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I was lounging in placid contentment on a sofa in a local lounge like a proper post-history, citizen-of-the-world nihilist enjoying the flume ride down the rump of American decline when I spotted a somewhat unkempt man with awkward mannerisms take a seat at a small table to my right. He was a little more homely than the average man, nearing 40, and bereft of any fashion sense. (For those who need the catharsis of another 800 comment thread on race, he happened to be black.) He moved in an ungainly way, as if hobbled by a long-ago hip injury. I watched bemused as he tinkered about his table, moving his chair in and out, fussing with napkins wedged between the ketchup bottle and salt shaker, and generally projecting an air of Rainman-like social unease.
A minute later, a woman approached him for what appeared to be a first or second date. Looks of recognition led me to believe they had met before. He clumsily stood from his chair, his motions so quick and jerky that the chair made a loud screeching noise as it was pushed back violently from the table. She was a black woman, in decent shape (read: not fat), and a point or two higher than him on the cross-gender physical attractiveness scale. He took a couple steps toward her and held his arms out for a hug, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. I surveyed her facial expressions. She was clearly not enthused about being there. She walked tentatively toward him, a crooked smile perched on her face, and prevented him from achieving his goal of a full-contact hug by arching her body away from his and giving him the long-distance “two pats on the back” pseudo-hug.
“So great to see you!” He blurted out the words like a burp and maneuvered for a tighter hug and kiss. She deftly evaded his sneak attack and left him stranded, kissing the air a few inches from her right cheek, his lips pursed outward in puffy, parched hunger for soul-nourishing reciprocation that would not come.
Impatient with his bumbling overreach, she snippily replied, “Ok, let’s sit down.” He vigorously nodded his head and mumbled “Ok, ok” and they both sat at the tiny romantic table next to the window that would not be able to works its magic that evening on this couple. I turned away, unable to bear the sight of their slo-motion heart wreck any longer.
Game could have saved this man.
Pulling up in a Ferrari would not have helped him. Receiving a standing ovation by the staff and patrons when he entered the eatery would not have closed the deal with his date. She would have raised an inquisitive eyebrow at his Ferrari or his mini-fame, her loins would have briefly stirred, but she would still be left sitting across a man with crippling beta mannerisms. Her smile would have rapidly decayed to disgust. Her disappointment would have been palpable.
But had he not jumped up from his chair when she arrived; had he not lunged desperately toward her for the hug and kiss his demeanor suggested he hadn’t gotten since his Mom saw him off on his first day of school; had he teased her humorously about the scarf she was wearing on a mild spring day; had he moved slowly and gracefully with the practiced insouciance of a wanton Casanova used to bedding women much hotter than her; had he been dressed with a little more care; had he stopped smiling like a vapid goofball for two seconds; had he qualified her about her worldliness and sense of adventure –
– he might have gotten the lay. Maybe not a 100% guarantee of getting the lay, but a damn bit better than the 0% chance he had BEING HIMSELF.
Recently, the Audacious Epigone challenged Game as egalitarian wishfulness. He, like so many others who have yet to delve deeply into the world of Game for themselves, claims that game will only help those who are already gifted by genetics with good looks or income-boosting and social adaptability-enhancing high intelligence. Now I am not one to shy away from the ugly truths, so there is merit in what he says; given equal facility with game, a good-looking man will do better than an average-looking man. A rich man will trump a poor man. A witty man will pull more than a dull man.
But rarely is skill with game distributed so equally. As I mentioned in the comments to Audacious’ post, excepting fame and vast wealth the most powerful lifestyle change the typical man can make to improve his lot with women is to learn game. The psychosocial dominance and alpha mimickry that game teaches is worth a garage full of Ferraris. Give a beta a Ferrari and he’ll look alpha while driving. Give a beta the self-confidence and swagger of someone who drives Ferraris and he’ll look alpha all the time.
Realistically, homely betas wielding the power of game won’t bang dime pieces (much). But they will begin to experience the pleasure of banging chicks 1 to 3 points higher on the looks scale than what they are used to scoring. And for most lifelong betas, that nontrivial step up the pussy ladder will feel like nirvana.
It is no exaggeration to say that game would have elevated the status, and hence the pussy-lubing power, of the clumsy, homely beta at Busboys far beyond his natural no-talents. And for a mere fraction of the cost in time and energy than he would have spent raising his status in more conventional, and socially-approved, ways.