovers. Selfish and controlling. They don’t care who you are, they just want a pretty face hanging on their words.”

“I just want a pretty face unzipping my fly.”

“Do you always have to be so immature?”

“Yes, Auntie Pink Snappy.”

******

We’ve talked here about the problem of being tongue-tied in the presence of women. A scarcity of speech is the biggest issue for the majority of men. But we shouldn’t forget the mirror image of this attractiveness-killing ineptitude: the nonstop talker. The motor mouth. A significant minority of men — particularly greater betas and lesser alphas on the cusp of making a mark in the world — suffer from the second problem: they don’t know when to shut up and let the woman speak, enamored as they are with their blossoming manhood and acquirement of conventional male attractiveness traits.

Talking too much fails on multiple dimensions: it increases the odds you’ll say something dull or beta, it strips away mystery, and it demonstrates a lack of interest in the woman’s values and desires. It also shows you don’t truly understand women, for a harangue about your accomplishments, social climbing, materialism, or connections is a red flag to women that you are an insecure, approval-seeking mediocrity, no different than the thousands of other men dancing like monkeys for a pretty woman’s attention. Harangues are especially off-putting to women when the subject matter is devoid of emotional resonance, as most men’s shop talk would be.

And why do women despise male suck-ups? Well, because women in their natural state rarely seek the approval of any man except the most dominant ones, they become confused and irritable when men for whom they might grant sexual access seek their approval. They don’t subconsciously apprehend why a man would work SO HARD for her endorsement. What has she brought to the table in a few seconds that would catapult her to superstar status by her doting date?

Oh yeah, tits and ass. But that doesn’t alter the disgust women feel for lapdogs and credential burnishers. Sure, they may recognize on some deep limbic level that T&A revs men’s engines, but their own psychological latticework is not constructed of male body parts, and so they don’t project a female fascination with the body onto men. What they project instead is a female fascination with a man’s personality and character. I.e., his alphaness. Thus, they expect men to think and feel the same way about women. They wonder why he talks so much when he should be connecting with her.

On the contrary, a man who has his inner shit together, who feels pretty damned good about himself, won’t be impelled to talk ad nauseam about his alpha fortune. His relaxed, cocky demeanor is his best advertisement.

The vignette above is by no means exceptional. You see this sort of dynamic all the time if you go out to places where lots of couples go for dates. It should be heartening to the readers of this blog that the vast majority of men simply have NO CONCEPT WHATSOEVER of how to properly arouse a woman. Fully 90%+ of the world’s men do not run any active game.

It’s even worse than that. Of those 90%, at least half run ANTI-GAME, like the man in the above situation. Observe people on dates and you’ll see a lot of men shooting themselves in the foot. It’s a wonder the species manages to propagate itself, but male persistence — and relatively faster female aging out of sexual viability — sometimes conspire to get a woman to open her legs.

I remember a while back I had taken a couple of E tabs with a female friend. We spent a sleepless weekend hanging out and elevating our mental states. The E tabs pranked my brain into loquacity. I talked and talked. Verbal diarrhea. So did she, but she had not reacted to the pills the same way I had, and she hadn’t consumed as much. As a result, her awareness of presence was sharper than mine. Toward the end of the weekend bender, pre-withdrawal, her demeanor had changed. She was zoning out, and crabby. Everything seemed to rub her the wrong way. Only in hindsight did I hit upon the reason for the change in her temperament. She was driven to peevishness by my excessive talking.

Women may say they want a man who shares his feelings, and who tells her things about himself, but the truth — as is often the case at the disjunct between women’s words and actions — is that women love laconic men. Men who don’t say much. Men whose default programming is to shut up rather than open up. When these men do deign to speak, women hang on their words.

Women want an EF Hutton man. When EF Hutton speaks, women listen. Be an EF Hutton man.

The next time you’re on a date, remind yourself to stop talking. Step outside the moment for a second and, like a third party observer floating off to the side, focus your mind on the interaction. Listen to yourself. Are you a blabbermouth? Apply the brakes to your brain. Let it cool off. Lean back and allow her to engage you for a change. Her hindbrain will thank you.

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“Seriously tho! ur pussy rocks!”

Is this the worst text game ever? Survey says… yes!

“FF” left this comment:

Hello,

I’m wondering if someone could comment on my situation? I came home for xmas, and went to a xmas party at my friends last Thursday. There was a girl “Amy” there who I got introduced to but didn’t really talk to much during the party. Around midnight, me and 3 (guy) friends wanted to go to a bar. We asked if anyone else wanted to come and Amy came along (she didn’t know any of us 3). At the bar I danced with her, made out with her, and went back to her place. We had sex the next 3 nights and mornings. For the most part, we just met up at the end of the night, though one morning we went out for breakfast too.

Anyway, she had to go back to her parents for xmas, about 2 hours away. The first night she was gone (Sunday) I sent her a dumb drunken text message at 1am:

“no amy tonight! :p ”

She didn’t reply.

That night (Monday), I was out with friends, including Jen (Amy’s best friend) and some of Amy’s other friends. When the two other guys left the room to smoke, all the girls sort of cornered me and were teasing me about Amy (“sooooooo, where’s your girlfriend?!?”). I told them to fuck off and acted (I think) convincingly aloof. Then the next day (yesteday) Amy texts me, beginning this exchange:

AMY: Jen says im like your GF now. Thats really great. I can’t wait for you to meet my parents! 🙂

ME: Haha ok xmas at your place I guess 😉
ME: u back in [my-city] b4 xmas?

AMY: No I’m working. I’m coming back before new years around 29th

ME: guess u’ll need all that time to recuperate :p

AMY: And u can use that time to sleep. and listen to my friends make fun of u

ME: jen gave you your daily [my-name] update?

AMY: Haha. No. Jen just told me how much they were making fun of u. I can’t imagine whats so funny about banging a hot chick 3 days straight, but whatever

ME: two people with mutual friends meeting and then having sex the next 3 nights and mornings is always fun gossip for friends
ME: I dont care I like the whole situation. I loved those big perky boobs, firm butt, picture perfect pussy, and cute face…what more could a guy ask for

HER: Haha. Well when you put it like that!

ME: Seriously tho! ur pussy rocks! I feel all warm inside thinking of that thing up in my face (among other places) 😀

And then that was it. I’ll point out there were long (20 minutes) delays between each message (except the ones without spaces between them) – I was driving on the highway, and she seemed to mimic my slow response time. So it didn’t abruptly end, but still.

I can see all sorts of mistakes in my text-game, but I figured given what went on between us it didn’t matter. To sort of fuck things up more I accidently texted her “im outside” when I meant to text another friend about an hour ago, she hasn’t responded.

So, what is the prognosis on my situation? The girl is quite hot (I wouldn’t be stressing if she wasn’t).

We can sometimes learn more from bad game than from observing good game. In that spirit, here is a rundown of where FF went wrong. This case is of particular interest because FF obviously had some attraction at the outset if she acquiesced to banging him for three days straight. But bad followup game can kill even a powerful physical attraction dead.

Also pertinent, Amy sounds like a class A slut. After all, she didn’t know FF before the party which served as the springboard to a three day bangathon. FF should have been able to surmise, then, that Amy would need hardcore uncaring asshole game to keep her slut train rolling on his tracks.

“no amy tonight! :p”

Right out of the gate FF has poisoned his exuberant three day sexual bender with Amy. Never be the first to admit you are missing a girl. Remember, your job as a man is to hang back and make her chase you. Now she is thinking that hers is the only pussy he wants, or presently has access to, and this impression has surely soured her feeelings for him. GIRLS WANT TO THINK YOU HAVE OPTIONS. The threat of male caddishness causes their hamsters to hyperventilate, which powers up the core tingle generator. The wagging tongue emoticon was a transparent coda to grant FF plausible deniability, but girls see through that shit like fake Chloe bags. It would have been much funnier, and less beta, if FF had left off the emoticon. “no amy tonight!” is suitably ambiguous (it could mean he’s really happy she’s not harassing him for sex again), and thus perfect for firing up Amy’s attraction to uncontrollable levels.

She didn’t reply.

Of course she didn’t. Is any regular reader of the Chateau surprised by this? She probably grimaced when the text came over the transom and had a momentary stab of regret for having hooked up with FF.

all the girls sort of cornered me and were teasing me about Amy (“sooooooo, where’s your girlfriend?!?”). I told them to fuck off and acted (I think) convincingly aloof.

Manipulate girl friends as leverage to maximize your alphaness. That’s what they’re there for. This was the perfect opportunity for FF to calmly say “Girlfriend? I wouldn’t use *that* word exactly.” This response avoids a spiteful sounding denial while planting the appropriate alpha asshole subtext in the girl friends’ minds that he could take or leave Amy. This message would undoubtedly get back to Amy, which would even more undoubtedly (re)stoke her desire for him.

AMY: Jen says im like your GF now. Thats really great. I can’t wait for you to meet my parents! 🙂

FF has spooked her. She is not-so-subtly hinting that she doesn’t want to be pressured into a relationship with him. From this point onward, FF is entirely playing into her frame. She is the puppet master, he the dangling penis on strings. Oh, poor Peenocchio.

ME: Haha ok xmas at your place I guess 😉
ME: u back in [my-city] b4 xmas?

Two of his texts to one of hers. FF has the golden ratio ass backwards. The liberal use of emoticons is not helping his cause, either. He is also tacitly assuming that more sex with Amy is a foregone conclusion. When you assume you make a beta out of u and me. Paradoxically, sluts really hate this assumption by the men they fuck. The tramp doth protesteth too much, and all that. Sluts, having served numerous tours of duty in the testicle trenches, are especially sensitive to men taking their pussies for granted. Most men don’t understand that sluts require more phony paeans to their womanly virtue, such as it is, than do chaste girls. Sluts, despite their propensity to give it up sooner, need to know that the men they jump into bed with don’t view their vaginas as 24 hour convenience stores. It is one of the funnier ironies of the universe, and it is what gives rise to the ludicrous sight of Samantha clones indignantly chastising their fly by night lovers for ignoring their emotional female needs.

So if you want to bang a slut more than once, it pays to pretend like you don’t want to bang her. Don’t worry, her pussy won’t hear you.

ME: guess u’ll need all that time to recuperate :p

More forced sexual innuendo. More manboy syntax. More emoticons. The pussy lips are folding in like a clam under attack.

AMY: Haha. No. Jen just told me how much they were making fun of u. I can’t imagine whats so funny about banging a hot chick 3 days straight, but whatever

When a girl mentions her sluttiness, like Amy is doing here, what you are actually hearing is the squeak of her hamster slowly realizing she slept with a beta, and the little bugger is now angling for the confirming blurt of gratitude from the beta who got lucky. Also, calling herself a hot chick is a dead giveaway that her ego is helium filled, and needs the pinprick of a few missile strike negs. FF did not supply those negs.

ME: two people with mutual friends meeting and then having sex the next 3 nights and mornings is always fun gossip for friends

Still dancing to her frame. How does he change the frame and reverse the polarity? Like this: “Hey, they’re your friends.” Even better: “Hot?”

ME: I dont care I like the whole situation. I loved those big perky boobs, firm butt, picture perfect pussy, and cute face…what more could a guy ask for

A little mystery? Now that she knows exactly how much her pussy captivated you for those three days, what fun is there for her in this? Again, note the two texts to her one. And so wordy! Somebody call an amber lamps. This guy is bleeding out alpha capital. Advice: Save the sex talk for face-to-face, preferably *right after actual sex*. You sound like a needy, and slightly creepy, chump here. “Picture perfect”? Painful.

HER: Haha. Well when you put it like that!

Ok, she gives him what he thinks is a positive reply to his bawdy wooing, (but which is in actuality the type of non-flirty verbal ejaculation you would hear from a woman who is temporarily stunned into disbelief by an egregious display of betatude). And of course, like a happy little puppy, he humps her leg:

ME: Seriously tho! ur pussy rocks! I feel all warm inside thinking of that thing up in my face (among other places) 😀

The nail in the coffin. What aphorism comes to mind?… oh yeah, don’t count your boobies before they hatch. Or: past performance is no guarantee of future results.

“Seriously tho! ur pussy rocks!” might be the greatest game-killing line ever uttered in history. What makes it so great is that in the right context, it could double as a *most excellent* alpha neg, akin to “bring the movies“. What’s the right context? Like perhaps in the glow of post-coital bliss. Or the next morning, sent like a dangling modifier minus the emoticon, and no other texts afterward no matter how she replied. Had FF done that I bet he would be enjoying another three day bangout with Amy.

FF thought that three days of sex would imply a margin of error to fuck up any follow through game. But most girls in this day and age who aren’t virgins are not locked down by a weekend of sex. Simple penetration won’t cut it anymore to win the hearts of our current crop of aggrohos. Now if FF had had three *months* of sex with Amy plus one morning of her staring at him with concern in her big, limpid eyes fretting that she wishes FF would say more pillow talk so that she knows he feels as much for her as she does for him…

THEN he’d be riding a margin for error so wide he could fart in his cupped hand and share the gas of love with her.

Come to think of it, cupping farts and assaulting a girlfriend’s nose with the captured effluvium is not really beta, is it? No, no it isn’t.

FF’s text “game” should serve as a good example of how badly direct game can fail when wielded clumsily, or in the wrong context. Moral of the story: Sex is no substitute for game, especially when dealing with sluts for whom sex is as consequential as taking a dump.

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