Hotter Women, Better Sex

There are a lot of false impressions circulating about the motivation behind men’s Darwinian struggle to fuck the most beautiful women.  Of course, the cultural explanation is gibberish so I won’t bother to address that here.  What interests me is the oft-repeated claim, mostly by women but also by some men with beta issues, that the primary drive for men’s unstoppable lust to score only the hottest girls is to boost their ego by being seen in public with arm candy.

This is not true.  The essential motivation for scoring the best-looking women is the visceral pleasure signals it sends to the reward centers of the male brain.  To gaze on a beautiful woman’s face, admire the curves of her body, and make love with her all night long is its own reward.  The little bit of ego-massaging that comes from walking into a crowded room and showing off the hot girl in your company pales in comparison to the ecstasy of privately kissing her lips in a quiet room with the blinds drawn.

I suspect the people who think that men chase hot girls the most feverishly so as to lord it over other men have an agenda.  They want to believe that human nature is not immutable; that with the right amount of peer pressure and fist-shaking at the media juggernaut men’s desires can be altered — tamed — to accommodate their conceit.  And pride is malleable where thermonuclear blasts of lust are not.

If, on the other hand, men pursue the best-looking women at the behest of hidden compulsions buried deep in the reptilian cores of their brains, then there is nothing can be done to change this fact of manhood and what it means for less attractive girls.

How your body responds to a woman during sex tells the tale.  The hotter I find the girl, the better the sex is, all else being equal.  Since men remember sex acts with crystal clear clarity, it’s easy for me to recall the exact specifications of my sexual encounters with each woman in my life.  Not to put too fine a point on it, but my jizzbombs were heavier and the distance ejected farther with the prettier girls.  Since this is something I cannot consciously control, it is proof of the innate characteristics of the male sex drive.

In the interest of science, I’ve put my beauty-to-cumload comparison in a handy chart:

hotness of woman               size of load               squirt distance
0                                            *                                *
1                                            *                                *
2                                            *                                *
3                                            pre-cum only           had to be squeezed out
4                                            droplet                      dribble
5                                            <5 grams                  2 cm
6                                            fills bellybutton        3 inches
7                                            1 tbsp                         8 inches
8                                            2 tbsps                       1.5 feet
9                                            1/4 cup                       3 feet
10                                          gallon**                      5 yards**

*insufficient data
**extrapolation                  

Female Rapists

Reading about these horror stories left a bad taste in my mouth:

Patrick Connaro, a 42-year-old robotics engineer living in Colorado Springs, was sitting in the bleachers one warm Saturday afternoon in 2003, watching his son’s Little League game, when the ground opened beneath him.

“My little boy was there, he was up at bat, and I started yelling for him, ‘Go Matthew [not his real name]! Knock it out of the park!’ And another man started screaming for Matthew. Louder than me. I looked over, and I looked at him, and I was like, Who is this guy? And I looked at my son, and I looked at him … and they were identical.”

After the ball game, Connaro ordered a paternity test. The results came back 2 weeks later. “I opened up the letter from Labcorp, and it said, ‘ … 99.9 percent chance you are not the biological father of this child.’ I started crying. My head started spinning.”

Patrick, good provider beta male, dutiful husband, and doting father, was cuckolded by his wife and spent years of his life raising another man’s child.  Would his wife, whom he knew so well and loved so deeply for her outer and inner beauty, ever own up to her monumental lie?

Connaro admits that the possibility had crossed his mind before, given his son’s dissimilar facial features, but each time he questioned his wife about it, she vehemently denied the suggestion. Even when he showed her the test results, she still denied it. “She said, ‘You forged this,’ ” Connaro recalls, shaking his head in amazement.

Ethicists are baffled!

Cuckoldry is, at least from the gene’s point of view, the worst thing that can befall a man outside of getting killed.  We are here on this earth to serve one purpose — the propagation of our genes.  Everything we do is either designed to push us toward that goal or is a byproduct of that purpose.  So when a wife cheats on a husband, bears another man’s child, and then monopolizes the time and resources of her husband toward the raising of that child, she has stolen his reproductive sovereignty just as surely as hers would be stolen if she got pregnant by a male rapist and was forced to raise a child she didn’t want.

She has committed the equivalent of female rape.

While rape is associated with horrible physical trauma which mercifully lasts for minutes on average, cuckoldry embodies the lower-intensity but longer-duration physical trauma of exerting oneself for years to accumulate resources for child rearing.  Psychologically, both are traumatic.  In fact, cuckoldry is actually worse than rape in one noteworthy respect — opportunity cost.  A woman raising a rapist’s child is still propagating her genes, unlike a cuckolded man who propagates nothing for the time he is deceived into raising a bastard child.

Keep in mind that a man’s resources are equivalent to a woman’s body.  Both are the bread and butter of their respective sexes for fulfilling the prime directive of DNA replication.  Rape is universally despised because the violation cuts right to the core of a woman’s essence.  Cuckoldry does the same to a man, so why is it not nearly as universally despised?  Where are the marches and policy discussions and gender studies departments to right the wrongs of cuckoldry?

The answer is simple.  In genetic terms, men are expendable, and this deeply rooted awareness trickles up into the social and political sphere where indifference to male issues rules the day.  If you think the indifference stems from the low incidence of cuckoldry, think again:

And research shows that it’s a lot more common than we might believe.

After recently reviewing 67 studies on the subject, University of Oklahoma researchers found that PD rates tend to be much higher among men who have reason to believe there’s been more than one dog in the yard. No surprise there. But leave out these men and you end up with a number that can safely be assumed to represent the rest of us. That number is 3.85 percent. Another review of 19 studies by a group at Liverpool John Moores University backs this up, putting the figure at 3.7 percent of dads. It may not seem like a lot—until you do the math. According to a 2005 U.S. Census Bureau report, there are 27,940,000 fathers nationwide with a child under 18. That means over a million guys out there are taking care of some other man’s kid.

This number is about 10X higher than the number of forcible rapes committed against females in 2005.

So what are we, as a just and moral nation, doing about this epidemic of reproductive theft?  Well, according to the article, forget about doctors giving their help to the forces of light; they are in on the fix.

The fact is, the overwhelming majority of physicians will not tell a man the truth about PD.

“Most doctors are going to say to themselves, Jeez, I don’t want to cause a problem in this family by disclosing this information that I just stumbled across,” says Alan Meisel, J.D., director of the Center for Bioethics and Health Law at the University of Pittsburgh. “Why create problems if I don’t have to?”

And the law?  Men are being forced to pay child support for children not their own.  As usual, the law is an ass.

My solution to the scourge of cuckoldry is quite simple, which means it will never be implemented.  A marital pre-nup should require all mothers submit to a paternity test upon the birth of any children.  If paternity is verified, pass the cigars.  If not, the man has the legally sanctioned choice to immediately leave his wife with ZERO obligations, financial or otherwise, plus the wife will be required to remit his portion of the investment in her during her pregnancy.  A deal is a deal.

If the law raises the stakes for women intent on committing cuckoldry, there may be some blowback in the form of women opting to forego marriage to a beta provider entirely if she cannot exercise her historical option of getting him to foot the bill for the product of her indiscretion with the bass player.  While this structural change in the mating system may be bad for the health of society as a whole, for the individual unfortunate betas, this side effect at least affords them a chance to improve themselves as men without being saddled with unwanted fatherhood.

Like rape, cuckoldry is the soulkilling dis.  Women who commit these vile acts and then perpetuate them with lies piled atop of lies ought to be shunned — culturally, legally, and financially.  They do not even deserve the courtesy of a kiss while getting pumped and dumped.  If they don’t experience painful consequences for their actions, nothing will change.

Dealing with Other Guys During Pickup

When you are out in the field, many times the girl you are interested in will be in a mixed group of men and women.  I used to not even bother with approaching girls who were in the company of men, assuming that my efforts would be an exercise in futility if one of them was the boyfriend, or figuring that the guys would know what I was up to and act to block my progress.

Overthinking leads to a point where your mind hobbles your actions with worst-case scenarios, but once you break out of that mental habit and start approaching mixed sets you’ll learn that the reality is usually quite different.

Fact: Most guys in mixed sets are NOT the boyfriend.  They may be interested in their girl buddies, but that is irrelevant.

Fact: If you introduce yourself in a friendly manner to the guys first or address the group as a whole and don’t make it obvious that you are there to steal their girls, the guys will amicably open up to you.

The best way to find out if a boyfriend is present in a mixed group is to ask the question “So, how do you guys know each other?”  This line is standard operating procedure so don’t be cautious about throwing it out there.  People will be happy to tell you the answer.  Just don’t ask it right away; that makes you look like you are trying too hard to ingratiate yourself.

If your game is tight and the girls are enjoying your company, what will normally happen is that the guys will pick up on the girls’ signals and follow suit, accepting you into the group and stepping aside (or even helping you) when you begin to focus your attention on the girl you like.  Winning over the group also serves the dual purpose of raising your social value in the eyes of your target.  Holding court with a group of strangers and keeping them engaged will trigger attraction in a girl.

The guys in a mixed group will not always be neutral entities like Switzerland.  Occasionally, they will be competitors.  You must be prepared for this as well.  The important thing to know is that direct competition with other guys in the field VERY RARELY leads to belligerence.  Even less likely will a physical altercation break out, especially here in DC, land of the overeducated Herbs who fold like cheap lawn chairs in the face of real danger.

Competitors come in three main varieties:

The Boyfriend
If one of the guys is seeing the girl you want, ask them a question about their relationship, like how long they’ve known each other or how they met.  While these questions seem innocuous, they are designed to elicit an emotional flashback in the woman that will clue you in to her level of commitment to the boyfriend.  If he does all the answering and starts putting his arm around her while she looks around the room with a bland expression you can be sure she is open to testing the waters with a new man.  If she likes you, she’ll find a way to get out from under her boyfriend’s watchful eye later in the night to slip you her number.  If she answers enthusiastically, write her off.

Some players advocate gaming a girl right in front of the boyfriend as if he were a non-factor.  If you can generate attraction easily and the girl is really into you, go for it, but in my experience most of the time the boyfriend will bristle knowing what you are up to and physically insert himself between you and her, making for a very uncomfortable situation.

The Interloper
These are the guys who crash your party and join groups you have already opened.  They are usually players or natural alphas because only those types of men have the balls to enter a mixed set.  They will test your state control.  The absolute worst thing you could do would be to appear defensive.  If you clam up, or ask what their deal is, or make it obvious that you are ignoring them and focus all your attention on the girls, you will get blown out.

There are two ways to deal with an interloper.  One way is the power play.  One time I was talking to two girls in a lounge when two guys they didn’t know approached and said hi to them without acknowledging me.  One of the guys was clearly the alpha, tall and good-looking with strong posture, so I addressed my comments to him knowing that if I could get him to scuttle, the beta wingman would follow.

I turned toward him, maintained eye contact, and said “Hey, man, we were just talking about how long you would wait to come over and hit on these girls.  We could totally see it in the way you walked over that you meant business!  But she was just telling me how you may have waited a little too long and how your shirt is just a little too striped.  They are a tough crowd, I can attest.”  I look at the girls and wink.  “Girls in this city will not give a guy a break!  But, you know, you should still go for it, this one over here has a secret crush on you.”

I did not give the guys a chance to get a word in edgewise.  The verbal barrage left them staring at me befuddled about what to do next, while the girls laughed and insisted they did not have a crush on anyone.  After a second, I moved in between with my back to them and asked the girls if they would like to learn something about themselves.  They looked horny from the dominance display that had just gone down.  As the girls talked to me, the guys disappeared.

This type of balls-out tactic is high risk, high reward.  It’s not something I do often or recommend doing because sometimes you will meet your intellectual, physical, or sociopathic match and things can get out of hand fast.  You have to feel completely confident in your abilities to disarm gatecrashers.  Showing hesitation or uncertainty will embolden your foes. They have to think you are a little bit crazy and won’t mind a fight.  Which is why I prefer option two.  Engage the interlopers with a series of logical questions.  Do not give them time to game your target.  A guy’s logical brain is his worst enemy in the fluid environment of pickup where on-the-fly emotional intelligence is needed.  Ask them questions about their jobs, sports, hobbies, where they live, etc and you’ll notice that they are almost impelled to answer your questions straight.  It’s like asking a girl about her feelings — the same unstoppable mental processes are set in motion.

Logical banter will lower their value instantly.  Eventually, they will seem boring and pedestrian and this is when you switch gears to playfully undercutting them.  If they ask you questions about your life, you can say “Hey, what’s with the 21 questions? I’m not on the market guys!”  Including them in the conversation and demonstrating your social prowess at their expense with a friendly vibe without escalating the interaction to code yellow will be a big turn-on for the women.  The girls will then devote more of their attention to you and the guys will give up and leave.

The Incumbent
If you approach a group that already has a guy in it working the magic with the girls (as opposed to guys they came with), then you are dealing with an incumbent.  Since most incumbents are average guys with no game trying to impress the girls with drinks or manufacture a connection with boring interviewer questions, it is a simple matter to subvert them.

When he is out of earshot, ask the girls how they know the guy and they will usually say “Oh, we just met him tonight.  He bought us drinks.”  Once armed with this information, you can segue into an incumbent-unseating routine: “Oh I bet you really like him if you let him buy you drinks.  You know, come to think of it, you two almost look alike.  Jeez, you’d make the perfect couple!”  She will, of course, protest, and in the act of verbalizing her protests negative feelings will get anchored to him.

If the guy is part of the conversational flow, just like with the interloper pepper him with logical questions.  Once you’ve become part of the group dynamic, steer it in the direction you want.  If you and he are gaming the same girl, call him out on his motives:

“Hey man, how’s the pickup going?  Are these girls friendly or are they giving you the bitch shield?  I need to know so I can adjust accordingly.”  This will slightly embarrass him into denying that he was trying to game the girls. Once that happens it’s game, set, match in your favor.

If he’s interested in a different girl, then let the conversation progress naturally until he is acting like a de facto wingman and the two of you are gaming your own targets.

Very occasionally, you will run across an incumbent who is a seasoned veteran of the field.  Real players who know their stuff will not fall for the traps I’ve outlined above.  They will banter right back with you until a point is reached where the two of you are in your own world playing out a high drama of verbal volley and counter-volley.  While this is entertaining for the girls, it will not move you closer to sealing the deal.  It’s best to tip your hat to a worthy opponent and recruit him as a wingman.

If you can master opening mixed sets then those times where you are approaching girls-only sets will seem like a breeze.

Unmanliness from a Woman’s POV

I checked out a link to this woman’s blog and she has a useful chart listing the differences between traditional men and metrosexuals.

I really liked this part:

Traditional Man
Ignores or disapproves of feminism.

Metrosexual Man 
Claims to be supportive of feminism with women, but inevitably disses it when drunk with his male pals at the pub.

She’s pretty as well.  I could see myself becoming vulnerable in her presence.

Of course, whenever I read a woman’s opinion on what she likes in men I always ask if these are the men she claims to want to sleep with or if they are the men she actually sleeps with.

Going Car-less

My experiences with the DMV aka double jeopardy tax collection agency, the greatest racket in the history of mankind auto mechanic, and owning a car in a city where your length of residence can be read, like tree rings, by the number of dents and broken sideview mirrors it has, leads me to seriously contemplate selling my car.

It’s no surprise to anyone that cars are money pits.  Even late model cars like mine chew up dollars in gas, maintenance and fees.  On a recent Bataan death march to my mechanic I was given an estimate for $3,000 in general upkeep repairs, including $500 (!) for a replacement passenger side rearview mirror that was damaged from a hit and run collision on one lane wide two lane streets.  I asked him to do the bare minimum that would get me through the state inspection.  We haggled to $350.  I passed inspection after complimenting a female DMV station employee on her sense of shoe style so that she overlooked the mirror violation.

Besides the money, there is the inconvenience.  This is one of those transportation purgatory cities where the public transit options (taxi zone system ripoff) and distance between the neighborhoods are not quite conducive enough to be without a car all the time, yet the limited parking, traffic, road disrepair, and horrid driving skills of the locals make owning a car a perpetual headache.  Halfway between New York and LA is no place to be.

I’m not worried about what not having a car will do to my game.  There are many ways around this.  Since most young single girls are bleeding heart liberals, a simple appeal to fighting global warming should suffice.

Her:  So what time will you pick me up?
Me:  I’m not.  We’ll take a cab to the E Street cinema 7:45 showing of “The not-so-secret lives of gays, gays, gays, and more gays”.
Her:  You don’t have a car?
Me:  No, I sold it to reduce my carbon footprint.  Global warming is the greatest evil in the world, right up there with the 2nd amendment.  I don’t want to contribute to the melting of the glaciers with a selfish, overfed, American lifestyle.  Without the ice, where will the polar bears fornicate?  You’re not an anti-fornicator, are you?
Her:  *swoon*

Thank you, Al Gore, for helping my game.

If the environment doesn’t move her, I can always pre-emptively head off her objection.

Me:  I only date enlightened 21st century women who understand the value of low-impact living and embrace a post-automobile reality.  My last girlfriend, even though she was only 19 and so pretty that people thought she must not be smart, understood why I sold my car.
Her:  Oh, I walk around the city a lot!
Me:  Great.  I’ll pick you up on my skateboard.  It’s a one-seater, so you’ll have to sit on my shoulders.

It’s ironic that getting rid of my car, long an American symbol of freedom, now strikes me as a very liberating choice.  Perhaps one trip on the bus, where an acquaintance once witnessed a shooting that injured the bus driver, will change my mind.

Unmanliness

If you sit at a sidewalk cafe in DC and people watch you’ll eventually see hints of civilizational decline.

mommy took our allowance

There I was enjoying a manly tap water when something so magnificently wrong assaulted my visual field.  A father carrying a baby in a papoose that he wore across his front.

The front.

It would be bad enough if he were usurping the natural maternal role by hauling around his kid in the traditional style with papoose in back.  But the front?  He may as well have swished his womanly hips while he walked.

Seriously, grow a set and get some self-respect, man.  If you can’t find it in you to do it for yourself, at least think of society.  With the child dearth and populations contracting throughout most of the first world it might help if you weren’t a big flashing negative ad to young men to avoid marriage and fatherhood.  Put that papoose on the mother where God intended it to be.  If you have more than one kid, throw the other one on the dog.  There are big dogs you can fit with a saddle.

Which got me thinking.  Is unmanliness a harbinger of the fall of great powers?  I think it is.  Look around and it’s easy to notice plenty of ominous unmanly trends.

I’m beginning to hear men use trendy truncated miniwords like fab, deet, obvi, fave, vom.  This makes me vom.  My ears can only take so much foppery.  If you are a straight man who doesn’t tuck his junk in between his legs posing in front of the mirror then using these cutesy-isms is very homosex.  I expect women to annoy charm me with baby talk, not grown men.

Men (and I use the term loosely) with trendy truncated minidogs.  I’ve gone on about this before.  If your dog’s legs are missing a joint and it is shorter from snout to tail than the length of your forearm and lighter than your 10-rep maximum dumbbell weight, then you’ve got creampuff issues.  Trade it in for a pet that’s supposed to be that size, like a gerbil.

Gym “classes”.  No man worth his yarbles should take a spinning, pilates, step or, heaven forfend, stroller class.  Butch up and hit the weight room.  Try not to pee yourself when you see the squat rack.  Yoga is acceptable as long as you understand why you are there and situate yourself in the back row for greatest viewing pleasure.

Lovers’ quarrels.  It’s not unmanly to get into a fight with your girlfriend at 5AM banging on her apartment door piss drunk.  It IS unmanly to do all the above while sobbing “BUT I LOOOOOOOOOOOOVE YOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUU!!!” over and over.  What happened to the good old days when drunk guys got into fistfights, not confessionals?

If you order your martini from a color-coded menu you may as well butter up your ass, funboy.  Men’s hard liquor drinks come in two colors — brown and clear.  And don’t drink from the straw.

When you canoodle your girl in public, do not bury your face in her lap and raise your hindquarters in the air like a cat getting stroked.  I actually saw this once.  This is about as unmanly as a man post-coitally resting his head on the chest of his woman.  You should be fitting yourself for a bra.

If you are a man bleating on about how great feminism is please do us all a favor and strangle yourself with your bloomers.  You are not sophisticated, evolved, or intellectual.  You are a sackless tool.

So there you have it.  I’m sure examples of unmanliness abound.  Is it a coincidence that as American women are becoming manlier American men are becoming softer, immature, and vaguely androgynous?  No, it is not.

Update:
Probably the biggest sign of the growing trend of unmanliness is the celebrity blog.  No man should write, read, or even tangentially discuss celebrity gossip, unless it’s to make a point to some hardened feminist how fame and power encourages men turn in their aging wives for young pussy.  Celebrities and the deets of their lives are black holes of irrelevance and idiocy.  It’s enough for one gender to get sucked into eight-balling celebrity sludge right into their limbic systems.  Men have a duty to shun it.  Gay men run the risk of flaming out into a red giant from this wasteful activity.

Help Not Wanted

“Damian, don’t bother.”

“I’m not going to sit here and watch this.”

Damian and I had been enjoying an evening of camaraderie drinking beers on the trunk of his car in the parking lot.  According to Fodor’s, this particular parking lot was a popular destination for camaraderie and drinking; well, it was for us, until that evening.

A man and woman were arguing vociferously about a hundred feet off.  They looked exasperated with each other.  Lots of aggressive hand motions punctuated their heated row.  His voice quickly got angrier and he grabbed her forearm with great flourish while berating her.

fuck you, cunt! you’re a fuckin worthless whore! you just follow your pussy! maybe you should suck that guy’s dick.

Then the slap.  Right across her cheek, bullseye.  I used to think that face slaps in the movies were way too loud; that the soundman was having fun exaggerating the effect for the audience’s shock and awe.  But this real life slap echoed throughout the empty parking lot like a crack of lightning.  I put my hand to my face in ghost sympathy.

Damian is normally a guy who takes amusement in the foolishness of humanity.  His philosophy (well, one of his quite frequently contradictory philosophies) is “I don’t care what people do to each other as long as I can sit back and ridicule them for it.”

He wasn’t laughing this time.  This got me worried.  He stood and put down his beer bottle.

“Dude, do NOT get involved with this.  Trust me, it’s pointless.”

“Get my back in case there’s trouble.”

Oh boy.  No time to talk him out of it.  He was dead set on white knighting.

I watched as he marched purposefully toward the fighting couple.  A few words were exchanged.

what’s your deal, motherfucker?
“Leave the girl alone.  Cowards hit girls.”
why don’t you mind your own business and go fuck yourself.

Damian got in his face.  “You’re a fucking loser taking it out on a girl.  I’m not leaving.”

The girl was crying and stamping her feet.  The loser took a step back from Damian and shoved a hand into his back pocket.  A split second later a metal object glinted from the lamppost light as it slashed a downward arc through the air.  Damian’s hand went reflexively up to his face.

I ran to them, my veins pumping with delirium.  The girl screamed and the guy jumped in his car and peeled off.  Blood seeped between the fingers Damian had pressed against his left cheek.

“Jesus, man, are you OK?!”
“I’m fine.” He looked at the girl. “Are you OK?”
She had hysteria in her eyes. “Why did you do that?”
“Huh?”
“You shouldn’t have come over!  This wasn’t your business!”
I spit at her “That’s the thanks my buddy gets?  Go fuck off!  Your loser boyfriend is going to jail.”

At the periphery of the parking lot I saw Knife-Guy’s car idling.  He had driven around and stopped there.  She turned and ran toward it and got in.  They drove away.

Damian stared blankly at the nothingness in front of him.

“Hey, man, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

We drove in stony silence.  Bleeding face wound or not, Damian finds it hard to keep his yap shut for more than five minutes, so this was extraordinary.  A little too extraordinary for comfort.

“I guess you were right.”

“Hey, look, you did the right thing.  She was fucked in the head.  Don’t let it get to you.”

“Sure, whatever.”

I wanted to believe my own words, but I couldn’t.

Many police report filings and stitches later, we mused about that night.

“I’m disappointed.”  Damian did not look disappointed.

“Why?”

“The cut was not deep enough for me to impress the ladies with a cool scar.”

I sympathized.  “Perhaps you can impress them with the story instead.”

“I’m done impressing.”

He was wrong.  The cut was deep enough.