How To Control A Slut: The Slut Whisperer

Sluts are wild women. The wildest, which is impressive considering the basal state of women is sexual wildness when released from cultural supervision. Many an unwitting beta male has thirstily stumbled into a slut’s Venus Thigh-Trap and been liquefied, financially and emotionally, by her muff-shaped machinations. But sluts can be controlled, and their sexual recklessness harnessed for the beta’s exclusive pleasure, no psychological costs or commitment strings attached.

williamk writes that a slut uses her sex like a shackle, binding her quarry into a one-sided relationship that robs him of his dignity and prepares the way for his cuckolding:

Sluts control weak guys with sex.

It’s likely every once in a while he imagines her past and feels disdain rise in his viscera, but then she drains his nuts and dissipates his drive.

He’ll never leave her or cheat because she knows just how much to sate him to own him.

Beta male thirst is more than a tingle-killer; it’s a poisoner of long-term relationships. If you give in to an LTR with a slut solely to prevent your nuts from backing up with unspent sperm, you’ll regret all the times in between nutting that you have to spend with her, and that’s a lot of time, unless you can nut non-stop without turning into a bleached desert skeleton.

A slut who has your cock on a leash will NEVER give you all the sex you want; she will give you THE BARE MINIMUM of sex to get what she wants, which is usually a combination of your money, energy, abject supplication, unreciprocated fidelity, and willingness to excuse any and all bad behavior she wishes to dish out (which sluts will dish out frequently and gleefully).

The experienced man with options knows how to control sluts for the reasons above: his interests as a man will often diverge from the interests of the sluts he bangs for fun. He has no thirst, so sluts can’t play the ol’ dame game of throwing their sex at him in the beginning and then slowly but incrementally drawing their sex away in hopes of reorienting the relationship to one in which the slut has all the hand.

The Slut Whisperer also never commits long-term to a slut unless he is absolutely sure of his ability to control the slut’s sexual manipulations and impulsivity. The number one reason to avoid commitments to sluts that last longer than a three-month fling is because they’re high risks for cheating, divorce, and cucking. As a man, you’d want such a tight grip on your slut’s heartlight that she wouldn’t dare indulge her natural inclinations….and that’s a tall order to suppress what is likely a genetically imprinted predilection.

So, the two most potent slut controlling psy ops a man has at his disposal are:

• dating options, or the ability to collect dating options
• his love

Having options, or the confidence that comes from an ability to collect options on short notice, reduces a man’s sexual thirst, thereby reducing his susceptibility to a slut’s exploitation of men’s higher sex drive.

A tried-and-true technique for projecting a powerful perception of your ability to score new poon post-haste is Dread Game. And nobody falls for Dread Game as thoroughly and predictably as the slut, who senses in it (and for that reason cannot defy it) the mirror manipulation of her Sex Apportioning Game. Driving a slut to heights of jealousy will put the brakes on her sexual power games because she will lose the focus to stick to her Gine Directive.

Dread Game is essentially Love Apportioning Game, and as a slut will open and close her vagina to the rhythm of her desires met and unmet, so will an experienced man open and close his heart to the rhythm of his desire met or unmet for a woman who will behave herself to his liking.

In sum,

SEXUAL CHOICE

CONDITIONAL LOVE

are the ingredients to bring a slut to heel.

In woman-conditioning language, I call this

INTERMITTENT REWARD, CONSISTENT PUNISHMENT, OCCASIONAL MERCY

and now you have tamed the slut.

It’s Jerkboy Game Day!

Courtesy of Gabber @LexParsimoniae:

She looks like she’s ready to admit him to her S&M dungeon. A keeper!

FYI the jerkboy move that sealed the deal (or at least sealed delivery of the dominatrix outfit pic) was when Lex dropped the “lol” bomb. Short, snappy retorts like “lol” and “gay”, which in context don’t make a whole lot of sense nor need to, are MASS GAINER snickerdoodle flavored hamster pellets. Also, note the ratio of her words to his words: she’s investing more in the exchange (even microinvestments like total typed letters count towards relative SMV scores and the perception of higher value of the person investing less).

Remember, as you scan that screenshot for eternal wisdom: NICEGUYS PACIFY, JERKBOYS ELECTRIFY

Her: what makes u think u can demand anything from me

Niceguy: oh sorry if i crossed a line *wets himself*

vs

Her: what makes u think u can demand anything from me

Jerkboy: lol *chain texts three other plates*

Update:

I had her over for dinner, she washes all the dishes and the ones I used before she gets over and never complains. She’s 30 I’m 45. She’s used to getting her way. She can’t figure me out.

My guess, she wants to land a man. Doesn’t want kids though. See what happens.

Insist that she wear those cute animal ears whenever she’s with you, including out to restaurants. (This is domination-ownership move you can find in classics of the Unholy Love genre, such as Story of O.)

It Takes A Black Woman…

White women always react the same way to a bothersome kneegr0 beggar: with deference, patience, and finally sorrowful apology for not coughing up enough dough.

Black women react differently: they completely ignore him or give him lip for not minding his own business.

Black women know how to handle their black men.

There’s a lesson there for earnest shitlib White women. #NotLikeUs

When The Strip Club Experience Stops Being Sexy

A comment from Tiberius that had me chuckling,

The strip clubs around here are more circus than anything. We went to one on a friends birthday. The hottest one had only one arm. She dragged the birthday boy up on stage, ripped the elastic out of his underwear, took his belt, wound it tight around her stub and whooped his ass with it. I’ve never seen anything more surreal in my life. I do not get boners recalling this experience.

I’ll take a wild guess which region in the US this “Weird Americana” titty bar is located: West Texas.

The Scent Of Ripe Sex

A male friend a few years older than me once took me to a high end strip club. It was my first time at a house of ill repute, and I was underage (but of age in the way that mattered). He knew one of the club’s employees and arranged a deal to sneak me in with him through an alleyway entrance.

I’ll never forget the sounds, sights, and….smell….of that experience. They linger today. Blood red light, thrashing heavy metal, and riotous naked pussy assaulted me. I popped a stiffy before we had taken our seats at a table in the back, to my relief cloaked in cranny dimness.

I had by then notched some innocent quality time with Real World girls, but never had exposure to raw, unbridled female sexuality until that field trip with a buddy I would go on to admire for many years afterward as my chaperone to a parallel pooniverse told in tales of thigh adventure.

I remember my friend had informed me the strippers were “just north of jailbait”. Which meant all the girls were older than me, by a few years. We gawked for a while — rather, I gawked, he pretended to soak it in like a seasoned viewer — and then he slipped a twenty in my hand.

“Should I get change?”

“No, that’s for the lap dance you’re getting.”

He motioned to an unearthly beauty with jet black hair framing cum-white skin. She glided over to us on a cloud of estrogen. Her body was perfection to match her face. Slender hourglass figure, levitating tits, and a pert ass. I guessed she was 18 years old. And a hard 10. They exist.

She and my friend exchanged some words, then she smiled at me, performed a lissome posterior chain maneuver that drew her face and body nearer mine, and her hands pried open my legs. Standing in my manspread zone, she unbuttoned her leather miniskirt. It shimmied unceremoniously to the ground (very smooth, I thought to myself), revealing black panty and….was I seeing right?….a rolling hillock of peekaboo vulva adorned with villous springtime fluff. She lifted the elastic on one side of her panty and pulled my moneyed hand toward the pleasure portal; I slipped the twenty in and made sure the second knuckle of my middle finger got some before she closed the gate.

She was unusually practiced at her art for a girl who shouldn’t have been at this line of work for longer than a year. Gracefully and with a patina of eagerness that I had hoped was sincere, she crossed my southern border and gyrated and twisted and grazed and rubbed and pressed and ground……but the sensation that would grab my hindbrain by the reins and steer it to a catatonia I have found hard to replicate in the time since was the sensation that entered through my nose.

Her aroma. It emanated most powerfully from a moist place, a fog bank, a source of life, and more subtly from every square inch of her body. It was the Engineer’s goo if the goo was pink and smelt of a thousand roses and the richest peat. That scent…I can recall it in an instant, and still it stuns me. Later, reflecting on it in the wisdom of my adulthood, I would realize it was the scent of ripe sex. Of a woman in her fertile prime whose sole purpose in this world was to be inseminated by a warrior poet and birth the next generation. Her natural perfume wasn’t of the material world; it was a divinely endowed advertisement that she was laden with a full basket of the freshest eggs.

I would likewise realize that no matter how many women one has bedded, loved, lost, or loved again, there will be nothing that comes later which can precisely capture the stupefaction and delight of that first sniff of a hard 10’s maximally fecund fragrance. It’s like a first love; you’ll love again, but occasionally your heartthoughts will drift to that sun-dappled sweet sixteen siren, a memory unblemished by life’s inevitable compromises.

There have been moments since when I’ve caught whiff of a similar scent, and I remembered it fondly — as one would the surprising intrusion of an odor that recalled grandma’s kitchen — and every association would come flooding back, filling empty neural nooks with lust. But you can’t go all the way back. The past is unsullied precisely because it exists in a magnified amber constructed of sensation, newness, and promise. Pussy #30, however sweet-smelling, can’t hit with the limbic force of Pussy #1. No shame in that ladies, just don’t expect the same invulnerable adoration from a man when you’re his Thirtieth Act.

***

I had met a girl a couple months after that trip to the strip club, and I was so relaxed around her she mentioned it to me with a hint of annoyance. “Are you always like this with girls? So…calm?”, she had suspiciously inquired. No, I had replied, hoping to allay her, only with you, because you’re easy to talk to.

Lie. I was relaxed because I had smelled the scent of God, and the girl sitting with me was an aromatic mortal in comparison.

Your Daily Sad

Being the only fat white girl at a party……and getting hit on by the only black guy at the party. LAYERS OF SADNESS

(then she goes home alone and tumblrrheas about her awesome dating life and how she has to beat the HOT SEXY IMPLICITLY WHITE men off with a stick (of butter)) META-SAD

The Main Reason Women Despise Niceguys

Because niceguys excuse women’s shitholistic behavior.

There will always be an urge in people (not just couples therapists and marriage counselors, although they are more prone to experiencing the urge) to relieve women of and burden men with responsibility and accountability. This is a consequence of the Fundamental Premise, which states that eggs, being pricey, add value to the vessel which houses them, and therefore that vessel commands deference and apologia from all social and institutional forces.

The feminist complaint of an oppressive patriarchy that puts women under the jackboot of men is literally the opposite of reality, but we should not be surprised by feminist delusion because it’s also in the nature of women to ignore their advantages and to focus on those perceived injustices that insufficiently coddle them to a torrential splooge.

On female unaccountability, @TrevorGoodchild notes the connection to Game and the modren dating market,

Women are also more attracted to men who hold them to account, and are actively repelled by betas that give them a free pass (they’ll still take the freebie, though)….

This may be one of the clearest definitions of Game and sexual market dynamics I’ve read outside of my own very stable genius scribblings. What kind of men hold women to account? Jerkboys. What kind of men absolve women of personal responsibility? Niceguys. Women love the former, and hold the latter in contempt.

Women don’t want a toady, regardless of any claims to the contrary. Women want a challenge. A man who will call them out on their shit. And jerkboys are the men who will give them that thrill.