Predator Sluts

Welcome to the New Whore Order.

The author of a controversial new book says she was so desperate for a baby she got pregnant ‘accidentally on purpose’ in a one-night stand. KATE SPICER admits that – like many women  – she’s played the same dangerous game…

Three weeks ago, I bought a pregnancy test. As a single, childless woman in my late 30s, my exact thoughts while I was waiting for the result were as follows: ‘If I am not pregnant, then good. I’m happy.

Life continues as before. Panic over. If I am pregnant, then that’s terrifying. But thrilling, too. A happy accident that was meant to happen, whether I stay with the father or not.’

If you’ve been a regular reader here, you could see this coming a mile away. Aging careerist shrikes on the cusp of sexual invisibility, like spent fuel rods from years of putting out for pump and dump alphas who wisely chose not to marry these damaged goods, are feeling the pangs of childlessness. Awash in discretionary income and free of the constraints of social shaming, they could afford to avoid dating the provider betas in favor of slutting it up with the same rotation of cads their girlfriends are banging. Oh, the drama was so enticing!

Then she woke up one morning, pressed a hand against her vacant, nearly barren womb, and shuddered in silence as the icy finger of irrelevant spinsterhood sent a shiver down her spine. She had made a mistake.

So what does she do now?

Why, she tries to rope utterly self-interested guys like yours truly into fun-killing fatherhood!

Some of these women approach the task in a far more ruthless manner than Mary Pols did, purposefully going out and sleeping with men when they know they are at their most fertile.

In America, they even have a name for this – they call them ‘gotcha’ pregnancies. Many of the women involved deliberately avoid birth control and have no intention of letting their unwitting bedfellow know this.

Never mind that these succubi claim to have no intention of hitting the guy up for child support. Women, bless their amoral hearts, are known to change their minds on a whim when it suits them. A woman’s slapdash principles and the vast anti-male legal industrial complex are cold comfort for the modern playboy. You must look out for yourself.

How to spot a potential predator slut with designs on the babymaking power of your ball juice?

There ya go. Just look for the crows’ feet, saggy tits, and chest age spots.

The most dangerous woman in the world to sleep with is the childless, unmarried cougar. Their clock is rapidly winding down, their dying eggs are sending out distress signals, and they have no cuckold beta husband upon which to foist a bastard child. Either avoid them like the plague or double up on industrial strength condoms.

Here’s a handy reference guide for precautionary measures to take when banging the childless woman.

• If she’s under 25, college educated, lives in the city, has had an abortion, spends more than 40% of her take home pay on drinks and clothes, concurrently dates, has slutty girlfriends, and talks about spending a couple years to travel the world:  Skip the condom and enjoy some skin on skin action. Blast inside her, you renegade! Odds are she’s on the pill, and if not, no worries — she’s on a first name basis with her abortionist. Bonus creampie if she’s a lawyer.
• If she’s 25-30 and all of the above, you had better start being careful where your boys lodge themselves. Use a condom for the first few weeks, then tentatively move to rawdogging. Check if she’s on the pill, but that’s not always a guarantee of child-free bliss. Too many girls — woops! — forget to take it the day you shoot inside her. To avoid this breach of contract, exercise the pull out option. Over the years collecting notches, your timing will become exquisite. You’ll be able to calculate down to the millisecond when you’re about to unload, and pull out at the exact moment you jizz. When you get really good at this, the narrow escape, optimal money shot reposition to her belly, back, or eye, and first stream of jizz will all happen elegantly in one smooth motion, like a hardcore ballet dance — The Nutbuster. It is crucial that you wipe her off with a towel or dirty sock yourself. Don’t leave that responsibility to her. I’ve heard horror stories of girls taking a dollop of the guy’s bellybutton load onto their fingers and inserting it into themselves while he was in the bathroom pissing.
• If she’s 30-35 and has a stupidly fluffy cat or toy dog, you are sailing into stormy waters. Why you would even bother with this kind of woman is beyond me, but let’s assume for purposes of discussion that she is well-preserved and has a hot body. Not only is this chick desperate to get impregnated, she is also more likely to be loaded down with a petri dish worth of STDs. If you insist on rawdogging it with her and blasting on her belly or back, scrub her down with sperm killing soap afterwards. You can do this by gently cajoling her into the shower after sex. Keep an eye on her hands, making sure they don’t go anywhere near your spooge or her vaj. If you use a condom, dispose of it in the toilet, not the garbage. Remember to flush!
• If she’s over 35 and without child or husband, you cannot be too careful. Use two of your OWN condoms (pinprick free) and drop them in an incinerator when you’re done. If no incinerator is available, place the used condom in an airtight iron lockbox for disposal at the local landfill or off the side of an ocean liner. If you make a mistake and blast on her belly, vacuum that shit up. Wiping with your underwear isn’t failsafe enough. If you are truly stupid and blast inside her — drop to your knees and start praying to the god of infertility (Jennifer Aniston) while arranging for your accounts to be moved overseas.

Whatever you do, never let a girl dispose of the condom for you. It sounds crazy, but I’ve been with more than one woman who would do just this. She would grab for the soiled condom and say “I’ll take care of that for you.” I was smart enough to know not to trust a woman with my spermed up condom by herself in the bathroom, so I told her she was acting weird, and flushed the condom myself. Fucking nutso broads.

People have asked me: if you don’t want kids why not just get the ol’ snippity snip? If you treasure your glorious package as much as I treasure mine, you’ll understand why I don’t want scalpels anywhere near there.

It’s too bad men don’t have a right to rip unwanted fetuses from the wombs of women who duped them into fatherhood. At the very least, a law predicated on true fairness would allow men to abort their financial responsibility for any child they didn’t agree on having with a predator slut. I won’t be holding my breath for that day to come.

PS: The title of this post is the working title for my coming magnum opus.

Relationship Game: I Love You Too

I get a lot of emails from readers wondering how to “handle” when a woman says she loves you. The question is odd to me, because a woman who is truly in love with you will not suddenly run away if you deviate from the alpha script for half a second. Once you’ve captured a woman’s heart, you’ve got a healthy margin for error. Nonetheless, it is true that, while brief moments of temporary beta regression with a woman who loves you won’t doom your relationship, you have to be careful to avoid slipping into betadom on the regular or there *will* come a time when your woman suddenly loses that little electric zap in her trap for you.

A few thoughts on the matter of a woman saying “I love you”:

1. NEVER be the first to say “I love you” in a relationship. I don’t care if six months of dating has gone by and you both madly love each other to pieces, you will rob a woman of one of her greatest joys in her life if you tell her you love her before she has told you the same. A woman wants to climb up mountains, crawl across broken glass, and struggle into winds of chaos to reach the emotional peak of falling in love with you. You may think you’re doing right by her to level the mountain, sweep clean the glass, and calm the winds when you announce your love before she has, but you’re not. She will resent you if you do. Of course, she won’t tell you this. But I will.
2. You don’t have to be cocky all the time. There is a laundry list of great alpha replies to a woman after she says “I love you”: “Cool!”, “I know”, “Thanks!”, “Hey, it’s me!”, *sly grin* “I didn’t ask”, “Naturally”, “So you’ve finally come to terms with it”, “Well, what did you expect?”, “Damn, I’m good”, “Oh boy, now you’ve gone and done it”, “Awesome! Free back rubs!”, “Hobag say dick in yo mouf?”, etc etc. Use these liberally in the beginning of a relationship when they have the most power to set the right tempo. But learn to rely less on them as the relationship deepens. Overuse of cocky game can deaden its positive impact on a woman’s psyche. She will come to see you as a genuine asshole instead of an attractive asshole. After a few months training your girlfriend, you can minimize your cocky game in favor of sincere game.
3. Sincere game is long haul game. So what do you say to a woman when she says I love you and you want to be serious with her? In my experience, there are three failsafe ways to respond that will send her heart into an ecstatic tailspin for you: (1) Pause for a couple seconds after she has said it, and while gazing intently into her eyes, in a deep, slow voice, say “I love you, too”. Best done without smiling. (2) Say nothing in reply. Instead come close to her face, pause for a few seconds standing before her as if you are about to say something, and slowly pull her lips into yours, kissing her breathless. (3) Tell her I love you too in a foreign language, preferably French, or one of the less well known but still intriguing languages, like Russian.

You should be aware of the possibility that your woman will use I love you like a weapon of war. Sometimes, the more neurotic of the female species will incessantly proclaim their love for you in an attempt to smoke out any beta wishy-washiness or weakness on your part. If you fall into her manufactured drama, pity-poor-me, low self-esteem trap with an endless stream of I love you too’s you will have sealed your fate. Don’t be surprised if the next time you say I love you too she replies “Umm, listen, we need to talk.” The best way to handle a neurotic waif is to ignore 90% of what she says. Just keep replying “That’s great” every time she lavishes attention and love on you. Eventually, even the most dedicated waifs will break. They all have their breaking point. Once she does, you have a love slave for life.

Final note: Don’t be one of those laughable nancyboy beta schmucks who feels the urge to perfunctorily say “Luvya” every fucking time you get off the phone with your girl. It’s pathetically transparent. If the rest of the world can see that, so can your girlfriend. It’s the phone; say your business and save your Luvya’s for those times when they matter. Asking her if she wanted the green or red bell peppers while browsing the veggies in Whole Foods is not one of those times. You’ll feel awkward at first when you stop signing off this way, but believe me your girl will thank you for your principled sincerity.

“The Office” Finds Game

If you watched last Thursday’s episode of The Office, you saw Andy use some basic concepts from Game to advise Kevin how to handle a woman he likes. Watch from 3:40 onward.

Naturally, the show follows the usual PC fembot script and ridicules beta Andy for giving horrible advice to omega Kevin, while lesser alpha Jim mocks Andy’s good faith effort with that oh-so-smarmily sly and knowing irony that has become the hallmark of SWPL humor.

Although I’m sure the writers didn’t intend it, Andy is a great example of what happens when an aggressive beta gets his first exposure to game; he doesn’t fully grasp the underlying concepts which leads him to bastardize the tactics. His advice to Kevin to give “backhanded compliments” to the omega woman Kevin wants to date sounds exactly like the caricature of negs that haters of game repeat ad nauseum. Andy’s neg is an insult, not an ambiguous compliment.

Why can’t Hollywood portray Game and the pickup mentality fairly and magnanimously and without going gooey romantic beta and snide alpha in penance for broaching the subject? The answer is simple. It is a great threat to the established order if the vast lumpenbeta of men learn how to seduce women without having to first toil for years as properly submissive company men chained in servility to the corporate machine, or without having to bow and scrape before their feminist and alpha elite masters who would like nothing less than that they continue playing by the rules they themselves so flagrantly violate. And anti-Game serves the interests of natural alpha males quite well as mockery bait with which they can keep the aspiring betas in line and the pool of available alphas small.

Competition may be a wonderful thing in the abstract, but on the individual level it is an enemy to be snuffed out.

By the way, anyone else notice how rapidly Pam is aging? So sad.

Scanning The Headlines Chateau Style

Newsflash! You can’t trust a woman’s opinion of other women’s looks. (Hi Chic.)

Everyone loves a pretty face – except those women who might see it as a threat. With eyes on the competition, women of childbearing age rate other attractive women consistently lower than women who have entered menopause, according to a new study.

“It’s almost as if they’re putting down other attractive women,” says Benedict Jones, a psychologist at Aberdeen University, UK, who led the study of 97 middle-aged women.

This explains why so many chicks blab on and on about how “womanly”, “handsome”, “confident” or “sexy” older women look. They are downplaying the real competition — pretty young thangs.

***

Appletini goggles.

Even when sober women who drink more are less able to detect male facial asymmetry. So crooked-faced guys should look for female regular drinkers.

Researchers found that women who drink even moderately develop a reduced ability to rate attractiveness in male faces, even when they are sober.

Those who drank were less able to detect male facial symmetry, a marker of attractiveness and good genes which is thought to play an important role in the choice of a partner.

Even 5 drinks per month diminished ability to score facial symmetry. Researcher Kirsten Oinonen at Lakehead University in Thunderbay Ontario expects that women whose minds are altered in this way will find less attractive guys more attractive when their decreased attractiveness is caused by facial asymmetry.

If you’re searching for a wife or husband, stop drinking. Or don’t stop drinking for the rest of your life.

***

Badboys, crime, popularity: Natural born ladykillers.

Genes prompt rabble-rouser behavior. But they also foster popularity, according to Alexandra Burt, a Michigan State University behavioral geneticist who released a “groundbreaking study” that suggests good news for bad boys.

Men who had a gene associated with “rule-breaking behavior” were rated most popular by a group of previously unacquainted peers, she found.

[…]

In August, the University of North Carolina also revealed a link between three particular genes and “a life of crime” after following 1,100 teenage boys over a six-year period, clearly establishing a link between the presence of those genes and aggressive behavior.

Such research has had a darker side. The idea that “bad genes” held dangerous sway over some people prompted the Supreme Court in 1927 to rule in favor of the forced sterilization of criminals and mental patients. The court reversed the decision in 1942 as unconstitutional.

These days, researchers suggest that a touch of bad behavior gives men a boost in popularity and with their sexual relationships. Narcissism, impulsiveness and deceit – the “dark triad” – play a definitive role in wooing, according to separate research conducted by both Mexico State University and Bradley University in 2008.

In a way, Game is a system for mimicking the behaviors of men who possess the “badboy genes”. Readers often wonder if alpha is inborn then how much can learning Game accomplish? A lot. If you don’t have a natural musical talent, you can train for a couple years and still wow girls with a few choice tunes on your Fender Strat. You may not go from 4s to 10s, but you’ll go from 4s to 7s. And for most betas, that is like winning the pussy lottery.

***

Section 8 strikes back.

ANTIOCH, Calif. (AP) – As more and more black renters began moving into this mostly white San Francisco Bay Area suburb a few years ago, neighbors started complaining about loud parties, mean pit bulls, blaring car radios, prostitution, drug dealing and muggings of schoolchildren.

In 2006, as the influx reached its peak, the police department formed a special crime-fighting unit to deal with the complaints, and authorities began cracking down on tenants in federally subsidized housing.

[…]

An increasing number of poor families receiving federal rental assistance have been moving here in recent years, partly because of the housing crisis.

A growing number of landlords were seeking a guaranteed source of revenue in a city hard-hit by foreclosures. They began offering their Antioch homes to low-income tenants in the HUD Section 8 housing program, which pays about two-thirds of every tenant’s rent.

If you are seeking an apartment in DC, here is a handy map I found which will aid you in avoiding blocks that are close to Section 8 housing.

Joseph Villarreal, the housing authority chief, said the problems in Antioch mirror tensions seen nationally when poor renters move into neighborhoods they can afford only with government help.

“One of the goals of the programs is to de-concentrate poverty,” Villarreal said. “There are just some people who don’t want to spend public money that way.”

No shit. Because another way of saying “de-concentrate poverty” is “spread the crime”. Villarreal is one of those leftwing social engineering dickbags I will laugh at when he’s hanging from a lamppost after the glorious revolution against the elitist-driven Campaign of Lies has begun.

***

Slut Pride.

You’ll recall Harvard junior Lena Chen as one of our official compulsive oversharers. She’s a sex blogger whose ex leaked naked pictures of her once. Now, in addition to the sex blog, she’s got a more personal blog intended to correct the fact that Chen is “famous on the internet for all the wrong things.” This makes it the perfect venue for pictures of… well, I’ll just say it: of Chen right after getting “a facial.”

When a culture’s sexual strategy shifts to African-style short term hookups and soft polygamy, proud public displays of sluttiness by women become more commonplace. I’ll leave it as an exercise for the reader why this is so.

***

Best Comment Ever in a story about professional b-ball player Marko Jaric marrying Victoria’s Secret model Adriana Lima. (link provided by G Manifesto)

Really??????? He must have a Chocolate penis that ejaculates cash!

And bon bons for balls.

***

Extending the decades of carefree casual sex.

Researchers believe boosting the amount of a naturally forming enzyme in the body could prevent cells dying and so lead to extended, healthier, lifespans.

As I’ve said before, aging should be treated like the cruel horrible disease it is. “Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be” is such a ridiculous ego-saving baldfaced lie. It’s the equivalent of saying “Go ahead and get fat, I’ll still love you.”

***

Some people think this is just splendid.

For more than two centuries, it has been a wannabe among the great world capitals. But now, Washington is finally ready for its close-up.

No longer a jumped-up Canberra or, worse, Sacramento, it seems about to emerge as Pyongyang on the Potomac, the undisputed center of national power and influence. As a new president takes over the White House, the United States’ capacity for centralization has arguably never been greater. But it’s neither Barack Obama’s charm nor his intentions that are driving the centrifugal process that’s concentrating authority in the capital city. It’s the unprecedented collapse of rival centers of power.

This is most obvious in economic affairs, an area in which the nation’s great regions have previously enjoyed significant autonomy. But already the dukes of Wall Street and Detroit have submitted their papers to Washington for vassalage. Soon many other industries, from high-tech to agriculture and energy, will become subject to a Kremlin full of special czars. Even the most haughty boyar may have to genuflect to official orthodoxy on everything from social equity to sanctioned science.

At the same time, the notion of decentralized political power — the linchpin of federalism — is unraveling. Today, once proudly independent — even defiant — states, counties and cities sit on the verge of insolvency. New York and California, two megastates, face record deficits. From California to the Carolinas, local potentates with no power to print their own money will be forced to kiss Washington’s ring.

It is decidedly un-American to submit to such a strong, central federal government. It’s been the goal of our Ivy League gentry for the past 50 years to move America away from the American model and towards a socialist European model, finally culminating in a Banana Republic model. Good times!

Americans may still possess what the 19th-century historian Frederick Jackson Turner described as “an antipathy to control,” but lately, they seem willing to submit themselves to an unprecedented dose of it. A financial collapse driven by unrestrained private excess — falling, ironically, on the supposedly anti-Washington Republicans’ watch — seems to have transformed federal government cooking into the new comfort food.

A terrible enervation has infected the souls of Americans. We are surrendering our essence. We are betraying our own principles.

This lowly status stemmed, to some extent, from what the historian James Sterling Young has defined as the “anti-power” ethos of early Americans. The revolutionary generation and its successors loathed the confluence of power and wealth that defined 19th-century London or Paris. A muddy outpost in the woods seemed more appropriate to republican ideals.

We are importing tens of millions of the peasant class from culturally and genetically antagonistic countries who do not possess a natural instinct towards American-style individualism and distrust of government. Our historical “anti-power” ethos is rapidly being replaced in a great demographic tsunami by a “daddy government” ethos. Way to go, guys!

A Test Of Your Game: The Judging

I purposely chose an example of bad game in yesterday’s post in the interest of seeing how you would salvage a losing situation. And yes, for those who are wondering, the scenario happened in reality exactly as I described it.

I was glad to see so many commenters correctly identify my pickup scenario as an example of bad game and recognize the uselessness of getting an email as a consolation prize. I was also heartened by how many of you recommended “caveman game” as a solution, and your accurate interpretation of her actions as those of a girl who wanted the McLovin sooner rather than later. The lessons here are taking hold.

Here is a selection of answers from the comments:

Chuck (and many other commenters) wrote:

Do nothing. Go find another woman to game.

This cop-out is becoming a little too ubiquitous in the pickup community. Yes, cutting your losses to hit on fresh meat is certainly better than handicapping yourself with the stink of beta by recklessly chasing after a cold target, but are we men of vision or foot soldiers in the long slog through life? Doing nothing is the reflex of a reformed beta — a greater beta. He knows well enough to refrain from humiliating himself. But an alpha is better than that. He will sometimes reach for the brass ring; for him, doing nothing isn’t always the acceptable response. He takes risks; calculated, informed risks, sure, but risks nonetheless.
Grade: B- (for beta steps)

Antonio wrote:

Since you are mis-hearing her email address try making fun of it, loudly

example:

She says:
“tiffanyAmberTheisen@yahoo”

You say:
“tiffanyAfterBacon!?!”

This is an example of Clever Game. I like Clever Game. It’s been good to me. But its application is limited. In a noisy environment with a target on the move (taking steps backwards) a clever riposte is as likely to earn you a puzzled look from the girl as it is her number. Cleverness is the dance of the subtle. In a rapidly fading pickup attempt, you need more oomph. Remember, in her eyes, you passed none of her tests the way she wanted you to pass them.
Grade: C

razorback wrote:

“You can’t walk away from me just like that. I’m (name)..”

There’s good caveman game, and then there’s less good caveman game. The problem with this salvage operation is you have drawn attention to her negative actions. Never remind a girl that she is

a. walking away from you
b. giving you a hard time
c. acting like a bitch
d. ignoring you

It will only reinforce her unflattering impression of you.
Grade: D

DF wrote:

A woman that signals that much raw sensuality is looking to be carried away in the moment. Such coquetishness requires strong masculinity.

Bingo.

Go after her, grab her by the hand, and without breaking eye contact say, “you’re not walking away from me, not like that.” Pause. Wait for her reaction. If she recoils, forget her. If she doesn’t break eye contact, follow it up with, “lets get out of here.”

Drop the first line, stick with the second line. Keep everything focused on the positive.
Grade: B+

manaconda wrote:

Wait until she turns around, then move up from behind and put your hand on her neck. Move it up into her hair, grab her hair, and slowly lean her back while twisting her to face you, and kiss from a position of total control. Then say “let’s go” and move out.

This is the extreme manifestation of caveman game. When it works, your job is done. You may as well begin unwrapping the condom. The problem with any high risk venture are the odds of failure. 99 times out of 100, given the scenario I outlined, the surprise from behind caveman kiss will get you slapped and/or tossed out of the bar.
Grade: A/F

el chief wrote:

massive fail. she ran game on you.

man leaves first. woman asks questions.

you should have been teasing her and making her laugh, to the point where you get the awkward silence where you know to ask for the phone number (or makeout). you should have been the mysterious one, not her.

but, what’s done is done.

maintain face. regain control. “sorry, the judge says I’m not allowed to use a computer for another 90 days. punch your number in my phone. it will be ok.” hand her phone. if she says no, then “aight”, and walk back to your boys.

And el chief ftw. Well done. This is a guy who knows the score. He approaches with firmness of purpose, calls her out on her BS in an accessibly humorous way without drawing undue attention to her shitty behavior, and then leads her to where he wants her to go.
Grade: A+

Cannon’s Canon wrote:

Grab her by the shoulder and spin her around so she’s facing you. Plant the steel toe in her gut so she keels over, then deliver the Stone Cold Stunner. As she writhes on the ground, give her two middle fingers. Make sure your wingman has been cued to break some glass at this point.

Is this the start of a new seduction school of thought? WWE game.
Grade: E for effort

PA wrote:

Why are the new episodes of “Two and a Half Men” having Charlie go lovey-dovey beta over some chick and seeing a ball-busting female feminist shrink and paying her to become more sensitive?

Because our culture overlords sense the gathering storm on the horizon. Like a stuck pig cornered, knowing their time is almost up, they are thrashing out in feral fury. Expect this elite-driven backlash to intensify in the coming years.
Grade: OT (off topic)

Ben wrote:

If you’re looking for strange, forget this one. If she successfully intrigued you, you step forward, take her hand, take off a ring, a bracelet, a necklace and give it to her. Tell her you want it back but only when she’s ready. If she hooks (unlikely) and asks, “Ready for what?” then you just closed mouth smile.

Hollywood called. They’re missing their Judd Apatow movie.
Grade: D-

MarkD wrote:

Call DA and ask for advice?

DA has terabytes of knowledge to drop.
Grade: DA

Ed wrote:

Forget what she says. It is all in the body language. Tell her to forget about the email. Just offer to walk her home with a stupid excuse.

I like the thinking behind this, but offering to walk her home smacks of beta chivalry. And we all know by now how counterproductive chivalry is in 21st century America. A better way to do this might be to say “Hey, I’m taking off too. You can walk with me and keep me entertained, but don’t get any funny ideas.”
Grade: C+

bongojazz wrote:

When she turned away, either she’s seeing if he’s worth a damn or she’s genuinely done. It’s possible it’s a test and she hasn’t made up her mind yet. I figure, hedge bets. Say

“I didn’t catch that.” loud enough so she can hear, and then turn around like you don’t give a damn.

I sort of like this, but in practice it’s only a small step above “do nothing”. Given the unfolding scene, the chance that she will come up to you to repeat herself are nil.
Grade: C-

Rain And wrote:

She’s walking away rudely. Running up to her is weak, so…..

YOU: [loudly] HEY! [if she doesn’t turn her head for this, game over. if she turns her head continue.] GET THE FUCK BACK HERE. [slyly, of course, not pissy. you’re calling her on her shit]

At this point she either ignores you, if she never cared, or comes back if she did care, but just wanted a little ballsy drama instead of boring phone routine.

YOU: I don’t want your email. Email is for work. C’mon… [grab her hand, lead her over somewhere close, perhaps a little more isolated.. no real point, except to dominate the interaction in a mysterious way. more hushed tone, like a secret] Look, there’s somewhere I always go on my birthday. It’s my ritual. I’m not going to tell you what it is, but it’s close. Walking distance. Five or six blocks.

And then you improvise the destination and backstory. Maybe a monument or another bar. Whatever is close. Just a contrived bounce.

This is solid Salvage Game. Beautiful. By amping up the asshole you virtually wipe clean your earlier betaness. Sometimes, when you have gone too far down the beta road, shock therapy is the only thing that will redeem you in the eyes of your target.
Grade: A

tokyobetagrist mewled:

According to the official story, game is all about controlling women and not letting them control you. If that’s the case, the only solution to this test that’s consistent with the philosophy of game is to do nothing. If you’re going to jump through hoops (I mean even more than usual) just to have sex with this one special woman, how are you any different from “betas?” This is the paradox of game, because you’re always jumping through hoops and always being controlled by women, even as you tell yourself that it’s the other way around.

Spoken like a supercilious eunuch who believes that women should fall into men’s laps, and any effort on a man’s part to attract women only sullies his masculinity. TBG, I have some very demoralizing news for you — no man is exempt from the biomechanical forces of sexual selection. Whether you are consciously aware of it or not, you do what it takes to attract the opposite sex, or you sit in your dank basement apartment hovel spitefully masturbating into the tattered sock of your self-satisfied dogma.
Grade: David Alexander wants to bear your lovechild

poonisgod wrote:

Your love declines. You, thinking little lines around my eyes are fallen lashes, try to brush them off.
I do exfoliate.
In this autumn of my being, parts of me fly, like tossed and wintry-blasted leaves.
I don’t regret their passing.
I must work to make a clear and crystal form.
I, alchemist, and I, philosophers stone,
have sacrificed the fat and froth and fur of youth,
to walk through fire, leap in the dark,
swim inward rivers, pray at a wailing wall.
The wrinkles, sags and greying hair are earned.
You mourn like a child with a broken doll.
Only the core of this crone, was ever real.

When I read this poem
I felt it move
First
to the left
Next
to the right
then up!
The throbbing soul of my love
jutted insouciantly from the waistband of my heart
yearning…
pulsing…
dribbling the pre-cum of my will to merge
with the fleeing of your youth
mourn it not
for its memory
will live on
in my digicam
Grade: Gold star on your forehead for the excellent handle

moonrock wrote:

Toss her your cellphone while she’s backing away.

Odds are you’ll interrupt whatever behavioral script is running through her head and she’ll trip over herself trying to catch it.

What if you have an iPhone or a G1? No girl is worth damaging a quality gadget. Plus, girls can’t catch.
Grade: Think this through

Lisa wrote:

Since you aren’t sure you heard her email right the genuine thing to do would be to cup your hand behind your ear to indicate you can’t hear and make a “come back” motion with your other hand. If she doesn’t walk closer to you then then give her a two-handed “what can I say” shrug and turn your back. If she does come back, ignore her telling you her email. Put your finger over your lips if she keeps saying it to signal her to be quiet. I’m a big fan of mirroring so since she’s been smiling all this time some amused indifference would be good to convey. Keep motioning her closer until she’s back next to you and take it from there.

It just seems to me like this is a situation where you demonstrate you’re in charge or you let her go.

This is very good. It doesn’t happen often, but occasionally a female reader gets it right. Points for its nonverbal simplicity and boldness.
Grade: Cooties

A Test Of Your Game

It’s time for another test of your game.

You’re enjoying the mild night air on the rooftop of a trendy lounge. In the corner you spot a short-haired, vaguely punkish pixie, with eyes like saucer plates. She catches your look and smiles… lasciviously, under heavy lids. Oh yes, this hellsprite has the right stuff.

A minute later she walks by you. Sensing an opportunity, you interrupt her as she passes: “Hey, what’s making you smile so much?” She locks her eyes on yours, smiles mischievously, and walks right past, slowly, saying absolutely nothing, brushing heavily against your chest along the way. You are intrigued.

Ten minutes later she returns and takes up her previous position near the edge of the roofdeck, seemingly in the company of a mixed group but talking to no one. She is facing outward toward the open night. You move closer to her and order another drink at the bar. Grabbing your fresh drink, you 180 and face the same direction as your mystery girl, standing side by side with her. You are about to say something when she breaks the tension first.

“It’s my birthday today.”

“Oh, really? Happy birthday. Get any awesome gifts?”

“Do you like watching people down below?” She is pointing over the roof edge at a couple crossing the street.

“Only the drunk ones.” Is this girl simply strange, or is she running some kind of female game on you? Whatever it is, you are captivated.

“I live in the neighborhood.” She thrusts her arm up and waves to some imaginary figure on a distant apartment roof. “Over there.”

“Yeah, I do too. Hi neighbor.”

You exchange insights with her about the neighborhood you share. It’s better on the weeknights. People treat their dogs like children. The local coffeeshop is a horrible place to meet attractive strangers. This rooftop has the best view of the President’s bedroom. Not more than a few minutes go by.

Suddenly, she turns to face you completely and rests her hand on your forearm. Silently, still smiling from under her pixie eyelids, she makes intense eye contact. She utters not a peep, nor does she have an expectant look on her face like she’s waiting for you to pick up the conversational slack. Her behavior is incomprehensible to you. You wish she is drunk so you can have a tidy explanation. But, no, she’s in control of herself.

“It’s time for me to go.”

You realize there has not been enough interaction to ensure a solid number close. “Ok. Hey, you’re interesting. Let’s chat again sometime. What’s your number?”

“No, I don”t give out my number.” Her obscenely sensual smile hasn’t dropped and her hand hasn’t left your forearm. “You’re attractive, I think.” The longest three seconds pass. Her eyes are burning holes in yours. “You can have my email.” As she’s saying this, her hand finally leaves your forearm and she begins to walk off.

“What is it?” You don’t have a pen.

She recites her email as she’s taking steps backwards from you. You can barely hear her through the crowd noise, so you’re not sure if you got it right, or if you can remember it later. The moment is disintegrating rapidly.

What do you do?

“My Girlfriend Is On A Billboard”

I strolled along the crowded streets of the city with Damian and his brother. Girls were everywhere. New York City is day game Mecca; you can acquire one target, talk to her, maybe get her number, and immediately seize upon a new target as soon as you have parted ways. Don’t expect privacy, though. If you can’t approach and chat up a girl on the sidewalk in the company of hundreds of pedestrians, don’t bother gaming in NYC. New York really is like a giant outdoor improv class, with audience, backdrop, and scores of cute female protagonists.

It’s also a city of contrasts. You will see the most beautiful and the ugliest women here. Both capture your gawk-worthy attention. When they stand side by side at intersections waiting for lights to change, the chasm separating their genetic luck of the draw becomes unbridgeably wide. I made a mental note to hate anyone who would oppose preimplantation embryonic screening.

The other thing I noticed: Even on the older women (25+) the asses were firm and round. My eyes didn’t suffer too many flat or droopy asses. Clearly, women are working harder on their glutes, elevating this body part to centerpiece status. We rechristened New York the “City of Ass”. The city so nice two cheeks suffice. All this glute toning is not consequence free — their boobs were less than stellar. Cleavage was nowhere to be found, and in fact many of the hottest chicks sported anthills for tits.

D’s brother is dating a model. She told us captivating stories about her model friends. Well, her stories were captivating once I let my imagination fill in the details. One of her girlfriends is on a billboard. This prompted a deep, philosophical manly discussion.

ME: Does it get any better than “My girlfriend is on a billboard?”

D: It’s a show stopper.

ME: You go to a party and people ask you about your girlfriend. “Oh, she’s a lawyer.” Boring. “She’s a doctor.” Impressive, but not feeling it. “She’s on a billboard.” Oh yeah, now we’re cooking with gas. Every guy who hears that is going to imagine the hottest girl and get jealous.

D: It’s right up there with “My angel is a centerfold”.

D launched into an impromptu street dance.

D’s BRO: Pay attention, you’re missing it.

My peripheral vision caught a fleeting glimpse of a drop dead gorgeous raven-haired beauty. It’s amazing how eagle-eyed I get when a hot babe is in the vicinity. I’m sure my eyesight bumps up to 20/15.

A cabbie almost ran over our feet. D lumbered after it, exchanging colorful insults with the Indian driver who was sticking two middle fingers out the window, leaving the steering wheel unattended. It’s pointless, of course, but I suppose the yelling helps relieve the tension of nearly getting run over. D’s brother’s cellphone rang — the ringtone was the drum intro to “When the Levee Breaks”.

D’s BRO: John Bonham was a better drummer than Neil Peart. He could play any style. Peart [he antagonistically pronounced it Peeeeee-eeeeaaart] couldn’t play jazz or blues. His time signatures were limited.

D: [aroused with indignation] What are you talking about? Peart was FAR superior to Bonham. Bonham played cheesy 4/4 rock riffs. What talent does that take?

D’s BRO: Dude, Peart couldn’t hang with Buddy Rich. Remember that? He was on stage with these great drummers and he fucked up the rhythm. He has no feel. Bonham has demonstrated he can play outside his range.

D: You don’t know what you’re talking about. Peart was technically better. He played a bigger kit and made the most of it. Electronic drums and the blocks and double bass. He has to spin around! Bonham played that stupid kindergarten kit, two toms and a snare. What is that garbage? One bass drum is child’s play.

D’s BRO: Way to kill your own point, doucheass! Bonham punched out solid rhythms on a limited kit. He didn’t have the crutch of hundreds of drums and cowbells to make up for the lack of skills. You can’t get around that Peart sucks outside his comfort zone.

Punctuating his argument, D’s brother began air drumming “When the Levee Breaks”, pointing his imaginary drumstick in D’s face on the downbeat. D answered the taunt by airdrumming the solo from “Tom Sawyer”. No one on the street bothered to notice.

We stopped by a corner eatery. D ordered the $10 chocolate cake. It was the size of a miniature hockey puck. D growled when he saw the tiny dessert and the waitress looked embarrassed. “I love New York and I hate New York.” Nods of agreement.

D’s brother is an actor and a bartender. Later that night we went to his bar on the Upper East Side while he worked his shift. After a day on the streets, and a night in a bar watching the girls parade in, we concluded that New York’s girls blow SF’s girls out of the water. This was based on a scientific survey.

D’s brother mentioned a Polish girl might come in and flirt with him. She had been in his bar before and conveyed interest in him. He told us this because he suggested we hit on any girlfriends she might drag in with her. We weren’t there more than a half hour when an absolute babe of magnificent proportions and stunning natural beauty walked in the door with five other girls. She was cornsilk blonde and around 22 years old — at the peak of ripeness. She sidled right up to the bar and talked with D’s brother, dripping with a heavy Polish accent. He was indifferent, even to the point of ignoring her and walking in the opposite direction when she was in the middle of telling him something. He wasn’t doing this on purpose; he was pretty happy with his girlfriend. Naturally, his supreme aloofness only drove the Polish girl crazy with lust. Her flirting became aggressive, desperate. I vowed to get a part time job bartending.

Meanwhile, D and I took the full measure of which targets were within striking distance. To his right were two girls, one cute and one chunky. The cute one began stripping off her coat and suit jacket like a cabaret dancer. She pulled at her blouse, making “phew” noises. When a girl wants you to open her she makes it obvious by her proximity and her histrionics.

I glanced over my shoulder. “You practicing your stripper moves?”

“What makes you say that!!?” Ugh, grating New York accent. Their one blemish.

“Well, maybe it was the way you threw your coat into your friend’s face.” I looked over at the fat friend and smiled. The cute one laughed and grabbed D by the arm.

“Your buddy just called me a stripper!”

D chuckled. “I’m up for that.”

Cute chick: “You know what else will get you *up*? Tiger balm!” She looked over at fattie and they giggled.

D furrowed his brow. “Tiger balm? What? What the fuck is that?”

Cute chick: “You don’t know what Tiger balm is??!!! Oh, you’re missing out!”

Fattie: “It’s like Ben-gay. Except for… you know.”

I couldn’t believe these chicks weren’t drunk. What was their excuse? “D, it’s a lotion you can put on your junk and her junk and it heats up. It makes the banging hotter.” The girls giggled louder.

“Right, got it.” D looked disgusted. He has a thing against girls who speak crudely. His theory is that girls who talk like sailors have banged a lot of cock and are burned out from all the pump and dumping. The crudity is like a self-defense mechanism to reclaim some control over men.

D paired off with the cute chick. She seemed into him, and my eyes were resting elsewhere. Like a professional wingman, I occupied the fattie. The four of us had been talking for ten minutes when I felt the urge to break off from the group. I can only humor a fat chick for so long before my patience wears thin. The fattie was exceedingly pleasant (aren’t they all?) but if there’s no physical attraction it just feels like minutes of my precious life are draining away, better spent on slender women.

I shifted 180 degrees and opened two women sitting at the bar. They were flirting with D’s brother as he poured them appletinis. I re-vowed my previous vow to take up a job bartending. The girl nearest me was clearly drunk. Not buzzed; drunk. I hate this. Buzzed girls are great to game, drunk girls are less than useless. They can’t follow a sentence halfway through, all they know how to do is shit test, and they inspire the protective instincts of whatever sober girlfriends they happen to have brought with them. Some of them even piss themselves. They’re dead weight. If you manage to get one home and fuck her, she might pass out in the middle of sex. The only thing they are good for is injecting excitement and a fun vibe into a stalled out conversation. Use them strategically.

“Lemme guess. You guys are sisters.” They did look alike.

Drunk girl addressed me first. “OH MY GOD, how did you know that!!! Yes, we aaaarrree!” A shockwave of rancid breath hit me in the face. She smelled like she had vomited earlier in the night. “Guess our age, now!”

I don’t like when women who look old enough (late 20s) to be easily offended if you guess in the wrong direction by more than a year ask me to guess their age. It’s a landmine. So I never make a serious attempt.

“Lesseee… you’re 52?”

“Whaaaat?? Nooo!!!”

“Ok, one more try… 21!”

“Aww, you’re so cute! Does my sister look older or younger than me?”

Christ, an entire family psychodrama was about to play out. I realized if I didn’t lead the convo I could wind up being the catalyst for whatever issues these two wanted to work out.

“You know what, I’m horrible at this. But I can tell you that your sister looks like the responsible one.” I smiled at the sober sister. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“You’re the chaperone?”

Drunk girl interrupted with another blast of puke breath. “She’s younger than me! I have to look out for her.” She went to high-five her sister and missed, her open palm jabbing the air ineffectually. “Why don’t you entertain us?” She was touching her chest.

“You’re enough entertainment for all of us.” I turned my back. I had lost all interest in pursuing the set any further. With D tied up and D’s bro busy working the bar, I had nobody to act as a wedge between the sisters. The sober sister was already looking concerned for her drunk sister. Tactically, it was hopeless. If they had both been sober, I could have done something with that.

At closing time (4AM), there were eight women and me and D. Does this ever happen in SF bars? I can’t recall. If you have the energy to go out five nights a week, I can guarantee that no matter how bad your game, after six months in NYC you WILL get laid. There are just too many women in too small an area for you to fail at that goal. You’d have to be a hermit or a leper to remain involuntarily celibate in New York for more than a year.