I was holding glans with a girl as we sidewalked past a precious vintage wig boutique. Instinctively, and perhaps subconsciously motivated by a suddenly retrieved pleasant memory of this girl, I steered my accomplice into the wig shop and bought a pair of cheapo matching wigs (styled after REDACTED), on the condition that we both would have to wear the wigs for the rest of the day (and night) without giving our game away to anyone who asked us about our wigly appearance.
The idea was that we’d play it straight, as if the wigs were our naturally matching hair textures and colors, sincerely questioning the confusion of those who’d wonder about the sight of us, and in the suppressed comedy of our little two-character play a rush of sexual frisson would lube our bonding time.
I know this nurtured playfulness sounds like an awful chore to a lot of men, but a couple facts you should keep with you: one, what would be a bore to do alone is a lot of fun with a partner in crime and two, when you see that doggy dinner bowl look that a girl gives you as you sweep her into your flight of fancy you’ll learn to love the power of your whimsy over women.
Chicks dig playful men, of all ages. Maybe it’s because there aren’t many playful men, so the few who do exist are noticed by women. I think instead it’s that women are the playful sex, and they feel a stronger connection to men who can not just match their playfulness but surprise them with their own. Evolutionarily, there is likely a sexual selection effect in women for whimsical men because whimsy reveals a creative mind, and male creativity is a secondary sex characteristic no less alluring to women than strong pecs and a square jaw.
Older men reading here should try hard to be more whimsical. You can be playful with masculine verve too; whimsy is not only the domain of effete artist types. Unfortunately for the mediocre masses of beta males, whimsy and energy are the two traits that rapidly and mercilessly decline with age, until a man’s personality and passion are a shrunken relic of his former pussy-parting glory. But for those men who can keep their energy level up and their whimsy performance-tuned, they will find that younger women will barely blink an eye at the thought of dating them.
A Student of the Game writes about his journey from LSMV male feminism to normal SMV masculine sexism,
I spent the better/worse part of a decade of my 20’s and 30’s entrenched in radical left politics before I got redpilled. In college I was a member of the campus National Organization for Women. That’s how bad it was. I was constantly around women. A small fraction of them were hot. I didn’t do it to get laid, or at least that’s what I thought consciously. I did it because I sincerely thought I was being a good person. I never got laid, at least not through those avenues. I touted my virtue-signalling bona fides, my ‘street cred’ on every date but didn’t have the calibration to realize virtue signalling turned pussy away like halitosis. It was only when I got into game that I began to realize everything was a lie. Women weren’t these holy angels who were superior to us evil men oppressing them. They were worse in a lot of ways. And treating them worse made them want to fuck me. For years I tried to hold on to both lefty ideals and game but the shit pouring out of women’s mouths was too far from the obvious truth about what attracted them and what made both of us happy in relationships.
The Chateau Maxim you should never leave home without:
DON’T LISTEN TO WHAT WOMEN SAY; WATCH WHAT THEY DO.
For reasons expounded on at length here, women have evolved a need to actively fool men about their true sexual natures, and woe to the man who takes women at their words. But the man who watches closely WHOM women fuck, HOW women autonomically react around different men, and WHY women choose some men over others, is the man blessed with women’s love. For he has broken the ho code, which is, “omg this guy really gets me!”. Commence splooging.
The reformed male feminist did not go gently into that White Knight….he’s seen things he would never have believed. Erect clits like spires off the tip of his tongue. He watched cunts gleam and flitter in the dark near the Bangmaster gate. All those moments will have opened his mind….like same night lays…..from behind.
Some of the most ruthless, cunning, and irresistible womanizers are those men who were former white knight-slash-male feminist dupes schooled in the self-abnegating art of parroting shrew boilerplate, before an epiphany — typically one summoned by accidental jerkboy success with a woman assumed to be an inviolable member of the oppressed — WOKE them in an instant to the true shape that desire takes in women.
There is no virtue signaling in the wench trenches. There is only jerkboy signaling.
When your girl tries to make you jealous, you have four options, in ascending order of personal benefit and relationship management effectiveness:
act butthurt
promptly try to make her jealous
tease her*
ignore her
Act butthurt, defensive, or otherwise emotionally pained, and you can count in hours the time to her dumping you.
Immediately attempting your own jealousy incitement ploy risks seeming ham-fisted and try-hard. She will see through a blatant table-turning maneuver. It’s better to spin your jealousy plotlines when they aren’t kneejerk prompted by her own jealousy provocations. However, a prompt response that may include flirting with another woman is better than an emotional outburst that will tell your girl she has “won” this battle and has you wrapped around her finger.
*I added this choice after commenter Jakius reminded me of it. Of course, teasing is a great response — “hey you may want to try licking your lips next time, your flirting is really bad, needs work” — and it was an oversight on my part to leave it off (in fact, teasing and ignoring are my go-to options whenever a girl tries to make me jealous).
Ignoring her is imo the best response. (I find teasing can be misconstrued by your girl as evidence that she unsettled you, especially if you have trouble teasing with the required amused mastery while in the fog of actual jealousy.) She will seethe with impotence. Acting like you don’t even notice her attempts to stoke your jealousy is a nuclear nonverbal neg. It’ll cause her ploy to completely rebound against her, and she’ll start pressing you for your attention.
You could NEXT her, but that’s a trigger happy response associated with hotheads. Every girl has her moments when she wants to incite an angry possessive passion from her lover. The NEXT option should be saved for chronic manipulators.
Ignoring her is a short term solution for those infrequent moments when your girl lapses into insecurity or entitlement. But a chronic offender needs a stronger corrective. Chronic abusers of the jealousy tactic will need eventual punishment (either leaving her or lowering the boom on her). The boom-lowering option can be accomplished by, in stern but controlled language and in clear terms, telling her to cut the shit or you’ll take your leave. The other boom-lowering corrective is basically Dread Game: a slow burn type of searing instructional that adjusts her behavior incrementally, slowly, but profoundly for the better.
For instance, say your girl tries to make you jealous. The Dread Game option would involve you openly flirting with another girl in view of your gf. If she doesn’t cut it off with the dude she’s flirting with and come shimmying back wondering what you’re up to, get ready to end it with her. (9 out of 10 times, she’ll crack first under the pressure of dueling jealousy plotlines as long as your frame is solid, thick, tight.)
It’s good to instill in your woman the knowledge that you have options and won’t hesitate to use them if she disappoints you, and this can be accomplished many ways but most permanently and effectively through your attitude which should subcommunicate at all times that you aren’t a domesticated eunuch.
***
Captain Obvious, with the Comment of the Week:
Either pwn thyself, or prepare to be pwned by someone else.
Nice. This spiffy aphorism is the central thesis of relationship management, and really, of all human interaction.
There’s a lot going on here that adds up to a snapshot of pure alphatude in full display. The easy stride, the ownership arm draped loosely but heavily over her shoulders —
Just hold on loosely But don’t let go If you cling too tightly You’re gonna lose control
— the deliberate avoidance of nuzzling or any soy-laced PDA, the contrapposto pose in motion (check the angle of his right foot), and the “I’m surveying my kingdom” wandering gaze.
Even if you’re an ugly man, you can project an aura of alphaness, and therefore look more attractive to women, if you walk with the insouciant confidence of this fellow here. Every little improvement helps.
There used to be a “sex positive” feminist who would comment here and offer up such breathtakingly backward Feminist Cunt Wave boilerplate on men and women that I started to appreciate her cuntributions for their usefulness as reminders of the self-medicating delusions that modren society inculcates in the sexual market losers of our age. Whatever she wrote, I would tell readers, take the opposite to be the truth.
She never posted a pic of herself from what I recall, but her comments were written in the unmistakable “aging, fading slut” style, filled with the caustic, slut pride snark which our current crop of pussyhatters think is funny, that belied a life nursing spiteful man-hate. Imagine a Nordic feminist-Jewish feminist recombination, with a touch of commercialist Anglo feminist, seasoned to a sarcastic spiciness by the rapid approach of the Wall, and twisted into a false braggadocio of her receding sexual ensnareline and her ability to manipulate men to do her bidding, and you have a good idea of this woman’s character. I could practically see her stringy blond hair with streaks of gray, and her manjaw strengthened from years of cock gobbling and chewing out pretty subordinates.
In sum, she was a “Swipe Left Broad”, from both sides of the swiping ledger. If Tinder was around then, (not sure if it was), she’d’ve bragged about swiping left on tons of thirsty guys while she herself was the recipient of numerous left swipes.
AnyHO, one time the topic was broached about what to say to a date (or potential mate) inquiring about your sexual history. I had written that men shouldn’t run away from a storied sexual past, because girls are attracted to men who are successful with girls (preselection is a powerful predictive evopsych theory). I also wrote that men should avoid openly bragging about their notches — it would strike any normal girl as try-hard desperation — but instead to couch their personal history of successful womanizing in ambiguous or teasing language. For example,
GIRL: You seem like a player. How many women have you been with?
After my advice, embroiled as it was in a deep understanding and easy acceptance of innate male-female psychosexual differences, landed in the combox, Swipe Left Broad chimed in, acrid spittle nearly flying off the screen, to inform the assembled that her go-to line when a man inquires about her sexual history was:
“I lost count.”
Of course, I was compelled to spear her with the Shiv of Sexual Realism for her steaming feminist dropping, lest innocent girlies ambling into the free fire zone think her hag-words would be helpful to them. Swipe Left Broad didn’t take kindly to my informing her that a skeleton key which opens a lot of locks is more valuable than a slutty lock that can be opened by many rusty keys. ARGLE BARGLE, she replied, paraphrasing. Collecting herself, “Men love an experienced woman!”
No, men don’t “love” an experienced woman. Men may want to fuck an experienced woman, figuring (rightly) that she’d be an easy lay who will put out with a quickness, but men don’t cherish sluts like they do chaste girls with eyes and gines for their cocks only.
The thought occurred to me in the recounting of this tête-á-termagant that the three words “I lost count” crystallize with pithy efficiency the essential, core difference between the sexes. What works spectacularly to increase a man’s perceived SMV — a smirky allusion to his sexual experience — works equally spectacularly to decrease a woman’s perceived SMV. And in the crucible of this rhetorical clarification we see the power of the female ego when confronted with undeniable sexual market truths about her romantic worth to feed at the trough of self-delusion. Giant, gulping swallows of delusion. Deep-throated delusions. Every delusional drop swallowed, and a pearl of delusion whisked from her chin as an apéritif.
The crucial detail — the one that often trips up those accustomed to years of quaffing ego-assuaging platitudes — is the one embodied in the deepest, truest desires of men and women. These desires aren’t the same, and at the critical mate assessment junctures can be said to be contradictory and competing:
Men desire sex, women desire commitment.
Commitment is a euphemism for resources and protection, and love is the feeling women lean on as assurance they have secured a man’s commitment.
Women desire sex and men desire commitment, too, but these are secondary to the primary impulses which guide each sex, and guide them at especially important times, when life-changing choices are carefully deliberated or acted upon impulsively.
Women want an experienced man, and they project this want of theirs onto men who, for their part, want women willing to go all the way right away regardless of experience or, if the woman under carnal consideration is of exceptional beauty and modesty, want her to have a relatively unsullied sexual history and to at least have the sense to avoid bragging about the numbers of past lovers to whom she lays claim. To a man, a woman’s discretion is the better part of her allure.
It’s a self-defeating assumption women make, which they find out the morning after as their latest “conquest” is scurrying out the door, never to call them again.
This is why a slut bragging about her cock count is repulsive to any man with options, and why a pussyhound alluding to his gash and churn past is intriguing to any woman with a working tingle spigot.
Commenter Johnny Redux nails the answer to this post’s title with an ugly truth few men, let alone women, would be willing to confront head on, obliquely, or deniably:
A sexless marriage, in many (if not most) cases, is the result of a man marrying a woman his own age, and after time losing all sexual interest in her as she quickly morphs into an old woman before his eyes, much quicker than he is aging.
Men are maximally attracted to young women.
Men age more slowly than do women. (At least going by outward appearance.)
Men’s sexual worth climbs through their 30s and 40s while women’s sexual worth declines through their 30s and 40s.
Put the three preconditions together, and marriage between “age appropriate” men and women is a recipe for sexlessness, followed by lovelessness, and then finally divorce.
Which is why I advise men, if you’re gonna do something stupid like get married, make sure the deal is as sweet as it can be for you by choosing a younger woman to be your monogamously avowed last fuck. You’ll come to appreciate her extended shelf life when your married buddies are staring down the barrel of a dumpy hausfrau and dreaming of escape. You don’t want to wife up a woman on the wrong side of supple.
PS This post explains the true cause of “mid-life crisis”. The crisis is the rapidly diverging SMV values of the husband and wife. And the cure is trading up, fapping off, or dropping out.
After you read this incredibly Millennial news story, you’ll understand why I titled this post “The Voluntarily Sexless Marriage” instead of “The Voluntarily Celibate Marriage”. Our platonically married couple isn’t celibate at all; they’re just celibate for each other.
The sexless marriage is a timeless rue with an explainable kernel of pedestrian truth to it, but at least it can be said for men trapped in age-independent sexless marriages that their woeful predicament wasn’t contractually inked before the vows were exchanged. Not so for Tiffany Trump’s newlywed friends:
When New York socialites Quentin Esme Brown and Peter Cary Peterson got hitched in Las Vegas over the weekend in front of a small group of friends — including Tiffany Trump, who acted as the flower girl — they knew that people would make some assumptions. Either they were madly in love or drunk, right? In reality, the best friends said they were neither. They’re planning to make theirs a sexless, open marriage, they explained, and this actually sounds like a pretty wise idea to relationship experts.
100% of chaimstream media approved “relationship experts” are charlatans.
“Sexless marriage”. An irretrievably broken, anhedonic society at war with the reality of innate sex differences takes the one redeeming feature of marriage and tosses it away.
A sexless marriage is pointless, but a sexless, OPEN marriage is just plain malicious, because those super progressive, feminist friendly polyamorous arrangements never benefit both parties equally; it’s usually the slutty woman getting her rocks off down the hall as her moans of ecstasy drive her incel “partner” crazy with murder-suicide ideation.
“He has always been my soulmate in every sense of the word
Women and men have competing definitions of “soulmate”. Men tend to emphasize the “mate” part of the term.
and we felt mutually that Vegas was the place to finalize our commitment to partnership,” Brown explained on Instagram. “Peter and I are not romantically involved — in fact we are still dating others and will continue to seek love in all forms — we are just each other’s hearts and wish to begin our journey towards evolution, because the more we face reality, the more we can see that there is no right or wrong.”
Poopytalk. They’re doing the opposite of facing reality; they’re hiding from it under cover of Clown World’s Cloak of Inchoateness. If Tiffany Trump’s friends are indicative of Tiffany’s own views, it’s no wonder Papa Trump practically disowned her.
Susan Pease Gadoua, a licensed therapist
Licensed to bilk.
and co-author of The New “I Do,” has yet to meet anyone else with this kind of marriage, but she says it fits in with the way she sees many people deciding to change the rules to suit their relationship needs.
Dope. People aren’t changing the rules to suit their piques; they’re lowering their expectations and adapting to the encroaching jungle.
“We don’t need to get married for any of the reasons we used to,”
Including but not limited to reasons such as reproduction and generational continuity.
Gadoua tells Yahoo Lifestyle. “Once you’ve got everything else in place, it is like the cherry on top.”
But Brown and Peterson don’t seem to have married for children. So why get married at all?
The question with no answer that won’t sound like a try-hard rationalization.
“We did this because we wanted to finalize our commitment to each other as life partners and best friends,” Peterson wrote on Instagram.
What happened to mutually presumed and unspoken loyalty between friends? If you have to rely on the imprimatur of State authorization to declare your shared friendship, you don’t have anything remotely resembling a friendship. Instead, you have a pose. Two attention whores jockeying for social status within their group of unloveable weirdos.
Brown also put a statement on Instagram, saying, “I am confident my husband and I will break some walls down,” she wrote.
If your official terms of endearment preclude fucking, he’s not your husband.
Husband:
before 1000; Middle English husband(e), Old English hūsbonda master of the house
You haven’t consecrated a house for him to master. You’re two neutered farm animals who happen to be dozing in the same bed of hay and dried manure.
“A lot of these sorts of marriages are in response to society getting increasingly isolated, and people want to create a kinship model. You either have to be married or you have to be blood relatives; otherwise, you can walk away from each other.”
Like I wrote, adaptation to the r-selected jungle.
This kind of union may in fact last longer than a marriage based solely on intense romantic attraction, Gadoua surmises.
Well, sure. Because it isn’t a marriage. It’s a zero-investment masquerade. It’s easy to let a “sexless, open marriage” linger for eternity because the cost of upkeep and dissolution is negligible. No romantic reward, no romantic risk.
The other advantage is that the friends can seek out those romances outside of this relationship. In this way, their setup resembles the kind of polyamorous arrangement that some couples have found to be a better alternative to divorce.
“Where the complications are going to come in is when people outside their relationship look at it like, ‘I don’t want to get involved in that,’” Gadoua says. “It’s going to make it a little bit more complicated for them to find partners who understand.”
GIRL: hey I’m free for that drink Thursday, but I should tell you I’m married to a great guy, but we never have sex. It’s in our vows.
THE DEVIL’S HARD BARGAIN: fantastic! you sound totally normal. I’m scratching you in now as my third stringer.
Rodman also cautions that this won’t work if one partner isn’t being entirely honest about what he or she wants in this relationship.
“If one person was secretly hoping that this would turn into something romantic or sexual, then that would be quite the disappointment,” she says.
The Voluntarily Sexless Marriage is the next evolution in beta male bait. Watch for hordes of thirsty betas to jump in with both feet hoping a piece of worthless paper has the power to unplug the tingle spigot.
But if we’re to take Brown and Peterson at their word, they’re pretty happy with their decision so far.
“We have one life,” Brown wrote. “Free yourself!”
Combined IQ: 1
Time for a Phys Quiz. The glowing, and strangely tense, lovebirds:
Hm mm mm. So progressive! Tiffany Trump’s friend married her gay bestie. Cameras and Yahoo blog typists are standing by….
PS I was planning to award Peter Peterson both the coveted Beta of the Month and White Male Pussy of the Month titles, but as you can see from the picture above, those titles aren’t applicable.
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.
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.)
There was a little tree it grew alone it grew proud "I need no one! I will plant my deep roots here cover myself in the thickest bark and reach to the sky for there is greatness in me!"
And so he grew. And then other trees planted their roots near it And those trees shared messages between their roots chemical messages which helped them grow bigger, faster, and taller. Until the day came that their canopies rose above the canopy of our prideful tree and overshadowed it depriving it of sunlight
until it began to lose its leaves suffocating in the shadow of the giants above it it refused help from trees of his kin it refused to set seed "I will grow!" it insisted "I will rise to my greatness!" and then it fell silent when its last leaf proud to the end fluttered to the forest floor
Coconut oil by itself might get you to spf 7, which doesn't meet the FDA minimum threshold of spf 15 for adequate UV protection. Calcium carbonate as a texture additive might boost the spf a few points.
If you are prone to skin cancer, you should probably stick with the FDA approved sunscreens, 30 spf or higher.
Also, coconut oil is incredibly greasy. You like that feeling on a hot humid day? There are non-greasy sunscreen options that feel like talcum powder.
And yes, I know it's generally a good idea to get some unfiltered sun on one's skin.
I would enjoy a public debate on the 2020 election fraud, but it should include the Kennedy election steal of Illinois in 1960, and the LBJ Senate election steal of Texas in 1948.
Air out all the dirty laundry and make it so that shitlibs can't keep going to the well of "election denialism".
