Take The Midnight Tran

Sometimes when you date a girl she drops hints that send up red flags.

“I usually need to get to know a guy before I have sex.”

“I don’t drink.”

“Ew, you’ve done it in there?!”

“I missed my period. Oh, and I’m pro-life and my dad’s a paternity lawyer.”

So it was with some trepidation that I dated this one girl who joked a few times about being a tranny. On our first date I mentioned I liked her artsy shoes and punk makeup and she said “Yeah, I bet you think I dress like a tranny.” OK, that got me concerned. I looked more closely at her shoes and face and wondered if it could be true. She didn’t have a low voice but I’ve read about cosmetic vocal cord surgery for old people who want to sound younger.

The second date we were making out and groping and I reached down and ran my hand under her skirt and near her pussy, hoping to put my worries to rest. She gently pushed my hand away, smiled, and said “Are you checking if I’m a tranny? Naughty.” Now I was really freaking out on the inside. When people blurt out weirdness more than once it is a sign of them hiding something. Could she really have been a man in her past? Was I going to have a crying game moment? She didn’t look like a tranny, but with the state of medical science these days you can’t take anything for granted.

Between the second and third dates I dwelled heavily on the possibility that she might be a guy with one operation to go, or a former guy with a butchered fake vagina constructed out of sheep intestine. A few sleepless nights passed. I googled “transsexual dead giveaway” for information about warning signs. I contemplated not calling her back. Nope, I had to see this through.

On the third date, sex was the farthest thing from my mind. I was concentrating hard on inspecting her head to toe for traces of maleness. Again, she let slip with an awkward “joke” involving the word tranny. Mentally, I was a mess. I thought about how she walked with this loping bouncy gait. And how she had these exaggeratedly feminine gestures in the way she sat down and crossed her legs very slowly, and how she carried her purse dangling off her forearm with her elbow bent at 90 degrees and her hand turned upward, palm out. Oh my fucking god, that’s what trannies do! Then I remembered… she was always paying me blatant compliments about my physique. Girls never do that on the first couple of dates, even when they are completely into you. 100% tranny. 100%.

The squirrel in my head was running frantically on his wheel.

Still, she looked pretty good, so I started french kissing her. Gradually, I moved my mouth down and kissed her neck. I began probing her throat with my tongue. This aroused her suspicion. 

“What are you doing?”

Think. “Mm, I love kissing your neck. So smooth.” Like a giraffe reaching out for the highest succulent acacia leaves, my tongue pressed around the area where her Adam’s apple would be if she were a man. I detected nothing. Phew! Or did she have it surgically removed? I pulled back for a visual examination. No scar. Phew again!

Occasionally, I would stop and stare deeply into her eyes, but what I was really doing was getting in close to see if she had the shadow of a mustache or a missed spot of stubble. I wondered if an entire beard could be lasered off. No, her face was hairless and of an even coloration. Another test passed. I glanced at her forearms. Also hairless. So far so good. I gripped her hand; she gripped back. Not too strong, it was an appropriately weak girly grip. Feeling better. I moved my hand under her shirt and burrowed under her bra. This was the first major test. I squeezed and kneaded like I was giving her a breast exam. Then I pushed aside her bra and pinched a nipple. It got hard and pointy. There’s no way a fake tit or hormone replacement could do that. I was confident enough to move to the final stage.

In the bedroom, I lit a small candle. I would need some light to work by. Best to get this over with quick. I maneuvered my hand up her skirt and placed it on her crotch. Her panties felt thick, padded. A rush of fear. Was s/he tucking? For the first time in my life I prayed that a girl I was about to fuck was on the rag.

This was it. Crunch time. No turning tail now, I had to know. But the risk was huge.

Other than blowing out my ass with explosive diarrhea in public while wearing white linen pants, I can’t think of a more psychologically scarring scenario than reaching into a girl’s panties and grabbing a schlong. I had already made up my mind to soldier on because I calculated that the regret of giving up sex with a girl was worse than the regret of having near sex with a man.

Off came her shirt. A muscular back. Stay focused.

I pushed her backwards onto the bed and pressed into her pelvis. Nothing rose on her to meet my erection. Do or die. I closed my eyes, grit my teeth, and ripped off her skirt and panties and in one mighty uninterrupted motion plunged my hand into her furrow.

Labia. Wet. Hole. Wet. Clit. Wet.

A wave of relief swept over me. I pried my eyes open and smiled warmly at the authentic vagina before me. A short sniff of my fingers confirmed the presence of natural juices. No lube.

Afterwards, she snuggled in my arms and belched. I dumped her a week later.

Male Birth Control Pill

Also known as the brozenge.*

Here it cums!** Well, almost. If it does happen, here are my predictions:

Market Penetration – deep and wide.

Condoms are everywhere. So will be the male pill. Except for the CVS in my hood where they will be locked behind bullet proof glass and only accessible via an embarrassing request to the pharmacist, an East Indian middle-aged woman who will glower at you with the stink-eye as cute shoppers stand nearby and suppress giggles while they scan you up and down wondering if your package really is as massive as the magnums you just bought and extrapolating the quality of girl you are banging based on the swagger with which you make your request. Be sure to throw them a sly smile as you grab the box. They’re curious. You know they’re curious. They know you know they’re curious. Game on.***

Firmness of Adoption – vertical prominance.

Not only will many men avail themselves of the brozenge, they will also be repeat customers to the exclusion of all other contraceptive methods. Fact: condoms suck. A latex sheath is a total pleasure killjoy. The female pill is far superior to condoms but no man should ever trust his health, freedom, and reproductive rights to a woman’s whims. The male pill solves this problem. I’m avidly pro-choice.

Cultural Eruption – premature idiocracy.

The male pill will accelerate already ominous demographic trends. Stupid men, just like stupid women, will be less than diligent taking the pill to prevent pregnancy. With two kinds of pills, irresponsibility on the left side of the bell curve is twice as likely because one partner will assume the other partner is taking the necessary precautions and thus find a reason to slack off. “I thought you were on it!” “But I thought YOU were on it!!” Condom sales plummet. End result: a massive dumbing down of America. Say goodbye to bridges that don’t collapse.

In a male pill future, three types of men will contribute to subsequent generations.

1. Feminine men. The kind of guy who WANTS children is more feminine than the average guy who’d rather be poolside. Even betas prefer sex to childrearing, so there will be a natural selection for children born to womanly uberbeta fathers. Their future boys will play house with Barbies and jerk off to soft-focus, plot-driven porn.
2. Wealthy super alphas. At the very top there will be those men who don’t mind impregnating their wives, the wives of the uberbetas, and their mistresses because they can afford to dump the responsibility of raising them on an army of imported nannies. Their ability to live for fun won’t be compromised. The super alphas’ daughters will go on to become ballcutting lawyers who sue for laws that emasculate the sons of the betas even more.
3. Dumbasses. Lots and lots of dumbasses. See above.

Expect a future of sex that feels good, societal disintegration, and cognitive stratification as the very smartest shield their 1.2 kids in gated communities and prep schools from the mass of semi-retarded kids born to the losers falling further behind.

*trademarked, bitches.

**Oxford English Dictionary approved spelling. Pip pip.

***condom game is highly underrated.

Tom Brady Lessons

This made me laugh.

A female friend and I were at dinner recently when we both admitted something that, under normal circumstances, would get us kicked out of the female species.

Neither of us thought less of Tom Brady for having a baby outside of wedlock with Bridget Moynahan while juggling a burgeoning relationship with supermodel Gisele Bundchen.

Scientists are baffled!

But this is just part of what makes Brady amazing. He is that rare celebrity who isn’t judged by whom or how he dates because his accomplishments, coolness, elegance and good looks are too overwhelming.

I wrote about the basic truths of human nature and the loose concept of morality that everyone follows whether they admit it or not:

Sexually attractive people can get away with more.  And they will have more willing apologists excusing their actions.

Mothers of murderers will defend their wicked spawn right to the bitter end. Feminists will stay silent when Bill Clinton ravages interns and humiliates his wife. And women will give a free pass to star quarterbacks who abandon their pregnant girlfriends for supermodels.

Lesson: You can get away with a lot if you do it with style.

32 Vs. 21

I can draw a precise comparison of the sex appeal in the bedroom between a 32 year old woman and a 21 year old woman because I’ve had the opportunity to sleep with both within two weeks of each other. This means my memory of how they compare is strong. The average guy who has moved onto banging 30+ year old women has not slept with a 21 year old since his college days, and so won’t remember in lucid detail just how much better a younger girl’s body looks and feels naked.

This is why you should always take older men’s opinions of the sexual appeal of older women with a grain of salt; they have weaker memories of the superiority of their long-ago conquests, and their fragile egos oblige them to proclaim endless paeans to the wonders of the older woman.

Following is a side-by-side comparison of sex between a 32 year old woman and a 21 year old woman. Any differences between the two are age-related only, as neither one exercised regularly and both looked attractive fully clothed.

21 year old

Visual – When she took off her clothes my hard on got harder. There is nothing like a flawless woman’s body. No creases, no wrinkles, no cellulite. All the curves flowed gracefully without interruption by pockets of fat or love handles. The area where the ass cheeks meet the back of the legs – usually the first place to betray the droopiness of aging – was smooth. I wanted to stare at her naked body all day long.

Feel – Despite never having lifted a weight in her life, her flesh was firm, resilient, and supple. Her muscle tone was taut and gravity-defying. Her skin like silk ribbons. Her labia possessed the springiness of a marine’s cot. My hard on felt like it was bursting out of its skin wrapper.

Smell – A young woman is drenched in estrogen and these vapors send waves of pleasure through the male brain as they are inhaled. Guys will know what I’m talking about when I describe the sensation of getting a lap dance from an especially beautiful and fertile young girl and her natural aroma emanating from her pores grips you in sudden arousal. The smell of youthful femininity is more intoxicating than the sweetest rose.

Experience – In this age of ubiquitous porn, bedroom skills aren’t an issue. Every girl has seen the sex act by the time she has graduated high school. In my opinion, experience is highly overrated anyhow. It’s the plaintive ego-salving of older women who want to believe experience can make up for lost looks. Of all the girls I’ve slept with, I can think of only one off the top of my head who remotely resembled a “dead fish” in the sack. If the girl is cute and she likes you, she’ll gyrate her hips, return your thrusts, moan, wrap her legs, and run her hands up and down your back, which is really all she needs to do to qualify as an acceptable lay. Any cradling of your balls just before you jizz is bonus points. It’s not rocket science.

32 year old

Visual – When she took off her clothes the best I could muster was a chubby. It’s not that she was fat; in fact, she was the same weight and height of the 21 year old. The devil is in the details. The subtle age-related flaws in her body combined to produce an overall effect of fading femininity. There were creases and dimples in places there shouldn’t have been. A small pouch had begun to develop in her lower abdomen. The bottom of her tits pressed against her chest. Unlike the 21 year old, I could not get hard just looking at this woman. Squinting helped.

Feel – One word: squishy. If I had tried to bounce a quarter off this woman’s body, it would have sunk into her spongy flesh. There is nothing more… deflating… than squeezing a chunk of ass meat only to pull away with folds of loose skin in your hand. Even her pussy looked older; the lips more floppy and bedraggled, the color a washed-out hue. Since visual stimulation and the feel of her body were not working to arouse me, I had to mentally concentrate very hard on the tip of my dick building friction with her vaginal wall in order to cum. This is why you will see older women in porn work the penis like a piston with their mouths and hands – hard, firm, and unrelenting tactile stimulation is the only way they can get a guy off.

Smell – Whatever alluring scent a young women has is gone by the time she hits her 30s, to be replaced by some rather astringent odors. The faint whiff of baby powder is missing from the older woman’s skin.

Experience – There can be such a thing as too much experience. Nothing is a bigger turn-off than a woman giving you directions in bed on how to please her sexually. Because she has learned over the years which positions and movements bring her to orgasm reliably, she refuses to deviate from her gameplan, and has closed herself off to spontaneous sexual expression.

Advice from my heart:
To all 30+ year old women – If you want to stay in the game and compete with the younger competition, lift weights regularly and stop directing the action during sex like you were Spielberg’s protege. This will give you a fighting chance against out-of-shape 21 year olds.

Moral of this post:
What a horrible cruel joke of the universe is the brief window of a woman’s beauty. Proof, as if any was needed, that god does not exist.

It Counts

It’s no news that guys inflate their notch numbers and girls undercount theirs.  What is amusing is how girls find ways to lower their total score by devising elaborate schemes that make distinctions between sex and “fooling around”.

Hummers are a great example of this. While not technically sex, it’s close enough that she can’t just say nothing happened. An orifice was filled, so her whore score should reflect that. There’s no writing off a blowjob in a club bathroom.

Similary, fingerbanging has to count. It meets the filled orifice test, and someone is getting off.

Vacation sex is a big undercounting tactic, and fairly common, even among prim girls.  I’m pretty sure when girls talk about how much they love traveling they are really speaking in code for “how much they love traveling to get it on with an exotic local, preferably from a Meditteranean or Romance language nation, and then fly back home where the fling with the sexy accent can’t stalk her or cause trouble with her fiancee, and she can safely hide the memories.”

So the next time a girl tells you she loves to travel know that you are dealing with a slut who has moved operations overseas.

Compassion Creates More Cads

I have a theory. Here it is:

The welfare state has created more pump and dumpers.

I only have casual observation, not hard data, to back up my theory. I base it on the exponential increase in the past ten years of businesses teaching pickup skills to men. These are real businesses with satisfied clientele who pay in the thousands for weekend seminars and “boot camps” to learn how to turn women on.

Bleeding heart compassion has cursed blessed the country with layers of safety nets that subvert the natural cleansing of losers from contributing to the next generation. The result of all this government largesse is the substitution of handouts for husbands. When provider males who are predisposed to marry and support a family are worth less on the market than they used to be they are slowly replaced by playboys taking advantage of the sexual climate. Women who have their security needs met by Big Government (in combination with their own economic empowerment) begin to favor their desire for sexy, noncommital alpha males at the expense of their attraction for men who will foot the bills.

Prediction: As women’s financial status rises to levels at or above the available men in their social sphere, they will have great difficulty finding an acceptable long-term partner. The men, for their part, will turn away from emphasizing their ability to provide as they discover their mediocre-paying corporate jobs are no longer effective displays of mating value. They will instead emphasize the skills of “personality dominance”.

The betas either learn to adapt or learn to love celibacy. The “seduction community” has grown organically out of the cultural soil to help these guys adapt. Now, instead of spending their money on diapers, these guys are spending it on in-field instruction in nightclubs.

Our genes only care about one thing: What is the winning reproductive strategy? Today, that winning strategy is seduction, sex, and splitting, leaving the kid to be raised by an unwitting chump.

The result of this sea change in relations between the sexes will be a future of more cads and fewer monogamously inclined men. The pendulum will eventually swing back as a world full of players and fatherless children cannot sustain itself, but there will be much wailing and gnashing of genitals before that day arrives.

Ultimately, compassionate policies to help protect us from ourselves will backfire. Losers need to suffer and be excluded from experiencing the happiness of financial security, love and sex for the health of society as a whole.

Culling the weak — it’s cruel, it’s cold-hearted, it’s uncompassionate… it’s necessary.

The executive summary: 

Women are the more compassionate sex.
Their compassion compels them to vote for welfare statism.
Welfare statism drives down the asking price of provider betas.
Hit and run players fill the void.
Therefore, women are responsible for the very types of men who hurt them most.

And that kid went HA HAWWW!

Thoughts On Morality

Right now, in some small town in America, perhaps in Kansas or Iowa, a young father of a beautiful daughter just shot himself in his garage, leaving behind a broken family and unanswered questions.

Where are your tears?

Where are your sympathy blog posts?

Why isn’t your heart open to his tragedy?

WHY WON’T YOU CARE?

Yesterday, a filthy street bum died in the cold night air in a puddle of his own steaming piss and shit.

Why hasn’t he made you feel anything?

Why won’t you immortalize him in eulogy?

“i have always thought the actions of men the best interpreters of their thoughts.”
– john locke

You say: “But I didn’t know the man in Kansas or the street bum! Why would I feel anything for someone I don’t know?”

P r e c i s e l y.

You didn’t know Heath Ledger, either. All you knew was his manufactured screen presence. And you cultivated a false relationship based on that. Fact: You were completely invisible to him. HEATH LEDGER DID NOT GIVE A SHIT ABOUT YOU. Yet you cared. You poured out your heart for him in a way he would not have done for you if the circumstances were reversed. You felt this way because he played roles that “spoke to you” or “touched you”. There was a sensitivity in his eyes that made you feel a “connection”. You experienced good feelings when you watched his movies. Maybe your loins tingled.

That is why you care. Because Ledger brought VALUE in the form of emotional pleasure to your life. He was BETTER than the average human because he was more VALUABLE, and therefore inspired you to feel sadness for his death. We care for those who are worth something. Which leads us inevitably to:

Maxim #3: Some human beings are worth more than others, despite their equality under the law.

Let me tell you how our concentric circles of morality are arranged.

In the small inner circle, we feel the most moral regard for lovers and immediate family.
Followed by close friends.
Then extended family.
Then acquaintances.
And in the distant outer circle, our countrymen.

Substitute “race”, “ethnic religion” or “ideological allies” for “countrymen” if you are feeling especially cynical.

Beyond that outer ring of sympathy I wouldn’t shed a tear for anyone’s misfortune. A hundred thousand tsunami victims floating on the seas like bloated balloons of waterlogged flesh will not perturb me from syncing my ipod. And neither will they perturb you. Or to put it another way, try the following thought experiment:

If you had the power in your hands, would you kill in such a manner as to ensure maximum pain and suffering

a. 10,000 Indonesians if it would save your lover’s life?

b. your lover if it would save 10,000 Indonesians’ lives?

In a worldwide conflagration where the existence of civilization is threatened watch how quickly the conventional morality falls apart. And how much quicker the moral shakeout is justified.

Morality = genetic affinity + expedience + quid pro quo + self-serving status posturing

This is morality defined. Examine your actions over the course of your life and you will see I am right.