This post is also available in: Deutsch
Would you men like to know what happens to your texts, IMs, emails and voicemails that you regret having sent to girls you tried but failed to bang? I have a story to tell…
Scene: House party. Ten people sitting languidly in a living room, drinking and socializing. Seven girls, three men, including yours truly. The girls are all in their 20s, in the 6-8.5 looks range. These girls are not sluts or lawyer cunts. They are, by most objective measures, “good girls”; exactly the kind of normal, cute girls men would be happy to have as girlfriends, and to introduce to mom.
One of the girls, the second cutest of the bunch, is showing her phone to her BFF. Another girl asks what she’s doing.
She smiles broadly. “That guy I broke up with last week sent me a Facebook message. It’s SO sad! But kind of sweet, too.”
“Ooh, let’s see!”, the other girls practically squeal in unison.
Her BFF interrupts, “Did he send this after you broke up?”
“Yes! OK, so I broke up with this guy last week over email, because I’m too scared to do it in person.”
The other girls titter knowingly.
She continues, “Lemme read what I wrote to him first, so you get an idea.”
She begins reading from her phone and quoting her break-up email, which, paraphrased, went something like this:
“Hi there, [REDACTED], I just wanted to tell you that I had a great time with you, but I’m in a place in my life right now where I don’t want to get involved. I just got over a bad breakup, and I don’t have the energy to pursue another relationship. I’m going to spend some time alone for a while. Really you’re a great guy. But this isn’t happening for me right now. I’m sorry.”
The girls nod sympathetically. The two men and myself exchange knowing glances. We understand what’s about to come.
Heartbreaker girl taps her phone screen and holds it up for the crowd to see.
“Ok, I’m going to read his reply. He sent this like a day later.”
I interrupt her. “Wait, let me read it. I can pretend to be him.”
She cackles. “Haha! OK, here you go.”
I take the phone. A longish email reply is staring back at me, with a thumbnail of a man’s face appended to it. He’s fairly good-looking, and muscular, judging by his neck and traps.
I begin reading his reply in a trembly voice, imitating as best I can a lovelorn beta. Paraphrased:
“Ok, I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping we could date a few more times and see where it goes. I think you are really great, and a very special girl, and I felt we had something between us. I definitely felt we bonded on our dates together. Remember that time playing pool? That was pretty funny. But oh well, if you need some time to yourself, I understand. If you ever change your mind, you know where to email me. I’m willing to give it another try if you are. Ciao.”
I finish and melodramatically lay the phone down, heavily sighing. The girls erupt in a gail of laughter and cloying “Awws”. The two men noticeably cringe. One looks displeased that I have joined, shiv in hand dripping the blood of my victim, in the beta hunt.
Oh, what’s that? You expected me to stick up for the downtrodden beta masses? You wanted a hero to show these girls the malevolence of their ways? No, that would not be any fun. I happily participated in the cruel mockery at the expense of this poor niceguy. Laughs were shared and I would do it again. The id monster obeys no ideology.
Heartbreaker girl chimes in. “See, I told you he’s so sweet. I feel bad about this.” She tries hard to contain a chesire cat’s grin from creasing her face, but fails.
I address the group with a feigned seriousness, “Maybe we shouldn’t have done that to the poor guy.”
Heartbreaker girl responds, still smiling, “I know, I feel bad.” The men look uncomfortable, staring at the wall. One guy grips his girlfriend’s thigh tightly. A moment of moral clarity infuses the room, but it doesn’t last.
A girl in the corner pipes up, “But that was really funny! Oh well. It was kinda cute.” Laughter all around.
I continue, “How long were you seeing this guy? He seems smitten.”
Heartbreaker girls says proudly, “We went on three dates.”
I seize an opportunity to subversively impart game wisdom. “You know, my buddies and I have this golden rule we live by. Never send emails to a girl that are longer than the ones she writes to you.” I turn to Heartbreaker girl, “This guy wrote twice as much as you wrote to him.”
A girl practically shrieks, “Oh my god, you’re so right!”
Heartbreaker girl laughs in agreement, “That’s so true.”
There are ways to inculcate women with the truth of game. You just have to frame it as a remedy for a betaboy’s embarrassing failure.
The next time you feel the urge to send a lovingly crafted email or text or IM to a woman who you haven’t yet banged, remember this true story from the vaults of the Chateau. Visualize the hosts reading your email out loud to the guffaws of a roomful of cute girls who soften their laughter with pitying, and faintly contemptuous, hedges about what a “niceguy” and “sweet guy” you are, and…
STOP, CROP and CULL.
Stay your hand. Turn off the spigot of beta diarrhea. Calm your fiery but unfocused passion. Shut your mouth. Delete that fucking ode. Because it WILL, one way or another, one day sooner or later, be used against you in a kangaroo court of amoral soul flaying. If you want to win at this game, there is only one road to victory –
penis in vagina.
No amount of painstakingly composed and heartfelt emails, yearning voicemails, or chivalric IMs emanating with the faint whiff of beggary will ever match in manly will to power the physical act of fucking. That is your trump card, and nothing a woman holds can beat it.
The modern woman, and her women-are-blameless spokesfembots, ask “Where are all the good men?”
Ladies, you get the men you deserve.