Caring Vs Uncaring Assholery

A reader ponders:

First off I’d like to say you’re really doing the world a public service. I came across your blog by googling ” how to spot a slut,” (trying to figure out if my girlfriend at the time was…she met your criteria and she was a huge slut). Anyhow in one of your much earlier posts you point out that there are two types of assholes. The uncaring and caring. The latter coming from a place of hate and insulting women and not really forming any sort of attraction. That is where I am right now how would i make the shift into the uncaring asshole category?

Think about the most inconsiderate person you know. Then, act like him. That’s how you make the shift.

If you don’t know anyone like that, then you’ll have to make the shift by adjusting your inner game, which means forcing yourself by sheer strength of will to become less outcome-dependent. Uncaring assholes are truly the masters of outcome-independence. They hardly feel a twinge to their egos when any one girl falls through as a prospect. That attitude is catnip to women.

The reader is referring to this old post which dissected the difference between assholes that women love and assholes that women suspect are really spiteful betas in alpha clothing. Quoting:

There are genuine assholes who are loved, and there are spiteful assholes who get nowhere. The difference is crucial.

Uncaring asshole = success with women.

Caring asshole = failure with women.

When women say they don’t fall for assholes, they are thinking of the second kind. A caring asshole comes from a place of bitterness and spite. His assholery is reactive rather than proactive. He is poor at calibrating which women will be responsive to his dick attitude. Caring assholes are crassly insulting and transparently invested in the outcome of their game.

Uncaring assholes are assholes as a consequence of their indifference. It is the aloofness of the man she loves that drives women crazy with obsession*, and that aloofness is manifest as asshole behavior. An uncaring asshole demonstrates clearly in his body language and tone of voice, not to mention his dearth of words, that he could take her or leave her.

A good rule of thumb to detmerine if you are leaning more toward the caring side of assholery:

Do you feel emotionally invested in the reaction you’re trying to get from girls you want to have sex with? When you asshole it up, does your blood pressure rise? Does anger festoon your words? Do you imagine vengeance, hoping to land a solid metaphorical blow to a girl’s ego?

If so, you are trying too hard. Your caring asshole behavior, while better than acting like a sheepish beta if pickup is your goal, will more often than not turn a potential lay away.

I’m not saying there’s never a time for anger. There is. There is a time for red hot passion and white hot rage. But your operational mode should be one of… say it with me… AMUSED MASTERY. Cool-as-fuckness. Imperturbability.

Nor am I saying you should be inconsiderate all the time. If an LTR is your goal, you can’t expect to be inconsiderate with your girlfriend or wife and not eventually string her out so badly that she jettisons you to fill the emotional void in her needy, feminine soul. Many a movie plotline has centered on the ignored wife of a distant alpha husband and the emotionally available sneaky fucker who ingratiates himself to her for the damning tryst.

Within the context of an LTR, consideration should be seasoned with inconsiderate aloofness, like a sprinkle of pepper on a nourishing bowl of soup. That is the zen way of poon.

But when dating and seeking the hookup, (to lead possibly to deepening love), aloof and sometimes even callous disregard will intrigue far more hot and high value women than not. And this is especially true for women living in the salad days of their fertility.

You have to recite the following as part of a self-motivational technique for imbuing yourself with the right (i.e., sexy) attitude:

I must not obsess. Obsession is the mind-killer. Obsession is the little-death that brings total betaness. I will face my obsession. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when my obsession is gone I will turn and face its path, and only my alpha self will remain.

Once you can confidently proclaim that oneitis no longer stalks you like a leech on your masculinity, that there will never again be “that one girl” you must have, that no girl’s inconsequential caprice can rattle your self-possession, and that you have let go of your spite and your anxiety, will you have arrived in a place that permits the blooming of uncaring assholery. And the parting of labial petals.

Few men achieve this level of state control, and with good reason: it’s hard. Great beauty can disturb the stillest mind. But try you must. You’ll have to bear the torment of self-awareness to make your attempt count, but it beats the alternative of sleepwalking through life in ignorant betatude.

When A Shit Test Isn’t A Shit Test

Not every insult (veiled or blatant), punchy challenge, or arch criticism by a woman is a shit test as the term is commonly understood — a subconsciously guided female examination of a man’s grace under pressure that helps her assess his alphaness. There are other reasons a woman might be critical of a man she is dating or evaluating as a suitor.

I have observed that there are two alternate explanations for bitchy behavior that men will encounter most often in the course of their love lives.

1. She is genuinely repulsed by a man’s betaness.

When a girl is sincerely and uncompromisingly put off by cloying or socially clumsy beta male behavior, she will sometimes be unable to stifle the disgust she feels and her animus will come spilling out in icy cold body language, nagging, scolding and nit-picking. This is predominantly the behavior of the bitch in betrothed bondage to the beta male, who has grown tired, or become unsettlingly aware, of her hubby’s unsexy weakness. The beta husband who finds his time with his wife increasingly characterized by seemingly irrational wifely outbursts of anger, incessant nagging about inconsequential misdemeanors, passive-aggressive sex withdrawal and assorted glib jabs and cruel mannerisms that show a disrespect for his presumed status and masculine prerogative, is experiencing the foul ministrations of a woman in thrall to her slow boil of hate for male enfeeblement. This phenomenon is easily substitutable for men and women in unmarried long-term relationships.

Men, beware. This is no shit test. It is your most immediate warning sign that your lover is about to leave you, or, worse, cheat on you. She has no interest in sussing out your manliness; she is only a fist of rage semi-incoherntly lashing out at you for making her feel unfeminine. Treating her behavior like an extended shit test may actually backfire if you haven’t prepped her for your transformation to a man willing to display his balls.

Note that this supremely bitchy behavior may occasionally manifest early in the courtship dance, usually by women with low impulse control and looks in the 4-7 range; the kind of women who get hit on a lot by “creepy” men thinking they have a chance, and who have reached their tolerance threshold for such brazen men. If flecks of spittle fly as she castigates you, or she is simultaneously backing away while hurling her insults at your face, or her entire body curls up into a phantom turtle shell at the mere exposure of her personal space to your entreaties, you are likely dealing with sincere loathing and not a shit test to be aced for further sexual exploration.

2. She is afraid of losing her man.

A girl who adores her boyfriend will, at times, and especially during those moments when his appeal to competitor women is most discernible, act in ways that strike normal, logical men as strange. Instead of anointing with flattery and devotionals, the anxious woman with commitment extraction on her mind may respond with what she perceives as self-esteem lowering cuts to some or another flaw of her boyfriend’s.

The flaws she highlights will almost always be of a physical nature, or a treatise on his style. “You’re getting pudgy.” “I never noticed before how gross your toes are.” “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.” “You’re too pale.” “You walk funny.” “That shirt makes you look like a doofus.”

Charming, eh? Ah, but she will hardly be able to announce these flaws with the expected contempt; often her critique will be leavened with a revealing brightness in the eyes and sensuously accessible body language. An experienced man will rapidly know her bitchiness comes from a place of insecurity about her standing with him. He will know, as true as the sun rises in the east, that women simply don’t put very much emphasis on a man’s looks in comparison to the other attractiveness traits that women desire in men. And that this truism goes double for a woman in love, for whom her man’s looks are a paltry secondary consideration to his wit, leadership, humor, kindness, cockiness, thoughtfulness, edginess and sexual prowess. And so her criticisms of his physical state or fashion sense will trickle harmlessly off his ego like water off a duck’s back, understood as they are as the bleatings of a desperate lover engaged in a mini power play.

The woman chooses the physical and the stylistic for her barbs because she is projecting her very real female horror at coming up short in these two areas critical to her own SMV onto her man, for whom she mistakenly believes pokes at his physical attributes will have the same effect on him as it would on her; namely, the effect of luring him more deeply into an approval-seeking mode of thought and, thus, a stronger commitment from him that she much desires. This type of subversive badinage is actually a form of bonding for the woman. Unlike insults directed at a man’s status for which there is no turning back, the nature of petty jabs at his looks or his choice of clothes brings a woman closer to her man; she is complicit in his reformulation to something “better”, i.e. domesticated.

Men, be gladdened. If you hear your girlfriend or wife criticizing you in this manner, you are confirmed to be sitting pretty in the driver’s seat of the relationship. You have hand. She wants what only you have to give: increased commitment. And she wants it as badly as you wanted her sex when the two of you started dating.

You may play it off like a shit test, replying in knowing condescension or, even funnier, feigned concern. E.g., “Yes, I really ought to get right on that fixing my troll toes. I’ll schedule an amputation tomorrow.” But be warned: the nature of this type of criticism is not usually that of the shit test. She is not interested in deducing your alphaness; she already knows about that, and anyhow her jabs are of a different nature when it is playful shit testing that motivates her.

No, she wants to hurt you just a little bit — to make you just insecure enough, really, to inspire you to ingratiate yourself to her needs without turning you away completely or unintentionally pushing you to desperate, servile betatude — and pointed, spiteful criticism of your physical flaws (that she thinks ought to matter to her, and to you, but really don’t) is how she gets at you. She knows you’re confident to volley her verbal airstrikes. If you begin hearing a lot of this sort of criticism from her, it means flirty parrying is not what she seeks; she wants your ultimate capitulation.

…every kiss begins with three months’ salary

The Feminists, Equalists And Economists Are Gonna Hate This

The NewYorkBetaTimes, of all the flaccid media organs!, reports on a study that finds genes play a major role in primate social behavior.

Social behavior among primates — including humans — has a substantial genetic basis, a team of scientists has concluded from a new survey of social structure across the primate family tree.

The scientists, at the University of Oxford in England, looked at the evolutionary family tree of 217 primate species whose social organization is known. Their findings, published in the journal Nature, challenge some of the leading theories of social behavior, including:

– That social structure is shaped by environment — for instance, a species whose food is widely dispersed may need to live in large groups.

– That complex societies evolve step by step from simple ones.

– And the so-called social brain hypothesis: that intelligence and brain volume increase with group size because individuals must manage more social relationships.

By contrast, the new survey emphasizes the major role of genetics in shaping sociality. Being rooted in genetics, social structure is hard to change, and a species has to operate with whatever social structure it inherits.

If social behavior were mostly shaped by ecology, then related species living in different environments should display a variety of social structures. But the Oxford biologists — Susanne Shultz, Christopher Opie and Quentin Atkinson — found the opposite was true: Primate species tended to have the same social structure as their close relatives, regardless of how and where they live.

One by one, the shibboleths of the post-Enlightenment Left crumble into dust, their lies scattering like tumbleweed on the purifying desert winds.

The Old World monkeys, for example, a group that includes baboons and macaques, live in many habitats, from savanna to rain forest to alpine regions, and may feed on fruit or leaves or grass. Yet all have very similar social systems, suggesting that their common ancestry — and the inherited genes that shape behavior — are a stronger influence than ecology on their social structure.

Genes a stronger influence on social structure — aka culture — than the environment? Now who was it said something similar not too long ago on this very outpost of mortifying truths? Ah, yes:

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” [feminists] so recoil from are actually subconscious reinforcements of ancient biological truths.

Great crops of corn, I hate to toot my own horn, but goddamn… strike up the band!

The fact that related species have similar social structures, presumably because the genes for social behavior are inherited from a common ancestor, “spells trouble” for ecological explanations, Joan B. Silk, a primate expert at the University of California, Los Angeles, wrote in a commentary in Nature. Also, the finding that there has not been a steady progression from small groups to large ones challenges the social brain hypothesis, Dr. Silk said.

The Oxford survey confirms that the structure of human society, too, is likely to have a genetic basis, since humans are in the primate family, said Bernard Chapais, an expert on human social evolution at the University of Montreal.

Think about the radical implications this study *should* have on public policy. (I say “should” because the old guard will work tirelessly to smear anyone who dares draw the arrow from human genetic predisposition to informed social policy.) If it became commonly accepted knowledge that genes play a major, maybe even predominant, role in how human population groups organize socially, sexually and economically, then in one fell swoop the following canons would be reduced to the dung heap of exposed lies, alongside such luminous repositories of sacred thought as geocentrism, Freudianism, Communism and the theory of buying chicks stuff on the first date in hopes of sex:

– redistribution (in any form) for any means other than intergroup pacification

– feminism

– egalitarianism

– rational actor economics

– multiculturalism

– laissez-faire libertarianism in heterogeneous societies

– unrestricted immigration

– ideologies with cultural conditioning theories as their centerpiece

– exported democratization

– cheap chalupaism

The strawmen armies will, naturally, come marching out in force to cow anyone from waving this study in the air like a beacon to guide the free thinkers through a battlefield shrouded in choking gas, mud and fog. I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with them all here, but for a few exceedingly trite and trollish objections.

“Apes aren’t humans.”

Funny how the pro-evolution Left is so quick to highlight the gulf between apes and humans when it suits their agenda. Apes aren’t humans, but apes are our closest cousins. From them we can learn much about ourselves, if not everything.

“Genes aren’t destiny. Our fates aren’t predetermined.”

Reductio ad absurdum. Genes aren’t destiny, but they are significant constraints on destiny. For instance, (and to use a very obvious example), a man with a genetic predisposition to criminality can have his unobstructed destiny to inflict pain and suffering on others severely altered by a long prison stint. But remove that environmental influence, and his genetic impulse resumes primary ownership of his behavior. So while we don’t have exact destinies given us at our birth from which we may never stray, we do have paths laid before us that are closer to, or further from, alignment with our natural genetic proclivities. The rockier the path, the stricter the environmental or cultural controls needed to keep us trundling along it. The smoother the path, the looser the controls needed.

“Ok, genes may play a role, but humans share 99.whatever% of their genes.”

Great. We also share 99% of our genes with mice, but no one would mistake a man for a mouse. Unless he’s named H. Schwyzer. That .whatever% of genes we don’t universally share makes for a lot of difference.

“Humans can adapt.”

Correction: Humans can adapt more or less easily. And sometimes, not at all. Public policy should be that which encourages the construction and maintenance of a prosperous national environment that puts as few stressors on its citizens’ store of ability to adapt as possible.

Within my lifetime, I would love to see the self-evident truths encompassed in this post recognized and embraced by the elite. But it’s looking more and more like that is a pipe dream. Instead, traitors and liars will drag us down into the dark, murky abyss before they surrender their pride.

Street Smarts, Game And The White Underclass

How’s that for an omnibus blog post title?

A reader sent a link to a hilarious blog called ‘Texts From Bennett’ which is a compendium of text message conversations between some dude and his 17-year-old white cousin who, with great pride, thinks, or rather wishes, he’s part black.

I’ve been a reader for about two years now and your site has changed my life, so thanks.

I’m sure by now you have heard of Texts From Bennett. It is a blog that went viral a few weeks ago.

One of the posts shows the cousin asking Bennett why he always gets LJBF’d. The cousin is a beta who, according to Bennett, “crys wen u watch football,” and “enjoys capshuring butterflys.” So when he asks Bennett what to do, Bennett gives some apt advice. More here.

Despite his lack of education, Bennett understands game and I have no doubt he cleans up with the dregs of Kansas City.

Let’s assume for the sake of expediency that Texts From Bennett is a warehouse of legitimate conversations by a real teenage whigger living in the crappy part of Kansas City expounding on the issues of the day, and not a clever hoax for the amusement of the blog host. (The numerous assurances by the blogger that the texts are real makes one suspicious of its authenticity, but whatevs.) Even if fake, Bennett is an iconic Millennial generation representative of the white underclass. He is funny because he strikes so many true chords: the thug-lite attitude, the exaltation of ghetto black dysfunction, the proud anti-intellectualism and its substitution with the elevation of street smarts, the defiant middle finger to the mores of the SWPL and upper classes… all lamentable customs and affectations if the survival and thriving of first world civilization is your thing.

But hidden amongst the pile of manure is a gem of a discovery. As the reader notes, Bennett has game, and he has the best kind of game: primitive natural game that knows not what it’s doing.

Here, for instance, is Bennett showing that he understands women don’t swoon for betaboy idealistic romanticism:

Who can deny the wisdom in these words? Weepy, emotionally available betas are LJBFed. Insensitively aloof alphas are sexually pleasured. And this is particularly true of women in the prime of their attractiveness and allure, that glorious window between ages 15 and 25.

Here’s Bennett on the interchangeability of women as sexual pursuits and the universal female attraction for the badboy:

Bennett is a great illustration of the sour stereotype that dumb but socially savvy men will do better with women than smart but nerdy men. No one would imagine that Bennett is acing Algebra II. But a lot of people can easily imagine him pulling more ass — and higher quality ass* — than the typical studious middle-class white boy.

*Higher quality in the context of the sexual market refers to a woman’s most valuable attributes: namely, her looks and the cut of her curves. They may be dregs by socioeconomic standards, but that won’t prevent them from stimulating wood in the most landed of gentry.

It’s been remarked here before that thugs and assorted assholes and asshole-wannabes often exhibit more natural game than smart, agreeable professionals who second-guess themselves at every turn. This is completely understandable once you come to terms with the reality of the prime motivating force behind vagina tingles: a man’s attitude. The right attitude — an insouciant mix of devil-may-care whimsy, impulsiveness, self-centeredness, vanity, cruelty and often-undeserved confidence — is the winning formula for scoring lots of hot babes. Or, if monogamy is your thing, for piquing the interest of that one hot girlfriend, to be leavened later by shows of provision and calculated vulnerability.

A hopeless fap-happy beta can’t go wrong observing the fauna of regressives like Bennett in action and heeding his crudely reductive advice. This fact of life surely disheartens a lot of you educated and sophisticated readers. A visual is drawn of some of you cursing the dbags on Jersey Shore and the hot ass they’re tagging that you aren’t.

If the country is filling up with Bennetts — and Bennetts exist in all classes — this says something about the nature and demands of women, who, after all, are the gatekeepers of sex and the primary molders of male behavior. Even if Bennett is a fantasy character devised by a mischievous imp trolling coastal reporters salivating at the thought of interviewing a white trash caricature who rationalizes their hate, a rising sea of his kind is undoubtedly swamping the US, hidden in plain sight from gated communities and invidiously creating a new norm, like dumbfuck kudzu. A culture teeming with shameless Bennetts and dotted with islands of antagonistic SWPLs and tribalistic snarkers is a doomed culture, too far gone to resuscitate. Stick a fork in it, it’s done.

On the upside, the sex lives of alphas may be experiencing its cultural zenith. And Bennett, like the “Umm, sorry?” guy, are our time’s prophets.

Should Game Be Taught In School?

Reader “Harkat” asks:

Should game, or at least socio-sexual dynamics, be taught in middle/high school? It’s a significant part of life, and knowledge of these topics would help the vast majority of confused teenagers (at least the boys).

The little that was said about sexual dynamics in my high school was extremely idealist egalitarian and far from reality, and did nothing to help us (at least not the boys). We got delivered phrases like “Do not feel pressure to have sex!”, which hardly resonates with the average teenage boy.

In a perfect world, sex and love education is left to family (parents, friends, older siblings, cool uncles) and experience. But we are far from that world, and condoms are rolled over bananas while men are rapped for phantom sexual repression in the halls and classrooms of almost all our venerated institutions. That being the case, it’s more effective to undermine suffocating elite orthodoxy by working within its confines, instead of feebly fist-pumping from outside it. So, yes, in a world designed according to Chateau tenets, game would be taught to high school boys — preferably in classes separate from the girls.

I can see it now.

Week 1: Introductions to male-female sex differences and Syllabus (Included readings from various respected sources in evo psych, game and social dynamics, e.g., Ridley, Markovic, Carnegie).

Week 2: Why chicks dig jerks. (Students expected to fully understand sexy son hypothesis).

Week 3: Alphas and betas, the hidden hierarchy.

Week 4: Sycophancy and involuntary celibacy, the connection.

Week 5: Men and women have an agenda, and how to recognize it.

Week 6: Game as revolution in sociosexual thought.

Week 7: Core game principles.

Week 8: Dating to maximize one’s happiness.

Week 9: Sex, guilt and expectations: why society has an interest in corralling male desire.

Week 10: Relationships and marriage: making them work.

Week 11: Finals: In-field exam.

Music to my ears. Of course, this will never happen. Teaching young men the unvarnished truth about women, sex, dating and marriage would throw grit into the gears of the beta cog molding machine that supplies a never-ending procession of obedient housetrained quasi-eunuchs. What good does it do the dealers of consumerist opiates if they can’t domesticate a suitably pliable army to staff their globocorporate offices?

The channeling of male vitality with the help of useful lies has been a central element of the civilizing process in the West and elsewhere for eons. It has its place, even for the poolsiders who need a prosperous nation in which to pursue their lifestyles. But the last fifty or sixty years (monarchists would argue the effort goes back at least 150 years) has witnessed the twisting of this process into a monstrous form, under whose shadow the lies have multiplied and tyrannized free-thinking men, restricting respectable thought to a narrow range of groupthink.

A public policy to make the teaching of game and its underlying concepts mandatory for high schoolers would have to overcome so many obstacles and entrenched thought and interests as to limit the notion strictly to the realm of fantasy. But that doesn’t mean current sex ed classes can’t be deviously rippled with pebbles of thoughtcrime by sympathetic operatives.

Instead of starve the beast, you could call this the “stuff the beast” philosophy of saving civilization by feeding it too much of its own late-stage bile. A hastening and amplifying of consequences, come to reckoning in technicolor exuberance. And you might even help a few tormented betas get laid on their own timetables.

Are Ugly Women Necessary As Stepping Stones?

Alert: Intrapickup squabble!

Is it true that an aspiring womanizer — or even a typical man in a billowy button-down who wants to improve his love life — must pay his dues with ugly women before he can achieve the goal of banging hotter women? The question hints at a significant fault line in current pickup thinking, precisely because it throws into stark relief the ego-shattering human impulse to judge men based on the quality of women they pull.

I’ll paraphrase a reader’s objections, who asked not to be directly quoted:

Roosh’s idea that you have to bang a lot of unattractive women to get hotter women is not persuasive. What helps is getting laid regularly, which doesn’t necessarily require cutting your teeth on ugly chicks. You only need one woman to get laid regularly, so such a strategy obviates the need to fill up your notch post with lots of uglies and plain janes. Ideally, your “regular lay” should be in the 6 to 8 range, but if you’re a newbie you may have to start with 4s and 5s. Picking up large numbers of less attractive women may give you experience with logistics and help with honing your routines, but that is the relatively easy part of game. Getting laid regularly, even if it’s with one woman, is all a man needs to step up to the next higher beauty class.

My opinion on this matter falls somewhere between Roosh’s and the anonymous reader’s takes. Roosh is entirely correct to note that men who use the “I have standards” excuse are, more often than not, men who aren’t living up to their professed high standards. It’s similar in spirit to the internet nerd sour grapes syndrome, in which hot chicks that are unavailable to them are deemed unworthy of their loving nerd attention because of some ridiculously trivial flaw, like pointy elbows.

Roosh is also onto something when he advocates for having flexible standards. If 8s and above are all you will deign to approach, then there are going to be times and places when and where you will endure some long, tough dry spells, and this is especially true if you are an average guy with average game and above average horniness. Unless you have rock solid inner game and unshakeable confidence that enables you to weather extended down times without losing your pickup magic or your aura of charismatic fuckability, those dry spells will hurt your interactions with women. Like dogs can smell fear, women can smell celibacy.

The reader suggests that the ideal route for men to take to avoid sexless purgatory while keeping the ladder-climbing option open is to gun for the decent-looking regular lay. This allows a man to avoid the dispiritment that accompanies fucking too many uglies while also sparing him the stink of celibacy that erodes confidence and spooks hot chicks.

And that’s where I part company with Roosh and favor the life strategy of the anonymous reader. Fucking uglies, in even small quantities and in temporary bouts, risks flirting with depression and slumping into a long-term rut. I don’t come by this view speculatively. I have some real world trials by trolls from which to evangelize. I’ll give you an example I’m thinking of from years ago:

I had spent a few weeks fucking a 5. It was only four bang sessions, but that was enough to alter my self-perception and mood. I had gone through a bad breakup and she (the 5) presented herself, fortuitously, almost immediately after the final severance from my ex. She was friendly and sweet, and open to meeting someone. I gamed her but hardly needed more than my first wave artillery; she melted quickly. She had a good body, so despite her plain face the sex was good. But I couldn’t help notice it was not as good as   sex with hotter women.

Just at the point I was getting the full measure of my single man’s confidence back, the 5 conveniently left town, rescuing me from the awkwardness of a messy dumping I knew had to be done. However, upon leaving, the sexless rut began to reappear. Two weeks went by with no acceptable nibbles on my penile line. A buddy who was a wingman at the time suggested I meet up with a girl he had failed with himself as a sort of friendship offering in difficult times.

“You’ll really like this girl. She’s totally your type. A solid 8. Very hot, blonde.”

“Oh yeah? If she’s so hot, why aren’t you working on her?”

“I did. I got nowhere, but it’s OK, I prefer brunettes. We hang out together. She makes me look good when we go out.”

“So you want me to meet her? Hmm.”

“Yes, you’ll thank me.”

We met, all four of us — me, the “hot blonde 8”, my friend, and his current girlfriend — late at night under cover of a dark lounge. I didn’t know where my friend’s head was, but she was no 8. Yes, she had blonde hair, but that was about where the confirmation of my friend’s powers of observation ended. From what I could glean through the dim club light and my alcoholic haze, she was no better than a 6, and maybe even a 5.

Nevertheless, I was horny, and feeling down. I could use the pickmeup pickherup. We trundled outside, into a cab, and I took her back to my pad. Inside my place, lights at full blast, I was sorely disappointed to realize my friend’s “solid 8” was a weak 4. I had never fucked a 4 before, and never would again.

Too late to reverse course, and bored into conspiracy, I lamely escorted her into my bed, and quickly swung her into the doggy-style position where exposure to her face would be limited. Her body wasn’t half-bad, but not good enough to compensate; my dick went limp inside her vagina. I imagine that has to be a girl’s worst nightmare; up front rejection in the form of a backturn or a wandering eye is bad enough, but getting rejected in the most softeningly obvious way possible when you are literally giving it everything you’ve got, your womanhood deeply committed… well, that’s gotta sting.

I couldn’t be bothered to make excuses. She dressed and left in silence. My blue mood hardened. I cursed my friend’s taste in women. I took a shower to wash off the dirt that had alighted upon my soul.

Two women, one borderline ugly and the other plain as unsyruped pancakes, in a row and I was done with the idea of it. Their company, however genial and accommodating, did nothing to lift my spirits or gird my confidence. Just the opposite, in fact: I fell deeper into self-flagellation.

One week after the limp-out incident, I hit up a local lounge and met an 8.5 whom I would spend the next five months fucking in gloriously hedonistic abandon. I have yet to share my bed since then with a woman lower than a 6.5. I learned my lesson.

I’m as horny a guy as you’ll find, but I have to admit not so horny that I’ll start rummaging through the 3 and 4 kitchen trash if there’s no four star restaurant available. Maybe that’s a problem of getting laid too regularly — you lose that wall-climbing horniness that would compel you to stick it in the most convenient wet hole. Ugly girls as stepping stones to hotter women sounds good in theory, but in reality sex with them too often — and too often can happen a lot faster than most men realize — is not only a time and energy suck, but a depressive drug that corrodes self-confidence.

Perhaps this feeling — this sex dynamic — varies by race, age and baseline dignity. If so, more power to the guys who don’t mind dumping fucks in seacows and butterfaces. I can’t bring myself to do it, even if it’s all the local talent has to offer. My minimum threshold in women’s looks is 6, under which it becomes almost physiologically impossible for me to complete the bang.

My inner game is strong enough now that I can afford to risk a month or two downtime without getting too rusty or too doubtful of my skills. I would only use an ugly girl who fell below my minimum looks threshold as a stepping stone in the most dire of circumstances, such as if my dry spell extends beyond two months, or I’ve taken to, ahem, “mood enhancers” that give me 24 hour wood.

So you might say that the reader’s strategy is the way to go if you are a high risk for lengthy dry spells, and your game and self-possession aren’t strong enough to carry you through a slump slumming it with ugly chicks. Alternatively, Roosh’s strategy — to skip the “regular lay” girlfriends and just focus on getting laid even if the talent available is not up to snuff — is better if you can’t tolerate any kind of dry spell, if your dick is indiscriminate, and if your game is good enough that regular pickup with little downtime is within the realm of possibility.

TL;DR Don’t make a habit of banging ugly chicks. It can be as bad for your self-confidence as involuntary celibacy.

Anti-Flake Tactic

Le Chateau and its guests have offered many battle plans for combating flakiness in young women. (I stress “young”, because older women with fewer options don’t knee-jerk resort to flaking as often as women in their attractiveness primes do.) Non sequitur game is a great method for dissuading women from flaking by switching their pursuit dynamic from chased to chaser. Trial texting game is effective at screening out girls who are more likely to flake on you. The archives abound with other techniques for dealing with, and dismantling the female impulse toward, flakiness.

Now a reader has offered another anti-flake tactic, and it is a good one.

Her: 24 year old half Finn, half French, internationally raised (diplo-brat?), a 7-8? (we’ve never met)
Me: 33

Met on okcupid (judge away, it’s great where I live), arranged a Friday evening first date, I get a text 30 mins before we’re to meet:

Her: Salut, i just got to my friends bday, u have to get up early, so maybe another time? Sunday perhaps?
Me: (next day at noon) Can’t! I’m busy tomorrow.
Me: (8 hours later) Sorry I was working. We can reschedule but you’d have to put forth the effort. Self-respecting men don’t play those early twenties games…
(I assumed I’d look bitter and never hear from her again. I didn’t care.)
Her: (on OKC the next morning) Hey, sorry about Friday, it was not very polite to cancel last minute, sorry.
I have a friend staying with me next week until the 21st, so I’m not sure when I’ll be available to meet up.
Have a nice Sunday,
Me: (by text a few hours later) Hey, got your note. I’m not too busy to swing a drink today. Can you?
Her: (5 mins later) Am at [museum] now but free after that
Me: (45 mins later) Ok how’s this evening?
Her: (15 mins later) Great, tell me where and when and I’ll be there

A solid turnaround, I’d say.

Tight, my good sir, tight. You could call this “next day service” game, where you don’t respond to a foot-dragging, flaky woman until the next day. (Forget about the planned date; a woman who has flaked on you 30 minutes before a date does not anyway deserve your company should you manage to change her mind about meeting you at the originally scheduled time.)

A woman will not be able to resist her hamstery compulsion to perceive your status higher than she first judged if you make her sweat a little, or a lot, with a non-response when she is expecting a response, and with a non-spiteful or non-needy response when you do eventually respond to her.

There are only two acceptable and effective attitudes to cop with flaky chicks:

1. She is a lost cause, so any forward progress is merely icing on the cake that is your life, or

2. you assume the sale and handle her as if she really wants you and is just playing the brat for make benefit of her glorious ego.

The reader quoted above had an attitude that encompassed a bit of both. He was sufficiently unimpressed by her that he could afford to wait a day to respond to her flake, and when he did respond he did so with the confident, non-pussyfooting-around air of a man who assumed the flake just needed a little prodding.

Most flakes won’t go anywhere, and, assuming you maintain a full love life otherwise, that’s a good thing. A flaky woman has tipped you off that she is a specimen of poor character, and will, truer than not, eventually resolve herself into a pain in the ass. You’re better off screening out flakes quickly than dealing with them in perpetuity.

But anti-flake game will give you a shot to turn it around with a nontrivial number of flaky chicks. For such a low cost investment in your time and energy, it’s worth the attempt.