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An Artful Age Neg

For those of you men routinely scouring the bowels and spit-shining the lacquered coifs of both ends of the dating market, the issue of age discrepancy, in either direction, is a fairly common one and, if not properly neutralized, a potential cockblock on the road to vaghalla. The good news is that gliding past any age issues is easy, and is the reason why a good game strategy often employs the tactic of initiating the subject of age before the girl brings it up and locks you into her frame, (and remember that a female-defined frame is, as is usually the case in nascent seductions, antagonistic).

Personally, I like to start off a budding romance by psychologically knocking a girl back on her heels, especially if I sense that some intractable circumstance beyond my control threatens to derail my meaty Maglev. For instance, if the target of my predation is an older woman (read: north of 25) whom I suspect, by her body language and attitude, to be excessively confident in the staying power of her fading beauty, I might quip, “I’ve never met a real life MILF before”. Is this a compliment or a curse? That’s the point. She won’t know, and the not knowing is the brain lube that psyches her up to the possibility of receiving my generous endowment.

If, on the other hand, my muse is a younger woman of shy disposition signaling an organic discomfort with any coupling that may not conform to societal standards, I might loosen her up with a jaunty “You’re just a kid. Are you still on Team Edward?”

Anyhow, no matter the springboard which bounces the age discussion above the fold, if all goes as expected she will reveal her age (never accurate), and then the opportunity I need to deliver a pitch-perfect age neg presents itself.

“32, eh? Wow, that wasn’t what I expected.”

zoom zoom!

Said with pleasing sincerity, not sarcasm. You can stash the smirk for this one; you want to convey the impression that your expectations were genuinely unmet. And it works no matter what her age.

Think about what this neg does to a woman’s underdeveloped capacity for self-reflection. She’s momentarily stunned by a terrific tingle bolt of ambiguous candor. Now her brain has to process what it means, and no accessible neural algorithm is forthcoming. “Was he expecting me to be older? He must think I look young for my age. Or is he surprised that I’m younger than I look?”, deliberates the older woman. “Was he expecting me to be older because I look or act older than my age? Is he uninterested in me now? Or did he think I was younger? Is 24 old for a girl nowadays?”, deliberates the younger woman.

Whether she presses you for clarification, or attempts a hasty face-saving segue, or tries to pull a snark rabbit of faux righteous indignation out of a grrlpower hat, you win. You sit in the judge’s chair, your alpha judginess parting vulvate parapets from the bar to Timbuktu. If you must offer an explanation, season your reply to taste. But always, when possible, remain ambiguous.

“Oh, nothing, I just figured you were older/younger than you are. Based on how you sit/stand/act/laugh/dress/order a drink/behave around men like me.”

Defensive crouch achievement: unlocked.


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