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Archive for the ‘Vanity’ Category

The great thing about tearing the scales from your eyes and seeing the world for what it is rather than what you wish it to be, besides the additional poon such clear thinking offers up for pillaging, is that science eventually comes around to proving the validity of your personal observations, thereby boosting your ego major and giving you permission to gloat in a blog post to an audience of millions.

In my post “Hotter Women, Better Sex“, I wrote:

How your body responds to a woman during sex tells the tale.  The hotter I find the girl, the better the sex is, all else being equal.  Since men remember sex acts with crystal clear clarity, it’s easy for me to recall the exact specifications of my sexual encounters with each woman in my life.  Not to put too fine a point on it, but my jizzbombs were heavier and the distance ejected farther with the prettier girls.  Since this is something I cannot consciously control, it is proof of the innate characteristics of the male sex drive.

In the interest of science, I’ve put my beauty-to-cumload comparison in a handy chart:

hotness of woman               size of load               squirt distance
0                                            *                                *
1                                            *                                *
2                                            *                                *
3                                            pre-cum only           had to be squeezed out
4                                            droplet                      dribble
5                                            <5 grams                  2 cm
6                                            fills bellybutton        3 inches
7                                            1 tbsp                         8 inches
8                                            2 tbsps                       1.5 feet
9                                            1/4 cup                       3 feet
10                                          gallon**                      5 yards**

*insufficient data
**extrapolation

Thought I was being glib when I wrote this? Maybe being controversial just for the sake of controversy? Oh no, I was telling it like it is, and now science has confirmed the truth of what I wrote in this study showing that sperm travel faster toward the eggs of more attractive women (hat tip: Kassam):

New research found that males can adjust the speed and effectiveness of their sperm by allocating more or less seminal fluid to copulations. The determining factor is whether the male finds the female attractive.

The study, conducted on red junglefowl, a director ancestor of chickens, adds to the growing body of evidence that males throughout many promiscuous species in the animal kingdom, including humans, can mate with many females, but chances of fertilization are greater when the female is deemed to be attractive. […]

“There was a strong relationship between sperm velocity and the volume of the ejaculate sperm came from,” Cornwallis and O’Connor determined, adding that males allocated “larger ejaculates to attractive females.”

The mechanism behind this remains a mystery for now, but the scientists have an intriguing theory.

“Males may alter the velocity of sperm they allocate to copulations by strategically firing their left and right ejaculatory ducts, which can operate independently,” they explained.

Stimulation from sexy, attractive females, therefore, leads to the double firing.

“Furthermore,” they added, “differential firing of left and right ejaculatory ducts may contribute to how males strategically change the number of sperm in their ejaculates, a phenomenon that is widespread, but for which the mechanism remains unknown.”

Guys, you want kids? Only blast inside attractive women. You’ll increase the chances of knocking her up with your turbocharged seed. You don’t want kids but hate condoms? Stick to rawdogging women a couple of points lower than yourself on the mate ranking scale. Your ennui during lovemaking will ensure your tepid jizztrickles never find their way to her unattractive eggs.

In another post, I wrote about the critical importance of the neg as a game concept in picking up women cold:

I’m coming to the conclusion that the best opener is a neg straight out of the gate. In order to set the right tone as soon as you begin talking to a girl, you want to establish alpha cred immediately before any of her beta-sniffing circuits have had a chance to subconsciously dress you down. The quickest way to sear alpha grill lines in a woman’s heart is through the neg.

Stop the presses! Reader Welmer has a post up at his blog about a study demonstrating that negging women, particularly highly anxious (read: flaky, attractive and under 30) women, will cause them to respond positively to you.

And what about when the boyfriends behaved negatively? Again unexpectedly, [high social anxiety] women behaved more negatively when their boyfriends behaved more positively to them. Among low-social anxiety women, there was no difference in behavior regardless of how their boyfriends behaved. Why did the highly-anxious women behave worse when their boyfriends were being nice?

I’ll answer that. Because women with options subconsciously register niceness, especially persistent, knee-jerk niceness, from a boyfriend as evidence that they can do better. To a woman’s mind, niceness often means “He’s placating me. I must be too hot for him.” This is why all men absolutely MUST learn game, if they want to find happiness.

I’ve no doubt science will continue to prove my theories, maxims and observations about men and women correct. If you are able to jettison the great lies that have been foisted on you from birth by nearly everyone around you, from your parents to your peers to the culture at large, you will discover that science eventually comes around to confirming at least 80% of your personal, anecdotal observations.

It’s a good feeling to live with truth.

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A Test Of Your Game

Pulled from the headlines! A four part installment.

You met a girl at a bar. (Where else are you gonna meet her, tiger? The church social?) She’s a six foot tall, 23-year-old statuesque brunette who would probably intimidate most men, but not you. You gab for twenty minutes and score the digits.

On your first date four days later you arrive at the swank Connecticut Ave lounge ten minutes late, as per your usual routine. Your date is already there, drinking a cocktail. A smile flashes across your face, as much for seeing her again as for the thought that you will not have to buy her a drink. You sit down and notice she is glowering, her legs crossed geometrically. You hope she’ll uncross in homage to Basic Instinct.

“You’re ten minutes late.”

“I don’t *feel* tardy.”

She doesn’t laugh. “Are you always late for dates?”

You pause. She’s reacting to your lack of punctuality worse than most women.

What do you do?

******

You are on the date with the Nordic Amazon from the above story. You are an avid reader and feel he has made your life immeasurably better, and at a cost of nothing! Which, in occasional misanthropic moments, rubs your hero raw. Your date mentions she reads local DC blogs and likes most of them, and you wonder about bringing up your fandom, thinking the wealth of topics about sex and social dynamics written by your Infallible Lord, Master, and Philosophical Heir to the Divine Right of Kings would provide much fodder for rapport building and sexual future pacing.

What do you do?

******

Same as above, except this time, before you have decided whether to announce your everlasting platonic love, your date mentions she has read him and hates him. You mull in the mind whether ’tis more opportunistic to admit fandom and suffer the slings and arrows of angry, yet energetically and erotically charged, conversation about inspired themes, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing or denying thricely Disciple Peter-like the ugly truths he tells the world end any chance of the date imploding in your face like an overmicrowaved burrito.

What do you do?

******

You are me. You are on the date with the girl from the above story and have been talking with her about the book you are writing. She is intrigued. A little later in the date, she mentions she reads a lot of local blogs. She says there are some she reads that she really hates. You nod again. Then she asks you if you write a blog.

What do you say?

She also mentions she ran a triathlon the day before.

Now what do you do?

Test begins… now.

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This is a trend that is bursting with fruit flavor.

exhibit-a1

exhibit-b

exhibit-c

mysteryfrilly1

Dandies have a long and storied history in the Western cultural canon, so these types of androgynous men are nothing new. But the sheer breadth and rapidity of the dandyfication of the 21st century urban Western white male, coupled closely with the pickup artist movement and the rise of game, signifies a profound cultural change. A nancyboy revolution is upon us.

Since women are by genetic dictate the choosers of men in the mating market (note: men do some choosing as well. see: lonely fat chicks), men who dandify themselves are simply responding to women’s choices. If you want to know where men are heading, follow the pussy. The interesting question is not why the urban white (and asian) man in his multicultural milieu is sporting long silky coifs and bejeweled bracelets, but why women are rewarding these men with their sex. I leave the answer as an exercise for the readers. As enlightened warrior-poets of the Republic of Poon you should have a pretty good idea of the hidden forces at work. Hint: No theory about the present day sexual market is complete without acknowledgement of the underestimated impact contraceptives, abortion, female economic empowerment and demographic upheaval have had on Darwinian sexual selection.

As a man who himself has acquired a splash of the dandy’s fashion sense to rave reviews from women, I don’t consider a man a femmed out beta if the NASCAR crowd scoffs. After all, other men are not the ultimate arbiter of what constitutes alphatude; women are. Men are merely proxy agents for judging other men’s alpha cred. But a woman’s open and willing pussy is the judge that matters most. As long as these modern day dandies with their black nail polish, handlebar moustachios and heart-shaped pendants are scoring more tail than your typical herb or aging frat boy swilling Miller Light in front of the TV, they are partaking of alpha privilege.

Not a sermon, just a thought.

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Why is it the biggest engagement rings are always found on the hands of women over 30? Who are these beta schmoes spending a fortune on rings for women with only a few years of primo fuckability left?

Discuss.

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Contraption

I didn’t bother unhooking her bra. I never do anymore. I pulled it off her like a t-shirt. As I’m squeezing her boobs (and taking a mental note of her remaining “years-to-sag” based on a complicated formula I devised involving underside crease length, armpit spillover when prone, and depth of press), I glance over at her bedside table and notice an unusual object illuminated by the thrift shop lamp. It was a huge, purple vibrator — the luxury model, by the looks of it — with ridges and nubs and hooks and multiple arms sticking out from it, like a saguaro cactus.

pricklydildo

I’m pretty sure there was even a scrolling LED screen. It sat there nonchalantly like a potted plant, or a paperweight. Wow, this is embarrassing, I thought. She forgot to put it away. It was so large and ridiculous that I had to interrupt our foreplay to ask her about it.

“Um, that’s quite a contraption you have over there. Just… laying out.”

“Oh yeah, that’s my little toy.” She didn’t sound embarrassed. “I use it every Sunday to masturbate. I can cum ten times with that baby.”

“Ten times? Straight through, or spread out over the day?”

“Like, within an hour or so.”

“Yeah. Impressive.” I tried to figure why her naughty “secret” wasn’t more titillating to me. Back when I was 18 this sort of discovery would have been exciting. Oh, yeah, I would have thought, This chick is kinky! She’s gonna do all sorts of crazy shit in bed! Now that I’m older and more discerning of women I sleep with, a giant purple saguaro vibrator staring at me from across the room doesn’t make me more turned-on by the woman who uses it. In fact, just the opposite. I lower my estimation of her as a worthy girl in whom I would be happy to take out on creative, exciting dates. Ladies, this is what a man thinks of you when he notices your purple saguaro and you don’t seem fazed by him discovering it:

  1. novelty seeking (slut)
  2. sexually adventurous (slut)
  3. horny all the time (slut)
  4. unconcerned about men’s opinions of her (good god, what a slut)

Now 1 – 3 aren’t problems if the girl possesses reasonable degrees of those urges, or if you’re just looking for an uncomplicated fling. You don’t want to hitch your weenie wagon to a frigid ice queen. Number 4 is a flashing red light that she is a cheating whore at heart. Any girl who can’t be bothered to take the two seconds worth of effort to hide her absurd sex toys when a man comes over is a girl who won’t think twice about cheating on you. Even if most girls aren’t delicate, precious chaste creatures, you at least want the girl you are dating to pretend like she is and acknowledge your opinion of her matters — and one thing that matters very much to guys, even if they won’t admit it to the girl’s face, is that the girl he is with isn’t the town orifice. Men want their women, at a bare minimum, to take token stabs at modesty. It’s endearing to us and suggests you will be worth keeping around. We don’t want women to embrace their sluttiness as if it were a postmodern badge of honor. A good woman understands this and heeds a man’s romantic sensibilities.

The trick for men is finding a balance in women between unrepressed sexuality and faithful frigidity. Too much of the former = cumguzzling slut. Too much of the latter = blue balls. A proudly displayed purple saguaro says “I’m a slut, and you’ll like it.”

I’ve found that the more power I acquire over women, the pickier I’m becoming. I won’t call back a girl who has a purple saguaro on her nightstand. This choosiness has strengthened my character. I’m a better man for it.

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30 And Still Flaky

The number of women in DC who are in their late 20s to early 30s and still flaking as if they were hot college coeds has reached critical mass. When I call a 29 year old woman’s number to set up a date, the last thing I expect to encounter is flaking or playing hard-to-get. It’s such a massive turn-off that I demote a deluded woman like that immediately. If I get her into bed, I fuck her a few times, hard and angry, just enough to get her addicted to my manloaf, and never call again. Ladies past their peak, here’s some helpful advice from a representative of the Ministry of Stone Cold Truth: If you are a woman over the age of 27, do not fool yourself that you possess the market leverage to:

  1. not answer the phone by the third ring or deliberately let a man’s call go to voicemail.
  2. not return a phone call within an hour.
  3. cancel a date later than five hours before the scheduled meeting time.
  4. flake in any manner whatsoever.

Because you don’t have that power anymore over men who matter. Guys like me are less forgiving of gameplaying from women who no longer have the grade A goods to get away with it, so your best bet is sincerity, straightforwardness and good faith. Annoyingly capricious female behavior is the prerogative of girls in their prime. You, over-27 woman, must adjust accordingly. That means either putting aside the notion that you can flake without consequence, or dropping your standards and dating needy betas who will gladly lap up your shit and beg for more.

In my life, I’ve noticed a change for the worse. More women, and older women, are acting flaky. Such a cultural deterioration can only happen for one reason — massive, all-encompassing betatization. The sack-shriveling epoch is at its watershed. So-called “men” have abdicated their duty to punish women for their flaky behavior. The verdict is in: The entitlement complex of American women is out of control. It is time to put an end to it. Because I am a humble humanitarian of stupendously magnanimous good will, I present my five point battleplan for bringing the egos of American women back into line:

  1. Be a cad. When a hot girl passes by, casually mention out loud in the company of your date/GF that the girl is beautiful. Do this a couple times and she will wonder “Does he think I’m as cute as her? Will he leave me for someone like her?” Then, step it up a notch. Add unpredictability to your ego-taming strategy. For every hot chick whose beauty you announce, wait for an ugly girl to walk by and mention how hot she is. This will fuck with your girl’s head like nothing else. Now she’ll wonder “Wow, if he thinks that toad is hot, what does that say about me? What *does* he like??”
  2. Cancel dates. This is an amazingly effective technique for shifting the balance of power in the man’s favor for the simple reason that so few men do it. What could squash cancerous female ego growth faster, and imbue you with the alluring underworld glow of alpha devilry, than bugging out on a first date? Don’t give a reason. Just say something came up, and you’ll call her later. Leave a heavy air of mystery hanging between you two. Relish the thought of her tossing and turning in bed at night wondering if you found a woman with bigger boobs. After all, what is seduction in essence but the co-opting of a woman’s tools of the trade to use against her? Bonus: Cancelling dates is a huge power rush.
  3. Extol the virtues of European women. Be subtle, of course, but be sure your message, true or not, is taken to heart. When talking about your travels, mention how the Europeans “just do things differently over there. Dating is not the chore it so often seems it is here. It’s so refreshing the way European men and women naturally gravitate to one another. No head games at all. To European women, romance is playful and fun.” Then mention how your business takes you to Europe frequently.
  4. Assume the flake. When you meet an American Coastal City girl for the first time, and you are about to number close or otherwise set up a date, prevent any future flakiness by shaming her to behave the way you want. Say: “If you’re gonna be one of those flaky girls, tell me now so I can delete your number. Nobody likes those types.” Naturally, your challenge will have done its job and she will defend her honor. You’ve established boundaries of acceptable behavior that she’ll be less inclined to violate.
  5. Don’t answer her calls. When you see her number light up on your caller ID, let it go to voicemail. Wait five minutes, then call back. Act nonchalant. She will wonder why you didn’t pick up right away. It’s a small detail that helps reframe the interaction to one where she is chasing you.

Godspeed, you nascent alphas, you smashers of overblown American women egos. The pendulum swings back now.

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Reader and prolific commenter Obsidian was interested in my take on this article by a white woman who discusses her preference for black men.

Black skin is thick and lush, sensuous to the touch, like satin and velvet made flesh. There’s only one patch of skin on a white man’s body that remotely compares to nearly every inch of a black man’s skin.

I have no idea what black man skin feels like, since VK won’t let me run my hands up and down his chiseled biceps and give a squeeze for good measure, but I remember the skin of the last black woman I slept with — it was wrinkle-free and taut but also somewhat rough in spots, like sandpaper. The softest female skin I have ever touched was on an Asian woman.

And I had the socially acceptable explanation for my craving. I used that paucity-of-available-white-partners rationale to explain my relationships with black men for several years. A white woman past forty is often passed over by her white-male contemporaries. She goes younger or ethnic or foreign-born or down the socioeconomic scale or darker or she spends lonely nights at home with her cats. Black men are happy to get the babe they couldn’t have when she was twentysomething and fertile. The laws of the marketplace do prevail. It’s not me, it’s them being the white guys who weren’t after me anymore, or so I claimed.

That’s a lie. The truth is, I attract about the same percentage of available white men my age (and far younger!) now as I did when I was thirty and that’s not including the unavailable white men who want to play around anyway.

Enough white men want me that I was hardly facing enforced celibacy, but I don’t want them.

Let’s take a look at the author’s photo, shall we?

grossoldhag

Here’s a video of her, for more accurate judging. Hint: She’s not the hottie standing on the right.

The only lie here is the lie she is telling herself. There is no way this gross disgusting old hag who hit the wall so hard she is on the other side of it is attracting any sort of white man except the bottom of the barrel dregs who will dump a fuck in her distended flabby hole because they can’t afford an internet connection to whack off to porn outside of the public library. Her looks are relevant to her claim that she is freely choosing black men in favor of white men — she is holding up her desirability to white men as proof of her options in the sexual market and her freedom to choose which men to fuck. A simple, revealing photo utterly discredits the core underpinning of her argument by anecdote.

The truth here is, unfortunately for her, quite unflattering. As her repulsive ugliness has worsened with age and fat, her options have been severely curtailed. If she is finding solace in flings with black men, it is because

  1. the white men she finds attractive no longer feel the same about her, and
  2. the black men she finds attractive are more willing to overlook her market value-destroying flaws and fuck her. At least for one night. Heh.

Moving along to the rest of the article…

I want black men. They want me. We look at one another and exchange a visible frisson of sexual energy in the lingering glances.

A small percentage of people do have an overcharged attraction for different races. But there’s not much we can generalize from this one old hag’s fetishistic sexual drive because she is not choosing in a free market with all options open to her. There are many delusional pretty lies humans tell themselves when cold hard reality is staring them in the bloated face. She may want black men given the structural incentives in place, but do they want her? Or, as I suspect is more likely, do black men see her sloppily flirting with them and think to themselves “Oh yeah, that white broad is gonna be an easy lay.”

Even in a time when nearly 40 percent of single Americans have dated outside their race, that deliberate seeking of the specific other makes some people, especially black women, damned mad.

Black women are mad because they’re looking at black men fucking fat old heifers like you and wondering what the hell they’re thinking.

We are what they denigrate and castigate: white women and black men who choose one another because of our racial differences. They resent our taking their men.

Define “taking”. I doubt in her case it means any commitment longer than a few nights together, away from the public eye. A man’s got a rep on the street to keep.

Black men are two and a half times more likely to marry a white woman than a black woman is to marry a white man.

Here are my thoughts on interracial dating. Despite all the sound and fury, I don’t see too much of it. Most people date *long term* within their race. There are likely evolutionarily mediated reasons for this. Women are more racist than men in the realm of dating. They are less open to having relationships with men of different races, while men are bigger whores who will happily fuck a cute chick from any race. (Commitment is another matter.)

So in the bigger picture, I don’t see many white woman-black man couples strolling around the city holding hands. In comparison, I see about three times as many white man-asian woman couples. These are my observations in DC and in major cities on the East coast; the numbers on the ground might be different in other parts of the country. Of the BM-WF couples I do see, I notice two different types: The Maury Povich who’s-the-daddy fat white trash girl with the thug, and the hot blonde, usually European girl with the handsome, well-dressed, and educated-looking yuppie black man. There doesn’t seem to be much middle ground between those two types.

From casual conversation, my white guy friends don’t find the general population of black girls attractive. Their preferences are decidedly skewed toward white chicks. I only know one white guy who has yellow fever. He proudly proclaims it, too. From my conversations with black women, they are even more racially provincial. I get the impression that black women don’t find men outside their race at all physically attractive. I’m an outlier, in that I’m the recipient of a lot of flirty attention from black women. I think if I were an even blacker dude than I already am, I would clean up with black women. King Kong ain’t got nothing on me.

So this is why black women are screwed, it would seem. Available black guys are hooking up with women of all races, white and Asian guys don’t much like black girls, and black women only want to be with black guys. I can’t think of a worse recipe for resentment and bitterness. Since men do some choosing in the sexual market (though men are not as choosy as women on average, neither are they mannequins standing around waiting for women to pick them out of the crowd), the choice by white and Asian men to overlook black women is going to have repercussions.

Why don’t black chicks dig white guys and vice versa? In a word: testosterone. Blacks have more of it, and more androgen receptors, than other races. The same testosterone that imbues black men with attractive masculine features and musculature makes black women look less feminine. On average. This isn’t an assertion from anecdote, because in my personal life I know quite a few really cute black chicks. I’m judging based on general observations and what I’ve heard from men of all races when the subject came up. Since women are attracted to men with lots of testosterone (for fucking, at least), it stands to reason that black women would want men who have more of it relative to their own. Here, few white and even fewer Asian men qualify as acceptable partners for black women.

I have demonstrated that the fundamentals of female beauty are universal. Men all over the world love 0.7 waist-to-hip ratios, clear skin, youth, feminine faces, big eyes, luscious lips, breasts and ass. Adjusting for racial idiosyncracies, a beautiful black woman’s face has more fundamental similarity to a beautiful white woman’s face than to an ugly black woman’s face. However, there is an important caveat. I now believe that there is a slight preference among men of the major racial groups for women of their own race. In general, black men, all else equal, would rather date long term a hot black chick than a hot chick of another race. To illustrate, black guys prefer the bigger rumps that are a hallmark of black women. The same intra-race mechanism apples to white, Hispanic (who?), and Asian men. They all have marginally peculiar preferences for the specific beauty of women within their own race. I would not be surprised to learn that Asian men like flatter asses.

I know I am this way. My roving eyes are overwhelmingly pulled in by hot white chicks. I see hot Asian and black chicks, but it’s clear to me where my strongest preferences lie. Is this because white chicks are, again on average, better looking than chicks of other races? Or is it because of my inborn endogamous sexual preference for girls of my own race? I don’t know. I suspect the latter. But I do have some personal observations that buttress my tilt toward women of my own race. For instance, whenever there is a news story from the Congo, or Rwanda, and throngs of people are swarming around the cameras, I don’t see a single woman in the crowd I’d want to bang. But when there is a camera pointed at Red Square or Stockholm, and girls are streaming past, I have trouble finding a fertile age woman in the crowd I *wouldn’t* want to bang. In places like Tokyo, the urge to merge with the locals on camera is less cut and dried. There are a few Japanese girls who make the grade.

The class of the women has an effect as well. There was this time I was driving through the hardcore DC ghetto (nothing like an adventure), and a large public housing apartment complex had caught fire. The traffic had stopped, so I was idling by the smoking building while hundreds of residents who had been evacuated were milling about the sidewalk, waiting for the firemen to finish their job. My most vivid memory from that incident, and one that sticks with me to this day, was just how brutally ugly those women were. I mean, “make a documentary of it” ugly.

All right, back to the article…

But in truth, black sisters, we’re after the sex, not the ring, and these guys aren’t the marrying kind anyway.

Squeeze those sour grapes, old bag. Of course she’s written off the ring. No man who isn’t a complete loser would commit to her decrepit carcass.

Black men have more energy, style and edge than white men. They know how to flirt, a nearly lost art among the rest of us. A black man is so damned sexy because he knows how to make a woman feel sexy.

This is true if we restrict our sample size to has-been fat white women who faint with joy at the slightest attention from any man. While I believe that black guys on the whole do have better natural game than white guys, their often aggressive style of flirting and their whiff of dangerous edginess can be a turnoff for younger white women who are repelled by displays of brute machismo. My experience suggests that SWPL white girls and especially Asian girls in their 20s are more receptive to subtler mating cues. This is why Mystery has rarely run game on black chicks.

They make me feel like a woman, both respected and desired.

Translation: No white man desires her enough to make her feel like the woman she was 20 years ago and in an alternate universe.

This brings up another interesting angle. Are black men less picky than white men? If so, that would explain the author’s sudden conversion. My view: Black guys are indeed less picky when considering short term flings and one night stands. They seem to be more forgiving of wear and tear on white women, such as the accumulation of fat and waddles. Like other men, black guys are probably pickier when choosing which women get to be their number one girls. Who are the pickiest men? The alphas, of course.

On we go dissecting this disaster…

My current lover,…

Translation: My current one night stand.

On another night in that same bar, a different black man, an artist, knelt and kissed my knees.

Beta.
Correction: Kissing this old sow’s gnarly knees? Omega.

They look better than white men, they touch and kiss and make love better than white men.

Silly cow. When a man finds you physically less than ideal, he isn’t inspired to please you in bed.

Statistically, their penises are only a fraction of an inch bigger on average, but they seem bigger and harder.

I notice my hardness varies by the girl’s looks. The hotter she is, the firmer I get. With this old broad, I’d have to enlist David Alexander’s pornified pud to do the job.

By the way, I remember reading a study from some years ago that purported to show that package size does indeed vary by race, with blacks the largest and Asians the smallest. Commenters are free to find any links proving or disproving the stereotype.

White men over 40 have lost their waistlines and their zest for life if they ever had it.

White women lose it even faster. Has this shoggoth looked in a mirror lately? On the larger point, I agree that sedentary black men keep their dainty figures longer than sedentary white men. Black women, otoh…

Society overvalues the white man, leaving him angry and bitter when he realizes, around age 40, that he’s not all that.

If this isn’t a picture perfect example of projection, I don’t know what is.

With the exception of some Italians, white men don’t turn me on anymore.

You won’t be missed, bowlingballhead.

While women my age scowl and frown at these aging, Upper West Side Boomers pushing strollers as the hand of the thin, blonde wife 20 years their junior rests lightly on their arm, I feel a kinship with the old goats. We are the same, me and that bald white guy, drawn to the exotic other, not caring that the object of our desire has no childhood memory of a Kennedy assassination or a typical WASP Sunday dinner of over-roasted beef, lumpy mashed potatoes and soggy vegetables.

This woman is hurting inside, deeply. She has secretly wanted that Ozzie and Harriet white picket fence life since forever, but now it is too late, if there ever was a chance. But the objects of her affection ignored her true wishes. There, there, lumpy mashed grandma taking random dick in bars and waking up to an empty bed and fridge. I’m sure all those older white guys dating younger women are JUST LIKE YOU. Except not.

Halfway through the first glass of wine in my last date with a white man, I realized that little clouds of sadness and self-pity were regularly fluffing off his psyche like the dust clouds kicked up by that dirt-smudged “Peanuts” character as he walks through Charlie Brown’s life. This guy was at least mildly depressed…

No wonder he was depressed. He was on a date with a beluga whale.

What did he think would entice me more: That he assumed sex was probable because I’m a sex journalist or that he would need chemical help if sex did occur?

This broad is the gift that keeps on giving. Sex journalist? Why is it always the ugliest women in this “occupation”? It’s like taking advice on losing weight from the world’s fattest man.
And, yes, the poor guy would need chemical help to get it up with you. I’m thinking an IV of distilled super viagra directly into the penis vein, and a brick wall with a hole drilled in it between you two.

I cannot even imagine a black man bungling an attempted seduction in such a sad way.

I cannot even imagine the omegas who are happily chowing down on her cheesy old lady labia.

I recently came out of my racial-preference closet and told my friends, “I love black men. I’m not attracted to white men over 40, and I’m not dating them anymore. Really, it’s not them, it’s me.

Translation: “I recently gave up trying to attract white men who aren’t trolls and told my friends “I love black men because some of them are so horny they look past my disgusting body to masturbate into my cavernous hole. I’m telling myself I’m not attracted to white men over 40 because it makes their rejection easier to swallow, like my black lovers’ loads. Really, it’s not them, it’s my ugly roast beef face.””

My work here is done.

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