Nonlinear Seduction

Vagnette #1:

A past girlfling back in town had spotted me and flounced over to say hello.

HER: “Heeeeey, [Lucifer’s Third Leg], it’s been a while.”

ME: “It has! Heeeeey back atcha.”

HER: “What’ve you been up to?”

ME: “Oh just doing my thing.”

HER: “Your thing? What thing is that?”

ME: “Ah you know, all the things. This and that. Mostly that. I prefer that over this.”

HER: “Hm, you’re still as silly as ever,” she said as her eyes glowed with event horizon gravitingle pull.

We talked more, and she departed with a smile and a promise to MEAT again.

***

Vagnette #2:

A ladyfriend and I were sidewalking when we noticed what possibly may have been a self-driving all-electric test vehicle parked at the curb.

HER: “Check out that car! Pretty cool huh?”

ME: “I dunno. Will it take me to paradise?”

HER: *shoulder punch followed by penis grab*

In the realm of seduction — which is any realm that a man is alone with a woman and he isn’t a sniveling beta orbiter enabling her emotional vampirism — logic and reason won’t work on women. Oh sure women can sufficiently mimic the cadences of logic and reason, and even summon a convincing simulacrum of interest in the worlds of logic and reason when circumstances demand, but it’s not what juices women’s genderpulp. What women want is nonlinearity. Unpredictability. Surprize bantzsex. Cleverness. Or even silliness.

Anything but what they EXPECT the typical beta boob to say to them.

Beta male conversations with attractive women are like the weather. Everyone talks about it, no one says anything interesting. “How about this weather we’re having?” “Yeah, it’s been so nice.” Weatherjive is a fine lube for polite social interaction (I’M NOT A DANGER I TALK ABOUT THE WEATHER) but it’s horrible for lubing sexual tension. The unexpected  — “WEATHER IS FOR PLEBS” — is undiluted snapper stimulant. When you knock a woman off her daily script, her vagina explodes like a CIA-sponsored Syrian barrel bomb.

Logic and reason create civilizations, but destroy vaginations. The evo sike dudes would say that the freewheeling, devil-may-ZFG, out-of-cleft-field, flirty tangents that demarcate charming jerkboys from boring betas are an evolved preference in women to help them discriminate in favor of men who would have the cognitive horsepower to gather ARE RESOURCES when the gathering is tough. Perhaps long ago, that nonlinearly seductive man was equally adept at conniving stuff from other men as he was at stuffing gines.

Game lesson: Don’t sweat your conversations with women. Let it fly. You might say something stupid occasionally, but at least you won’t be a bore. And the hottest chicks hate nothing more than a man who bores them.

Chicks HATE HATE HATE boring men.
Worse than they hate unemployed bums.
Worse than they hate pygmales.
Worse than they hate nümales.
Worse than they hate neomaxizimdweebmales.

Don’t be boring and predictable and you’ll discover women expectantly hanging on your next word. Follow-ups to opening lines become much easier, and convos flow much smoother, when the girl can’t call your next move.

Studiously avoid self-entrapment in the world of “point A-to-point B” sanity. This is the world of women you’re in now, so check your sanity at the door and climb on the ride that is wild.

CH Maxim #14: KEEP HER GUESSING, KEEP HER GEYSERING

The Illusionist Hottie

I once dated a hot little minx who was the spitting image of this chick.

In a slinky dress and made up, she would turn heads. Beautiful face, curvy hourglass figure, long legs, pert tits. Men AND women would check her out (former with lust, latter with envy and curiosity and proxy attraction for the CH with her) when we were out together.

But there was a problem. She was an illusionist hottie. Back home, clothes off, her body betrayed a surprising patchwork of unsightly flaws; thigh and ass dimples, creeping cottage cheese, an incipient fupa, and blotchy skin tone (probably from a bad diet). Even in dimmed light, I could see that the road to vajhalla would be a bumpy one.

She didn’t lift weights, and tragically she was one of those girls who could have benefited immensely from weightlifting instead of counting steps on her ClitBit. She was the poster girl for yoga pants as the push-up bra for the booty.

None of her body flaws were deal breakers. But there was just enough taut-less terrain wildly out of sync with her after hours glamour that I could never make peace with the whole package. The world saw one woman; I saw another. Sure, I loved showing her off when out on the town, but my pride was tainted with insider knowledge of the grit beneath the glitz.

It got to be that near fling’s end, I was looking for excuses to leave post-date with the intention of avoiding sex with her. {ed: judge me harshly.} Once, I made a cuddle suggestion when she started heating up during foreplay. COSMIC POLARITY INVERTED.

This woman created the worst dickonance —

dickonance: an incongruous feeling caused when intense arousal for a fully clothed woman clashes with deflating desire for her disrobed form.

— in me I have ever had to compartmentalize. I loved going out with her and soaking up her beauty when she was dressed to the nines, but I was indifferent to sleeping with her afterward. It was never that bad, but the wickedly unfair juxtaposition was needling me to the edge of insanity — I felt like Nature was playing a cruel joke on me, robbing me of the one nonnegotiable pleasure of a hot woman’s love: her stimulating naked form. The wedge between us widened to a chasm of unspeakable provenance.

She never knew the real reason it ended. I supplied a plausible explanation for my receding ardor that required no recourse to the state of her maculation, an explanation which in fact made me out to be a very bad person but bad in an understandable OH GEE ANOTHER NONCOMMITTAL DOUCHEBAG way and not bad in an OH FUCK YOU ARE THE DEVIL INCARNATE way. A few female tears I can handle. A deluge of waterworks that wrack the body and shake the shoulders I prefer not to witness. Or, worse, she might lunge for the kitchen knives in a blind rage.

I had no intention of revealing the stark nature of my un-caged id. She didn’t merit any meanness, so I committed relationship seppuku.

When it ended, friends asked what the hell I was thinking. “She was a hottie! What the hell were you thinking?” was what they said. I lied that we had incompatible personalities. I doubt they bought it, (no one really buys it when a man claims a relationship ended because of personality issues), but I was not eager to sully her lady-honor by exposing the pocked underbelly of our separation. I expose it here, anonymously and obliquely, because I suppose I’m seeking absolution. To confront one’s superficiality is fun and games in abstraction-space, but not so fun in real life with real lovers and their real hearts on the line.

The duality of man is his endless struggle to embrace, and to reject, to free, and to tame, the animal of him.

Isramerica’s Middle East Policy

As near as I can tell, the US’s Middle East policy is:

• neutralize Israel’s regional enemies
• provide a rationale for demographically swamping White Christian nations with “refugees” from Middle East clan wars inflamed by American Deep State meddling.

Oil? Nah, the US is practically self-sufficient now. Spreading democracy among dune coon lunatics for long-term stability? HAHA, no. Iraq clearly demonstrated to anyone with half a brain the folly of that mission: unaccomplished.

I was listening to the leftoid legacy news (I needed my daily fix of egregious lying scumbaggery) and the (((usual suspects))) were practically crowing about the Syria “””gas attack””” on “””children””” by “””Assad””” (hi, CIA! perfect timing to distract from the Susan Rice treason) proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that the US has a moral imperative to take in more rapefugees and settle them all over heartland America. “It’s a sin,” one slithery reptile hissed, “that we have 10 gorillion Syrians displaced by war and the Trump Administration refuses to take in any refugees. It’s morally reprehensssssssible!”

Remember CH maxim #1488: all leftoid policy is motivated by anti-White hatred and is intended ultimately to demographically dispossess White European Christians from their own nations.

The anti-Whites’ objective couldn’t be more explicitly stated than if they stood on a hill holding a KILL WHITEY banner aloft while directing phalanxes of nonWhites to storm small town America. In fact, we’re already at that stage with some of the snakes now steering the Democreep Party and staffing the editorial boards of our esteemed newspapers of record.

***

Days of Broken Arrows makes a good point about the current iteration if disingenuous leftoid sophistry.

Regarding the “it’s a sin” quote. I’m going to repeat a comment I made a few posts ago that disappeared.

The leftoid media pushed through gay marriage by telling people their old, biblical ideals were obsolete. Now when it comes to refugees, they suddenly want us all to go back to those biblical ideals, and behave like good little Christians, being charitable and kind.

THIS is where Trump came in, just at the right time. A large portion of the right (unconsciously) thought: “You wanna shame us for biblical beliefs? Fine. Just don’t expect to us our beliefs for your own ends anymore.”

The very people who told us there is no such thing as sin, now want to tell us they think certain people are sinner. Ain’t gonna work.

Shiverrific. “Gay marriage is a sin” would be a killer riposte to any shitlib claiming it’s a sin to refuse refugees.

PS I just noticed WordPress has inexplicably been shunting a ton of comments straight into the trash folder. I don’t know why, but I’ll try to rectify the problem. In the meantime, keep commenting. If your comment gets trash compacted, be patient, I’ll fish it out.

Maul-Right Street Art Coming To A Gentrified SWPLville Near You

Street art is often banal or nonsensical, but when it hits the mark it can exert a subliminal influence on the national psyche. Branding, symbols, and slogans are airily dismissed by the convention-bound Right, which is their loss. Leftoids have had a monopoly on street art for at least half a century, and enough of it has infiltrated the public consciousness that it’d be a mistake to think their propaganda hasn’t been a factor in their endless procession of institutional takeovers.

So it’s with happy heart that I see Maul-Right street art appearing in shitlib oases like, for instance, Malibu.

Nice! The shitlord who made that sign really put effort into the execution. Very realistic. So good, one may wonder if it’s an official Malibu welcome sign (it’s not….City Manager Reva Feldman was quick to correct the record).

More of this, please, and faster. The Alt-Maul-Right has PLENTY of material in their rhetoric arsenal; there’s no reason a thousand points of shiv can’t pierce every shitlibopolis beating heart. Shitlord street art like this one will upset shitlibs, perhaps even cause some of them to question their faith, and most importantly, hearten and embolden Heritage America.

WE ARE THE MEME-LORDS NOW. The Left is artistically destitute, intellectually bankrupt, and exhausted with the fight. They have Soros-funded, scattered skinnyfat schlock troops putting up a token whine on their home turf, and concentrating their fire on the few public realtalkers they can occupationally and socially ostracize from their campuses and tech jobs. But underneath the bluster, they have NOTHING. Dead inside. And they know it.

The Left has had no answer to the Maul-Right’s memes and paradigm-busting gusto. They were caught completely off-guard, reduced to an amen chorus for thecunt and her tone-deaf deplorables counterattack. This is a lesson for any on the Right willing to hear it: You have the Truth, you have the Shivs, now all you need are the Balls. Big ones. Yuge. Unsheathe your throbbing zest for reconquest of your stolen nation and take it to the enemy, and when you have xir in your rhetorical sights, don’t stop triggering your juicy target with anti-equalism heresies. Make the phagggots’ ears bleed, or from their wherever. If shitlords begin moving their revolution in ideas with unstoppable momentum in all directions and at all points of contact, the Left will fucking CRUMBLE to a shattered mess faster than you would have ever guessed. That’s because the Left has never known a fight. Not a real one. Now they’re getting a taste of it, and they are scared like they’ve never been scared before. I can smell their fear.

Eatin’ Pussy: The Verdict

The Daily Stormer, a major maul-right tributary coming close to perfecting that balance between sincere shitposting and humorous ironic detachment, has a hot bake on Natalie Portman’s ugly sister and her Cosmo column imploring Reptile-American women to dump men who aren’t enthralled to be sharing snatch space with a vibrator.

When you do decide to let him in on the fact that you own a vibrator that you would also like to use in bed together, there are two possible reactions: He’s either overcome with joy that your sex life is about to get even hotter (and wants to start immediately), or he’s, well, weird about it. He might say it feels “a little unnatural,” or ask if his penis and sex skills aren’t enough. And if he does, he’s in trouble.

Because if a man is anti-vibrators, you should absolutely, without question, dump him.

Yeaaah, this is dumpsthatneverhappen.txt. I saw your photo, Julia Pugachevsky. The pug part is right. Don’t flatter yourself. If you managed to snag an aryan shivsa with something on the ball there’s no way in hell you’re dumping him. Especially not for something as trivial as refusing to fuck you if you have a purple saguaro pressed against your benumbed clit. And lo and behold, like magic!, her goyboy borefriend looks like he came prefitted with a choke collar.

There’s a whole genre of femmefic tumblrrhea written by Fake Hotties — fat sows, fugs, and striver plain janes — that amounts to egregious wishful projection that the authoress is an independent, empowered, orgasm-demanding riotgrrl HB9 who came here to chew gum and fuck two dicks at once, and she’s just about out of gum. As fiction, it’s so transparently bad that it boomerangs back on the girlwriter. As Whoreschach Test, it’s a perfect mirror of the girlwriter’s bitter heart, revealing a lying phonyfuck cunt who either has never held a man for longer than the time it takes him to get his whiskey dick operational, or is stuck with a mangina cucklet who reminds her by his irritating omnipresence of her low SMV.

Girls who proudly flaunt their vibrators are best avoided as investment properties. If she can’t be bothered to put up at least of facade of modesty, she doesn’t respect your desire and needs as a man. (Hint: most men prefer to save their exclusivity for chaste women.) This goes double for chicks who insist that men tolerate the additional company of an artificial penis during lovemaking. If your girl is that desperate for sexual relief while fucking you that she needs the assistance of a vibrator, she’s either a world-beating slut with a carnal appetite that will guarantee her straying, or you’re not doing anything for her. Either way, this kind of girl should never be promoted from occasional cum receptacle.

Seguing to the title of this post, the final word (in my estimable opinion) on the topic of eatin’ pussy was written off-handedly in this archived gem of Chateau consilience.

Eating a girl out anytime during the first few weeks of dating is beta. When you eat a girl out, you telegraph your incredible horniness for her. Men normally do not want to go down on women and bury their mouths in that fetid, humid mess unless they find her so overwhelmingly hot that they can’t help themselves. Women instinctively know this, so they correctly gauge that a man who goes down on them on the first date must feel he’s with one of the best he’s ever had. This, in turn, will sour a woman’s attraction for a man, since no woman in the history of the universe has ever felt raging lust for a man she believed lower than herself in value.

Cunnilingus later in the relationship is absolved from this rule, because you have already demonstrated your manly ability to use her strictly for the piledriving hole she is.

I’m not anti-eatin’ pussy, but men should be aware of the risks involved (both disease and psychological feedback arousal-damping risks). Very broadly, alpha men don’t eat pussy. Beta men do. And if a man is eatin’ pussy for any reason other than his own pleasure — say, because he feels obligated to help deliver his woman the elusive O which his dick and jerkboy je ne sais cocq can’t summon — then odds are good that he is an appeasing beta male who must endure tongue cramping and oral abscesses to sufficiently please his woman. And if that’s his station in the relationship, his tongue ain’t gonna save him from her inevitably checking out.

There are exceptions to the eatin’ pussy rule. When an alpha male is so overcome with animal lust for his HB9+ that he’s compelled by inner forces to dive downtown and sniff the intoxicating aroma of springtime snapper, then we can say that he’s not beta-tizing himself by the act. Still, it’s smart poon-swooning policy to refrain from chowin’ on the downy before spending a few months crustin’ the cumcatch basin.

The Gay Lady Doth Protest Too Much

The stuck pig squeals loudest. Remember that as you read this comment by Sentient.

“The legacy media is going insane over us”

Yes… When the NY Times is running subscription campaigns headed with

“Truth. Discover it with us.”

you can see Trump’s brilliance at work… Imagine the NYT having to advertise that they are true? All the Trump stuff about bias, complicity, duplicity and fake news has unmasked them… and they know it. That’s why they are melting down near nightly…

This is the first step in taking the noose from around our necks…

The people are getting woke. Yeah there may not be change overnight to satisfy Greg, much injustice will go unpunished. But the people are just getting more woke every day.

And the Washington Bezos has added “Democracy Dies in Darkness” to the top of their fishwrap.

As Sentient said, it used to be that the pursuit of truth and ethical journalism were implied by the near-universal high status held by our nation’s big papers. That status is lost, which is why the venal vipers running the papers sound like try-hard beta males convincing a woman they aren’t creeps.

There’s dignity and power in being trusted enough as a source of news that there’s no need to assert trustworthiness. A good man doesn’t go around begging people to believe in his goodness. His actions and behavior speak for him. Great womanizers don’t plead with women that they’re great womanizers. They let their seductive prowess demonstrate the fact for them.

Same with the dying leftoid legacy media. Now that they’ve been unmasked as liars and disingenuous propagandists for the Globohomo Bathhouse Alliance, it’s only a matter of time until complete abandonment and rejection by the public they supposedly serve. And like any stuck pig backed into a corner, they squeal with indignation and pain and oink impotently, begging their dwindling loyalist libshit readers to defend them from the killing blow. “No, really, we are the Final Arbiters of Truth. Trust us! Would we lie to you?”

No, thanks. That ship has sailed. It’s time to make bacon out of you.

England, Then And Now

Levenshulme girls High School in Manchester, England has changed a bit. pic.twitter.com/JFb27zcO8U

— /pol/ News Network (@polNewsNet) April 4, 2017