Circles

I’ve been reading a lot of Stephane Hemon’s stuff lately and what he talks about is similar to what I’ve been mulling over in my head and heart lately. I believe the circle is my next step in life. To do this, I’ll have to become totally comfortable with the idea of loss, because to reach this level you can’t be hobbled by risk aversion or ego protection.

Here’s a video of him with his three girls. His “primary” girlfriend is on the far right.

I could do without his focus on chakras and metaphysics, as that offends my rational mind, but his core understanding of women and their natures is solid. The psychobabble stuff is just prettified words for biological processes. You can’t argue with results, and maintaining a loving harem of cute girls is proof his skills are unassailable.

Here are a couple of points he makes in his writings which I feel are packed with wisdom:

“[You want to stay in your zone. A good metaphor would be] your circle of girls are playing under the oak tree.”

“If you are single, dating casually, or in a long-term relationship, keep on reading because every single interaction that you have with an attractive woman is, in fact, A RELATIONSHIP. You guys are relat-ing with each other, it’s just a matter of degree.”

That last point is critical. No longer will I draw such bright lines between friendships, dating, flings, and relationships. My new way of thinking is that every inspiring girl I meet is already in a relationship with me — we are already relating sexually and emotionally — and my male energy won’t be held in check by socially approved categories. This is love consciousness.

But of course there is still biological reality and it wouldn’t be very special of me to neglect to point out that Stephane’s main girlfriend (the one he met and fell in love with first) is the cutest of the three. Perhaps the Ego of Jealousy is not so easily transcended.

Girls Like Squeezable Things

At the EU Embassy tour in DC last weekend me and another aficionado of European girls culture picked up these very squeezable red balls at the Austrian embassy.
give it a good freudian squeeze ladies.

Despite getting much grief from parties who shall remain anonymous who believe that carrying around touristy crap is a very white people thing to do, I held and caressed my ball all day and never let it out of my sight. I also had a mini flag in my back pocket, and an official looking EU post-it notepad. I felt worldly and it showed in my international-style strut.

Later on, we were at the Reef roof deck enjoying mussels and fries (three random black guys had ordered the same meal. I had no idea mussels were the new hip food) when Roosh put his red ball on the bar. A girl leaned into our group and asked him about the ball.

“Why do you have a ball?”
“Because it’s mine.”
“Can I hold your ball?”
“No, it’s my ball.”

She looked at him with that slack-jawed half-grin that girls get when they’re a little bit offended but they like it. A few more words were exchanged and she left our group. One minute later she leaned back in, reached her arm across the bar, and grabbed his ball. She held it up triumphantly.

“I got it!”
“Give me back my ball. You’re not allowed to touch it.”

She relinquished the ball with a look of sexual attraction on her face. Her male friend apologized for her. Beta.

This got me thinking about props to bring to bars that would help spark flirtatious conversation. Random items that make no sense whatsoever in a bar context and are made of a material that tempts girls to stroke and squeeze them would work best. For instance, I have an Adidas runners pullover with thumbholes in the sleeves that I wear out to clubs which is not the most stylish looking yet I get girls coming up to me to feel the silky Rayon material all the time. Texture can be just as effective as the look of what you wear because girls perceive the world with all their senses equally while guys mostly use their eyes and penis.

Along these lines, I thought of the following knickknacks to carry with me and place on bars while I drink my beer:

pink teddy bear
cotton balls
nerf football
silly putty
bubble-pack
stuffed bunny rabbit
chia pet
silicone implant
pad and pen (not squeezable, but this works!)
silk scarf
play-doh
giant dustball
a rubber hot dog

Any girl who squeezes or strokes right away is likely to be sexually uninhibited, cutting my workload in half.

Beta Of The Year Award: Husband Takes Wife’s Name

One of the telltale signs of the escalating emasculation of mainstream American culture has been the trend of wives keeping their maiden names, either in whole or in ridiculous hyphenation. And then selfishly passing on this matronymic abomination to their children. Men relinquish so much autonomy and prerogative to pursue their natural male desires when they get married that it’s the ultimate insult to their dignity to have to throw back the one measly bone of their wives taking their family name. The maiden married name racket is like the ultimate shit test — accede to your wife’s feminist posturing and you will be tarred with the beta brush every day of your life you are married to her.

The irony is that the maiden name is the wife’s father’s name. When a woman keeps her last name in marriage, she’s keeping another man’s name, just not her husband’s. Even women with three generations worth of hyphenated last names are hauling around the history of the male ancestors in their families. The patriarchy that these “enlightened” women are supposedly fighting against lives on.

Which brings us to the first ever Beta Of The Year Award.

Check out this guy who sued the state of California to take his wife’s surname in marriage.

All Michael Buday wanted to do was take the last name of his wife, Diana Bijon, when they married.

But it took two years, a lawsuit alleging sex discrimination and a change in California law before he picked up his new drivers license in the name of Michael Bijon on Monday.

“It was personal. I feel much closer to (Diana’s) father than I do mine. She asked me to take her name and I thought it would be very simple. I never imagined the state would make it so difficult,” Michael Bijon, 31, told reporters.

This guy wins the coveted BOTY trophy (the trophy is a man tucking his junk between his legs). What a bravura performance! Take a curtsy, King Of All Betas.

Look how proud he is of his self-castration:

she fucks him with her clit.

And what does this champion of women’s lib do for a living?

After months of frustration, the Los Angeles computer programmer and his ER nurse wife Diana, 29, took their problem to the American Civil Liberties Union of Southern California.

He may look alpha but it’s the inside nerd that counts. He must feel so grateful for getting laid. I wonder how many other conditions he had to abide before she consented to marry him?

“Women have fought for so long for equal rights and it feels like this is part of that fight,” said Diana Bijon.

Blah blah fucking blah. Could you imagine being shackled for life to this shrike? Last thing any man wants in a wife is an ideological axe grinder.

“I am really, really proud of him. Not many men would do this,” she said.

That’s true. Not many men would do that. Good thing you married a quisling bitchboy. Prep the divorce papers.

“This disposes of the rule in California that the male surname is the marital name to the same trash bin where dowries were once tossed out,” said Mark Rosenbaum, legal director of the Southern California chapter of the ACLU.

When future generations of dysfunctional feral kids in a post-apocalyptic third-worldicized USA ask why men stopped getting married and the institution fell into utter disrepute you can point them to quotes like this. Something these self-appointed commissars of culture never seem to grasp:

Maxim #27: You have to make marriage an attractive alternative for MEN — not women — if you want the institution to thrive.

Here’s the deal: If your wife truly loves you as the rock solid man you are, and not the beaten down betaboy she imagines she wants, she’ll be happy to take your name because she’ll understand and appreciate how much you sacrifice as a man when getting married. If she’s not on board with the name change, then like a ballcutting canary in the coal mine warning you of danger you can bet you’ll be begging for sex once a month.

In a second interview soon to be published, King Of All Betas had this to say:

– he will pee sitting so that he can identify with the urinary oppression of women.
– his dog will be named “Cat”.
– he will wear pink ribbons and march in every women’s rights parade in the country and donate thousands of dollars to every women’s cause under the sun. Then he will be diagnosed with prostate cancer.
– he will give any future sons girl’s names and his daughters boy’s names. He will force his son to play with Barbies and teach his five year old daughter safe sex.
– he will wear an empathy belly when his wife is pregnant. Shit, he’ll wear it when she’s constipated.
– he will ask permission to cum. He will then say “Are you sure?” each time permission is granted. He will say “Sorry” when he gets a little on the bedsheet. He will beg forgiveness if it hits her in the face.
– his wife likes golden showers. He is the mouth toilet.
– he will apologize for walking in on his wife fucking me.
– I will tell him to shut up and make me a sammich.
– when she inevitably divorces his beta ass he’ll cry so hard that he hyperventilates himself to death.

The only reason this guy isn’t demoted to omega status is because he managed to get married, and to a decently attractive woman. But he’s a great example of how you can’t judge male betaness primarily by looks like you can judge female betaness. If you showed me pictures of two random men and asked me to guess which of the two was the beta and all I knew about them was that one was ugly and the other was a good-looking computer programmer who took his wife’s name in marriage, I’d choose the programmer as the more likely candidate for betaness.

Recap

Don’t get married.
If you do, insist your wife takes your name.
If she refuses, don’t marry her. She failed the litmus test.
Better yet, just don’t get married.

Shaming Girls For Their Bad Choices

These guys were talking to a couple of women at Marvin when an attractive third girl who was a friend of the women showed up. I walked over to occupy chat up the friend and our conversation was good. She was flirty, fun and all smiles. We talked for maybe ten minutes when I felt a meaty hand grip my forearm hard. I looked in the direction of the grip and saw an inebriated man giving me the drunk stink eye.

“Yo dude, take your fucking hand off my arm.”

He removed his hand. I turned back to the girl. Three seconds later his hand was back on my forearm.

“What did I say?” I grabbed his arm and pushed it off. He grunted and was about to put it back on when the girl intervened.

“Stop! Sorry, he gets like this. He’s drunk right now and can get very protective.”

“I see. So this is your boyfriend?” She was slapping his hand away like a mom would an insolent child.

“We’ve been dating a little while. I met him through the internet.” Figuring out why she would divulge that critical detail, I looked over and saw Douchebag Extraordinaire half sliding off his barstool and making another flailing attempt to grab my arm. He was a stocky guy, definitely not a herb, but his drunkenness meant slow reaction times. I was not worried if it came to blows.

I only felt superficial anger toward this guy. He was an insecure tool, but tools are a feature of the universe, like dark matter. They’re all over, and you learn to deal with them like you deal with the weather. My real contempt was for the girl for brazenly flirting with me in front of her date without telling me she was taken, and for dating such a loser. I never allow myself to be the guy that girls get their validation kicks from in plain view of their low self-esteem trigger happy boyfriends.

As I’m watching this go down, she kept repeating “I’m really sorry” but in that perky way that makes you think she’s not FEELING as sorry as she should. I turned back to her with a cold stare, making sure she understood that my problem was with her. “I’m done talking with you.” I pointed at her internet date. “Get this part of your life handled before you think about talking to guys like me again.” I walked off.

Taking a girl instantly from the high of flirty banter to the low of icy scorn lets her know her shit won’t fly with you. Social disapproval in the form of ostracization is a heat-seeking missile that aims straight at the thermal exhaust port of women, and if enough men had the balls to make an attractive girl pay a price for her stupid bar games and her bad choices in dates she might, over time, improve her behavior.

I’m not holding my breath.

PDA Is Beta

Philosophically I’m very anti-PDA even though because of my higher than average sexual energy it’s hard for me to keep my paws off a girl I like, no matter how public or family-oriented the venue. I like to squeeze, knead, and fondle, and sometimes I don’t have the patience to wait until we get home.

If you observe alphas with their dates or girlfriends you’ll notice they almost never do PDA. Usually they’re the ones leaning back, keeping their hands to themselves, looking around their environment, while their women are always darting in for a kiss or putting an arm around a waist. An alpha gives the impression of tolerating his woman’s public affections like a shark tolerates a remora fish cleaning it off. And their women secretly like it this way.

The guys who are all over their girlfriends in public — and I mean all over in the nuzzling, cuddling, pucker mouth kisses way, not the slap-her-ass-hard way — are nearly always betas who are happy to have a girl in their lives and can’t help but express their gratitude. When you hardly ever eat, you feast like a pig at the trough and gorge yourself not knowing when your next meal is coming. This, of course, is self-defeating because it kills the girl’s attraction.

I had a friend who would bury his head in his girlfriend’s lap and stick his ass up in the air like a cat having its back stroked. Beta to the core.

For the first time in my life, I got kicked out of a venue for excessive PDA. The management of this place disapproved of my romantic tonguedowns and ass cuppings. My sexual aura radiates powerfully and must be kept hidden from public exposure where it can do no harm.

Quality Vs Quantity Pussy

The best way to explain the tradeoff between chasing lots of pussy and pursuing the best pussy is in graphical form. First we’ll look at quality.

The pleasure axis measures the stimulation you feel from banging her and just generally looking at her naked. As you can see, the pleasure curve for quality pussy is exponential. Jumping from a 7 to an 8 adds more units of stimulating pleasure to the experience than jumping from a 6 to a 7 would add. Any girls 4 and lower and you’ll hardly notice the difference in pleasure — it’ll all just be wet holes and darkness and stopwatches and running out while she’s in the bathroom. The penis icons drive the point home even better. At a girl rating of 5, you’re chubbing out in anticipation of sex. Anticipating sex with a 7.5 gives you a full hard-on. When there’s a 10 in your bed, your dick is so hard it’s sprouted Wolverine claws. Perfect for female lawyers!

Now we’ll take a look at quantity.

 

The pleasure curve for quantity is different than the quality pleasure curve because there are diminishing returns to pleasure past a certain number of notches. Variety is its own reward until the effort expended exceeds the rewards gained. The effort required to bed 10,000 women is so immense, assuming you’re not a Wilt Chamberlain caliber alpha male, that any marginal increase in stimulation barely registers. You’re spending all your manly energy on the chase instead of the fucking. Your dick won’t be able to distinguish and enjoy the subtleties of individual women after about 5,000 — you’re lost in a sea of vagina at that point, and dehydrating fast.

There is a sweet spot, though. The curve really begins an upward trajectory of rising pleasure around 50 women and takes off until the penis is happiest in the 200 to 500 range, depending on your tightness of game and multitasking ability. You’ll want to shoot for a number somewhere in that range in order to maximize your joy on earth and minimize your regrets in old age.

Where does this leave the battle of quantity versus quality? In a perfect universe, we wouldn’t have to choose — the ultimate pleasure for men is 10,000 10s. But since only the tiniest fraction of super alphas can pull off that feat, we have to be realistic and take effort into account. If you were to superimpose the two graphs you’d see that the quantity curve near the point of diminishing marginal pleasure bisects the quality curve at around the 8.5 rating. This means that, if the effort required were the same, the pleasure received from bedding 100 average girls for one night apiece is equivalent to the pleasure of steady sex from one 8.5.

Of course, the effort required is not the same. Putting in overtime for 20 ugly chicks is gonna feel like shit compared to working half as much for one 7 or 8. But putting in equal effort for 20 8s will be worth more than sex with one 9.

The goal for the discriminating hedonist man whose time and energy is valuable should be 200-500 notches over his lifetime in the 5-8 range (allowing for the occasional dumpster dive), and steady girlfriends on the upper end of the rating scale.

Any guy who claims to have game but picks up hundreds of circus freaks a year will be a laughingstock. And the boastful guy with few notches who claims to know everything about women because he’s been dating his cute high school sweetheart his whole life will similarly be mocked.

Relationships Kill Sex

The longer a woman is in a relationship, the less often she wants sex.

A woman’s sex drive begins to plummet once she is in a secure relationship, according to research.

Researchers from Germany found that four years into a relationship, less than half of 30-year-old women wanted regular sex.

Conversely, the team found a man’s libido remained the same regardless of how long he had been in a relationship.

This is great justification for men to either keep a harem with high turnover, or to be serially monogamous with a few unjaded mistresses on the side. If you include a woman’s sex drive as a variable, her shelf life in a relationship is even shorter than her remaining years of youth would indicate.

They found 60% of 30-year-old women wanted sex “often” at the beginning of a relationship, but within four years of the relationship this figure fell to under 50%, and after 20 years it dropped to about 20%.

In contrast, they found the proportion of men wanting regular sex remained at between 60-80%, regardless of how long they had been in a relationship.

This proves that men were designed by the forces of natural selection to seek out new willing partners every few years. I think the concubines would be OK with this arrangement as long as the harem keeper continued to financially, if not emotionally, provide for the aging mothers of his children. In polygamous societies, the discarded older wives get their emotional nourishment from gossiping with each other and collectively raising the children. People would be surprised how effortlessly most women could fall into a polygamist arrangement, given the right social environment. Their uncontrollable lust for alpha males would be unquenchable were it not for artificial cultural boundaries.

He said: “For men, a good reason their sexual motivation to remain constant would be to guard against being cuckolded by another male.”

But women, he said, have evolved to have a high sex drive when they are initially in a relationship in order to form a “pair bond” with their partner.

But, once this bond is sealed a woman’s sexual appetite declines, he added.

Goddamn the market for sexbots will be huge.

Lesson for men: Start prowling around the first time your girlfriend or wife says she has a headache. It’s only going to get worse.

“The rational for why a woman’s sex drive declines may be down to supply and demand. If something is in infinite supply, the perceived value would drop.”

Myth shattered: The bonds of long-lasting love in a committed relationship make for better (read: more frequent) sex.

I suppose couples could go the kinky route to reinvigorate their moribund sex lives, but that reeks of desperation. Nothing says “I want to fuck you” like prepping with a chest full of leather masks and mechanical gadgets. The woman’s naked body should be enough to get the man hard.

They could also not have children. I bet that would keep the flames burning a few extra years. Or they could follow the recommendation and give the man room to stray. A man getting fresh vagina on the side is a happier husband for his frigid wife.

This has been yet another after school special shattering popular myths brought to you by me, your envoy of strife, hate, and gleeful cruelty.