We know girls love men whose flirting is laced with ambiguous intention. Ambiguity, especially when coupled with alluring male ambivalence, gives the female rationalization hamster room to run, generating a store of energized drama that all women need to imbue their romances with more expectation and more thrill than their mere earthly existence can afford.
What is the vanishing point of infinite ambiguity? A stone-faced expression? Radio silence? No, those are messages that, by their absence, hint of negative thoughts. True ambiguity must leave the recipient in a state of confusion, helplessly flailing as she sifts for hidden meaning in the paltry sum of white noise. One manifestation of event horizon ambiguity that can plausibly invoke that feeling of pure female joy when confronted by opaque romantic intention is something reader walawala writes about:
Very timely post and I would like to share 2 things. First a new game text I adapted and have used with interesting results. Let’s call this “The power of ‘…’”
this: … three periods. It’s now my go-to response for girls who I want to alert that their behavior is not on, that I’m expecting a response, or that I want to trial text them but have nothing to say. This … gets the hamster going.
Background, girl I’m gaming, and have maintained a clear sexual vibe with has her hamster in over-drive. We went out a few weeks ago, good time major make out, then a flake. But I didn’t get upset, just kept a positive vibe.
Here’s our text exchange from last night and “the power of …”
her: I wanna be up front. I am looking for someone ready to settle down..i u just want some fun.. we shud just be friends.
Me: …
Her: I am being ridiculous. Yesterday I met my friends for dinner..bf of one of them joined us. they just started…I think I am jealous. I also wanna bring someone special to join the dinner but no one to bring.
A few learnings:
one, note how I maintain my frame and while I don’t really know what to say I use “…” and get this huge hamster barf. I may set up drinks later. she’s up for something.
Secondly, if you’ve been following my other story, my ex gf who’s fairly hot has been chasing me since she broke up with me rather cruelly 2 weeks ago. I also maintained my frame. No beta butt-hurt crap, no lashing out, just “ok”…and ignore her.
She deleted my on FB yesterday. I considered ignoring it. Then I considered confronting her. Both are bad moves. But at the same time dead silence is kind of lame. She has tried to reach out in her angry girl butt-hurt way.
So I shot off a text late last night: …
This was my way of sending an ambiguous message to get hamster spinning knowing full well the deletion was aimed at pissing me off.
Ok, two things to consider there for you guys: girl who wants a guy to piss off her friends and ex gf crying out for attention and getting “…”
In both cases “…” is the common game tool that is more ambiguous than “gay”.
“gay” is a vitamin-enriched hamster pellet. It does the job by giving her hamster some get up and go. But there is room for it to be misconstrued by women in a way that is unfavorable to your goals.
“8===>” is a steroid injection for her hamster. It more than does the job; her hamster will hip-check Kia’s as it races toward the Golden Spinning Wheel.
But “…”, now that’s something else. A proprietary blend of genetically modified superfoods, ECA stack, endurance boosting EPO, bovine growth hormone, concentrated Red Bull (illegal in all countries except China), yak penis, distilled beet sugar, bioavailable uranium with a half life of 36,000 years, and 100% pure Colombian snow that will make her hamster spin so fast the earth’s orbit will slow and time will go backwards. A hamster eight balling on one of these “…”s is on record as spinning up the mental equivalent of a ferris wheel and racing through tubes ten miles long before sputtering out in exhaustion.
Better to disorient a woman with an intriguing ellipsis, than to blab like a beta and ruin her fun.
We learn what to emulate from the successes of alpha male womanizers as much as we learn what to avoid from the failures of beta male saps. Toady’s inspirational AOTM is Porfirio Rubirosa, a legendary slayer of snatch born in the Dominican Republic to an upper middle class (and from the looks of him, white European) family.
He bedded thousands of women, including such legendary beauties as Ava Gardner, Jayne Mansfield, Eva Peron and Zsa Zsa Gabor.
Not only that, he married the two richest women in the world, first Doris Duke, then Barbara Hutton, and bedded another millionairess, Tina Onassis, as well as queens and countesses.
In the Forties and Fifties no high-society party or jet-set gathering was complete without him. But as the many women who wanted to possess him discovered to their cost, it was this Latin lover who always possessed them.
Preselected by women? Check.
Well-crafted identity? Check.
Chasee, rather than chaser? Check.
Used money to seduce women? Unchecked.
Porfirio Rubirosa — Rubi to his friends — was good-looking, although at 5ft 8in far from tall…
Male charm >>> male height. Judge for yourself if you think he’s good-looking:
Personally, I don’t see it. But then I’m no ‘mo, so most men look ugly to me. I suppose if you’re the bruised ego type who wants to believe only good-looking men get the ladies, you won’t be convinced that Rubirosa’s rise to poonhound fame was largely by virtue of his con and his charm. But keep in mind that the high society women he ran with had their pick of the world’s best-looking men, many of them far better looking than Porfirio, and yet they chose to surrender their bodies (and their fortunes) to this gnomic Latino. Obviously, he had something else going on for him than a devilish smile.
He never did a proper day’s work in his life — yet his success with women enabled him to mix with royalty and film stars, and own private jets, racing cars and polo ponies. He was charming, attentive and thoughtful, but prone to violent jealousy, graceless and utterly amoral.
So what exactly was it that made Rubi the most desirable man on the planet, the man over whom the world’s richest heiresses competed?
The honored guests of Chateau Heartiste know. Let’s see if the Daily Mail knows.
Famously, his attraction lay not only in his mesmerising charm but his bedroom prowess — and his remarkable physical endowment. Along the Riviera and in the nightclubs of Paris and Manhattan, Rubi was known as ‘Toujours Pret’ — always ready — and the large peppermills in Parisian restaurants came to be known as ‘Rubirosas’ in homage his impressive appendage.
Yet, as a new biography makes clear, his rise to fame and riches was due as much to his ruthlessness as his virility. What distinguished him from other handsome young seducers was his astuteness, his ability to spot a vulnerable rich woman, to know the moment to strike and to make her feel desired and wanted.
Classic sneaky fucker (aka renegade alpha) game. He was not the accomplished, admired husband of a lonely trophy wife; he was the secret lover who traveled in shadow and brought promises of passion. His reputation as a great womanizer didn’t hurt him, either. Women can’t resist tempting the ardor of a known Lothario. It’s as if women love the feeling of getting burned, like a retarded child putting his hand near the flame again and again. Hurts so good.
Rubi had been unfaithful from the start of their marriage, but in Paris his womanising became relentless. If Flor [his first wife] remonstrated when he came home covered in lipstick, he would lash out with his fists.
Eventually she fled back home and they divorced. She later denigrated his sexual technique, complaining that he went on so long she grew bored. Nonetheless, for years after their divorce she continued to sleep with him whenever they met up.
Chris Brown high-fived Porfirio.
Now jobless and penniless — Trujillo had sacked him from his job as ‘Inspector of Embassies’ — Rubi was in desperate need of money. When a jeweller he knew asked him to retrieve some jewels from Madrid, then in the midst of civil war, Rudi agreed.
But he returned with — he said — only some of the jewels, claiming that the rest, worth some $180,000, had been lost when his car was shot at in an ambush; an unlikely explanation, as the car bore no bullet holes. He had, of course, stolen them.
The temperament that compels cads to thieve jewels is the same temperament that so enraptures women. This is why chicks dig jerks *because* they’re jerks, not *despite* their jerkiness.
Rubi further enriched himself by selling Dominican visas at inflated prices to Jews wishing to flee Nazi persecution as war loomed in Europe.
Chicks also dig a man who enriches himself, no matter how unethically. (I doubt Rubi was the kind of reflective man to make pained efforts to justify his actions as a karmic con of a con.)
With his newfound wealth, he had a nose job (he had always hated his broad nose). The best barber in Paris cut his hair, and the best tailor made his suits. His bespoke underpants were shipped over from London’s Jermyn Street and his shoes were handmade.
Bespoke underpants. The master seducer leaves no detail unattended.
He was even restored to his diplomatic post after Trujillo came to Paris and Rubi introduced him to the seamier side of Parisian nightlife, acting as Trujillo’s pimp, to the dictator’s delight.
Beta males are hounded for minor trangressions. Alpha males are quickly forgiven the worst sins.
‘Be careful, this man is dangerous,’ warned the hostess, but within weeks Danielle had left her husband for him.
The most melodious words a man can hear from a beautiful women are not “I love you”. They are “Be careful this man is dangerous.”
Doris [Duke] was the richest woman in the world, heiress to the American Tobacco fortune and worth a staggering $100 million. She had become a journalist following the collapse of her first marriage — her husband had been unable to accommodate her sexually. Rubi had no such difficulties. ‘His purpose was to satisfy women,’ Doris later recalled, and he achieved it with distinction.
Haters who whine that game is tantamount to doing a woman’s bidding should acquaint themselves with Porfirio, the man whose “purpose was to satisfy women.” Whose life would you rather have? A celibate’s who has gone his own way? Or a playboy’s who relishes the pleasure of women’s company?
Rubi’s flagrant infidelity upset Doris, while he chafed at her imperious ways: once, in Cannes, she sent him down to a hotel lobby to fetch some cigarettes. Her ran into an old girlfriend and did not return for three days.
Doris sought to secure his love with extravagant gifts: a townhouse in Paris, a stable full of polo ponies, several sports cars and even a converted B25 bomber.
Beta males buy women’s love and intimacy and call it a victory. Alpha males run into old girlfriends, disappear for days on high sexual adventure, and return to have magnificent gifts lavished them by the women they jilted.
What specific game tactics did Rubi use?
His seduction technique could be crude: seated next to a beautiful woman at dinner, he would take her hand and place it on his lap to show her just how exciting he found her.
Massive kino escalation.
At other times he was more romantic. When he met the film star Zsa Zsa Gabor in a New York hotel, she was married to her third husband George Sanders, a handsome but violently jealous actor. Undeterred, Rubi had her suite filled with red roses. Zsa Zsa invited him into bed and was hooked.
Unpredictability is king. So is knowing your mark’s weaknesses.
Rubi frequently hit her, once blacking her eye just before she was due on stage, but still she found him irresistible, describing him as a ‘sickness’.
Women are aware, on some primal level, that their attraction for the baddest badboys is a sickness to which they can’t help but succumb. Women, in their uncontrollable servitude, loathe the machinations of their own tingles.
Rubi saw a solution to his money problems and set about wooing her, serenading her with a band outside her bedroom window. The fact he had previously been married to her friend and rival Doris Duke made Barbara determined to have him, too. Months later, in December 1953, he had become her fifth husband and she his fourth wife.
Women are natural rivals, at each others’ throats not with daggers, but with innuendo and whisperings. Master seducers exploit this reality about the fairer sex.
Like Doris Duke, Barbara showered him with gifts including an estate in the Dominican Republic and another B25 plane, but he continued to humiliate her with his infidelity and cruelty.
Chicks dig a man who is a challenge. Women don’t want to gaily traipse over your dreary flatlands; they want to strain climbing your rugged mountain peak.
One night, at a dinner party, she punched him and walked out. Rubi merely shrugged, then flew off to join Zsa Zsa Gabor.
Aloof indifference. It’s an acid bath to a woman’s defenses.
The marriage was over: it had lasted a mere three months, but once again left Rubi considerably richer.
What man wouldn’t love to have this guy’s life? Garish pussy buffet, bestowed riches after every bedroom conquest.
until in Paris in 1956, aged 47, he met a pretty 19-year-old actress named Odile Rodin.
‘I’ve heard much about you, Monsieur,’ she told him. ‘None of it good.’ But like all the others, her resistance soon crumbled and before long they were lovers, then were married.
“I’ve heard much about you… none of it good.” The second best thing a man can hear from a beautiful woman.
But if he had finally found a girl who could tame him, it was too late. In 1965, after drinking all night at the nightclub Jimmy’s in celebration of a polo win, Rubi drove home at 7am and crashed his Ferrari into a tree. The steering column crushed his chest and he died on the way to hospital.
He was 56. He had lived and died fast. After nearly four decades of partying, he had little to show for his life. He had never had children — despite his virility, he was sterile — and had spent all the money he acquired.
So sad. And yet, the memories Porfirio carries with him to his afterlife are the same memories that a typical, play-by-the-rules, dutiful beta male who married one woman and bore three kids brings to his afterlife: None. When the cosmic tally is taken of each man’s life, the only difference will be in how they lived while they were alive. And on that account, Porfirio lived a hell of a lot more than the niceguy office drone who rejoiced when his chubby wife relented and gave him a birthday BJ.
Are you an incorrigible flirt? Because if you’re not, you should be. ♥Science♥ has discovered that flirting trumps looks as a courtship strategy for getting laid and getting loved.
Does flirting actually work?
Very much so. In fact, research says it’s more effective than looking good.
Signaling availability and interest trumps attractiveness.
Dr. Monica Moore, a psychologist at Webster University in St. Louis, has conducted research on the flirting techniques used in singles bars, shopping malls, and places young people go to meet each other.
She concluded that it’s not the most physically appealing people who get approached, but the ones who signal their availability and confidence through basic flirting techniques like eye contact and smiles.
“Flirting” is really the old school term for “game”. If you had to describe the panoply of game techniques and strategies in one everyday word, “flirting” would fit. Charismatic flirting, that is. There’s good and bad flirting, and the thrust of game is to teach men how to flirt well.
What type of flirting works best?
Two types of flirting are universal: smiling and eye contact are indicators pretty much everywhere and work for both sexes.
A classic beta male tell is an inability to hold eye contact to the point of tantalizing discomfort.
But what works better than anything else?
Touching.
And research has isolated which types of touching are regarded as “merely friendly”, in the zone of “plausible deniability”, or “going nuclear.”
Plausible Deniability: Touch around the shoulder or waist, touch on the forearm.
Nuclear: Face touch.
The behavior that participants rated as reflecting the most flirtation and the most romantic attraction was the soft face touch, followed by the touch around the shoulder or waist, and then the soft touch on the forearm.
The least flirtatious and romantic touches were the shoulder push, shoulder tap, and handshake. Thus, touching that is gentle and informal, and that occurs face-to-face or involves “hugging” behavior, appears to convey the most relational intent.
You gotta love science that points up a glaring disconnect between what turns on women in the real world (presumptuous touching) and what rabid feminist cunts shriek is evidence of an oppressive OMG RAPE!! culture as envisioned in the fever swamps of their twisted fantasies.
The effectiveness of flirting is somewhat context-dependent.
Behavior is perceived differently in different locations. The more formal the setting, the more obvious you need to be to get the signal across.
For each scenario, participants indicated whether they believed the stranger was flirting with them or not. The results revealed significantly higher percentages of “yes” (i.e., flirting) responses when the stranger was in the restaurant bar as opposed to the school hallway (61% vs. 49%)…
Daygame players take heed. You’ll have to amp your flirting level when hitting on girls during the daytime, outdoors. Otherwise, she might not take the hint.
Here’s some more juicy research which shows that, for men, their social dominance is more important than their looks when attracting a mate.
Research has shown that flirting which emphasizes physical attractiveness has little effect when males do it.
The flirting that is most effective for men involves displays of social dominance.
The results indicated that the men who successfully initiated romantic contact with women exhibited a greater number of particular kinds of nonverbal flirting behavior than men who did not establish romantic contact. Specifically, successful men directed more brief glances at their intended, engaged in a greater number of “space maximization” movements (positioning the body so that it takes up more space; e.g., extending one arm across an adjacent chair, stretching so that both arms extend straight up in the air), changed their location in the bar more frequently, and displayed greater amounts of non-reciprocated touching to surrounding men (e.g., playfully shoving, touching, or elbowing the ribs of other men).
In discussing their findings, the researchers concluded that men who provide signals of their positive intentions (e.g., through glancing behaviors) and their status (e.g., through space maximization and non-reciprocated touch of male peers) receive preferential attention from women.
Readers often ask, “How do you square the advice to communicate intention with the seemingly contradictory advice to appear disinterested?” Well, this is how. You demonstrate “active disinterest”. Bold players show intention, but they also signal their status through displays of dominance that are often proxies for communicating an attitude of outcome independence.
And how do you know if you’re spitting tight game?
How do you know if it’s working? When you start talking to her, ask yourself: “Is she speaking smoothly and quickly?”
Because MIT research says that’s a very good sign.
Fast talking is low status. A girl who is in the lower status position is a girl who is in thrall to your higher status male allure.
Beta males often complain that women never notice their interest. One reason might be because beta males really aren’t good at subcommunicating their sexual intention.
Researchers have documented a bias where people think they’re being clear about their intentions but, in reality, nobody but them thinks they’re flirting.
A more recent series of investigations by Vorauer and her colleagues (Vorauer, Cameron, Holmes, & Pearce, 2003) demonstrated that the fear of being rejected by a potential partner can produce yet another pernicious attributional bias.
The “signal amplification bias” occurs when people believe that their social overtures communicate more romantic interest to potential partners than is actually the case and thus fail to realize that they have not adequately conveyed their feelings of attraction.
You may need to amp it up, even if that makes you a bit uncomfortable.
Fear is the mindkiller. Fear of rejection is the lovekiller. Alpha males have less fear of rejection because they operate from a mentality of abundance, (“No worries, if I don’t get her, there are plenty more waiting for the pleasure of my company”). This abundance mentality is honed from years of experience dealing with women. Beta males, in sorry contrast, have less experience with women, and so each potential rejection in the field matters a lot more to them. They approach women with a scarcity mentality, and this results in an excessive concern for appearing “too forward”, lest the beta male provoke the wrath of his idolized object of deference. The alpha male doesn’t give a crap about provoking wrath; in fact, he welcomes it, as the cascading drama gives him an opportunity to display his sexy bona fides.
♥Science♥ has now proven the efficacy of Poon Commandment XIII: Err on the side of too much boldness, rather than too little. Beta males new to the game must first unlearn decades of bad habits by striving to be acutely aware of how poorly their tepid flirtations are received by women. To succeed, the beta male must commit himself to reaching beyond the comfy boundaries of his beta bubble. He has to be ready to provoke romantic rejection, and in the so doing will achieve, paradoxically, more love in his life.
Amused by this thread and its arriviste assumption that ladies with a few more rings in the trunk and some rather shocking sun-damage from their salad days in St. Barts are somehow more “sophisticated” than a sweet pink baby in her last year of high school: the notion is even more comical than it is wrong.
There is no “intellectual” badinage much less intelligent conversation with a woman who is still worth fucking; of all the cliches of romance none better suits the vanity of women and the hard to dispel starry-eyed stupidity of men than the laughable idea that there exist magical hags smarter, more spirited and altogether better at desiccated 40 than they were at moist 20. This is an amazing delusion and a quintessential trope – and tell – of the diehard beta.
The question to ask the woman duly and dully decked in her “Chanel” and knockoff Louboutins is do you have a pretty and naughty daughter? There are indeed rich and bored women who will be anything but displeased to entertain such a question after a few oily martinis and then, and only then, does the hard mug of the accomplished bitch take on the warm glow of lechery. Do not press the issue. Let it scent the air.
This comes close to a perfectly crafted comment, in both substance and delivery. Men who, by dint of limited options, choose to extol the “sophistication” and “worldliness” of the wealthy middle-aged cougar are revealing a classic handicapped SMV tell: that of the man who can’t do any better. It’s the inverse of sour grapes; instead of falsely claiming the sourness of a ripe grape out of reach high on the vine, one insists on the sweetness of a rotting fruit within reach on the ground.
The supposed sophistication of the well-to-do cougar is nothing next to the firm rump, smooth skin and pert tits of the minimum wage 20-year-old barista. Nothing. All the cougarly sophistication cubed will never approach the exponential allure of one evanescent smile from a pretty young babe. And this chaps the hides of the men who are trapped in the cougar pen as much as it does of the defeminized fading trophy harridans who sprinkle their aging flesh with shiny brand name baubles and fuel their egos on the fumes of vaporous entitlement.
The great joke of this charade is that older women aren’t even the paragons of sophistication they and their beta handlers like to claim. Wit is the province of the smart, and smarts are in full evidence by the early 20s. Fluid intelligence declines after the youthful 20s, further degrading the smart woman’s chattering legerdemain. Intellectualism, too, is not age-dependent once past the early neural formative years. The young intellectual woman has at least the advantage of being fun and sprightly along with her occasional bursts of deep thought. The smart cougar is well-versed… and tired.
Even a more generous interpretation of sophistication as a term meaning wisdom is not the boon for the cougar’s self-conception she, or her lovers, think. A wisdom borne of experience riding the cock carousel is a knowingness most men find unpalatable in a romantic partner. Yes, the cougar “knows what she wants in a man”, but what benefit is that to any man in serious contention for her crumbling facade? Perhaps the man she chooses can feel good that, after she has had a spell sampling the boner buffet, the wizened lady honored his pig in a blanket with Best In Show. But that’s like winning a trophy for running the mile in 42 minutes; he is left to wonder just how bad the competition must have been.
No, what a man wants, when he’s alone with his thoughts and he can feel the natural pulse of his viscera, is a young, beautiful woman with a lifetime of reproductive residual value ahead of her. And, knowing what a prize she is, his pride upon winning her will be genuine.
Stomach dropping. A pressing, radiating hollowing on the innerside of your solar plexus. Eyes widening to surprise-shaped orbs, drinking in threat. Face burning with bloodrush. Clammy hands, racing brain.
If you’ve ever lost a girl’s attention to another man, you know that feeling. It could be a first date who unexpectedly sing-songs an encomium about some guy who’s been on her mind, or a girlfriend you’ve started dating whose eyes dart around the room checking out other men as if you’re blind and can’t notice her distraction, or a more established girlfriend who betrays a wobbliness of the knees and a yearning in the voice when an ex-boyfriend joins your company.
You’re losing her, and that sinking feeling is your bioalert system letting you know she’s slip slip slippin away.
What do you do? When it happens, the advice from players with icy game in their veins is usually a variant of the following:
– Flirt with another girl. Act indifferent. You demonstrate high mate value by maintaining state control and refusing to get flustered by the imminent threat of another man or your woman’s emotional straying. Re-establish your attractiveness by signaling preselection from other women, and unlimited options which you threaten to act upon.
In other words, make her come back to you, like an iron filling to a magnet.*
This advice is given because it works. No doubt about that. But the problem is that certain conditions are needed for practical application of the advice. One, you need other single women around with whom to tactically flirt. Two, you have to be a borderline psychopath to be able to remain so coldly unaffected by the whirlwind of emotions emanating from your limbic engine room. That kind of eerily cold indifference to romantic outcome is either innate, or developed from years of profligate poon plunder.
Most regular guys don’t have years of poon plunder under their belts. And most of the time you’re out with a girl, there won’t be readily available single women within eyesight to welcome your counter-attack flirtations. You will be left with your date/girlfriend, her roaming eyes, and your sinking feeling, and that’s it. So, what now?
I’m about to give the best piece of advice you’ll ever hear on this subject. Advice that’s worked for me when I most needed it. Here it is. When you feel that sinking feeling:
Leave.
Don’t even tell her you’re going. Simply walk out. This is the best… BY FAR the best… method for maintaining your aloof indifference in the face of reproductive annihilation. Get away from the negative stimulus that is impossible for you to properly manage, and you won’t be there to announce your beta insecurity to the world. Leaving in a flash has a second benefit: It frightens your woman. It fills her with the fear that you might skip out on her for good, to cash your higher value mate chips in at a better paying table.
Now this won’t always work — she might stay behind and wind up making out with someone else; but if that happens, she was never close to being your woman, so you saved yourself wasted investment — but when it does work, it works like a MOAB. Plus, you get to enjoy the wonderful, if temporary, feeling of taking the manly initiative and salvaging your dignity.
In the latter scenario, she’ll come running out, sooner or later, maybe the next day, hurling invective, demanding explanation. This is not the time to express the pain of your romantic disappointment like a lovesick beta. Drive the id shiv in a little further, with a twist of ambivalence: “I felt like going. Do you want me to slap on a GPS monitor so you can track my whereabouts?”
Chaser-chasee roles… INVERTED.
Reward good behavior intermittently, punish bad behavior promptly.
Her company should now improve. But if it doesn’t you have the luxury of timing the release of your disappointment with her behavior during happy moments when she least expects your ire, and when your state control is set to Maximum Aloofness. There’s nothing so psychosocially exhilarating as catching a woman off-guard; it’s similar to how a curse is more effective when you lull your foe into complacence with calm rebuke and then drop the soulsmashing insult at the very end.
*Some players recommend calling a girl out when she mentally strays, sort of an agree & amplify of an unspoken context. For example, “Hey, eyes over here you crazy slut. At least wait until I’m gone before you throw yourself at another man.” CH does not agree with this strategy. It sounds workable on paper, but the reality is quite different; you’re more likely to come across butt-hurt than bemused.
It’s that time of year. Secularized America’s new number one holiday demands your careful consideration. As a man, you have one job every Halloween: dress in a costume that tells the world an alpha male is hiding underneath.
Rule #1: Don’t do “couples costumes”. Actually, that’s the only rule. Not only are couples costumes betatizing, they’re dorkifying. If you insist on doing a couples costume, make sure it’s a) something totally demeaning to polite company:
or b) something super sexy that leaves you with a semi all night:
In the above couples costume scenario, you’d be the guy holding the scissors to a piece of her tape. “hold this thread as i walk away… as i walk awaaay!…”
If the very limited selection of acceptable couples costumes isn’t your thing, you can go the conventional alpha male costume route:
Or, for you renegade alphas who love to both follow orders and break rules:
But the best alpha male costume is one I saw many years ago, if by “alpha male costume” we mean a costume that attracts battalions of beautiful babies. That is, after all, what alpha male is supposed to signify, right? A man of irresistible allure to women. Or, in this specific case, a costume that imbues a man with irresistible allure. Drumroll please….
Yeah, that’s it above. The most alpha male costume I ever saw, judging by the number of giggling women gathered round to admire and caress him, was a muscular guy wearing nothing but an over-sized diaper and baby bonnet, holding a rattle.
Talk about baby balls.
WARNING: Do NOT try this if you’re a soft, pasty, herbaceous manboob. It only works if there’s a contrast between the baby costume and your natural virile masculinity. This means if you look like John Scalzi, wearing a diaper will freak people out who might mistake you for some weird sexual pervert who strayed from his masturbatorium. Yes, even on Halloween.
Since we’re on the subject of diapers, it would be a tremendous alpha male coup if you could manage to dress up as the Engineer from Prometheus.
A shopworn shibboleth heard often in various permutations from people who fearfully shirk from reality is that lust is dirty and craven and superficial while love is divine and transcendent and meaningful. This pretty lie probably has its basis in early religious texts, which pegged (heh) lust as one of the seven deadly sins.
And yet, without lust there would be no love. Much philosophy, supernatural or secular, which reveres the concept of endearing, lifelong romantic love must necessarily also revere lust for bringing its only begotten son — love — into the world. Evidence for this cosmically bonded relationship between lust and love abounds in personal experience. (Who here ever fell deeply in romantic love with someone they didn’t also sexually lust for, at least at the beginning of the relationship?)
CH knew this intimate entanglement between lust and love, long ago, before the “manosphere” was a twinkle in the blogosphere’s eye:
We here at the Chateau have in the past written that it is just as easy — in fact, may even be easier — to fall in love and begin a healthy long term relationship with a woman after having sex with her on the first date as it is with a woman who has made you wait for weeks or months before having sex. […]
Pure, feral lust is a necessary prerequisite to romantic love. A love not undergirded by animal lust is not a romantic love at all. It is, at best, a companionate love, or an affectionate love, or a phony love that two losers convince themselves to feel when no other options are available. So why delay the inevitable? If you feel hot for each other, go ahead and consummate on the first date! You won’t poison any budding relationship that might follow.
Now there is evidence from ♥SCIENCE♥ that… HO HUM… once again vindicates another vantage point in the Heartiste worldview.
Lust: Sexual desire forges lasting relationships.
People often think of love and lust as polar opposites—love exalted as the binder of two souls, lust the transient devil on our shoulders, disturbing and disruptive. Now neuroscientists are discovering that lust and love work together more closely than we think. Indeed, the strongest relationships have elements of both. […]
Brain imaging is revealing the distinct but interlocking patterns of neural activation associated with lust and love.
Lust is most likely grounded in the concrete sensations of the given moment. Love is a more abstract gloss on our experiences with another person.
Powerful lust conceives enduring love. And when lust wanes, love — romantic love at any rate — follows in its dissipating wake.
This provides ample justification for the player’s intuition that the best relationships are the ones that begin passionately, and sooner rather than later. The bounder who collects his bounty on the first date is more likely to segue into a loving long-term relationship than is the idealistic betaboy supplicant who dutifully waits ten dates for a scrap of tepid snatch.
That three date rule is more than just a game strategy for avoiding the curious cruelty of a cockteaser; it’s also a litmus test for the presence of irrepressible lust, which in turn heralds the prophetess of love. If you, or she, can hold out longer than three dates, your future love, should it come, will more closely resemble a candle flicker than a blast furnace.
This CH-embracing study also lets the air out of feminist bromides that women have to sleep around in order to determine with whom they’re sexually and temperamentally compatible. Such hogwash. If love is kin with lust, then the first man who inspires a woman’s convulsive orgasms can be, and likely will be, the man she falls in love with, or dreams of falling in love with, or regrets having let his love slip away. Such a man needn’t be her twentieth lover any more than her first lover.
And temperamentally, lust has a way of enabling superlative post hoc rationalizations of compatibility.
No, women who assert a “need to sleep around to find the right man” are playing the age-old hamster game known as “I keep getting dumped because I’m a foul skank, but I can’t tell myself that or the razor blade will start to look very inviting.”
The Anti-Gnostic writes a very good post about Obamacare, and the unsustainable folly of the welfare state in general.
There are many layers of confusion [about the medical insurance business], so let’s take a look at some facts.
1) Most people lose money on insurance, because most of the time insurance doesn’t pay out more than it takes in.
2) Thus, a “good” policy is a catastrophic-coverage-only, high-deductible policy, where most payments are out of pocket. This is a policy that protects you against the downside risk, but where you lose a lot less on average.
3) This is because the purpose of insurance is to protect yourself from *catastrophe*, not to make routine purchases.
4) For example, if you went to Best Buy and whipped out your home insurance card to get a new flat screen TV, everyone would look at you as a crazy man. “Don’t you know that home insurance is only for fires and floods, and not for routine purchases?”
5) And so it should be with health insurance, because you’ll actually — *provably* — pay less with a high deductible plan for all but catastrophic conditions.
6) Indeed, the most innovative and technologically advanced areas of medicine are ambulatory areas in which people feel that markets are “ok”. These are paradoxically the most trivial areas: lasik, plastic surgery, dermatology, dentistry, even veterinary medicine.
7) Why are these areas so advanced? Because people pay cash money, because they choose based on quality, and because they are *able* to choose — i.e. they aren’t being wheeled up to the hospital in a gurney in a no choice scenario.
8) Moreover, with every technology ever, from cars to cell phones to air travel to computers, things that start out expensive become cheaper when enough people demand them. With medicine it seems to bite more that money means differences in care. But at the end of the day doctors, patients, nurses, drugs, ambulances…all that stuff means real resources, and a refusal to do explicit computations just results in massive waste as costs are shunted to a place where no one looks at them.
9) How insane is it, for example, that in this age of internet shopping that you can’t do comparison shopping on a hip replacement or a physical on the internet? It has to do with the irrationality that surrounds the concept of paying for the most valuable service of all: for someone saving your life.
10) Now let’s consider the elderly. The big problem here is that there IS going to be a catastrophe that hits them with probability 1. It’s called dying from being old.
11) If you know anything about medicine, you know that futile care is a ridiculous proportion of healthcare expenditure.
12) Now, in the abstract everyone is all about taking care of the elderly. Witness [another commenter’s] bleeding heart:
“Were they to offer profitable policies to old people, the premiums would be unaffordable.”
The whole point is that *old people are going to die* with probability 1. So let’s take those evil capitalists out of the question, and assume for now that no innovative entrepreneur could figure out something win/win for his own grandpa. …
Now we are in the realm of social justice. Which sounds so nice in the comments section. Until [the commenter] answers the question: how much of his children’s money does he want to spend on futile care for 83 year old Emma in Ohio? For 74 year old Bill in Texas? For countless, endless, unnamed others?
Because you can spend ALL of your money on futile care. Literally every last penny.
So now he says, “well, of course there have to be limits”.
And here we come to the nub of the matter.
This is h-bd land. We are adults. We understand hard facts.
One of those hard facts is that until Aubrey de Grey really gets on the hop, people *are* going to die.
The question is whether they die when THEY and their family run out of money — localizing the catastrophe — or whether every single one of them is connected to a public purse that they can draw down without consequence.
Because draw it down they will.
You see, for most of us, if our own mother was on a deathbed, if we had the ability to tax and steal from Joe and John and James to keep her alive we wouldn’t think twice about it. Because even if it took a million dollars in stolen tax money a day to keep her alive, well, hell, then I guess they’ll just have to work harder.
The problem, of course, is when everyone thinks this way.
Because what quickly happens is that once you’ve given the government access to that giant pool of money, they make damned sure that no one ANYWHERE is spending that money other than them…and then too only for the express purpose of the vote-buying schemes that our esteemed host has bought hook, line, and sinker.
That money is not spent for saving any more mothers.
Not for actual care.
Not for innovative treatments.
Not for anything other than the necessary minimum to keep up the facade, to buy people’s votes.
But hell, what does it matter, right? At least now we’re all equal. Equally poor in health. We’ve defeated the Magic of the Market. We can now allocate scarce resources not through merit or money, but through queues and connections and politics.
Biogen Idec is running an early-stage trial of the drug in multiple myeloma, but Baron doesn’t meet the criteria to participate.
Baron’s a prominent donor to the Democratic party, and many of his powerful friends, including Lance Armstrong and Bill Clinton, made appeals on his behalf. And the family agreed not to sue if anything goes wrong.
Ultimately, his doctors at the Mayo Clinic worked directly with the FDA to find a “legal basis” for giving Baron Tysabri. The deal was announced on Baron’s son’s blog late yesterday. The details remain unclear.
Fantastic work, all of you. We’ve now taken the profit out of health care. No more profit motive to encourage ambitious young geniuses to develop miracle drugs rather than program social networks.
Instead it’s just pure politics.
This is what we need to get back to: a basic understanding that health insurance is meant for catastrophes, not routine check-ups or money spigot end-of-life care on old people waiting for death’s imminent and unstoppable escort.
Harsh, but true.
And isn’t this just the problem with leftoids’ over-sensitivity to harm and fairness? It’s all egogasmic hurty alleviation… until the credit line that funds their moral posturing is maxed. And then it’s time to memetically move on to the next civilization and repeat the process of suicide by feels.
It is an awful dilemma. The State, having assured the taxpayers that their geriatric needs would be met, must now breach its covenant with its citizens. As several commenters noted, there is no way out.
… As a society we are suffering tremendously because we forgot that the best retirement program is to have 6 children and teach them how to be prosperous and then stay on the good side of at least a few of them.
I have my own fantasy of a nice little country that extracts the minimum taxes necessary to fund its military and maintain the social safety net. I’m sure that has been the selling point trotted out by every welfare state politician since Bismarck. But inevitably it seems, net tax consumption increases, birth rates fall, the culture shifts to high time-preference, and the State inflates the currency and runs deficits–further distorting the productive economy–to keep the Ponzi scheme going.
GBFM lzollzollzol’ed.
Obamacare is a ruling class pet project. It’s labyrinthine opacity is a feature, not a bug, that enriches the corrupt managerialist Top and the blood-sucking parasitical Bottom at the expense of the beta niceguys in the Middle. This formula is bad enough in homogeneous societies, but in racially and ethnically diverse ones like America, where ability and temperament and charitable fellow-feeling are all unequally distributed at both the individual and population group levels, it’s a guaranteed failure.
Strip out the market-distorting and depraved actor-attracting opacity of medical insurance — this means ending employer provided coverage and nationalized healthcare — and return it to the economically and morally sustainable notion that insurance is supposed to protect one against devastating… and relatively rare… calamities.
If this is not possible, well… try separatism. It may be that a precondition of solvent and sustainable medical insurance programs is ethnic kinship.
So, in WashDC there’s a fairly prominent meat market for the middle-aged and well-suited: the place lawyers, senators, TV talking heads, CEOs lobbyists go in their ill-fitting suits to hustle women. It’s called Cafe Milano. The dynamics are like any Beverly Hills cafe of similar stripe, only it’s DC: DC is Hollywood for ugly people. Young women from the age of 20 up through women pushing 50 are in this place. Later in the evening it often gets quite insane when all the working men go home and the place fills up with Middle Eastern men chasing shiksa tail.
This is where I went last night to experiment with the difference between “high energy” and laconic “low energy.” I had a date so I went half an hour early for my experiment.
I was the only guy in the place not wearing a tie or sport coat; I had on a flight jacket, black sweater, jeans, Guccis, no socks.
I’m not funny, when ad hoc, in most instances, unless “irony” counts as funny — and it usually doesn’t. So I resolved to just smile, speak up, raise my eyebrows, and engage — i.e., the opposite of laconic pilot leaning against bar waiting to be chosen. In the first five minutes I looked straight at the Russian girl serving a full bar and quickly entered a five-minute conversation about the merits of American rye, how long she’s been in the country, what she drinks at home, and how funny is this shit with all these fat guys hustling Georgetown girls.
That last part is your best game. Knocking the pretension of other men is a time-honored technique for raising your own value.
I would say I was looking directly at her, only smiling to punctuate, listening, querying, listening, commenting. The bar was busy but she talked to me. I would estimate that she is 25 years younger than I am. She served me and my eventual date well all night and slipped us a couple freebie bottles of sparkling mineral water.
The next person I spoke to was a 45 year-old in a Chanel suit, cheekbones like Charlotte Rampling, a German accent, and a firm bust and small waist that means: Yoga every single day. This was a divorcee of some apparent means. In the past I just leave these women alone and they either open me (life was better when a woman could ask for a light in a bar, at least it was better for introverted me) or I didn’t talk to them. I turned, smiled briefly, complimented her on her suit,
A good neg here would have been “That’s a nice power suit you’re wearing.”
asked her if she had just come from an event of some sort, smiled, queried, commented, smiled, queried. I asked her what she would like to drink and ordered her glass of wine for her from the Russian. She name-dropped her summer place, I’ve been there many times, which school her son attends, blah blah blah. I don’t think I have done something like that more than five times in my life. As *her* date entered and was coming to grab her, I slipped her my card and she gave me a look that, perhaps unrealistically, said, “I just might follow up on this.” I didn’t get her number because I didn’t have time once her lawyer/lobbyist/whatever showed up.
She’s 45 years old. The odds that she’ll follow up by taking the initiative and calling you are far better than if she were her 25 year old self. The fear of the Wall has a way of focusing minds and opening legs.
Question: is “high energy” reducible to: choosing to open, managing the rhythm of the conversation and keeping it moving moving moving with a focus on her her her, not slobbering all over her looks, treating her more like the au pair than the princess the au pair works for. I mean, I can do this. This is little different than opening a potential business contact, male or female, on a long flight someplace.
High energy means you lead the conversation and don’t give her a chance to frame the interaction to her liking. Well, it means that, among other meanings. It doesn’t necessarily mean that you “focus on her her her”. You can be high energy and just shooting the shit about anything.
Or is it really this: halfway through the evening another software ceo, very successful guy, very notorious for his harems and runins with the SEC, was holding court with his usual gaggle of staff and the groupies the ceo always has about. Then he stood up (he’s kind of a short guy with a plain face, but he’s worth $500mm) shouting about some shit I couldn’t understand and his group started roaring. I’m never doing this: I think he’s a buffoon, albeit one with a net worth I’ll likely never approach.
Half Billion CEO dude is already preselected. He DHVs just walking into a roomful of people who are familiar with the local business scene. A guy like him could go high or low energy, it wouldn’t matter. His army of lackeys at the ready to laugh at his dumb jokes is all the game he needs.
Or, if it requires R. Brand levels of realtime wit and invention, forget it. I will never attempt that.
Any comments appreciated.
(See, Ya Really, I do actually go out.)
Low energy isn’t the same as being a wallflower. High energy isn’t the same as being an interrogator. Either method, you’re interacting with the express purpose of pushing it toward a carnal conclusion. The difference is how much dead air or dud utterances you’re willing to risk. Low energy is sexy, but vulnerable to competing distractions. High energy is captivating, but vulnerable to self-sabotage. I’d say if you’re hitting on hired dushkas or wealthy cougars, go lower energy. You might even gain points for establishing a contrast between yourself and the cackling suck-ups slobbering Half Bil’s knob.
Comment Of The Week: Sophisticated Balderdash
Oct 28th, 2013 by CH
n/a lyrically reminds the arriviste audience that an old chestnut is just as moldy when a man serves it up on a platter and calls it the main course.
This comes close to a perfectly crafted comment, in both substance and delivery. Men who, by dint of limited options, choose to extol the “sophistication” and “worldliness” of the wealthy middle-aged cougar are revealing a classic handicapped SMV tell: that of the man who can’t do any better. It’s the inverse of sour grapes; instead of falsely claiming the sourness of a ripe grape out of reach high on the vine, one insists on the sweetness of a rotting fruit within reach on the ground.
The supposed sophistication of the well-to-do cougar is nothing next to the firm rump, smooth skin and pert tits of the minimum wage 20-year-old barista. Nothing. All the cougarly sophistication cubed will never approach the exponential allure of one evanescent smile from a pretty young babe. And this chaps the hides of the men who are trapped in the cougar pen as much as it does of the defeminized fading trophy harridans who sprinkle their aging flesh with shiny brand name baubles and fuel their egos on the fumes of vaporous entitlement.
The great joke of this charade is that older women aren’t even the paragons of sophistication they and their beta handlers like to claim. Wit is the province of the smart, and smarts are in full evidence by the early 20s. Fluid intelligence declines after the youthful 20s, further degrading the smart woman’s chattering legerdemain. Intellectualism, too, is not age-dependent once past the early neural formative years. The young intellectual woman has at least the advantage of being fun and sprightly along with her occasional bursts of deep thought. The smart cougar is well-versed… and tired.
Even a more generous interpretation of sophistication as a term meaning wisdom is not the boon for the cougar’s self-conception she, or her lovers, think. A wisdom borne of experience riding the cock carousel is a knowingness most men find unpalatable in a romantic partner. Yes, the cougar “knows what she wants in a man”, but what benefit is that to any man in serious contention for her crumbling facade? Perhaps the man she chooses can feel good that, after she has had a spell sampling the boner buffet, the wizened lady honored his pig in a blanket with Best In Show. But that’s like winning a trophy for running the mile in 42 minutes; he is left to wonder just how bad the competition must have been.
No, what a man wants, when he’s alone with his thoughts and he can feel the natural pulse of his viscera, is a young, beautiful woman with a lifetime of reproductive residual value ahead of her. And, knowing what a prize she is, his pride upon winning her will be genuine.
[crypto-donation-box]
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