Exhibitionist’s End

Entertaining field report from Capogambino about his night almost stealing a sexhibitionist from her borefriend.

I’m at the local pub on a Friday, and a guy walks in with two girls dressed for the club scene. One girl is a bit chubby and totally forgettable. The other, his girlfriend, is a solid 9, full slut uniform, hair, makeup, tight stretch black dress barely covering her ass. At several times during the night, as she’s walking around the bar or dancing, her dress rides up, revealing a juicy crescent of ripe cheek for a few moments before she pulls it back down. All the guys in the bar are staring at her, waiting for the next wardrobe malfunction.
At one point, the group I’m with is sitting at the table next to theirs, and I overhear her say, “I can get any guy in this bar to buy me a drink.” Her boyfriend and the other chic are doubting her, so she calls over to our table, “I need a drink, who wants to get me one?” The guys at my table are staring at her, not sure how to react, the girls looking like they want to set her on fire and feed her ashes to dogs. I chime in first, “Depends. What are you drinking?”
“Ginger snap.”
“Aw, a foofy drink. We should do shots. I’m thinking tequila.”
She looks surprised, and mildly intrigued.
“No, I want a ginger snap.” She’s testing me.
We go back a forth a bit but she won’t come off the ginger snap, so I turn back to my table and start chatting.
I glance over and her friends are looking at her like “ha-ha told you so”, and she’s looking disappointed. She sees me looking over, so she tries again. “So you’re not gonna buy me a drink?”
I stand up, walk over, stand close to her looking down, take her by the hand, and say, “Let’s go to the bar and pick something out.”
Her eyes light up like she’s been hit by lighting. She gets up, takes me arm-in-arm, pulling me close so my arm is pressed against the side of her tit, and we start walking to the bar.
I’m thinking I don’t really want to get into a fight with her boyfriend and get kicked out of my favorite pub, so I pull away a little. She looks me in the eye with a mischievous twinkle, pulls me back in, and starts rubbing my arm against the side of her tit.
At this point I’m wondering whether this girl has any boundaries, and thinking mischievously myself about how to test them. We get to the bar and she still has my arm locked against her tit. As we’re waiting for the bartender, we banter back and forth about what drink I’m getting her, with me teasing her about her wimpy girly drinks. I pull my arm free and move it to her lower back and stroke it slowly. She turns to me, presses her tits into me and puts her hand on my chest. At this point I’m in the bubble and completely forgetting about the boyfriend. I imagine he must have been seething back at the table watching our little scene.
I think maybe my stroking gets her dress to misbehaving again, and she reaches down and starts pulling it back into place, commenting about how she keeps flashing everyone. I snicker and tell her she’s got a great ass, and that all the guys in the bar have been staring at it all night. I give a couple gentle tugs on the back of her dress and say, “Why don’t you give ‘em all a show?” She gives me a naughty girl look, and says, “Go for it.” I pull slowly on the back of her dress. I can feel it coming up, but I have no idea how much, because I’m eye locked with her, and she’s staring back with a look like she wants me to throw her across the bar and ravage. Then she giggles and says, “Not that far,” and starts pulling her dress back down. That’s when the forgotten boyfriend shows up.
He pushes us apart, turns to me and yells “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!”
Part of my brain is telling me to get ready for a fight and start thinking about how to calm him down, but I can’t help just laughing. Then the girl shouts, “Leave us alone!” She starts trying to claw her way past him to get back to me. He turns to her, pushes her back, and yells, “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU!”
“Go away! He’s buying me a drink!” They’re in a little wrestling match as she’s still trying to wriggle around him and he’s holding her back.
I figure this is my chance to exit stage left before things get ugly, so I retreat to the bathroom. I take a piss, then I’m washing my hands as he storms in. “Dude, that was so uncool!” I back up, ready for a fight. I look at him for a moment and decide he’s not gonna fight over it. So I do a weak mea culpa, calm him down, and he leaves.
When I get back to the table a WK friend of mine hits me with “That was just so wrong, you shouldn’t have done that.”
So I say “She asked me to.” I tell the story of what we said at the bar, and we all have a good laugh about it. I can feel the stares of the two of them boring into me. When I glance over, I see them looking at me, him with daggers, her with tingles. They pay their bill and leave, so no chance to seal the deal.

Mate guarding when the whore is out of the barn is never a good look; it’s bound to push the girl even further away. The boyfriend in this tale of ho should dump her post haste because she’s gonna cheat on him soon if she isn’t already.

This girl is a particularly noxious genus of exhibitionist, the “let’s you and him fight” variety who uses the public display of her dripping sexuality as a red cape for any alpha males nearby who could conceivably challenge her boyfriend’s ownership of her and provide her with the ferocious tingles that only two men fighting for her glans can coax.

Similarly, her exhibitionism could have been motivated by relationship trouble (her bf ignoring her, for example) and she was keen to enlist Mr. Stranger Danger to ignite her boyfriend’s jealously so that he’d appreciate her again. Either way, the recruited interloper is playing with fire; he gets the bf’s fury or the slut’s retconned rejection.

Copagambino had some ZFG fun and played his hand well, but in the end an exhibitionist got the drama she needed and Copa narrowly avoided the drama he didn’t need.

What Is Love?

Reciprocal obsession.

(a lovely lady asked)

Undiscriminating Truth Of The Day

It’s not a coincidence that female obesity and miscegenation are rising in lockstep in post-America.

If the country is filling up with more nonWhites of undiscerning taste, and more White females of unrecognizable shape, then the predictable outcome is Halfbreed Hamerica.

Fat White women take what they can get, which is usually either solitude or sooty coal.

 

From Hell’s Heart, Hijab At Thee

Reeducation camps have opened in Chicago, in this particular instance taking the form of billboards proselytizing to benighted Americans the value of opening their hearts and minds to the unifying and strengthening vibrancy of a foreign religion’s weird, off-putting customs.

I’ll keep my thoughts brief. This country is no longer mine. I want out. I’ve been made a stranger in my own home.

I wish the worst tortures that Hell’s caretakers can dish out to my enemies who have invited the alien hordes into my land.

***

Soul cleanser:

Attention Diffidence Disorder

I’m gonna let youze yeggs in on a leetle secret. You want to experience the profound joy of romancing, bedding, and loving many, many attractive women? Then you’ll get far if you do this one weird trick:

Make your intention known.

Now, I don’t mean walk up to girls and tell them you want to bang them silly. Girls require a veneer of plausible deniability. The art of flirting is revealing a hint of a glimpse of what’s on your mind without spelling it out.

I mean, make eye contact, and keep it a tic past the threshold of discomfort.

That’s all you need to get going on your journey of poon. The simple act of telegraphing seductive intent through the eyes and the body will open the door to endless romantic possibility. So many women are starved for the attention of men who can forcefully command their gaze.

Beta males suffer a case of Attention Diffidence Disorder that prematurely kills so many chances with girls it may as well be called crib death for cocksas. Cold approaches from a blind angle are always fun, but nothing stimulates every sense quite like an unspoken invitation to thigh adventure. Show intention and her blood pounds, chest reddens, pussy tingles. It’s just a beginning, with no guarantee of a fulfilling end, but what a sweet beginning it is, the first dulcet notes of a symphony waiting for your conductor’s baton.

The Sprog Staircase Phenomenon Of Societal And Sexual Decline

COTW winner is early this week, because no one will beat this comment by Amasius explaining the “Staircase Phenomenon” (or what I’ve amended to the “Sprog Staircase”) as a description of the type of low class White women whose executive functions and SMV decline so badly with age they hit their 30s with mulattots in tow:

WynnLloyd: There’s not much that’s more depressing than seeing a morbidly obese woman pushing a shopping cart at the grocery store, by herself, with a couple of poorly dressed mulatto tots sitting inside.

What I love is the staircase phenomenon. Older White kids, baby niglets. Sometimes you get an extra step and it goes White, beanstizo, niglet. You can read the course of her unravelling SMV like tree rings.

Commenter TLM follows up with a real life confirmation of the Staircase Phenomenon,

My Aunt & Uncle who’ve been childless their entire marriage due to reproduction problems, started fostering kids about a decade ago. The state was/is still dumping multiples on them all the time. And in many situations it follows your post. The oldest kids of these drug moms are white, then some darker mixed version (not black, but either some sorta spic or other mystery meat), and youngest is almost always a niglet.

It shows A. What whores these women are and B. It documents their slide down the SMV scale. Some really sad stories actually, but it is funny how you can document The Fall via the Crayola coloring scheme changes of their children.

One can track a nation’s decline as well as a woman’s decline by the descent of both down the Sprog Staircase. That changing Crapola color scheme is the perfect indicator of a White nation and a White woman about to hit The Wall.

If her first kid’s Peach
her SMV’s out of reach
If her second kid’s Burnt Sienna
her jelly belly goes on forever
If her third kid’s Carbon Black
Your nation’s dead, it won’t come back.

Meta-Analysis: Sex-Based Differences Are Biological And Unchangeable

A recent meta-analysis of sixteen studies concluded that sex-based personality characteristics and preferences are biological, inborn, and unchangeable.

In related news, a million fluid transgenderist feminist lamebrains exploded simultaneously from the meaty intrusion of evidence-based SCIENCE.

According to a new study, differences between boys and girls are biological and not fluid, as transgender theory claims.

Research revealed in the Infant and Child Development Journal concluded that gender preferences in children are not so much the result of their environment and upbringing as they are intrinsic within the child. These findings contradict prevailing LGBTQQICAPF2K+ belief that gender is both externally directed and fluid. […]

Sixteen studies composed of 787 boys and 813 girls were documented. Researchers found that consistently “boys played with male-typed toys more than girls did, and girls played with female-typed toys more than boys did.”

This finding won’t surprise most parents, but it defies prevailing transgender theories that say gender differences are simply a “social construct.”

The same innate gender preferences were observed in a variety of contexts. “No significant effect of presence of an adult, study context, geographical location of the study, publication date, child’s age, or the inclusion of gender-neutral toys” made a difference, the data showed.

The scientists concluded that the data from these studies indicated “gender differences” have a “likelihood (of) biological origin.” In other words, before you were born you were a boy or a girl, and that’s not subject to change.

“The consistency in finding sex differences in children’s preferences for toys typed to their own gender indicates the strength of this phenomenon and the likelihood that has a biological origin,” the study says.

The God of Biomechanics laughs at your idiotic feminist ideals.

Just as what one sees in an ink blot or instinctively associates with a suggested word can indicate one’s internal psychology, so a child’s free, self-directed choice of toy can indicate his or her innate psychology. Researchers say such choices “appear to be the product of both innate and social forces.”

More and more, when social scientists say “appear to be the product of both innate and social forces” they really mean “appear to be the product almost entirely of innate forces but our freakqualist leftoid egos are fragile and we’re still holding out hope that a super duper secret replicable feminist study will rise from the grave one day soon to prove once and for all that NURTURE BTFOs NATURE MUHFUGGA!”.

The study also found male gender differences increased with age. “Older boys played more with male-typed toys … than did younger boys,” but “the same pattern was not found in girls.” Researchers speculated that this observation may be because of increasing social pressure on girls to break from innate stereotypes.

So boys became more boy-like with age, while older girls stayed as girl-like as they were when little.

I can think of a few reasons for this apparent disparity, in descending order of likelihood.

• Boy brains experience more profound changes going through puberty than do girl brains, because masculinization is a greater physiological and psychological change from the state of childhood neoteny than is the process of feminization. In other words, grown men are more different from their former childhood selves than grown women are from their former childhood selves. This results in the perception of older boys gravitating more strongly toward “boy-like” hobbies and preferences.
• Related to the above explanation, boys develop a powerful visuospatial center in their maturing brains (which girls do not) that further predisposes them to male-typed toys.
• Adult social pressure on girls to be second-rate boys (“early intervention gogrrl careerist shrikery”).
• Adult social pressure on boys to be less boyish (“toxic masculinity”).

If, say, genetic biological immutability accounts for 70-80% of sex-based preferences and aptitudes, then imagine how malevolently insistent, unremitting, and remorseless the Leftoid Equalist social pressures would have to be to overcome that innate predisposition and have an impact on the choices of growing boys and girls. Downright evil, really.