There’s A Reason I Don’t Do Facebook

South Park explains why.

So I understand Wankroulette is the latest insipid fad. Yes, I truly am missing out on the best of our culture, and then some.

Attack Of The Manjaws!

Something is afoot in the land. An ossified pall hardens like cement over our Western women. Armies of bony, chiseled, jutting mandibles of maxillofacial transsexuality following in formation behind blitzkrieging boffo chins are mowing down reserves of beauty and femininity.

The horror!

Run for your lives!

It shoots friggin’ laser beams from its chin!

Her jaw is a geometric proof.

Overdeveloped blowjob muscles?

What is happening to our ladies? Their collective femininity is disappearing before our eyes. First come the manjaws, then come the newlywed chicks who sign up for internet cuckold-making services offering endless discreet trysts and humps in the alley behind Wawa. The traditional domain of women — their softness and erotic vulnerability — is yielding to a Grrl Brigade who look like they chew nails for fun. I half expect AskMen’s next Top 100 Babes to sport stubble.

The manjaw plague didn’t happen overnight, though it seems that way. It’s been in the works for a couple of generations now. Reasons abound.

• One word: Plastics. Are endocrine disrupting chemicals in that cherished SWPL standby, the plastic water bottle, masculinizing our women?
• Parabens. Or is it the stuff put into cosmetics? Could women be slavering testosterone boosters onto their cheeks each time the get ready for a night out on the town?
• The Pill. Let’s face it, the pill has been a huge society-wide experiment on women (and men, indirectly), which… interesting…  ramifications are only now coming to light.
• Soft polygamy. What happens when you give women the run of the place? Well, besides voting for socialist diaper changers, you get a bunch of chicks chasing lantern-jawed alpha males and having illegitimate children by them, leading inexorably to future generations of more masculine daughters being raised by ever more feminine beta hubbies.
• A combination of all the above.

On my occasional forays into the ghetto, I recurrently note just how beastly the local girls look. Huge jaws and brows that could sprout Wolverine claws when roused to anger. Maybe this is the end result of a mating market where generations of women have spread for the most violent, thuggish men in the hood. If so, is there a trickle up effect to the rest of society? Are redneck girls getting manlier also? Will the upper classes figuratively and literally barricade themselves from the manjaw invasion, creating not only a cognitive elite but a neotenous elite? I can imagine the pendulum swinging back in time, as legions of red-blooded American men become so turned off by the Lara Croftian trannies in their midst that a price premium is placed on the pixies, nymphs and sprites. Perhaps all this masculinization of our women will render their wombs barren, restricting their ability to contribute to the next generation. Demographic shift happens.

We must return to the old ways before beauty and sublime femininity all but disappear from the land. We must find a way to bring back the dainty, feminine jawline. I’ll do my part by banging only flaky, neurotic waifs who don’t have an ambitious delicate bone in their bodies.

Reader Mailbag: Don’t Tell Her To Smile Edition

Email #1 is from mkubuwa:

Hi R.,

Recently came across your blog; in one word…eye-opening! You seem to be a sage in these matters, so I have a girl issue that may just be down your alley of expertise…

I recently saw a girl on the train, a solid 9 if I’ve ever seen one. Problem is I’m not sure exactly how to open her. Trains are notorious for being conversation dead-zones as most people just tune out once they get on. She’s always frowning out of the window (hard day at work?) and sitting too far in the seating row for me to get to without making it obvious.

I could just walk up to her direct but I get the feeling that her defence shields would be up before I could even open my mouth. I’ve thought about giving her a written note “Frowning = Wrinkles. You’d look better with a smile” while getting off at my stop, but the problem is we both get off at the end of the line.

Any thoughts on how to get over this problem? I can handle bar and club openers, but public transport is a first for me. I only see her once in a while on the train, so the next time I see her I’ve got to make it count…

Any help would be greatly appreciated.

Never tell a girl to smile as part of a pickup gambit. This will always backfire on you. It’s not because girls don’t like to be reminded they look dour; no, it’s because girls will rightly perceive such a gambit as a beta attempt to manufacture positive rapport. Never push rapport before its time.

A good opener is what you wrote in your second paragraph. “Do you ever notice how people on trains just tune out once they get on? It’s gotta be the most anti-social environment on earth.” Obviously, you have logistical problems on a train that you won’t have in a bar. Namely, lots of people in a cramped space between you and her. Walking up to a chick on a packed train will look and feel weird, no way around that. Your best bet is to be standing near where she’s sitting, so that you can look over your shoulder at her. Or get a seat next to her.

***

Email #2 is from R.:

I’ve stumbled on a form of game even more potent than Hangover Game…New Crib game, and it goes something like this;

Suppose you move, it doesn’t matter when, but you have a new place to bring your girls, here’s a sample text;

Me: Whats up?
Her: (blah) (blah) (blah) (blah)
Me: That’s cool, you should come check out my new place soon, its dope.
Her: Ooh a new place 🙂 where?
Me: (XXX) (XXXXX) Street in (XXXXX)
Her: I’ll try to swing by this weekend 😉

New Crib game seems temporal, but that’s totally up for debate.  I’ve been at my new spot for two weeks and have had five girls over.  I’ll need to wait a few months to see if any girls I haven’t spoken to in a while text or run into me, and I will try to run this new game on them.

New crib game. I like it. It sounds like a solid ploy for getting girls back to your place, as long as you use it on new girls. There’s no reason why a place you’ve been living in for years can’t serve as a “new pad” for girls who don’t know any better.

***

Email #3 is from The Hungry One:

A friend of mine is one of your regular readers, and pointed out something you’d written a few days ago, about signs your wife is about to cheat.  Enough of it rang true to worry me – though she’s actually sexually dead most of the time, and I have objective proof that she hasn’t been screwing around.  Yet.  But something has to be done, or my marriage is done.

So I read a couple dozen of your other articles, and while most of it is about landing new girls, you hint at relationship game, but always from the point of view of having someone interested in sex but not in her current man.  What I have is the inversion:  she’s disinterested in sex generally, though not actually frigid (she can, but doesn’t much want to), and in all other ways her usual self.  Price of motherhood, sure, and depressed libido is common as dirt after bearing a couple kids… but either this stops, or I do.

Refocusing her sex drive wouldn’t be much of a problem, as your earlier posts agree, but waking it up in the first place is an issue.  Alcohol often works, but I can’t realistically get her blitzed every couple days.  Clearly, proper game is the correct approach to the problem.

Give a brother a hand, Dark Master.

Objective proof she isn’t cheating? Is she in your field of vision 24/7? If not, then you have no proof. What you have, perhaps, is a lack of evidence that she’s cheating, but absence of evidence is not evidence of faithfulness. If my wife were frigid, the first thing I would suspect is cheating.

The second thing I would suspect is an abnormally low libido. Though I have never personally been acquainted with a girl suffering from such a debilitating affliction, I have heard tales of horror from friends recounting their wive’s utter disinterest in sex. Scientific studies of a dubious sort have identified anywhere from 10-30% of women have extremely low libidos. Woe to the man stuck with one of these sandpaper snatches. Your pain echoes throughout the universe.

If it’s well-lubed, exciting sex you want from her, then it’s almost irrelevant whether the cause of her dreary desiccation is unfaithfulness or physiology. Your mission will be the same.

Run relationship game. Teasing, push-pull, heavy doses of dominance, condescension, and mysterious disappearances will work best. If she’s cheating, or thinking about cheating, this will help lure her back into your orbit.

The next step, should the above fail to thaw her out, is a long, grapeseed oil massage. Don’t tell her it’s a prelude to sex. Just command her to lay on her stomach naked and give her the massage, then when she’s fully relaxed begin stroking her labia, inner thigh, and side boob. Stop after ten minutes, and tell her to get dressed, you’re done for now.

There is nothing wrong with getting her blitzed. A week after the massage, ply her with a couple glasses of red wine, then inform her it’s time for another massage. When you’ve massaged her labia to a screaming red crescendo, enter her from behind as she lays on her stomach. If, after all this, she resists, you my friend must get yourself a mistress. Or leave her. No man deserves such a miserable fate. When the kids ask why you left, tell them Mommy didn’t respect the cock.

***

Email #4 is from Chad:

Think you can say a word about “promise her the world” game, for those times when you’re slumming it and need some serious downward calibration?

“Promise her the world” game, also known as “I’ll show you the end of the rainbow” game, is a risky ploy. Pimps are masters of promise the world game, but pimps juxtapose their promises with pimp slaps. A beta playing promise the world game with a hot chick is going to get chewed up and spit out for shits and giggles. Hell, he might even get embarrassingly rejected by a war pig.

Remember, if you’re going to effectively play “promise the world” provider game (and provider game is a close cousin of vulnerability game) you have to have already established your alpha bona fides. Telling a girl you’ll show her the moon from a position of neediness will taint the moon for her. She wants to go to the moon with a man who might very well jettison her like a second stage rocket during the trip. When you make yourself scarce, your promises will have more meaning.

That said, if you really are slumming it, (and the widely accepted definition of slumming it is banging girls 3 or more points below your rank), then you don’t need much game at all. Be all the beta you can be! Let your herb flag fly. Caress her hair while you talk to her with the greatest earnestness about teaching boys to play with dolls. Tell her you’re falling for her… after the first drink (which you bought her of course). Remind her incessantly how much you love kids and how your greatest talent is your loyalty to girlfriends. Proclaim yourself a feminist. Laugh at every one of her dumb jokes. Compliment her eyes, hair, lips, body, and legs. Ask her if she’d like to go on a date with you in three hours.

In this scenario, promise the world game can work very well, if you deliver it with the romantic bravado of a Romeo in love. If the girl is a fatty and hasn’t seen cock in years, then expressively emoting about the wonderful journeys you two will take together, and the experiences you will share, just you and her against a cold, cruel world, will cause her to swoon like a toad in the midsummer heat. Detail is the key. You must learn to speak with efflorescence. Romantic minutiae is chick crack.

What Is The Best Type Of Person To Marry?

Reader el chief asks:

Dear Sir,

1. What is the best type of man for a woman to marry? For both the man and the woman.

It ain’t the badboy, cuz he will cheat or fuck off shortly after they marry, if at all.

It ain’t the beta, cuz she’ll be miserable the whole time, and then so will he.

Is it the Good Alpha? Does that exist?

The best type of man for a woman to marry is a man she loves. Sounds trite, but without that prerequisite in place, the marriage is doomed to either divorce or dissimulation. Maybe arranged marriages work better than love marriages on paper, but a loveless, arid business arrangement designed to smoothly usher in the next generation of cogs for the belching corporaglobomilitaryeducationalswplstatuswhoring machine is no way to go through life, son. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get down to brass tacks.

He should be higher status than her, i.e. superior to her in some observable trait or accomplishment. That status can come in many forms. He could be better educated, smarter, richer, funnier, more socially savvy, better connected, more charming, more confident, more dominant, better traveled, more artistic, or really really good at inspiring interest from other women.

But there are two big caveats. One, he should not be much higher status than her. A large discrepancy in status between a husband and wife — where the wife’s status is measured by her looks, not her accomplishments — virtually guarantees his straying. For instance, a man with 9 status (let’s say he’s a war zone photographer who travels the world for work) will cheat if the woman he marries is only an 8 or lower in looks, and the frequency and haste with which he cheats will be in proportion to the gap between his status rank and her looks rank. So if his wife is a 9, there is a 50/50 chance of monogamous bliss. If she’s a 10, he will be less likely to stray than he would be to remain faithful to her. But if she’s a 6, he’ll be cheating with a bridesmaid in the upstairs bathroom during the reception dinner.

Two, under no circumstance should he be better looking than her, regardless of his non-looks status. This is the one area where a woman’s status must reign supreme for there to be harmony in the land. Of course, it’s difficult to directly compare men’s looks to women’s looks. Cross gender beauty comparisons must rely on contrasting two distinct templates without much overlap. But generalizations can be made. Does he look like a male model and she look like a plain jane? Release the cheats! It doesn’t matter if he’s unemployed or dumb; if he’s better looking than his wife he will feel a strong primal pull to leverage his looks for short term flings with better looking women. A groom’s wedding vows are only as strong as his bride’s looks. If the wife looks comparatively less good-looking than the husband, she has completely relinquished any power over him. This is a recipe for marital unrest.

Maxim #59: The most successful marriages are those with a balance of power that slightly favors the husband’s status over the wife’s looks.

So what does this mean for women attracted to bad boys? Well, bad boys have status in the areas of social savviness, dominance, confidence, and usually charm. A woman who wants a bad boy — that is, she specifically wants a man who is good at getting other women — needs to parse the lesser bad boys from the greater badder boys, based on an honest assessment of her looks. If she’s a hard 10, she can shoot for the baddest boys. Bad boys are more likely to stray than other men in almost any scenario, but even they have weak underbellies. A bad boy engaged to a bodacious woman will work harder to curb his instincts than he would with a more average woman, especially if that bodacious woman has credible options in the dating market.

My advice for women seeking to maximize their domestic bliss windows at the expense of their drama windows is to avoid the bad boys or date one with a steady job and at least ten years older. The age gap will make him more grateful to be with you, and his primal pull to spread his seed will have mellowed.

Betas need not feel left out from all this fun. There is an army of fatter, uglier women out there who will be relieved happy to settle in their 30s for a beta.

I don’t want to shit all over the betas. There is hope. Plenty of betas get married. If you are a beta with no game, the key is to marry a woman not too much hotter than what you can normally get, and to be excellent in at least one pursuit. It could even be computer programming. As long as you can lord one accomplishment or status marker over your wife, her attraction for you will percolate. But betas would be much better off learning game. That well-paid computer programmer with an understanding of relationship game can safely marry a woman one or two points higher than what he could otherwise get, without worrying too much that he’ll be cuckolded.

2. Is a woman’s attractiveness absolute or relative or both? Does Brad Pitt think that a 9/10 woman is still hot? Or is she ugly, cuz he can bang 10s on the regular?

I believe that positive pheromones are correlated with good looks. Does that mean a 9/10 stinks to a 10/10, or do they still smell good?

Thanks

el chief

A woman’s attractiveness is an absolute. There is no Uglitopia where Rachel McAdams could go that would make her look ugly and Cigstache look good. Brad Pitt, no matter how bored he gets fucking the same 10 over and over, will always recognize that a 10 is a 10 and a 2 is a 2. When Brad Pitt cheats, 99% of the time he’ll cheat with other 9s and 10s. If female beauty weren’t an absolute, Pitt would randomly cheat with whichever woman was available, and that would include fatties and uglies. In fact, with obesity in the US at record levels, a “beauty is subjective” world would feature lots of high status men cheating with fat, ugly women. But that is not what we see.

Pheromones are an interesting clause to the above truths. Evidence is mounting that smell — the scent of our lovers — plays a role in how attracted we feel to them. Women who smell the yellow pits of t-shirts worn by men with histo-compatible profiles feel more strongly attracted to them. Personally, I know that from my own experience two women of equal looks can trigger divergent boner responses from me if I prefer the smell of one over the other. None of this is conscious, by the way. A lot of this pheromone stuff happens at the subconscious level. So maybe women should cut men a break when they catch them sniffing their panties. We’re just checking to see if you’d make a good wife.

Only once the basic biomechanical criteria are met should a man or woman prospecting for a marriage partner begin the task of gathering clues from his or her lover’s personality that would indicate a predilection for faithfulness or for unreliability. Does he actually remember small details of what you say? Check one for the keeper column. Does she get a little too irate when she catches you innocently flirting with women at a mixed social event? Check one for the chucker column. Do this for six months, then tally your keeper and chucker columns. If 3/4s or more of your check marks are in the keeper column, you may risk marriage and its attendant drudgery.

But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Using This Blog As A Pickup Prop

A late 20-ish/early 30s woman with a passing resemblance to Jennifer Connelly sat down on the springless couch to my right, relieved that she found a spot to sit in the crowded coffee shop. She sunk all the way in like a turtle retreating into its shell, and I smiled and told her the couch already ate two people. She laughed while pulling out a laptop.

My laptop was in front of me, perched on my thighs. In between spurts of typing I reached to sip from a cup of dragon well green tea and to munch on toasted focacia with slices of brie. Because my balls weigh that of ten men, I am secure enough to write the previous sentence. Immediately, my thoughts drifted to meeting this woman and how I could best use my supranatural Lucifer-given talents to accomplish that.

I waited for ten minutes to pass. When a woman is forced by circumstance to loiter in your proximity, it’s best not to jump on her right away. A man must leave an impression that his interest in a nearby woman only piqued after his mind stopped being preoccupied by whatever he was doing before she arrived. So I continued typing while pretending her stimulating looks hadn’t yet registered in the cock-shaped part of my brain.

Finally, I delivered my opener.

“I’ve never seen someone so engrossed in their work. You writing the next great American novel?”

Standard operating procedure. I’ve used the line many times, although it felt fresher this go round. Perhaps I was inspired by my latent decision to toss caution to the wind with what was about to come.

She chuckled at my opener, and answered with the confident voice of a woman who is used to sparring with men.

“Not quite. More like the next great American Excel spreadsheet.”

A good-looking woman with a genuine sense of humor? Did I sell my soul to the devil in a dream? Oh wow, I’d better not screw this up. My game has to be super tight! No margin for error. Just dance with the script that brought me here. No need to improvise. Stay the course!

“Ooh. My Mom warned me about women who use Excel.”

“Oh, really?” she playfully parried. “And what did she warn you about?”

“They’re bad news. They can analyze a man and know what he’s all about in two seconds.”

“That sounds like a great gift to have!”

We chatted for five more minutes. She was slowly hooking. Eventually, the conversation found its way to a point where I could deliver the following line.

“Luckily for me, I’m totally inscrutable. For instance, I’m definitely not writing an Excel spreadsheet. So you can try not to be so obvious when you peer over my shoulder to see what I’m writing.”

Babe bait.

“You certainly think highly of yourself.”

“I’m just a boy trying to figure it all out.”

“Is that what you’re writing about? Figuring it all out?”

“Sort of. I write a dating and relationship blog. Unfortunately, it’s pretty popular. So I have a lot of stalkers. Cost of doing business, I guess.”

“A dating blog?”

“And relationships.” I show her the front page of the Chateau.

“And you’re citizen renegade?”

“Among other names.”

“So, if you’re such an expert on dating, why are you still single?”

“The better question would be: Why *wouldn’t* I still be single?”

“Oh no, you sound like trouble.”

Ka-ching!

“Wow, the prison warden said the same thing to me.” She smiled and I let a few seconds of silence break the badinage.

I put forth my most serious face. “Hey, I have a confession to make…”

I love the ‘confession’ line. It’s like a mini insta-vulnerability game pebble that I can toss into almost any conversation to boost the girl’s intrigue. Plus, it makes girls a wee bit nervous, wondering if I’m going to confess to something really sordid that would make them too horny to control themselves.

“My blog is pretty controversial. I write about the dark side of human social dynamics as well. People with closed minds would probably not be able to understand. So if you find yourself curious, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I suppose now I’m going to have to take a look some time.”

“Hey, listen, I’ve got to run. But before I do I’d like to grab your number so our conversation doesn’t have to stop here for all eternity.”

This is my new number closing line. So far, I like it.

We exchanged numbers. The next day, I called her and set up a date that evening. No need to wait two days. She wasn’t an early 20s flakeriffic chick. The date went well, and we ended with a kiss. My blog was discussed, briefly, when she asked if I was really like my blog persona in real life. After I assured her I was (and make no mistake, it was assurance she secretly wanted), we went salsa dancing. A kiss to close the night, and I told her I had a good time. I didn’t set up a time for a second date. Never make plans for a future date while on a date. It reeks of urgency. Best to just tell the girl you must go, and you had a good time. Leave her stranded knee deep in the wonderment of her uncertainty.

***

I admit that using my blog as proof of status to pick up girls is cheesy. One of my goals in writing this post was to show just how powerful raw status game can be for a man. There was very little in the way of calculated technique-based game as is commonly understood used in this pickup. Instead, I relied on the crutch of high status within my endeavor of choice.

Cheesy, and effective.

She will probably read this blog post, so what I’m about to write may cost me, and her, a chance to see where this will lead. Or not. As I walked home from that first date, I asked myself if I really wanted to date the kind of girl who would be intrigued by what I write on this blog. If past experience is prologue…

But that is an answer for another time.

The Wig

9pm on a weekday night. I leaned like a pillar of masculine detachment against the edge of the bar, blessing the peasantry with my royal aloofness. I sipped a gin and tonic, surprised with myself for agreeing with a buddy to go out on a slow night for some drinks. I doubly surprised myself for being an hour early. My buddy called. He would meet me later at a different bar. I now had an hour to kill at the chic lounge filled with young women and few men. A weekday night miracle!

I surveyed the room for potential sex partners. To my right were two girls, both mid 20s, both bouncing conversationally off each other with an effortlessness that revealed their BFFness. One of the girls was extremely tall (almost my height), foreign looking, and unattractive in the face, though her body was stimulating. The other girl was shorter, olive skinned, and very attractive. She had big Bette Davis eyes, huge tits, and moist, full lips, but her outstanding feature, the one that caught my gaze and held it, was her long thick mane of raven colored hair, highlighted with iridescent streaks of indigo. She talked animatedly with her tall friend, swinging her head around and lashing nearby patrons with streamers of her midnight hair. I wanted to glide my hand through her thatch and yank hard.

Indigo Girl glanced over in that way that showed she was trying to hide that she was glancing over. I had my opening.

“You guys are making everyone else feel uncomfortable for not having as much fun. Have some consideration.” I knitted my brow in faux disapproval.

“What are *you* doing out tonight, Mr. Cool Guy too cool to have fun?” Indigo Girl smiled to flaunt an impressive rack of pearly white teeth, then stood up on tippy toes and did a ballerina twirl for me. I felt movement in my pants.

“I’m waiting for a friend, but plans changed. Now I’m here to support local business.”

Tall Girl laughed. “That’s very noble of you.” She spoke with an exotic Eastern European accent, and I could tell from her first words that she was smarter than the average chick. It is something in the cadence, the articulation. She took a step toward me, presumably to ask me a question.

Indigo Girl dodged in front of her advancing friend and looked up adorably at my alpha nostrils. “We just got back from a show.”

The more I looked at her the more it dawned on me how sexy she was. “The way you’re dressed I’d guess you saw a show at [X].”

“Good guess! Do you hang out there? I’ve never seen you before. But take that as a good thing. I get bored of that clique-y scene over there.” Though she was a little tipsier than Tall Girl, Indigo Girl also spoke with the electric snap of someone sporting a big brain.

“I’m a clique of one. Very exclusive.”

The girls laughed. Well, technically Indigo Girl laughed, openly and without affect. Tall girl, clearly the level-headed one of the two, grinned demurely and circled the rim of her cocktail glass with a long spidery finger. We talked amongst ourselves for twenty minutes. In that time I was able to piece together the scenario unfolding before me, and to then use my new knowledge to properly game these two chicks.

Best friends. Indigo Girl is the classic Eternal Ingenue. She is accustomed to getting her way with men, and she fumes when she doesn’t. She will shamelessly clamblock her girl friends if she notices them enjoying male attention. She is whip smart and Machiavellian, given to breaking hearts and wallowing like a happy sexy sow in the ups and downs of her own heart. Tall Girl is the Amazonian Alpha (literally as well as figuratively). She is used to surrendering the spotlight to her more attractive friends, but this constant indignity doesn’t stop her from being a fiercely loyal friend. She would be a world class maneater if she were prettier. I think she knows this.

It would be very easy for me to play these two girls off each other into a jealousy triangle of the ages. And I did.

We bounced to a two floor social venue a block down the street. It was crowded. The girls bought me a drink and we chatted for a while. I made sure to divide my chat time equally between the two, addressing one and then the other in turn. Suddenly, like a butterfly with ADD, Indigo Girl rushed to greet one of the bartenders, a handsome hipster she knew from her social circle. The greet became a long-ish conversation. Stepping up to Tall Girl, I moved my body so that she was forced to reposition herself with her back to Indigo Girl and Hipster Bartender. I knew Indigo Girl would look over at us if she saw me talking intimately with her friend, and I wanted her to see my hand on her friend’s back and my mouth whispering in her friend’s ear.

It worked. Indigo girl hopped over after only five minutes of watching me talk with Tall Girl. Shit test passed. But I knew that with a girl like her the shit tests were only beginning. Tall Girl, for her part, suspected that my desire was focused on her friend, but my calculated conversation sharing probably nursed a belief in her that she could rob me from Indigo Girl.

It is a great thrill to have two women vie for your attention, but it is an exquisite pleasure to puppeteer two *smart* girls.

I will spare some of the details of the actual gaming. Suffice to say, it was my usual schtick, except smartened up in deference to the targets. By smartened up, I mean palm reading with an occasional three syllable word thrown in.

Two hours later, we walked to Tall Girl’s apartment. I had called my buddy earlier to tell him I would cut the night short to pursue a worthier goal than drinking with him. He understood and informed me he would call in the morning for details. Bro code, you see. At Tall Girl’s place, we all collapsed on her sofa and flipped through her collection of artsy posters. Indigo Girl got up and flounced to the bathroom. I had to be careful. The two of them had surely been signaling the whole night to decide who would be the one to tame this magnificent beast with a chest full of peach vellus. My worst move would be to accidentally insinuate that Tall Girl was the one I wanted to bang. I looked at Tall Girl sitting next to me on the couch, her eyelids sensuously hoisted at half mast. Uh oh. I sprang up from the couch and pretended to read some books on the mantle.

When I turned around, still musing facetiously about the book I was holding, I saw that Tall Girl was sliding languorously down the couch, her dress hiked up mid-thigh and her legs splayed open. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. My eyes locked in on her shorn cunt, unable to tear away from the sight of labia and mons. It took an exceedingly strong dose of willpower to look away and up toward her homely face to remind myself that she wasn’t the one I wanted to bed. When I did, I saw that she was staring at me with sex in her eyes. Her mouth hung partly open. If she had been hotter, it would have counted as one of the sexiest motherfucking vignettes of my life.

As expected, her homely face jolted me back to reality. I put the prop book down and walked to the bathroom. Indigo Girl was rummaging through a box of ornamental scarves on Tall Girl’s bed. She was barking requests at Tall Girl from the bedroom. “I need a scarf that says professional, yet dangerous. What do you have, [Tall Girl]?”

I peered backward into the living room. Though my line of sight was partially obstructed, it looked to me that Tall Girl was stroking her pussy underneath her dress with her left hand. She arched her neck and gazed up at the ceiling.

I addressed Indigo Girl. “Hey, I’m gonna head out.”

Pause.

I continued. “Let’s go.”

It was a risky move. I had to get out of there before Tall Girl lunged at me and claimed me for herself. But I didn’t want to leave heavy-balled. There is always a point in the seduction when a bold move is required; when intentions must be demonstrated clearly and unambiguously. This time was no different.

Indigo Girl’s eyes glittered for a split second as she processed my words. Then she grabbed my hand and we headed out into the mild night.

We talked the whole time on the half hour walk to her place. Words flowed effortlessly. My boner never relaxed, not even when she did what I’m about to tell you.

“Hey, sexy boy I just met tonight, I’ve got something to show you.”

I thought please show me your incredible tits.

She reached a hand up to her head and pulled off her hair. Her beautiful, thick, lusciously long, raven colored hair, indigo highlights and all. Underneath was a head of matted, thin, mousy brown hair, cut short to just beyond the ears.

What the hell was this? Wig game? Was this her last ditch ultimate shit test to screen men just before she surrenders her body to them?

I managed the most poker-y face I could muster. “Wow, you had me fooled. Good thing you’re still sexy with short hair.”

I wasn’t lying. She was still sexy. Well, maybe not quite as sexy, but the drop in sexiness was only a half point. Nothing the god of gonadal stimulation wouldn’t let us into nirvana for.

“Yeah, I like to roleplay. Tonight was wig night. Wheee wigs!” She spun and jumped into my arms, wrapping her legs around my torso. My crotch bulged angrily. This was a girl going to NYU Stern for her MBA.

We made love… no, scratch that… we fucked four times through the night. Her tits were as stupendously squeezeable as I imagined. Her style of fucking was not out of character; creatively flexible, liberally lubed, risk-taking, and impassioned. Also a little slutty. Like purple saguaro girl, she had toys. Lots of them. And not some dimestore, brown paper over the windows low class shit. Her toys were the highest grade. She was a Type A++ personality and leapt out of bed at 8am for a spin class. I showed myself out the door, briefly greeting her gay roommate on the way out.

We dated… no, scratch that… we fucked for three months. The week before she left town, she called at 1am and invited me to her place. I walked over in the still night air instead of cabbing it. I wanted to enjoy the anticipation. Inside, she was stooped over on the bare concrete floor now stripped of furniture, snorting a line of coke with her gay roommate. She motioned for me to join them. The coke line laid out for me on the cold floor was mixed with dust and debris. I watched her be alive, though I was beset with a heaviness I knew would soon be alleviated.

Afterward, we laid on the floor like flower petals. She took my hand, held it, then let it go.

In the morning, on my way out, I noticed her wig was poking out of the kitchen trashcan. I walked silently over and gave it a quick stroke.

Game Is Pushing Me Away From Love

Sometimes ignorance really is bliss. Of the last 25 out of 30 girls I’ve slept with, I’ve used the following game tactics on all of them in almost the same order and at the same point in time of the pickup:

• indirect opener, usually situational
• if cockblock was present, one neg to cb asking if her friend is “always this way”
• if cockblock wasn’t present, one neg directly to target about her “hair color being totally in style right now”
• initiated kino sequence by laying my hand on her forearm, then later hand on her shoulder, then later still hand on her thigh
• one dance twirl (her, not me)
• one anchor (“hey could you watch my hat/scarf/pickup prop for me for a sec?”)
• one DHV story about my time hiking a volcanic island
• one to two venue change “bounces”, where i would simulate the experience of being on multiple dates by compressing it into two hours, making her feel she had spent more time with me than she actually did
• two questions qualifying her, usually “cute chicks are a dime a dozen, what else do you have going for you?” or “are you low, medium or high maintenance?”
• two rapport building routines (either the love test or the cube)
• one age guessing game (her: how old are you?” me: “guess” her: [whatever answer] me: “perfect!” or “i don’t think you’re fun enough/mature enough for me”)
• one vulnerability story (involves getting beat up by a bully i was trying to stop from beating up a nerdy schoolmate)
• one major kino escalation (usually hand behind her neck)
• kiss (i just go for it. no prepping) and/or number close
• same night lay if propitious

25 girls. 25 lays, flings, or relationships. All of them gamed in almost the exact same manner to achieve the desired result. Like winding up a watch. Or tapping a knee to prompt a reflex kick. Or shaking a leash by the door so the dog comes running, knowing a walk and a refreshing poop is on the way.

Game enough girls successfully and the predictability becomes numbing. I imagine this is how girls must secretly feel when they slather on makeup and squeeze into sexy clothes and then get the predictable horndog responses from men around them. They enjoy the attention, but at the same time their joy is laced with resentment toward men. They resent that it’s all so deterministic. Women are particularly susceptible to this resentment of the opposite sex because they are more emotionally invested in the pretty lie that romance and love must “happen naturally”. Men, having in general less experience with inciting predictable responses in the opposite sex, don’t get so weepy-eyed for the loss of innocence when they learn a thing or two about how the opposite sex’s sexual attraction mechanism works.

Which is how I felt for a long time. Game used to be a blessing. But then, you get so proficient that the patterns become all that you see. Like the green cascading numbers in the Matrix, individual charming women morph into machines in your mind’s eye, fleshy cyborgs of buttons and levers and algorithmic code, with a power cord that leads straight to their vaj. In your drearier moments, you find it difficult to even hoist them to the level of a machine; you instead picture them as feral animals, all instinct, no heart. Feral animals that give you sustenance — meat, love, or preselection.

The first girl I fell in lust love with said two words to me. “Hi”. Twice. I didn’t game her. I didn’t know what game was, or even that women desired differently than men. But I did know the way she laid down on her stomach on a chaise lounge in her front lawn, reading a book, her pale-skinned thighs glistening in the summer sun as she swung her feet in the air like scissors. To this day, my memory of her retains a spark of mystery and whimsical, effervescent delight. I have slept with and fallen in love with many girls since, but with (almost) each one the spark and the whimsy have progressively dimmed. The dark knowledge of the crimson arts has given me what I want, but at a price. A steep price.

I bought a lover a diamond bracelet. Knowing that excessive complimentary gifts to a woman are inevitably value lowering, I presented the gift with the flourish of a scoundrel. “I was going to surprise you with a beautiful cubic zirconia, but unfortunately this is all I could steal back from my ex-girlfriend on short notice.” Smirk, pause, pause… yes… good reaction from her. I’m pleased with my handiwork. Very pleased. I think I’ll take a step back and admire the moment I just crafted.

I sometimes miss those unpredictable moments when I couldn’t take a step back.