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Beta Pedestal Game

The perfect distillation of it on Craigslist:

drop dead heart stopping beauty – m4w


Reply to: XXX
Date: 2009-01-24, 9:25PM EST

saw you at the Blooms store on minnniefield rd I let you in front of me just to see ( no harm in mind no stalker) If a woman could truly be that beautiful and you truly are.You bless the earth with the imprint of you foot upon it,s soil

If you want to know why Game works so well, it’s because there are so many of these chumps out there in circulation. You’ll be a wolf among sheep.

Black Men, White Women

Reader and prolific commenter Obsidian was interested in my take on this article by a white woman who discusses her preference for black men.

Black skin is thick and lush, sensuous to the touch, like satin and velvet made flesh. There’s only one patch of skin on a white man’s body that remotely compares to nearly every inch of a black man’s skin.

I have no idea what black man skin feels like, since VK won’t let me run my hands up and down his chiseled biceps and give a squeeze for good measure, but I remember the skin of the last black woman I slept with — it was wrinkle-free and taut but also somewhat rough in spots, like sandpaper. The softest female skin I have ever touched was on an Asian woman.

And I had the socially acceptable explanation for my craving. I used that paucity-of-available-white-partners rationale to explain my relationships with black men for several years. A white woman past forty is often passed over by her white-male contemporaries. She goes younger or ethnic or foreign-born or down the socioeconomic scale or darker or she spends lonely nights at home with her cats. Black men are happy to get the babe they couldn’t have when she was twentysomething and fertile. The laws of the marketplace do prevail. It’s not me, it’s them being the white guys who weren’t after me anymore, or so I claimed.

That’s a lie. The truth is, I attract about the same percentage of available white men my age (and far younger!) now as I did when I was thirty and that’s not including the unavailable white men who want to play around anyway.

Enough white men want me that I was hardly facing enforced celibacy, but I don’t want them.

Let’s take a look at the author’s photo, shall we?

grossoldhag

Here’s a video of her, for more accurate judging. Hint: She’s not the hottie standing on the right.

The only lie here is the lie she is telling herself. There is no way this gross disgusting old hag who hit the wall so hard she is on the other side of it is attracting any sort of white man except the bottom of the barrel dregs who will dump a fuck in her distended flabby hole because they can’t afford an internet connection to whack off to porn outside of the public library. Her looks are relevant to her claim that she is freely choosing black men in favor of white men — she is holding up her desirability to white men as proof of her options in the sexual market and her freedom to choose which men to fuck. A simple, revealing photo utterly discredits the core underpinning of her argument by anecdote.

The truth here is, unfortunately for her, quite unflattering. As her repulsive ugliness has worsened with age and fat, her options have been severely curtailed. If she is finding solace in flings with black men, it is because

  1. the white men she finds attractive no longer feel the same about her, and
  2. the black men she finds attractive are more willing to overlook her market value-destroying flaws and fuck her. At least for one night. Heh.

Moving along to the rest of the article…

I want black men. They want me. We look at one another and exchange a visible frisson of sexual energy in the lingering glances.

A small percentage of people do have an overcharged attraction for different races. But there’s not much we can generalize from this one old hag’s fetishistic sexual drive because she is not choosing in a free market with all options open to her. There are many delusional pretty lies humans tell themselves when cold hard reality is staring them in the bloated face. She may want black men given the structural incentives in place, but do they want her? Or, as I suspect is more likely, do black men see her sloppily flirting with them and think to themselves “Oh yeah, that white broad is gonna be an easy lay.”

Even in a time when nearly 40 percent of single Americans have dated outside their race, that deliberate seeking of the specific other makes some people, especially black women, damned mad.

Black women are mad because they’re looking at black men fucking fat old heifers like you and wondering what the hell they’re thinking.

We are what they denigrate and castigate: white women and black men who choose one another because of our racial differences. They resent our taking their men.

Define “taking”. I doubt in her case it means any commitment longer than a few nights together, away from the public eye. A man’s got a rep on the street to keep.

Black men are two and a half times more likely to marry a white woman than a black woman is to marry a white man.

Here are my thoughts on interracial dating. Despite all the sound and fury, I don’t see too much of it. Most people date *long term* within their race. There are likely evolutionarily mediated reasons for this. Women are more racist than men in the realm of dating. They are less open to having relationships with men of different races, while men are bigger whores who will happily fuck a cute chick from any race. (Commitment is another matter.)

So in the bigger picture, I don’t see many white woman-black man couples strolling around the city holding hands. In comparison, I see about three times as many white man-asian woman couples. These are my observations in DC and in major cities on the East coast; the numbers on the ground might be different in other parts of the country. Of the BM-WF couples I do see, I notice two different types: The Maury Povich who’s-the-daddy fat white trash girl with the thug, and the hot blonde, usually European girl with the handsome, well-dressed, and educated-looking yuppie black man. There doesn’t seem to be much middle ground between those two types.

From casual conversation, my white guy friends don’t find the general population of black girls attractive. Their preferences are decidedly skewed toward white chicks. I only know one white guy who has yellow fever. He proudly proclaims it, too. From my conversations with black women, they are even more racially provincial. I get the impression that black women don’t find men outside their race at all physically attractive. I’m an outlier, in that I’m the recipient of a lot of flirty attention from black women. I think if I were an even blacker dude than I already am, I would clean up with black women. King Kong ain’t got nothing on me.

So this is why black women are screwed, it would seem. Available black guys are hooking up with women of all races, white and Asian guys don’t much like black girls, and black women only want to be with black guys. I can’t think of a worse recipe for resentment and bitterness. Since men do some choosing in the sexual market (though men are not as choosy as women on average, neither are they mannequins standing around waiting for women to pick them out of the crowd), the choice by white and Asian men to overlook black women is going to have repercussions.

Why don’t black chicks dig white guys and vice versa? In a word: testosterone. Blacks have more of it, and more androgen receptors, than other races. The same testosterone that imbues black men with attractive masculine features and musculature makes black women look less feminine. On average. This isn’t an assertion from anecdote, because in my personal life I know quite a few really cute black chicks. I’m judging based on general observations and what I’ve heard from men of all races when the subject came up. Since women are attracted to men with lots of testosterone (for fucking, at least), it stands to reason that black women would want men who have more of it relative to their own. Here, few white and even fewer Asian men qualify as acceptable partners for black women.

I have demonstrated that the fundamentals of female beauty are universal. Men all over the world love 0.7 waist-to-hip ratios, clear skin, youth, feminine faces, big eyes, luscious lips, breasts and ass. Adjusting for racial idiosyncracies, a beautiful black woman’s face has more fundamental similarity to a beautiful white woman’s face than to an ugly black woman’s face. However, there is an important caveat. I now believe that there is a slight preference among men of the major racial groups for women of their own race. In general, black men, all else equal, would rather date long term a hot black chick than a hot chick of another race. To illustrate, black guys prefer the bigger rumps that are a hallmark of black women. The same intra-race mechanism apples to white, Hispanic (who?), and Asian men. They all have marginally peculiar preferences for the specific beauty of women within their own race. I would not be surprised to learn that Asian men like flatter asses.

I know I am this way. My roving eyes are overwhelmingly pulled in by hot white chicks. I see hot Asian and black chicks, but it’s clear to me where my strongest preferences lie. Is this because white chicks are, again on average, better looking than chicks of other races? Or is it because of my inborn endogamous sexual preference for girls of my own race? I don’t know. I suspect the latter. But I do have some personal observations that buttress my tilt toward women of my own race. For instance, whenever there is a news story from the Congo, or Rwanda, and throngs of people are swarming around the cameras, I don’t see a single woman in the crowd I’d want to bang. But when there is a camera pointed at Red Square or Stockholm, and girls are streaming past, I have trouble finding a fertile age woman in the crowd I *wouldn’t* want to bang. In places like Tokyo, the urge to merge with the locals on camera is less cut and dried. There are a few Japanese girls who make the grade.

The class of the women has an effect as well. There was this time I was driving through the hardcore DC ghetto (nothing like an adventure), and a large public housing apartment complex had caught fire. The traffic had stopped, so I was idling by the smoking building while hundreds of residents who had been evacuated were milling about the sidewalk, waiting for the firemen to finish their job. My most vivid memory from that incident, and one that sticks with me to this day, was just how brutally ugly those women were. I mean, “make a documentary of it” ugly.

All right, back to the article…

But in truth, black sisters, we’re after the sex, not the ring, and these guys aren’t the marrying kind anyway.

Squeeze those sour grapes, old bag. Of course she’s written off the ring. No man who isn’t a complete loser would commit to her decrepit carcass.

Black men have more energy, style and edge than white men. They know how to flirt, a nearly lost art among the rest of us. A black man is so damned sexy because he knows how to make a woman feel sexy.

This is true if we restrict our sample size to has-been fat white women who faint with joy at the slightest attention from any man. While I believe that black guys on the whole do have better natural game than white guys, their often aggressive style of flirting and their whiff of dangerous edginess can be a turnoff for younger white women who are repelled by displays of brute machismo. My experience suggests that SWPL white girls and especially Asian girls in their 20s are more receptive to subtler mating cues. This is why Mystery has rarely run game on black chicks.

They make me feel like a woman, both respected and desired.

Translation: No white man desires her enough to make her feel like the woman she was 20 years ago and in an alternate universe.

This brings up another interesting angle. Are black men less picky than white men? If so, that would explain the author’s sudden conversion. My view: Black guys are indeed less picky when considering short term flings and one night stands. They seem to be more forgiving of wear and tear on white women, such as the accumulation of fat and waddles. Like other men, black guys are probably pickier when choosing which women get to be their number one girls. Who are the pickiest men? The alphas, of course.

On we go dissecting this disaster…

My current lover,…

Translation: My current one night stand.

On another night in that same bar, a different black man, an artist, knelt and kissed my knees.

Beta.
Correction: Kissing this old sow’s gnarly knees? Omega.

They look better than white men, they touch and kiss and make love better than white men.

Silly cow. When a man finds you physically less than ideal, he isn’t inspired to please you in bed.

Statistically, their penises are only a fraction of an inch bigger on average, but they seem bigger and harder.

I notice my hardness varies by the girl’s looks. The hotter she is, the firmer I get. With this old broad, I’d have to enlist David Alexander’s pornified pud to do the job.

By the way, I remember reading a study from some years ago that purported to show that package size does indeed vary by race, with blacks the largest and Asians the smallest. Commenters are free to find any links proving or disproving the stereotype.

White men over 40 have lost their waistlines and their zest for life if they ever had it.

White women lose it even faster. Has this shoggoth looked in a mirror lately? On the larger point, I agree that sedentary black men keep their dainty figures longer than sedentary white men. Black women, otoh…

Society overvalues the white man, leaving him angry and bitter when he realizes, around age 40, that he’s not all that.

If this isn’t a picture perfect example of projection, I don’t know what is.

With the exception of some Italians, white men don’t turn me on anymore.

You won’t be missed, bowlingballhead.

While women my age scowl and frown at these aging, Upper West Side Boomers pushing strollers as the hand of the thin, blonde wife 20 years their junior rests lightly on their arm, I feel a kinship with the old goats. We are the same, me and that bald white guy, drawn to the exotic other, not caring that the object of our desire has no childhood memory of a Kennedy assassination or a typical WASP Sunday dinner of over-roasted beef, lumpy mashed potatoes and soggy vegetables.

This woman is hurting inside, deeply. She has secretly wanted that Ozzie and Harriet white picket fence life since forever, but now it is too late, if there ever was a chance. But the objects of her affection ignored her true wishes. There, there, lumpy mashed grandma taking random dick in bars and waking up to an empty bed and fridge. I’m sure all those older white guys dating younger women are JUST LIKE YOU. Except not.

Halfway through the first glass of wine in my last date with a white man, I realized that little clouds of sadness and self-pity were regularly fluffing off his psyche like the dust clouds kicked up by that dirt-smudged “Peanuts” character as he walks through Charlie Brown’s life. This guy was at least mildly depressed…

No wonder he was depressed. He was on a date with a beluga whale.

What did he think would entice me more: That he assumed sex was probable because I’m a sex journalist or that he would need chemical help if sex did occur?

This broad is the gift that keeps on giving. Sex journalist? Why is it always the ugliest women in this “occupation”? It’s like taking advice on losing weight from the world’s fattest man.
And, yes, the poor guy would need chemical help to get it up with you. I’m thinking an IV of distilled super viagra directly into the penis vein, and a brick wall with a hole drilled in it between you two.

I cannot even imagine a black man bungling an attempted seduction in such a sad way.

I cannot even imagine the omegas who are happily chowing down on her cheesy old lady labia.

I recently came out of my racial-preference closet and told my friends, “I love black men. I’m not attracted to white men over 40, and I’m not dating them anymore. Really, it’s not them, it’s me.

Translation: “I recently gave up trying to attract white men who aren’t trolls and told my friends “I love black men because some of them are so horny they look past my disgusting body to masturbate into my cavernous hole. I’m telling myself I’m not attracted to white men over 40 because it makes their rejection easier to swallow, like my black lovers’ loads. Really, it’s not them, it’s my ugly roast beef face.””

My work here is done.

By the Power of Poon I was able to coax a girl into inadvertently revealing her low quality.

Me: [in my best nonjudgemental voice] Sometimes I think people judge us too harshly for the things we do when we are in love. For instance, I’ve had married women fall for me. I didn’t know at the time they were married, but if I knew… who knows, I may not have ended it. It’s hard to walk away from something so right, you know?

Her: I know what you mean.

Me: Have you ever had a torrid taboo fling like that? One that people wouldn’t understand?

Her: I was with this one guy… he was married.

Me: And even though you knew he was married… you knew, right?

Her: Yes, I knew almost from the start.

Me: You fell for him and it was just about you two.

Her: All I could think about was us. It was like he wasn’t even married.

Me: I can relate. It’s about living in the present, and you can’t imagine it not working out. [laying my hand on her forearm] Did his wife know?

Her: No, not at first, but she must have figured it out eventually. I guess, after a while, I felt like it wasn’t going anywhere.

Me: It’s ridiculous, but people think you should feel guilty.

Her: I never felt guilty, just sad that it ended. I left him when it became clear we were stuck in place.

******

When you get involved with a woman who has had affairs with married men, is she:

a. a cheater at heart?

b. a validation whore?

c. someone who will ass rape you in divorce court and spend the lottery alimony on shoes and lingerie to please her new lover?

d. a histrionic drama queen?

e. a good fuck?

f. an Eternal Ingenue?

g. drawn to provider alphas?

h. an entanglement of daddy issues?

i. usually hot?

j. a scheming, conniving cunt?

k. best kept at arm’s length?

l. never satisfied?

m. trainable by dangling carrots and then pulling them away?

n. friendless?

o. a pump and dump candidate?

p. addicted to badboys, challenge, emotional highs and lows, and regular old drugs?

q. more likely to eat bananas lasciviously in public?

r. all of the above?

One thing is for sure, she is a sucker for wedding ring game.

How Old Is She?

A woman recently uploaded this photo of herself to Craigslist Rants and Raves (DC edition) asking random strangers on a board renowned for its sadistic cruelty to guess her age. (Craigslist RnR is the new American art form.)
howoldisshe

The guesses ranged from 38 to 47. I bet those were not the answers she was hoping for. Had she included her face, it would be an open and shut case. This is a classic example of “I’m not grossly fat like 80% of women my age, so guys will think I’m much younger than I am” female game.

I will now explain why this version of female game fails every time. This is what men immediately notice with just a split second glance:

howoldisshediagram

Veiny, saggy, pendulous boobs held in place by super strength, high tensile, steel reinforced megabra.

Half acre areola spread. (Like the ears and nose, the areolas continue growing with age until they consume the entire breast. See: Old issues of National Geographic.)

Flabby triceps. Shapely upper arms on a woman are like a canary in the coalmine — when they start crapping out the total war of age related destruction is right around the corner.

Undulating ripples of flesh along the obliques. The middle-lower back along the sides is quick to betray the effects of fat accumulation, muscle atrophy, and weakening of the collagen/elastin matrix.

Wrinkly wenis. The back of the elbow is a dead giveaway of the ravages of aging.

Stomach pouch. Where’s the joey?

***

You cannot con the cock. Men have eagle eyes that can spot a woman’s fertile youth from an altitude of 5,000 feet. This is why plastic surgery continues to be such an abysmal failure in this day of rapidly progressing modern capitalistic medicine. The subtle cues of feminine youth and beauty are highly resistant to rejuvenation by the brute force of hatchet, axe, and laser.

To those women who don’t want to believe what I say, think about it like this: As perceptive as you are at ascertaining the betas (sometimes within two seconds before the beta even opens his mouth) from the alphas, we men are just as perceptive, if not moreso, at separating the hot stuff from the has beens.

My goal here isn’t to mindfuck you for my own personal amusement (although that is part of it). I have a larger purpose — to end the dark reign of truth-killing platitudes and feelgood lies of uplift that particularly afflict the weak minds of women and which do nothing to prevent the day of reckoning but do everything to slow progress toward fighting the noble battle against the final judgement. I dream of a world where women remain beautiful for their entire lives, bringing decades upon decades of enjoyment to men like myself for whom beautiful women are one of the great pleasures of life. It is an unholy tragedy that a woman’s bloom should wilt so soon. Aging is a wicked disease, like cancer or Parkinson’s, and must be treated as such. So the next time your older friend asks you if she’s still “got it”, tell her the truth.

“No, your prime years are over. But you’re a wonderful shopping companion.”

You will save her years of roaming the dating wilderness searching fruitlessly for the elusive alpha who would commit to her. Stand tall with pride that you spared the world another deluded mangy cougar. Teach her the valuable lesson of settling.

Ladies, your window is small. Get crackin’!

I remember this girl I dated when I first moved to DC. She was one of those types that had trouble keeping female friends but collected male orbiters like stinger-less bee drones to honey. Perhaps she incited the jealousy of other women with her brazen sexuality, or perhaps she tried to make friends with women out of her social league. I wasn’t sure and I didn’t care, even though I had to put up with listening to her woeful stories of victimology.

I’ve learned many mythbusting realities about women over the years of loving them, but one of the most disappointing lessons I’ve learned is how threadbare, shallow and tenuous are their friendships with female peers. For all the jabbering they do amongst themselves, the bonds that hold girl friends together are a surprisingly superficial amalgam of Machiavellian maneuvering, parched politesse, feigned sympathy, self-absorbed clucking, and fickle loyalty. It’s as if female friendships exist only to serve the banal purpose of group cohesion and social climbing, in stark contrast with male friendships that can strengthen unencumbered by ulterior motives and which often require nothing more than the tacit assumption of “I’ve got your back”.

One time I took this girl to a party where female friends of mine would be in attendance. (About 1/3 of my friends are women, and 2/3s men. After 5pm, that ratio reverses.) She noticed one of the girls was flirty around me. I agreed that she probably was nursing a long-held #1 crush. Out of earshot, my date then proceeded to call this girl fat, and grabbed my hand to walk with me in front of the girl, ostensibly to provoke seething jealousy. I didn’t appreciate it. This was evidence that my date was a woman of poor character.

Some months later we broke up, and through intermediaries I learned that she had become good friends with the chubby girl she formerly ripped to pieces with a gleam in her eye. I wondered if she knew of her new friend’s less than complimentary opinion of her, or if it was all bitchiness under the bridge.

Gossip is a natural property of human nature and something in which almost everyone, men and women, indulge (though women to a far greater extent than men). It is probably an evolutionary outgrowth of human status hierarchies, and so isn’t going anywhere soon. For that reason, I’m generally bemused if I hear that friends are gossiping about me. It’s all part of doing business as a DNA carrying replicant. Nothing much to get worked up over. But there is a line crossed where gossip becomes corrupted and twisted by resentment and ill will; when it becomes less a feature of human social dynamics than a bug. The caustic whisperings and barely concealed snarls behind phoneyfemme smiles and exaggerated “Hiiiiiiii!!!”s that hit six different musical notes hide a dark, bitter soul. Invariably, it is women who are the shameless practitioners of this viciously psychological ego-feeding art. Occasionally, the poisoned opinions get out there in the ether like slimy tentacles, afflicting every social circle conversation with a brute manipulative face-saving veneer. But most of the time, the vaj vector of dirty gossip is skilled enough to keep her real feelings under wraps.

Not every girl is like this. I have dated girls, bless their hearts of gold, who had nothing but kind words to say about their girl friends behind closed doors. In fact, one of the key indicators that the girl you are dating is girlfriend material worthy of your non-penis time and attention is what she thinks of her friends when she has the opportunity to unload on them. Listen to what she says about her friends when it’s just you and her. This will give you tremendous insight into how she will treat you over the long haul.

To those girls who possess a depth of untarnished loyalty for their friends — in the middle of the night with the shades drawn and no one but the company of your conscience, you know who you are — don’t think for a minute that we men don’t notice your good character. You are a rare catch. Most women have no need for the virtue that makes you stand out…

Integrity.

A-hole Game: Day 3

Previously: Asshole Game: Day 1 and Asshole Game: Day 2

Uncaring asshole game will revitalize a flagging relationship and help keep the love strong.

One weeknight around 1 AM I got a frantic call from my girlfriend. She wailed that she had gotten into an accident and needed help. Looking over at my clock and realizing it was six hours until I had to get up for work, I sighed heavily and asked her if the accident was serious. She cried. “Whaat?? I don’t know, yes it’s serious! I don’t know what to do!” I told her to calm down and explain what happened. Between her sobs I could piece together the events. She had driven back from a job and was parallel parking on a street in her neighborhood close to her home, which was about a twenty minute walk from my place. In the process of parking, she had hit the SUV in front of her. Her car, presumably, was sticking out into the street a bit.

A parallel parking “accident”? There was no way I was rousing myself from my comfortable slumber and traipsing out there in the middle of the night to console her for a minor fender bump. How bad can a girl fuck up parallel parking? I thought for a second. My girlfriend was a skittish, uncoordinated driver. Stereotypically female behind the wheel. Yeah, if anyone could turn a parallel park job into a five car pileup it would be her. Then I thought about where she was parked. Her neighborhood was sketchy (i.e not enough SWPLs had moved in yet). If I were a girl, I wouldn’t walk around there at 1 AM. I thought some more.

“Look, just leave your car there and go home. It’s late. Get some sleep. I have to work tomorrow. We’ll check out your car in the morning. Whatever happened, it can’t be that bad, so stop freaking out about it. You just bumped a fender.”

“I can’t just leave it!” She was really crying now. “You have to come! Please, take a look. It’s bad. I don’t like standing out here. It’s dark and there are weirdos walking around. Just help me!”

Fucking Christ. “Don’t make a big fucking production out of this! You bumped your car, it’s not a huge deal to get worked up over. Calm down and just walk home. I’ll be there in the morning.”

“Please come, pleeeeeease!!!”

Annoyed that my sleep was interrupted, and irritated with my girlfriend for spazzing out over nothing, I drove to the scene of the tardishness. She was pacing next to her car, arms crossed, tears running down her face. I examined the car. Holy shit. There was a giant gouge in the right front panel where she had turned the car too early as she was backing up into the empty parking spot. I couldn’t believe someone could cause that much damage from parallel parking, not even a hysterical girl.

“What the hell did you do?!”

She explained that once her car bumped into the SUV up front, instead of doing the logical thing and pulling out to try again, she had freaked out and kept her foot on the gas pedal, trying to force her tiny Toyota into the spot. Result: A deep resale value-killing indentation from her car grinding into the bumper of the SUV. I get exasperated with stupidity, so I gave her the cold, hard stare of contempt.

“Give me the keys.”

I pulled her car forward and parked it in the empty spot without incident.

“I wanted you to come help. I was scared out here.”

I pointed at her house across the street. “You could’ve pulled your car out and parked like a normal human being, and then gone home instead of dragging me out here for nothing. Don’t play these little drama acts with me.”

She looked down at the ground. The streetlight reflected off her tear streaked face. “What will we do about the car now?”

“I don’t know. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” I didn’t offer her to come back to my place. “Try not to think about it and go to sleep.”

The next evening she was at my place, apologetic but also hurt that I didn’t rush to her side like a white knight. I barely paid her feelings any heed. Her pain simply didn’t register. That night, we watched porn and I did her in the ass for the first time. She welcomed my meaty intrusion.

When I told a good friend what had happened, the words he used to describe me were “Grade A schmuck. Complete asshole.” Then he wondered why she was still with me and said I didn’t deserve her.

She and I stayed together for another year. The sex was always available and her pussy moist. She never had a “headache”. She accepted my facials with clocklike regularity. In hindsight, she fit the description of a Neurotic Waif perfectly, with elements of the Eternal Ingenue.

The best Asshole Game is when the assholery comes naturally and effortlessly. What I did was not good by most people’s definition of the good, but there’s no denying it worked. After that incident, she was in love with me more than ever.

A-hole Game: Day 2

Asshole game with 25 year old foreign girlfriend

Her: I love Indian culture. The dancing, the colorful dresses, the religion…

Me: You love Bollywood? There’s no accounting for taste.

Her: [getting seriously agitated] Shut up! The Indian culture is beautiful.

Me: Hey, there’s an Indian guy who lives down the street. Go knock yourself out. You can get some of his culture long and hard.

Her: You’re an ignorant American. A child. What do you know.

Me: I know you’re being annoying.

Later — pussy dripping sex.

Asshole game with bartender chick

Me: [looking at her new hairstyle with a grimace] What did you do to your hair!?

Her: I got bangs! Jesus, fuck you.

Me: It doesn’t work for me.

Three months later — pussy dripping sex. And free drinks.

Asshole game with heavily tattooed chick in indie club

Me: Hi.

Her: [sighing] Just to let you know up front, I’m not interested.

Me: So you’re not going to introduce me to your cute friend?

Later — no sex, but pride as a man.

Asshole game with girl trying to break up with me in Starbucks

Her: I really think this isn’t going to work. I don’t want to do this anymore. Look at us.

Me: [slouching for maximum aloofness effect] I can read your face. You’re a bad liar. But if this is what you want then go ahead. I gotta admit you’re not easy to be in a relationship with. You’re a fucking pain in the ass.

Her: What’s that supposed to mean?!?

Later — six more months of pussy dripping sex.

***

Note: Never smile when running asshole game. It’ll look like you’re backpedaling.

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