Like a dispatched army of obfuscators and purveyors of palatable lies, the fembot foot soldiers were marching in locktstep after news broke of Rihanna’s return to the violently abusive man she deeply loves. The lies, pop culture psychoanalysis and threadbare excuses were flying left and right.
“It’s really hard for a woman to leave an abuser. Where will she go? How will she survive?”
“He’s controlling/manipulative. She was too weak to resist that.”
“He wears down her self-esteem. Eventually, she depends on the beatings to feel loved, and the cycle continues.”
Grade A bullshit. How do I know this? Easy. A simple thought experiment will suffice to aid understanding.
When a woman wants to leave a beta boyfriend/husband who makes her life a misery, is it:
a. hard for her to leave him?
b. impossible because she won’t be able to survive on her own/find a place to live?
c. difficult because she can’t resist his mind control?
d. not going to happen because she depends on his beta behavior to validate her self-esteem? or
e. pretty fucking easy for her to walk out the door/sign the divorce papers?
It’s amazing the verbal calisthenics humans will go through to avoid facing up to a disconcerting truth. Fembots especially; they’ve got so much invested in the prevailing shibboleths that to turn their backs on them now in this crucial matter of why women return to abusers would amount to a repudiation of the holy foundation of dyke dogma — that women are not responsible for their choices, and that a woman’s sexual nature is a moral paragon to ceaselessly celebrate. Rihanna, like so many women, runs back into the arms of her beatdown boyfriend because…
wait for it…
she loves him.
And she loves him more because he hits her. This explains why, despite immense family and social pressure (really, an entire country’s worth of social pressure) to leave Chris Brown, and despite the likelihood of future painful beatings at his hands, Rihanna could not ignore the pull of her heart. Love is too powerful an emotion to be swayed by the blunt tools of shame, reason, or even fear.
Superficially, the red-faced excusers may be describing some element of psychological reality that happens in the heads of women like Rihanna. But they are only teasing around the edges. Full understanding eludes them because they miss the core motivation — the emotional juggernaut — that animates the woman who willingly makes herself vulnerable to a physically abusive lover. They refuse to acknowledge this because in their minds it says something unflattering about women they’d rather not know.
On a related note, I am not surprised that the usual suspects who comment on this blog haven’t come out and condemned Rihanna for rushing back into the arms of Brown. The sound of silence is deafening…
I was sent a link to this collegehumor.com video (hat tip: “godless capitalist”):
It’s pretty funny, but the bad game demonstrated here isn’t all that exaggerated. We’ve all seen guys do this in clubs. (What’s going through the girls’ heads is probably a bit harsher in reality. Something along the lines of “Loser! ACK, another loser! LOSER! omg, loser again!”)
Beta behaviors illustrated:
Goofy smiling.
Unsolicited hugs.
Bad voice tone.
Maniacal laughing every time girl speaks.
Staring.
Drink buying.
Island buying.
Professions of love.
The fat chick coming out of the loo was a nice touch.
Commenter Max from Australia made the following observation about Brad Pitt:
Brad Pitt has been totally “pwned” by marriage, he should be the happiest dude in the world, loaded and with great looks. But look at a recent photo, the spark in his eyes has died. In his head the mantra is “get me out of here…get me out of here “.
He’s been cuckolded into looking after 4 kids who arent his, and handcuffed in by 2 kids who are……His own kids allegedly get beaten up by the bigger kids in the “tribe”.
And his wife just keeps getting nuttier and he looks just as beaten down as any married schmuck.
Here is the recent photo of Brad Pitt that Max linked to. You can see Pitt has been “Al Bundy-ized”:
“Peeeeeeggg!”
Eyes glazed over. Not a hint of a smile. We’ve all seen this: The morose married man listlessly shambling around the mall with yapping wife and ungrateful brats in tow; the man who didn’t know what he was getting into and has subsequently had the joy of living beat out of him. Yes, not even marriage to Angelina Jolie, a top 1% woman (for her age), can stop this zombie-fication process. Brad Pitt is marching to the gravesite of his soul. He has lost the fight in him.
***
UPDATE: Turns out Pitt is probably not married to Jolie (though there are persistent rumors of a secret wedding). This is what I get for not keeping up with the latest moronic Hollywood celebrity gossip. I’m so ashamed. Nevertheless, my point stands. Pitt got roped into a multi-adoption, weirdo wife pseudo-marriage. He looks like a married man who woke up wondering what the hell just happened. Substitute almost any 5+ years married man you see walking about town and the truth of my observations becomes indisputable.
***
What women don’t seem to understand is that men could well do without the institution of marriage. We wouldn’t miss it at all. We could be perfectly happy in non-marital long term relationships. Men don’t breathlessly leaf through bridal mags or get jealous when our friends get hitched. We don’t dream of the wedding ceremony starting at the age of four. Married men *may* live longer than single men (though these claims are in dispute), but their psyches, their souls, and their masculine essence die long before their bodies do.
Once the first couple years of childless, lustful flush wanes, the married man becomes the walking dead… unless he revitalizes himself with a young mistress.
Maxim #11: The greater the sexual market value disparity between the husband and his depreciating wife, and the more kids they have, the more life the husband has sucked out of him.
For instance, Angelina Jolie is on the downward slope with the wall rapidly approaching. She is looking more like a man every day. They have adopted kids from all over the world. Nonbiological kids are not loved as much by parents as biological kids would be, don’t let them tell you otherwise. The resentment shows itself in little ways. Brad Pitt is still very much at the peak of his sexual power. He could have almost any 9 and 10 in the world. And he knows it. Instead, he is shackled to an androgenizing, aging Jolie and a zillion kids, only a couple of which are his. And the adopted kids are beating the shit out of his own flesh and blood. He has to be thinking “Why did I sign up for this?”.
I do believe it is time for a handy chart to illustrate the gradual psychological degradation of the married man, as seen in the emptiness of his gaze.
Years % Sexiness # of Kids Spark of Life Married Remaining in Wife in Man’s Eyes
0-2 100 0 sparkling with life
2-5 80 1-2 serene and stoic
5-7 60 1-3* glassy
(one semi-retarded)
7-10 50 1-3* 1000 yard stare
(one gay)
10-12 40 1-4* serial killer
(one adopted,
different race)
12-15 20 1-5* comatose
(one flamboyantly gay,
two adopted,
one autistic,
one hates you)
15-20 5 1-5* zombie
(one drug addict,
one with gender confusion,
son who throws like girl,
one who looks like Samuel Jackson,
one in jail for filming upskirt vids)
20-infinity -100 Lost count Terminator
I gently coaxed her head down toward my boner. Her hand vigorously pumped. Handjobs are lame. Most girls don’t do them right, chafing and tugging like maniacs, as if they’re pulling a weed out by the roots. I wanted the mouth upgrade. She resisted.
“No, I’m not doing that.”
“Oh?”
“I think blowjobs are gross. Eww. I don’t like that in my mouth. It’s not the same as going down on a girl.”
She had experimented with women back in the day. I thought for a second about what she said. More gross going down on cock than pussy? No way. It’s the difference between slurping on a hot dog and smearing your face with pubes and mucousy, unidentifiable juices.
“Wow, that’s the first time I’ve heard that.”
She bristled. “Most women don’t actually like it.”
“That hasn’t been my experience. In fact, I can’t think of a single girl I’ve ever been with who didn’t like giving head.” I was being truthful.
“Well, they aren’t going to tell you that they don’t like it.”
“Hmm. Maybe. But if they weren’t enjoying it, their moans of pleasure sure fooled me.”
“I don’t even like sex that much.”
I squinted at her, growing less aroused with each word she uttered. “Uh, ok.”
“Yeah, it’s not all that much of a turn-on for me. I get off when a guy goes down on me. That’s the best.”
Even though her hand was wrapped tight around my rod, I deflated like a week-old balloon. She spread her legs a little wider and began touching herself. She smiled at me and looked down at her pussy. “Mmm, I love when a guy goes down there. Like he can’t get enough of me.” Her fingers glistened with the proof of her arousal.
I admired her gall in the face of her abject hypocrisy. But there was no way I was eating her out. I have a rule I follow which has held me in good stead for my entire copulatory career: I don’t go down on a girl until she has gone down on me first, assuming she smells OK. Exception to the rule: She’d have to be extraordinarily hot, a 9 or above, for me to be inspired by my uncontrollable horniness to munch away in advance of her putting me in her mouth. And it’d have to be obvious by her writhing enthusiasm that she was geared up for some bigtime raunchy sex and a blowjob in due course.
The reason for this rule is simple. You have to make a girl earn your tongue. That means hummers and fucking first. It may sound calculating, but this is the way girls think. If you give her everything she wants for free, she will have less incentive to bend over backwards (literally) to please you in every way you want to be pleased. Blowjobs will seem like “special treats” in her mind that she blesses you with when you’ve been especially good to her. This is not how you properly train your girlfriend or fuckbuddy. Instead, hold back on the oral sex until she’s proven her worth by meeting your demands.
You always want her in the frame of mind of seeking your approval, pleasing you first, and working overtime to enjoy the breadcrumbs of attention you sprinkle on her. *That*, readers, is the foundation of hot, frequent sex. She *wants* to feel the struggle of earning your prize member, and your pricey love. Give her what she wants by withholding what she wants. As in all things women, the paradox is primary.
There are four reasons why a girl would balk at giving blowjobs.
She’s sexually repressed. These types aren’t too common in DC, but they do exist. I give sluts a hard time, but her twisted sister, the Frigid Ice Queen, is just as distressing. At the first signs you have a sex-averse girl on your hands, run, do not walk, to the nearest exit. Odds are not good that you will unplug the Freudian sludge that clogs her pussy pipe. You may, but you probably won’t. And the worst decision a man can make in his life is to marry an Ice Queen. Worse even than marrying a slut with cheating whore issues. You will suffer endless blueball torment as her parched snapper slowly drains the masculinity out of you and drives you to the brink of insanity. Red flag: Her father is a preacher.
She really doesn’t like giving blowjobs. If you’re like most men and you love getting head, there’s no point sticking it out with a girl like this, no matter how well she cooks. But don’t worry, this kind is rare. It’s been my experience that any girl who is very attracted to you will love sucking your cock. Most girls won’t need to be asked, or have their head pushed into position.
She’s testing you. Some girls will make you wait it out for the goodies, teasing you with a lick on the shaft or a tip in their asshole, until you’ve satsified their need to know you are really into them. These types have been burned by men they loved, and regard your infinite patience and heavy balls as evidence that you love her for more than her body. Avoid her. You don’t want a girl in your life who uses sex as a weapon. You don’t want a girl who views sex as an all-in-one tool for self-validating ego-prop.
She’s atoning for her past slutty ways. Of the four types listed here, this type is the most loathsome. She’s a brazen bitch. A selfish headcase. Damaged goods. She’s been on a merry-go-round of cock since puberty and woke up one morning feeling bad about it. Now she sees it as her duty to make amends for her whorish history, and you are her experimental beta guinea pig. “I’m not a slut!” pleads her shattered, spooged id. “And I’m going to prove it with this guy!” So she refrains from gobbling your cock, or makes you wait past the 3rd date for sex, thinking she can silence the screaming of the slut as a born-again prude. This is new ground she’s on, so she’s bound to be clumsy about it. You’ll hear her say incongruous things like “Stop pressuring me!” as she’s splayed out naked on your bed, legs spread wide, pussy leaving juice spots on your sheets. Her transparent act II psychodrama will infuriate you. What drives a man nuttier than knowing he’s being deviously denied that which so many other men have boffed freely? But what this deluded girl doesn’t know is that you have game. You have no trouble scoring. She can push you one, maybe two, dates more than your three date rule for sex, but she will inevitably push too far. And the bigger slut she’s been in her previous life, the harder she will attempt to atone for it by crushing your spirit. In a Battle Royale between a Rules Girl and a Player, always bet on player. You will walk, never looking back, your dignity flush with victory and your sack spared her wicked games. She can practice keeping her legs shut on another sucker. You’re not her sacrificial slut redeemer.
Maxim #71: When a girl signals that she doesn’t enjoy blowjobs or sex, do not spend one second more with her. Your libido is too important to gamble on such a girl.
The nominees for the February Beta of the Month in the 2009 Beta of the Year contest are in. Keep your submissions rolling in, folks.
February 2009 BOTM Candidate #1 was submitted by commenter 11minutes. A regular Joe gets cheated on, but what vaults this guy into the rarified stratosphere of Beta of the Month is what he did once the truth came out.
I don’t remember the exact day Colin (not his real name) became part of my life. A fleetingly glimpsed neighbour I’d sometimes nod to, I knew he was a long-distance truck driver and I think he knew who I was. When our paths crossed, he would seldom meet my gaze. I don’t even remember when I first heard his name. A familiar voice uttered it, though: my wife’s. It wasn’t by way of an introduction, although years later I did wonder how that might have gone. “Honey, you’ve seen that handsome man with the blond hair, broad shoulders and light tan who lives at number 18? His name’s Colin.” But no. Rather more mundanely, she referred to him matter-of-factly in conversation. “Colin took the remains of that old fence to the dump for me today, honey.” Or, “Oh, by the way, Colin mended the lawn mower. Then he mowed the lawn.”
As I’ve said before, women are inherently amoral. They are de facto nihilists. They are sociopaths of convenience. So when a wife is cheating on you, don’t expect her to tip her hand so flagrantly. A cheating whore is perfectly capable and willing of fooling even the most advanced male brain lie detector system. That very guy she’s boffing under your nose is the guy who “by the way, mended the lawn mower”.
Ice in the veins. That’s what happens to a woman’s blood when she falls out of love. You have been warned.
Instead, I started to read. The entries stretched back months, detailing their covert liaisons – romantic, practical, but mostly sexual. The descriptions ranged from the relatively tame (“Kissed and cuddled today, it was lovely”) to the kind of things you get in the racier passages of a Mills & Boon novel – nothing too graphic, but surprisingly comprehensive.
My jaw ached with panic and I felt the sudden flush of adrenaline.
You’d almost think he’d want to kill someone, or at least dump the bitch. But no, if he did that he wouldn’t be a BOTM nominee.
Of course, I confronted her. I wanted to yell at her, but my initial anger was quickly anaesthetised by shock. I felt numb, confused. With tears in her eyes, she said she hadn’t been happy for years and that Colin provided an escape. At that moment, I didn’t know what to say. It was four or five hours before we could sit down and talk.
“Sit down and talk”. This is what hopelessly needy betas always revert to when confronted with the dissolution of their relationships. They think the act of flapping their gums in endless loops of cloyingly empathetic therapy-speak will magically change a whore’s heart. Newsflash: It won’t and it never will as long as you remain the bitchboy beta you are. Your wife has just allowed another man’s giant throbbing cock to penetrate her labia and shoot his hot sticky load deep inside her womb while she screamed in pleasure and you want to SIT DOWN AND TALK?! You mewling pathetic street cur. You cowardly pissant nancyboy. You detachable penis.
Here is what he should have done:
Calmly held the diary up to his wife’s face and then placed it on the dresser in silence.
Threw her shit out the window.
Slapped her hard across the face. (3b. Fucked her till she bleeds.)
Kicked her out and excised the cancer from his life.
Number 3 alone gives the guy a better shot at hot sex than sitting down to talk. Put all four steps together and the whore will find herself completely re-enamored with him.
We discussed the usual options, including divorce, but decided to stay together for the sake of the children, make a fresh start.
For the sake of the children, you should humiliate your cockgobbling wife in front of them. I can’t think of a more valuable lesson to impart. If the divorce laws were fair, and this guy was the type who didn’t mind snuffing out his social life by raising kids, he would be able to take the kids away from the whore and leave her sobbing in a crumpled heap on the floor of her grimy studio apartment she rents with the money she makes at her new job waiting tables.
Next day, she told Colin it was over.
Ha! Chump. It may be over with Colin, but it isn’t over. You’d best put a tracking device on her.
This is where the story takes a turn from typical beta lament to event horizon beta black hole.
We didn’t see him for a couple of weeks after that – he’d been driving his lorry on the continent. But Colin never did return. The news that he had gone missing on a ship, presumed lost overboard, was broken to us by his next-door neighbour. My wife’s first reaction was stunned disbelief, as was mine. Then she turned away and covered her mouth, trying to stifle any sobs. Thoughts and emotions more tangled than ever, I tried to comfort her.
Amazing. So the interloper who banged his wife dies at sea, and instead of jumping up and down with joy and laughing in his wife’s face, our intrepid beta heroine reaches out to comfort her in her time of sorrow. The jilted husband just received a taste of delicious karmic justice that most won’t ever have the joy to experience, and he ruins the moment by going beta. Schmuck!
I feel a song coming on…
You got a whore wife and you want her back
But you ain’t got the stuff
She keeps cheatin’ on you night and day
Enough to shrink your nuts
Pick up some game, leave her in shame
It’s time you made a stand
For a fee, I’m happy to be
Your new wingman
Colin’s death was confirmed by the positive identification of a body washed up on the beach. Some weeks later, my wife asked if we could drive to the crematorium so she could lay some flowers and say her final farewells. It felt strange but, in the hope of her finding some kind of closure, I told myself it was the right thing to do.
Yes, this almighty beta drove his wife to her lover’s grave so she could lay flowers and “find closure”. Sweet merciless Satan, why do you bless me so with these tales of ho? If I can single-handedly alter the destructive course upon which Western civilization currently finds itself careening, it will be on the backs of losers like this. Thank you for your vomitous examples, betas, one and all.
If it was me, I would have driven the whore to the crematorium and then, right at the moment her eyes welled up with tears and she laid the flowers, I’d have whipped out my dick and pissed on his epitaph.
Speaking of epitaphs, what better epitaph to lay at the gravestone of the West than “finding closure”? Have more spineless, craven beta words ever been written?
Here lies America. She found closure.
I read stories like this one and I want the whole fucking edifice to burn to the ground. At this late stage in the game, there is no other way to clean out the liars, SWPL losers, SPLC traitors, tankgrrl nerds, betas, fuglies, dregs, deluded fantasists, bores, mediocrities, backstabbers, weasels, sycophants, sophists, degenerates, dullards, eunuchs, trolls, wishful thinkers, excuse mongers, whackjobs, equalist tards, dumbfucks, obsequious curs, attention whores, suckups, PC toadies, fembots, lapdogs, shitlickers, pity whores, phonyfucks, hypocrites, parasites, stool pigeons, sanctimonious multicultists, diversity sluts, and weak-willed assmunching ankle grabbing bitchboy pukes.
Bring the all-consuming flames.
So where does our betaboy’s story end?
Slowly we tried to put it behind us and his name was never mentioned again. A few years later we had another child and our marriage entered a new, happier phase. I vowed to be a more attentive husband and adjust my work-life balance. But I couldn’t forget the affair, especially how close it had happened to home.
I should have trusted my instinct: 12 years later, my wife ran off with my best friend.
And that kid went Haa Haaaw!
February 2009 BOTM Candidate #2 was submitted by commenter twiceaday. It’s the emotionally charged story of a man’s Herculean efforts to save his marriage to his loving, supportive wife. A woman of good character, I might add. He writes to an advice column called “Annie’s Mailbox”:
Dear Annie: I love my wife of 30 years, but I’ve had it. For 10 years, I had a great job in which I was well respected and well paid. Under pressure at home to bring in more money, I took a promising position at a startup company. Six months later, I was sacked. Since then, I’ve had to jump on any opportunity that came my way. I’ve had seven jobs in nine years and things have been financially tough. I have made some job mistakes, but still, we’re almost back to where we were nine years ago.
However, whenever any difficulty occurs, my wife rubs it in my face. I try to be a devoted husband. I am the prime breadwinner and still do more than half the cooking, cleaning and chores. Until recently, I was active in church and local community organizations. We have three wonderful children who have excelled academically.
So far, so beta. Man loses job, wife routinely questions his manhood, man attempts reconciliation by shouldering more domestic chores. Nothing to see here, move along.
I rarely buy anything for myself, yet if I spend any money at all, I get a screaming apoplectic display from my wife. She is taking back my birthday gifts because “we need the money.” Meanwhile, we seem to have the funds for her to travel (without me) and refresh her wardrobe each season.
Um, yeah. Let me see if I have this straight. Screaming, bitchy harpy won’t let husband buy consumer goods for himself *with his own fucking money*, he acquiesces to her demands, and she uses his money to…
travel around the world ALONE sucking and fucking god knows how much exotic swarthy cock and reward herself with new clothes every three months.
Does it get any beta than this? Why yes, yes it does.
Many of these arguments occur when my wife has been drinking. She sometimes hits me and says things that aren’t easily forgotten. We don’t have much of a romantic life, either. It’s difficult to be a good lover after being scolded.
David Alexander laughs at you.
By the way, this is a good illustration of why hitting a man won’t have the same effect as hitting a woman for turning on the ol’ heart light. Hit a woman, she drenches her panties. Hit a man, he gets no nookie and his testicles ascend.
I don’t believe in divorce, but if I had any way to leave the marriage and make sure she’s financially fixed, I would. I suspect I am clinically depressed and fear I might lose control one of these days. What do I do?
My advice:
Your beliefs suck. Change them.
She’s fucking a guy named Eduardo. Count on it.
Eduardo is using your hard-earned money to buy your wife lingerie. For him to jizz on.
Forget about making sure she’s “financially fixed”. Once you’ve started visualizing Eduardo’s cock pumping your wife’s squeezebox in and out and in and out, you should have no qualms making sure she’s “financially fucked”.
You’re depressed because you’re a loser. Stop being a loser.
You’ve already lost control. Face it.
Pick up any rudimentary material on game, learn it, go out of the house, pick up a chick, birng her home, and fuck her senseless in your marital bed.
Leave your whore harpy wife AND DON”T EVER LOOK BACK.
For a good laugh, here is the advice the man-hating bitch at “Annie’s Mailbox” gave him:
Dear No Name: You are trapped with an abusive wife and recognize how close you are to reacting violently. Talk to a lawyer about a legal separation, which will enable you to provide financially for your wife while living apart.
See that rhetorical sleight of hand? Classic 1st, 2nd, 3rd and 4th wave feminist misdirection. He’s got a bitch for a wife but everyone should be worried that he will react violently. Remember this ironclad first order rule of feminism:
Always blame the man. No matter what has happened or has yet to happen.
And WTF is with her advice to him to find a legal separation arrangement that will ensure he can continue providing financially for the shrike? She should be telling him to stop coddling the bitch and dump her for a better woman. Asking too much, I know.
Then get some counseling, with or without her, and contact Al-Anon (al-anon.alateen.org) at 1-888-4-AL-ANON (1-888-425-2666).
Damian and I were at a multi-floored historic building converted into a lounge (a not uncommon idiosyncrasy of the city) that features the hottest female waitstaff and bartenders in the city.
Damian bumped my elbow and motioned me to look toward two attractive blondes — a 7.5 and an 8.5 — who were standing near us. Two men had just walked up and engaged them in conversation. Both men were, as far as I can tell these things, decent-looking, over 6 feet tall, and in shape. One was older– late 30s, early 40s — and sharply dressed with a dash of gray around the temples. His buddy was late 20s, early 30s, and dressed more casually. The younger guy had a frat boy-ish vibe, while the older guy struck a more sophisticated pose.
Since all four of them were within earshot, I focused my listening attention on the group, occasionally glancing over, so I could enjoy the spectacle of these guys running whatever game they had on the two blondes. When I see a choice setup like this, I take it as an opportunity to observe and learn or, in the case of men with no game, to amuse myself and gawk at the carnage, while positioning for a flanking maneuver.
Approach
The men went straight in, telegraphing their interest from the word “go”. Opened with “Hey, how you guys doing?” Points for boldness, demerits for shitty opener. Even in socially overheated crowded venues, the best approach is noncommittal — from an angle, over the shoulder. Also, it doesn’t hurt to be a little more creative than “How you doin’?”.
Girls’ Reaction
The poor approach didn’t hurt these guys. The girls welcomed them with big smiles and enthusiastic hellos, probably because the men were reasonably good-looking compared to the average man in the place. The older man looked like he was of means.
Body Language
The men registered the girls’ positive reaction and took the beta bait, amping up their energy levels and enthusiasm. This was my first hint that a pickup attempt disaster was looming. The younger guy began grinning ear to ear like an idiot, and bobbing his head up and down each time the girls talked. The older guy maintained a more aloof body language, keeping his back straight and avoiding any “pecking” or leaning into the girls. He didn’t wildly smile like his fratboy buddy. I could see he had more self-control and experience than his younger friend. His economy of words and body movement made him seem the more confident of the two men. If I noticed that, then surely the girls noticed it as well.
Conversation
The men ran what I call Chit Chat Game. This is the kind of conversation you make with someone when you are bereft of anything interesting to say. “What do you think of this place?” “You guys live in the city?” “Hey, the martinis here are really good.” “You guys like to dance?” “Whoa, you’re from North Carolina?” “How about those Tar Heels!” The fratboy latched onto this subject because it was in his comfort zone. “Yeah, you’re a Tar Heels fan? All riiiiiight!! High five!”. He tried to hold the high five with the 7.5 for a second too long, but she dropped her hand fast.
Yes, the guys were actually talking college sports. I could *feel* the initial attraction drain out of the girls, like a nail in a tire slowly letting out air. Their smiles had turned plastic, and they began gripping their drinks tighter and holding them up higher on their chests. The hotter one made a series of quick sidelong surveys around the room.
The older man wasn’t talking as much, but when he did he had a steadier, calmer cadence than his sports fan friend. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t lead and take control of the conversation when it started sputtering into lame sports talk territory. What he did contribute was of the “business interview” variety. More mature than gushing over the Tar Heels to be sure, but still death for pickup.
Escape
Surprisingly, Fric and Frac managed to stay in set for fifteen minutes. I chalked it up to the niceness of the girls — they were very forgiving of horrid game that would have sent the typical urban lawyer chick into massive shit test, ball crushing mode, after suckering the tools for free drinks of course. These two girls must have been from out of town — way out of town.
The 7.5 delivered the cockblock signal to her friend — a thin-lipped entreaty and an almost imperceptible eyebrow raise — but that was all it took for her to get the message.
“Well, we’re going to go upstairs now. See you!” As they turned and slithered away from the men, Fratboy looked over his shoulder at them and in a sickeningly pleading voice moaned “Aww, you guys are going upstairs?? All right, maybe we’ll see you up there!” The girls didn’t bother looking back.
Denouement
Damian found all this the height of hilarity, but also was overcome with an urge to pummel the beta out of these guys. He believes bad game is more nauseating than eating a spoiled enchilada. It really is like rubbernecking at a particularly gruesome car accident. I enjoy bad game in others because it means less competition for me. This is why I support gay rights. I want as many men as possible to feel comfortable embracing the butt pirate lifestyle and thus removing themselves from hetero circulation.
Fratboy and Boring Gent talked amongst themselves, obviously planning a way to reconnect with the girls. Someone needed to be charitable and interject to explain the futility of their situation, but no man’s ego is strong enough to handle that sort of constructive criticism, especially not in the chaos of the field. Instead, we watched them climb up the stairs to meet their by now long gone girls.
We didn’t have the heart to tell them that the only thing upstairs were the bathrooms.
Rebirth
Later, I bumped into the hotter girl on the first level of the club. I smiled at her.
“So, how did those guys do?”
She laughed.
*********
A lot of losers in love insist that “being yourself” is morally superior to “manipulating and seducing” a girl with game. They have an instinctual aversion to anything that doesn’t conform to the beta script of “boy meets girl and sometimes magic happens in a most satisfyingly natural and unforced way, as God intended”. They believe any conscious effort to make oneself more attractive to the opposite sex is inherently dishonest.
They are wrong. Honesty is recognizing that women have different desires and appealing to that. Dishonesty with yourself is ignoring this fundamental fact of the sexes, and selfishly expecting women to be attracted to your principled obstinacy.
What game-hating beta losers don’t comprehend is that the opposite of Game — casual chit chat — can increase a man’s failure rate with women who would otherwise prefer that he not disappoint them so. “Being yourself” isn’t an ethically or strategically neutral stance; it is an unnecessarily negative obstacle to connecting with women in the way they want you to connect with them. Despite what women claim, they would really rather you run some game on them so they can feel those good feelings that are aroused by skilled practitioners of the art of indulging the female psyche. They just don’t want you to tell them you’re running game.
The two girls were happy to be approached by the two men on account of their style and looks. But Anti-Game quickly eroded whatever attraction was there initially. These guys were being themselves, and it cost them dearly. They were “honest” according to the beta playbook, and they were punished for their honesty.
Anti-Game is the equivalent of being an ill-prepared Boy Scout. Anti-Game is to men what going out wearing baggy pants and flannel shirt, no makeup, and greasy, unkempt hair is to women. Sure, you may be good-looking enough to pull some ass despite your lack of game or your figure-concealing unflattering clothes, but you’ll be needlessly limiting your options.
The pair have reunited almost three weeks after Brown, 19, allegedly battered the “Umbrella” singer on Feb. 8, a source tells PEOPLE.
“They’re together again. They care for each other,” says the source. The on-again couple are currently spending time together at one of Sean “Diddy” Combs’s homes, on Miami Beach’s Star Island.
Aww, how cute. Rihanna and Chris, the two lovebirds, back together again. POW! She just couldn’t stay away, that girl! WHACK! Sources close to the loving couple say they can’t keep their hands off each other. SLAP! I bet!
Is Rihanna going back to Chris in spite of, or because of, the beatings he gave her? Answer: both.
Consciously, she goes back in spite of. Subconsciously, she goes back because of.
A hit across the face, because it is an unabashed demonstration of male power, will trigger stronger orgasms in many otherwise normal women. I have observed this phenomenon myself. Think of a slap as Viagra for women. Lubed up for a long evening of hot sex!
PS: If you disapprove of this behavior, the way to contain this Pandora’s Box of human nature is to shame the women for freely choosing abusive men. Shaming violent men for striking women will not work as well as long as women continue to reward these men with their loving hearts and open pussies.
