The Self-Deception Of The White Knight

The “man” in this story could qualify for Beta of the Year:

It started with one text message: She just wanted to know why he was skipping her class.

But P.E. teacher Michele Taylor’s alleged relationship with a 17-year-old student at East Valley High School escalated quickly after that. From a stolen kiss in her office to sex in the backseat of her husband’s truck in the parking lot behind a Yakima Kmart.

This kid is a natural player. Skipping class = takeaway. Women can’t resist an underage boy playing hard to get.

It all began last March with that first message. Taylor was a mother of triplets and married to Kevin, also a P.E. teacher at East Valley.

Her alleged romantic interest was only 16-years-old when the flirtation started. Over the course of four months, he told a Yakima jury yesterday, he exchanged over 400 text messages with Taylor, some of which were explicit.

Michele Taylor is another one of these hot for teacher blonde cuties betraying her beta hubby to lay with her teen boy students. We’ve had a rash of them in this country lately. Reasonable minds might wonder what is going on. I have a couple of theories. Husbands are more beta than ever, turning off their wives so completely that the deprived dears seek that lost tingly feeling in the nearest devil-may-care cock. And teen boys are carelessly devil-may-care. Another possibility: a subset of teen boys are learning game at a much earlier age than past generations of men, and they are capitalizing on alpha-starved older women. Maybe the use-em-and-lose-em, pimps up hos down player mentality zeitgeist is percolating down into high schools and junior high.

One night the boy was hanging out with his girlfriend when he got a text asking him to meet Taylor at Kmart. “I knew pretty much what was going to happen,” the boy said in testimony reported by the Yakima Herald-Republic.

The boy went anyway. And, he testified, he and Taylor did end up having unprotected sex, since she insisted he didn’t need to worry about a condom unless he had STDs.

If Taylor’s husband has any brains at all, he’ll demand paternity tests on all his current children and any future kids he may have with her.

Speaking of which…. mandatory paternity testing now! It’s the right thing to do, both for individual men and for society.

According to the boy, he drove home that night, got in a shower and cried because he “felt dirty.”

Somebody coached the kid to say that.

Although he lied to his girlfriend and parents initially that anything was going on, he eventually copped to the relationship when it was revealed that another, 15-year-old student was exchanging similar texts with Taylor.

Damn, bitch gets around! Talk about shitting where you work. She may be a classifiable nymphomaniac. Poor kid… you don’t feel so special anymore, do ya?

And now we get to the most nauseating part of the story:

Taylor’s husband, Kevin, meanwhile, denies that his wife engaged in anything inappropriate. The Herald-Republic reports that he came to court wearing a shirt with the words “I Love My Wife” written on it and had to be directed by the judge to quit staring down student witnesses testifying against Taylor.

There are few humiliating degradations a natural born beta will visit upon himself that would surprise me, but this has got to be a new low. “I Love My Wife”!? Could there be a more elegant metaphorical distillation of the wretchedness of self-immolating, soul-shriveling betatude?

Wife carries on text affair with multiple teen boys.
Husband approves of text messages. (“No reason to be suspicious”, he claims.)
Wife accused of statutorily raping one of the boys, with implications there were others.
Husband  shows up in court wearing I love my wife tee, and stares daggers at witnesses daring to besmirch his angelic wife’s reputation.
Wife tingles in her nether region for boy student witnesses, unbeknownst to gallant husband defending her on the stand.

You can see video of the delusional husband here. He certainly has that watery-eyed beta look about the face. The only redeeming explanation for his behavior I can think of is that he, too, is fucking one of his teen girl students and his wife knows, so he is covering for her on threat that she’ll reveal his indiscretions. That would raise my estimation of his character quite a bit.

Why are so many betas capable of such Freudian feats of self-deception when confronted with their wives’ and lovers’ infidelity? I submit that it is fear, at heart, that drives this Stockholm Syndrome-ish mental mutilation. Fear of being outed as the unworthy husband, the duped tool, the cuckold… and fear of being alone, unsexed, and unable to find another woman. Such men cling like barnacles to their fear, and let it direct their every decision and their perception of events, even when the evidence against their delusions is slapping them upside the head. Fear is the natural state of the beta. It is their greatest self-imposed limitation.

Not to mention the stacked deck against men that is the man-hating divorce industry.

Quick to forgive, is the beta. In his forgiveness, he expects redemption and gratitude. Even renewed love. But instead he gets contempt, the pity born of hate.

If he only knew the truth…

The Sexual Market Stripped Naked

Do you want to see the sexual market raw and uncensored, all superfluous hypocrisy and rationalization stripped clean? Watch this 20 minute reality TV show called ‘Battle of the Bods’. (It’s more exciting than watching soccer.) Five skimpily dressed women are asked to compare themselves on their faces, asses, and overall look. Call it the World Slut Cup. The women hiss and scratch each other until they reach a sort of consensus on where they rank, and then their self-evaluations are matched up with the evaluations of the three male judges sitting in a judging booth behind one-way glass. The closer the evaluations match, the more money the girls win.

Before the usual suspects chime in, I checked around for evidence that the show was faked. I didn’t find any, so let’s operate on the assumption that what you see in this show is what you get. Why would grown women ritualistically humiliate themselves for fame and (a very small) fortune? After watching this clip you’ll come to understand that a financial incentive was not needed. Once the competitive spirit is unleashed in the one market to rule them all, an ancient spirit force lumbers up from the depths of the human psyche to do its will, and politesse yields mercilessly as claws and fangs are bared for the kill. The men’s own market value was barely a factor to inspire this cat fight! All that was needed to inspire the worst in the women was knowledge that they were being judged, one against the other, by men sight unseen.

A few observations:

This show is further proof that Russian women are, on average, the most beautiful women in the world. Was WWII a great evil that birthed a great good? And, if so, would that be evidence for, or against, god?

It is also more proof that men pretty much think alike about what constitutes female beauty. I agreed with the final ranking.

It also offers evidence that men of different large scale racial groups differ slightly in their sexual preferences. The one black man on the judge’s panel expressed a clear preference for the black woman’s bigger butt, while the two white men preferred the less obtrusive asses of the white girls.

Josie, the yapping yenta and least attractive of the five women, immediately comes out swinging. She intuitively knows she is outranked by all the other women, so her strategy, honed by millions of years of evolution, is to drag the higher ranking members of the tribe down to her level.

Josie also shows that tallness, in and of itself, is not a positive attractiveness trait in women.

Anastasia, the hottest girl, is the most self-deprecating and diplomatic of the women. As the implied leader of the group, (in modern human tribes, the most beautiful woman is usually, though not always, the alpha female), she also has been honed by evolution to avoid ostracizing herself by arrogantly strutting her genetic advantages.

The women are most vicious when it’s their facial beauty under the harsh klieg lights. They’re a little more tactful and conciliatory when they’re judging each other’s asses or “overall look”. This proves my contention that for most men a woman’s facial beauty is more important than how closely her body conforms to ideal proportions. When a choice between the two has to be made, men will choose the facially beautiful woman with the slightly flawed body over the facially average woman with the rocking body for long term commitment. Short term flings and one night stands are a different matter, as men find the thrill of banging a hot bod worth the cost of being dragooned into kissing the lips of an unappetizing face. Women instinctively know this about men, and since women value long term commitments far more than short term hookups, they understandably are very reluctant to admit flaws in their faces.

The rationalization hamster is tuckered out. Never has the poor rodent had to spin spin so hard. Josie’s hamster alone could fuel the delusions of an army of single moms, fatties, and cougars. “I date doctors, physicians, and executives, I don’t date losers. They couldn’t afford me anyway.” If true, those doctors are wondering why the losers are banging all the hot chicks. “This is my strategy, to piss off the judges and always put myself in last place.” A winning strategy indeed.

I love the hostess. She is genuinely cruel toward Josie, the biggest loser (and likely highest IQ girl) of the group. Her scathingly cutting remarks gave me a boney. “They can’t afford you? Is that because you eat so much?” Ha haaw!

Sexual market ranking has real relevance in the world. Josie’s lower ranking will mean that she will be propositioned less by, and have less long-term access to, the kinds of high ranking men that Anastasia will enjoy with more regularity.

Studies have shown that after an initial, often violent battle, men are quicker to sort themselves into a hierarchy, while women tend to occupy a constantly shifting hierarchical landscape that encourages endless and repetitive jousting over one’s place in the rankings. This show seems to prove it. (Evolution would predict that since men are less reproductively valuable than women — sperm is cheap, eggs are expensive — they span a greater range of status slots than do women who bunch up more in a vast interchangeable bellcurvy middle with less gradation between the different status positions. Do note, though, that where men are less reproductively valuable, women are less civilizationally valuable. See: Charles Murray’s Human Accomplishment.) Watch closely how the men, who at the end of the show must sort themselves for the women’s edification, arrive at a ranking decision rather more quickly and less acrimoniously than did the women. In fact, because status battles between men can often result in bloodshed, (as opposed to psychological status battles among women which rarely endanger the women’s reproductive integrity), men have incentive to refrain from unnecessarily instigating their male competitors when little is on the line. (A man’s looks are less relevant to his sexual status than is his personality, dominance, and social acumen.) You’ll notice the biggest male of the group is also the most self-deprecating and effusive with his compliments to the other men. The other men, meanwhile, don’t go out of their way to endorse their own looks status and thereby risk a possible antagonistic showdown.

I’m sure short men who watched the end of the show are saying to themselves that this proves chicks dig the height. They do. My advice: focus on girls shorter than yourselves, there are plenty of them. And avoid nightclubs.

Josie totally tries to cockblock at the very end when the guys are mingling with the hotter girls. But she is shut out, reduced to orbiting the group like a buzzing bee. There’s a lesson here; cockblocks need allies. Drive the wedge first, then seduce the target.

A Chateau Emissary Delivers Speech To International Bankers

Here is the audio transcript (courtesy of reader johnny five):

Butthex Entitlement – Davos World Economic Forum

Let’s hope the powers that be listen before it’s too late.

Game Is 50% Not Putting Foot In Mouth

I was chatting up a cute chick when I overheard another pickup in progress right next to me. The guy was projecting his voice loudly so I couldn’t help but hear just about every word he said to the smiling girl who was listening intently to him. I glanced over when I had a moment to myself to observe his success or failure. (While watching other men crash and burn is a visceral pleasure, I also enjoy watching men succeed because, one, I can always learn something new, and, two, I am still amazed how often men in successful pickups utilize game principles even when they don’t know they’re doing that.)

The guy was good-looking and high energy. His body language and voice tone were confident. At one point, when he stepped away to get a beer, the girl’s friend leaned in and I heard her say “Wow, he’s cute.” From my vantage, at least until then, this pickup was his to lose.

Which he did. Back with beer in hand, they continued talking, or rather, he continued talking and punctuating his words with finger jabs into the air, while she listened. And listened. And listened. Agonizing minutes ticked by. The energy was suddenly one-sided with his wild, and panicky, abandon, for he must have noticed her demeanor changing from delight to impassive politeness to confused annoyance. The previous pickup momentum, torqued in large measure simply on the strength of his looks and initial pose of confidence, dissipated with surprising rapidity as his “game” crumbled around him in a heap of monkey dancing, gum flapping, desperate body posturing, and cloying oversmiling. He began leaning into her in a vain effort to compel her to commit to the waning conversation, but she was already one foot out the door as her eyes darted around searching for a friend, a lifeline, to pull her away from this once attractive man. His inner beta had betrayed him.

Finally, denouement. A friend touched her elbow and whispered something in her ear. The guy figured out from her body language she was leaving soon, so he suggested they exchange numbers. Or he might’ve suggested he give her his number, I couldn’t pick up what he said at that point very clearly. She took her phone out and he typed his number into it and gave it back to her. As she was leaving, she didn’t look back at him. (A good test whether a girl will flake on you for a future date is if she looks back at you briefly after you have gotten her number and she is leaving the premises with her friends. No lookback = flake.) But he wasn’t done yet. Still smiling like a tard getting tickled, he shouted at her departing footsteps: “Hey, you better memorize my number!”

Woofa.

It all went down in ten minutes. Let this be a lesson. Very good looks on a man without any game will buy him 30 seconds to ten minutes of an attractive girl’s attention, after which he will be unceremoniously (and disappointedly) discarded just like any regular run of the mill schlub who doesn’t understand the art of seduction. Men need to stop projecting their fascination with looks onto women; personality and alphaness are what electrify a woman’s pleasure center. Good looks can send initial sparks, (and sparks is all it is) but the allure wears quickly without compensatory game to buttress it.

I number closed my girl. I did not tell her I would memorize her number.

Texts From The Female Id

Texts From Last Night is a great source of insight into the true nature of women’s sexuality. Why? Because it’s a compilation of texts that typically have been sent under the influence of alcohol, AKA truth serum, or of texts meant for trusted confidants.

Examples:

What women really think of your emoticons:

he sent me a winky sad face. i cannot deal [with] this level of pathetically needy flirtatiousness.

Remember Maxim #101?

For most women, five minutes of alpha is worth five years of beta.

Here’s a text from a girl confirming that maxim:

Just TALKING to him is better than banging my bf, imagine what actual banging will be like.

That is a wicked soulrip worthy of Pinhead’s hooked chains.

Being a beta provider in today’s sexual marketplace is a net negative:

I’ll pay for our taxi if you let me makeout with the drummer and we don’t leave RIGHT when the bassist does.

Pre-selection is the most powerful animating force of female desire:

every time I see Anne Hathaway all I can think is “my cousin fucked a guy who fucked her” and it makes me proud…. so I want to say thank you for being that cousin.

Chicks dig jerks, series without end:

he said ‘i love fucking you, ashley’. it was the most romantic thing he’s said during sex because he actually used my name.

At least the guy was honest. Truth is, that’s what most men mean when they think about romance.

It turns out someone got a hold of my texts and posted them to TFLN. I’m embarrassed by these, but since they’re already out there, it’s best if I just show them to you right now, like ripping off a band-aid, and hope the whole thing blows over quickly.

do you do anal?

***

[GIRL] hey, i’m sorry but i have to cancel for tonight.

[ME] :)))))))))))))))))))

***

[GIRL] you really are an ass.

[ME, three months later] you say something?

***

[GIRL] last night was fantastic, sexy boy.

[ME] tell me about it. i totally kicked your butt in scrabble.

***

i didn’t know you had a younger, hotter, tighter sister.

***

i left the bar tab for you. thanks, cutie!

***

your pussy smells

[15 minutes later] delightful.

***

you’re breaking up with me? was it the dutch ovens?

***

i’m not giving you 500 bucks to see an immigration lawyer. your blowjobs aren’t that good.

***

[GIRL] i’m really falling for you!

[ME] don’t get pregnant.

***

[GIRL] why do you have to be such a jerk?

[ME] why do you have to be such a jerk-lover?

***

[GIRL] i don’t think this is going to work out.

[ME] your mom!

[GIRL] i’m being serious. it’s over.

[ME] your mom!

***

thanks for the romantic evening fucking in your husband’s bed.

***

sorry, men’s nipples really aren’t that sensitive. stop projecting and focus on the important parts.

***

i’ve never seen a naked body like yours.

***

730, thurs, at the pub down the street. wear your fuck me pumps.

***

i think i might’ve accidentally farted in your cat’s face.

I’m so ashamed.

Ubiquitous Yoga Girls

In the evening on weekdays, the sidewalks teem with girls carrying yoga mats tucked under arms to or from classes. Their hair smartly propped in ponytails, perfectly round asses straining against black tights with neon green or peach colored waistbands rolled over the top, they are a flesh phalanx of trimmed and toned T&A. Women who are serious about yoga have the best all-around bodies of any group of exercising women — they beat out soccer players, joggers, bikers, swimmers, and porn stars. I don’t know if it’s the yoga itself that carves such exquisite hardbodies, or if yoga simply attracts Type A++ girls who hone in and sweat out with extreme prejudice 0.1% excess hip fat with the same mechomasculinized focus they apply to shuffling lawyer briefs, but I have yet to meet a woman who regularly attends yoga class who is out of shape. And I’ve taken a few classes. Believe me, ladies, I’m enjoying the view in the back row. Not a fatty or frumpy in sight. What town in America can claim that?

The steady stream of sidewalk yogettes had me thinking about avenues of approach. Surely, this was a rich vein of opportunity upon which to mine some clever opener to ride all the way to the naked Lotus position. Waiting at a crosswalk light, I peripherally ogled a short girl in — no surprise here — black tights and a green tank top cradling a rolled up yoga mat in her right armpit. Like Chuck and the intersect, I flashed archives of game knowledge until two potential openers pricked my consciousness.

The first I mouthed silently to myself to determine if it was acceptable. “Bikram?” No, I mentally discarded it. Though she sported the glistening sheen of a woman who might have just exited a Bikram studio, I felt the opener sounded like forced rapport. And questions demanding simple yes or no answers never make for good openers.

I used my backup opener instead, an example of the “ever notice” school of openers.

“Ever notice how people compete to have the largest yoga mat?”

She stared blankly at me for a second, before my word jumble organized itself into meaning for her. Then she smiled.

“No, that’s not something I’ve noticed.”

“Yours looks like it’s 12 feet long. You could roll that thing out like a red carpet.”

She chuckles. “Well, it’s not that long, and I’m not tall enough to need a 12 foot mat.”

“My yoga mat’s only two feet. I’m embarrassed to be seen in public with it, but my mom gave it to me.”

She laughs again. “Funny, you don’t look like the yoga type.”

I make a fake indignation face. “What, just because I’m ruggedly masculine I don’t fit the stereotype of a master yogi? I’m offended.”

The light changes. Shit, time’s out.

She loiters for a a split second before stepping into the crosswalk, which makes me think it’s a mini-IOI to go for the number close. But it’s a split second too short, and she begins walking forward. Over her shoulder, she smiles and tosses out one last morsel.

“Well, good luck finding a less embarrassing mat.”

A taxi making a left turn nudges into the pedestrian zone, almost brushing up against her leg. She gets distracted, and the moment evaporates. I want to smash a cinderblock into the taxi driver’s face. But then that’s not very serenely yogic, is it?

Serenity now…

Contrast Is King: Identity Inversion

This post is a follow-up to my original Contrast is King post, and serves as an adjunct to my fashion post.

Women love surprises. They love a man they can’t easily peg. They chase men who intrigue them. There are methods men can use to trigger this attraction reflex in women. One potent technique is identity inversion — where you present yourself one way while confirming an entirely unexpected impression.

Let’s say you show up at an indie bar dressed like someone who belongs there — newsie cap, skinny jeans, t-shirt, indoors scarf, chucks. You approach a hipchick knowing that she thinks she has you all figured out before you’ve even said a word. A conversation follows, and she asks what you do for a living, and what you like to do for fun. You talk about your job in corporate law, and you mention how you like to help entrepreneurs set up new businesses.

BOOM! She wasn’t expecting that at all. She squirms a little on her bar stool. Suddenly, you have become a lot more interesting to her. She may not care one iota about corporate law, but she sure cares about a hipster doofus who challenges her expectations.

Now let’s say you’re at a networking event and you’re wearing a sharp business suit. You approach a seriousskirtchick and she’s sized you up in the three seconds it took for you to walk over to her. A conversation follows and she asks the usual questions (hot girls aren’t very conversationally nimble because they’re never given a reason to be — a true player knows to give girls reasons to step up their conversation game and make them work for the cock). Instead of shop talk about the market or clients, you regale her with your interest in public policy to alleviate wealth inequality, or your downtime playing bass for a local band. You actively defy her expectations.

This is the challenge inherent in contrast that is so effective at turning women on. Dress one way, speak another way. And it works on both sexes, though tempered with the usual caveats concerning the outsized importance of female physical attractiveness. Have you ever met an artsy chick in heavy black eyeliner who surprised you when she began discussing economic theory? I have, and it intensified her cuteness; I wanted her more when she unraveled twists in her personality concealed behind my snap judgment of her.

Identity inversion will work on most girls, but there is a subset of girls for whom mismatches between a man’s presentation of himself and his interests and opinions will hurt his chances. There are some girls who have very strong “types”, and will actively seek out those types for copulatory auditions. If a girl swoons for bike messenger dudes and everything they represent, and you are dressed like a bike messenger when you meet her, you may wind up hurting your game if you talk like a lobbyist. She wants the whole bike messenger package, not just the funky cap. Luckily, girls with powerfully influential but narrow mental mate templates are rarer than girls with expansive templates for intriguing, hard to pin down men.