I’m doing relationship game. How do I deal with comments from my girlfriend about her ex. Well, really he was just a friend with benefits. She recently told me “There was good sex with him.”
She definitely gets her world rocked with me in bed. The sex is hot and good. So, how do I deal with these kinds of comments?
See this post. Specifically, email #3. And the comments are good, too.
Is your girlfriend American? It would explain a lot. No woman of character and heart who is dating you, and presumably likes to be with you, would tell you about the sex she had with her ex. An alpha male would consider that grounds for dismissal. Betas would take that load of wet shit to the face and smile gamely. Which are you?
Should you choose to stay with her, (and incessant commenting about exes is a huge red flag that a dumping is imminent), you have three avenues of response, in ascending order of behavior correction efficacy:
Disregard (“Man, I’ve had the farts all day.”)
Humor (“Thanks for the slut report.”)
Acknowledge and Amplify (“Yeah I know what you mean about exes. Some leave a lasting impression. Still can’t forget that one who loved doing it in public.”)
A&A is particularly effective. If this girl of yours has any feeling for you, she will take the hint and auto-adjust her attitude and never talk about ex sex with you again. If she is a bitch, she will bristle like a prickly pube patch and try to out-compete you with additional ex stories, or she will hypocritically accuse you of immaturity. If the latter, dump her forthwith, or, if you’re in a generous mood, use her for rogering while surreptitiously staking your claim on other girls for the future transition to a better lover.
This one comes from a mischief maker named “Lexus Liberal” who commented on a Washington City Paper article about the poor performance of the Sidwell Friends’ football team. Sidwell Friends is a private school where Presidents send their kids to be fast tracked for future ruling class positions. The Obamas are the latest example.
I dare say, sport, you seem to have inflamed my upper NW chums more than a Bush/Cheney sticker on a Hummer 2!
The pursuit of sport is not something we put as much emphasis on here at Sidwell Friends – it’s such a vulgar enterprise. My own father wasn’t so enlightened – he loved baseball, hunting and other antiquated male pastimes, whereas I celebrate opera, gardening and appeasing my angry, Prius-driving wife.
While my passivity and latent homosexuality may negatively impact my son’s performance on the football field, I am confident it will prepare him well for a life of NPR, canvas totes, and garden parties featuring locavore cuisine.
Best,
L.L.
Pitch perfect. Maybe L.L. is a Chateau reader? Congratulations, L.L., you have earned a Key to the Chateau. Pick up your designated cat o’ nine tails at the door.
A buddy’s girlfriend and I were watching a movie on his TV and a scene had come on featuring the lead actress dragging her beta boyfriend to her alpha ex-boyfriend’s house for a party.
“This guy is a doofus for agreeing to go with her to her ex’s party. He’s walking into a trap. Any guy who does this in real life is asking for a breakup.” I beamed with pride at my insightfulness.
She disagreed. “No way, she’s a bitch for expecting him to go with her. Actually, she’s a bitch for even keeping in touch with her ex.”
Pleasantly surprised by her answer, I nodded my head approvingly and admitted to myself that my analysis of the movie scene was flawed. The beta boyfriend was not the primary offender; it was the obtuse, or manipulative, girlfriend.
My buddy is an alpha male. He teases, he bellows, he rises to anger, he’s sexual, he gives as good as he gets, and he tolerates ZERO bullshit from his girlfriend. She is quite cute, and ragingly feminine.
How did my thinking go so astray while her’s hit the mark? If you observe carefully, you may have noticed throughout your life that the sweetest girls with the most sympathetic dispositions toward men and the problems they have to deal with are those girls who have been with alpha boyfriends or husbands for a while. (Key qualification: “a while”. Girls who ride the alpha cock carousel are primitive, opportunistic sluts.) The reason why is simple: they have been “broken in”.
Once a girl has experienced the exquisite pleasure of submitting to a dominant lover her basal femininity is reset to something less accommodating of feminist boilerplate. She becomes keenly aware of the unique challenges that face men, and is able to a certain degree to put herself in their shoes, or, barring that, to at least sympathize with men and refrain from taking them for granted. This is the training of women that is similar to the training of dogs. And this sympathy and understanding extends beyond her alpha lover to men in general. It’s as if the domestication of her desire by a dominant man softens her feelings for all men. Not sexually softened, mind you. A woman in thrall of an alpha male is a faithful woman. But socially softened.
The converse should be apparent; women who have been denied the affection and commitment of an alpha lover, or who have been driven insane with spite by the dispiriting attentions of beta males they consider below them, nurse a steady stream of agitation toward, and resentment of, men in general. Exhibit A: a disproportionate number of avowed feminists are butt ugly. Exhibit B: SWPL city girls who yearn for loving, long term relationships with powerful men but get stuck with pump and dumps by players and cloying obsessions by undersexed betas. These women have yet to be broken in; their untamed limbic mania sets the tempo of their higher thinking. They drag their owners for a walk, instead of being walked. They are obstinate, crude, and, when their feminine humours do reassert for a temporary spell, sloppily scattershot in their compassion for indigents a world away while being brutishly curt and spiteful in their dealings with men in their social orbit. Feminism speaks to them because their femininity is suppressed.
The answer for these wastrel shrikes, as this blog has been saying from day one, is more game. While the mating market is zero sum, the pleasure market is positive sum. More pleasurable seductions of more women can only bring good things to relations between the sexes.
Via numerous sources, an “infographic” datanaut has put together a graph based on Facebook relationship status updates that shows the peak times of year for breakups to happen.
As you can see, breakups occur most often in the weeks before Spring Break and Christmas. (Breakups remain high during Spring Break; in contrast, they plummet on Christmas Day itself. Maybe if Christmas was marked by the sight of thousands of scantily clad babes, it would compete with Spring Break for the dump olympics.) Obviously, this graph is skewed toward the relationship dynamics of college students, what with Facebook being primarily the domain of that demographic and college-aged exhibitionists the least likely to exercise discretion about their personal lives.
There is a smaller uptick in breakups just prior to Valentine’s Day (don’t wanna spend the money on this bitch I don’t even much like), April Fool’s Day (I love you… haha! April Fool’s! we’re through!), and the beginning of summer (gotta make room for my summer romance!).
The linked article says that Mondays are the most popular days for breaking up, but I think that is a misread of the data. Most Facebook dorks update their status announcements the day after a big personal change in life, so it’s likely more accurate to say breaking up happens frequently on weekends. Which would make sense, because if you’re sick and tired of a lover, the grating prolonged presence of that person on a wide-open weekend would serve to wonderfully focus your mind on getting the hell out of Dodge.
The data gives seducers valuable info in which to tailor their game for maximum harem retention. First, we know both from anecdote and extrapolating from divorce data that women initiate 60-80% of all relationship breakups. The evo psych reasons for this are that women think more long term than do men, and are thus less likely than men to coast in a marginally-acceptable relationship for the sexual benefits. Women also have a more stringent list of criteria they demand from their lovers, and failing to meet bullet points 457-463 can cause her to reassess your value.
Not only that, but when men aren’t doing the breaking up (and why would they? pussy attached to an unlikeable personality is still pussy, and pussy you aren’t planning to marry still feels as good), women in their infinite passive-aggressiveness are manipulating men into breaking up with them.
Second, women on the verge of breaking up can often be brought back from the brink by a renewed application of core game principles. If you can predict with decent accuracy which days of the year she is thinking about breaking up, you can take preventive countermeasures. If you are a womanizer with a harem (i.e., multiple long-term relationships), it pays to know not just how to reignite her love, but when her love is most likely to dissipate. Timing your efforts creates efficiencies that help you better manage multiple girlfriends.
Women mostly break up because the betas they are with have ceased activating their tingle machine, but let’s not forget that a not insignificant minority of women initiate breakups because their alpha lovers have stopped lavishing them with affection and other signs of commitment. If you are in the latter category, your job is easy, should you choose to accept it. Pay her a few compliments and give her a massage once in a while, and she’ll be back in the fold.
However, if you are like most de-balled men in long germ relationships, you are being dumped because she has grown weary of your betafication. Familiarity doesn’t necessarily breed contempt, but familiarity with betas sure as hell does. For you, betaboy, the goal is to turn up the aloof asshole in late November, mid-February and early June. Other times of the year, particularly the autumnal hunkering down, you can take her for granted.
In sum, herby betas need to be extra vigilant after Thanksgiving. Turn off your cell, refuse to answer texts right away, stop nuzzling in her bosom like a hungry cat, and call her from places where girls are squealing in the background. Once Christmas is over, you can return to being your watery-eyed, limp-noodled self.
Two years ago, on the eve of the 2008 election of Obama, I predicted this:
2010 will be a repeat of 1994.
2010 was 1994, except the wave this time was even bigger. How could I have such stunning prescience? Simple, really. I comprehended two basic facts about the political landscape.
1. In 2008, the voters did not recognize how leftist Obama really was at heart. Hope and change, delivered by the propaganda arm of the Democrat party, aka the MSM, sugarcoated Obama’s true radical nature and misled a misty-eyed electorate justifiably fed-up with Bush. I figured Obama would govern and behave like the inborn progressive he is, which he has, and that this would incite a push-back from the electorate in two years, primarily among middle-class whites and independents.
2. The economy would remain bad, which would mean that the party in power would lose. The worse the economy, the worse the losses. This is about as close to an iron law in politics as there is. In 2012, the Democrats will be perceived as the party in power because Obama is at the helm, and the Republicans have only the House. (It may be a blessing in disguise that Republicans did not win the Senate, and thus the public’s perception of being the party in power, because they cannot be tarred in 2012 with failing to fix the economy.)
How did I know the economy would remain bad? First, progressive policies rarely improve economic outlooks. Obama’s policies were doomed to fail, or have little ameliorative effect. Second, there are two main structural forces working against an economic recovery any time soon: mass immigration of low-skilled, low human capital people of whom 2/3rds reliably, and perhaps congenitally, vote socialist, and higher oil prices caused by the arrival of Peak Oil. Oil and human capital are the grease in the cogs of the economy; restrict and degrade each respectively, and you are looking at a long term stagnation, if not a worsening, of the economy.
My prediction for the 2012 general election:
Obama will lose, but barely and despite an economy in the crapper that should have ensured a humiliating landslide loss, thanks to demographic shifts toward fewer whites and more Hispanics.
Republicans will gradually become the de facto white party. Identity politics will entrench, assured by an increasingly diverse and fragmented electorate. (Proximity + diversity = war.)
The economy will stay bad, actually will get worse. Unemployment will hit 12-15%, the dollar will continue losing value and maybe its spot as the world’s currency, inflation will kick into high gear, gold will hit record highs, amnesty* will encourage another massive inflow of immigrants from Mexico and Central America, and steadily and inexorably rising oil prices putting the screws to any nascent recovery will be the backdrop to it all.
Total speculation informed by a dash of psychological and electoral diagnosis: Chris Christie and Marco Rubio will be the Republican ticket.
*We are entering a very dangerous lame duck session of Congress. Expect Pelosi & co. to pull off an amnesty coup in the next couple of months. She’s that egotistical.
The last bastion of feminist influence on the PUA community is the shaming conducted on men who would, now and then, pay an 18 year old freshman to lift her shirt.
For the love of all things unholy, you’ve got to start heavily slamming the metrosexuals who have a problem with that on your blog.
Its completely troll behavior and you know its mostly anonymous feminist lurkers with the addition of “males” not actually practicing game (or bitter about not having any money).
Evil Alpha recently said it right that its about keeping the price way down. Getting a 10 to strip for $5 is more alphathan getting her to strip for $20 and getting her to strip for free is most alpha of all, but not getting her to strip at all and never seeing her again is Gamma.
Here is an oldie but goodie Chateau post about paying for sex. It documents the lives of two very different men who ponied up hard cash for special services rendered.
To the reader, the long and short of it is:
If you pay for sex or sexual enticement (i.e., strippers and lap dances) because you can’t get any loving from women free of charge, you are a beta (or, more precisely, an omega).
If you pay for sex or sexual enticement even though you don’t have to, and because it’s a fun thing to do, you are *not necessarily* a beta or omega. In this case, your solicitation is value neutral.
The man who has a cute girlfriend but lives it up at his buddy’s bachelor party by throwing $20s at a hot stripper is not a sexual loser.
The man who has never had a girlfriend or dates only fatties and washed-up cougars, but pays strippers or whores to deliver him from his dreary, pleasureless existence, is a sexual loser.
As any man who’s been with a number of women will tell you, every woman has a bad day down there occasionally. It isn’t an STD issue (unless you are screwing a conspicuous skank). It might be diet or her cycle or the flu or incomplete showering, women just have those days when they aren’t as “fresh” in their doodle-cave. The musty, organic smell, to a normal man’s nose, is unmistakeable, and quite nauseating — like a devil’s recipe of Roquefort cheese, sweaty armpits, compost and ear wax. If she hasn’t thoroughly scrubbed her ass crack clean, the shit smell on top of everything else will make your stomach turn.
Needless to say, this is bad for the boner business.
I had been with a girl for a couple months, and she was turning out to be everything I aim for in a lover — sweet-natured, averse to attention whoring, cute, well-groomed, eager to please (in all ways), charmingly affectionate, supportive, compassionate, apolitical, anti-feminist (in action if not necessarily in claimed beliefs), socially adept with my friends, able to slow down and enjoy life without feeling that incorrigible SWPL urge to “do something”, and a damned fine cook. And her cooking wasn’t the equivalent of the TV dinner especiales; she used ingredients in her food. Bonus: I never once saw her wear flip-flops.
One evening, after a very good home-cooked meal, we tumbled into bed. She liked to finish up doggy style, reveling in the complete surrender of her body to my animalistic poundings. The lights were low, but not so dim I couldn’t feast my eyes on the action. Soon after raising her buttocks to accept my divining rod, a pungent odor hit me square in the nostrils with such force that my head jerked back and to the left. Stifling a reflexive “phewf”, I gamely tried to recover my senses without interrupting my rhythm, but quick as my head turned back and my eyes focused on the penetration below, another wave of the most rank effluvium attacked my nose. I pretended it was a stray waft from outside — perhaps a garbage truck had just rumbled by? — but when my eyes began to water I realized the source of the hell odor originated in the very hole (holes?) my dick was sabotaging.
I was near climax, so there was no point stopping now. What excuse would I use? “Oh, babe, I have to stop. Your vagina stinks so bad I’m choking over here.” Or perhaps I would say it in Elizabethan English, to add a dash of romance to an otherwise morbid turn of events: “Oh, m’love, I must cease. Your nethers usher forth an odoriferous assault so breathtaking in its impudence my manhood doth reclaim its softness.”
You want to eviscerate a woman’s ego and scar her for life? Offer some lame excuse for disengaging from her pussy just before you, and her, are about to cum. Say “Um, hey… gotta take a break. I’m feeling a little queasy. Probably the Mexican I had” right as her moans of ecstasy peak. Extra ego-smashing points if you pull out semi-soft.
Since I did not want to eviscerate her ego, this option was right out. I had to see this through, and fast, before my boner was gone. I redoubled my efforts and concentrated on the sound of my balls slapping against her slippery mons. I say “sound” because by this point I was looking up and away at the ceiling, pinching my nostrils shut with my left hand and counting the spackle nubs in the paint job. I dared not look down at the action for fear that I would forever associate the rancid smell with my lover’s vagina. Call me a romantic.
For about twenty seconds, it worked. With the increased nostril distance from her privates, the smell became tolerable. Not acceptable; just not as bad as shoving my face in a well-used tray of kitty litter. My gagging stopped and I could take small inhalations for life sustenance in between my lengthy exhalations. Unfortunately, habit got the best of me and I glanced down to savor the visual of meaty intrusion.
Big mistake. As before, the smell crushed my face. Even worse, I began to embrace my masochism and spent an inordinate amount of time examining her ass crack and taint. Against my better judgement, I gingerly… cautiously, ever so cautiously… spread her ass cheeks. The light was ambient, but I could see details well enough to note, surprisingly, for the first time, just how dark and mysterious her womanly furrow revealed itself to be. Shadows danced in the Mariana Trench twixt her glutes, and twilight fell like a pall over her taint and labia. My cock shaft, clear as day as her youthfully fresh lube glistened on it, simply disappeared into the murk of some unfathomable abyss of wombness.
Now well acquainted with the stink and unmoved by prudence, I moved in closer to discover… what? the holy grail? smurfs at play?…, a glimpse of what it was that inhabited the dark place, but her Crack of Shadows denied me illumination. For a second, I thought my ears and eyes played tricks on me as I heard a rustling that one might hear from a grove of cattails in a windstorm and I saw a fleeting sight of black squiggles thick and luxurious like a jungle canopy. But just as quick, the visions were gone, and I was left there pistoning like a robot, hypnotized by the siren smell of the inscrutable, ink black crevasse swallowing my cock whole.
My eyes now red with the stinging nettles of her vagcloud, my breathing reduced to staccato gasps, I relinquished the usual victory to my rapidly deflating cock, and decided to beat a hasty exit before she noticed the flaccidness and spend the next few weeks questioning her attractiveness to me. (“Do you think I’m fat?”, and its various permutations, swiftly becomes old after the 100th iteration.) One last deception up my sleeve — one I don’t use except under the direst of circumstances. I withdrew my 1/2 full member, mimicked a few groans of completion, and loogied a warm globule of spit, Beavis and Butthead style, onto her right ass cheek. It dribbled down her hip. Before she could examine the evidence, I grabbed a nearby towel and wiped her off.
“Big, wet load that time!”, I lied.
“Yes, baby. Come here, I want to snuggle.”
We snuggled, my nose pressed hard into her pillow, relieved of duty.
As we lay there, I made a solemn mental vow to call the girl I had met in a furniture shop a week earlier. She was sexy and smiley, and likely a bit slutty. Her red dress danced the tango in the cottage of my mind.
Guilt? I felt some. Here was sleeping next to me, by most men’s measure, a catch. A girl you take home to mom. A girl for the long haul. She was the good girl in nearly every way. But that smell… so unforgettable. If her pussy was an Etch A Snatch, I wanted to shake it clean, start over. Everything she gave and all the great feminine characteristics that are so important to me, I was ready to throw away in an instant because of a visceral reaction to an unfortunate, and temporary, body odor. When would the odor be back? I didn’t want to find out. Did I care that I might walk away from a real gem? Abstractly, yes. Emotionally, no. If I didn’t have the ability to go out and meet new women, and to bed them with relative ease without needing a marriage contract, I might think twice before cutting and running on a woman with a heart of gold but an asscrack of dubiousness.
And what guarantee that the next girl wouldn’t have the Crack of Shadows? Crack to crack to crack… my eternal search continued. Relentless. Uncompromising. Unwise.
We talk a lot here, justifiably, about the feral nature of women’s drives and desires, and how such knowledge is ignored if not outright censored by the larger society in the interest of promoting beta male (and to a lesser extent, alpha male) obeisance. The Chateau, a house of thrill repute, acts also as a foundation of change, of enlightenment, and of power, that will bring balance to the force, a balance long denied in the West and bursting with the will to reclamation.
But we should remember that men have an animal nature, too. And while women’s wild sexual energies are more dangerous to civilization if left untamed and unbroken, men’s sexual energies can be a force for destruction and dissolution as well. The man with sexual options, (not many by any reasonable account, but enough to make a difference), when left to his own devices and free from social stigma or peer punishment or self-imposed female chastity, can rampage through a harem of pussy before the typical beta male with his steady paycheck and doting attentiveness has even fapped to the first dribbles of pre-cum. If you think this is the way to a prosperous nation, I invite you to look at these two pictures:
I called the red dress girl. Her crack was better. Because it was new.
This entire post, while true, served a dual purpose as parable of the current political climate and the electorate at large.
Back in October 2008, I predicted feminists would demand the following:
Ban on DNA Paternity Testing
This is as good as done if countermeasures aren’t taken. There’s a reason feminists are beginning to advocate against paternity testing — the smarter ones among their ranks understand that it shifts the balance of power decidedly in favor of beta males. Feminists want to retain the privilege of cuckolding. It is a power too good to abdicate, because it offers complete freedom from compromise with men to pursue sex and resources in the way they want. Paternity testing will mean an end to fucking alphas on the side and tricking betas into footing the bill. It will mean women will have to be more responsible and forward-thinking, instead of blindly following their vaginas.
Via Andrew Stuttaford, this week comes an article from a foul feminist cunt named Melanie McDonagh who advocates the banning of paternity testing.
DNA tests are an anti-feminist appliance of science, a change in the balance of power between the sexes that we’ve hardly come to terms with. And that holds true even though many women have the economic potential to provide for their children themselves…Uncertainty allows mothers to select for their children the father who would be best for them. The point is that paternity was ambiguous and it was effectively up to the mother to name her child’s father, or not… Many men have, of course, ended up raising children who were not genetically their own, but really, does it matter…in making paternity conditional on a test rather than the say-so of the mother, it has removed from women a powerful instrument of choice.
My prediction has been proven accurate. Look at the last line: “[paternity testing] has removed from women a powerful instrument of choice.” Interesting logic, there. Faced with an issue of incontrovertible fairness and individual rights, the female rationalization hamster had to put in overtime. There is smoke billowing from the gears of her head wheel. Let’s see if we can apply Mz McDonagh’s logic to other vexing issues of sexual opportunism:
“Rape kits are an anti-male appliance of science, a change in the balance of power between the sexes that we’ve hardly come to terms with. And that holds true even though many men have the economic potential to provide for rape-conceived children themselves… Rape uncertainty allows fathers the freedom to select for their children the mothers who would be best for them. The point is that rape was ambiguous and it was effectively up to the father to admit to impregnating the mother, or not… Many women have, of course, ended up raising children who were conceived via rape, but really, does it matter… in making rape indictments conditional on a test rather than the say-so of the father, it has removed from men a powerful instrument of choice.”
“Abortion is an anti-male appliance of science, a change in the balance of power between the sexes that we’ve hardly come to terms with. And that holds true even though many men have the economic potential to provide for their children themselves… Abortion prohibition allows fathers to select for their children the mothers who would be best for them. The point is that conception was ambiguous and it was effectively up to the father to support the mother and child, or not… Many women have, of course, ended up raising children who were not planned, but really, does it matter… in making birth conditional on abortion rather than the wishes of the father, it has removed from men a powerful instrument of choice.”
“DNA tests to determine child support duties are an anti-male appliance of science, a change in the balance of power between the sexes that we’ve hardly come to terms with. And that holds true even though many men have the economic potential to provide for their children themselves… Uncertainty allows fathers to select for their children the level of support that would be best for them. The point is that paternity was ambiguous and it was effectively up to the father to deny involvement, or not… Many women have, of course, ended up raising children as discarded single moms, but really, does it matter… in making child support conditional on a test rather than the say-so of the father, it has removed from men a powerful instrument of choice.”
If the clitorally-enlarged fembot hyenas have their way, would there be any reason left at all for any man to remotely consider marriage as an acceptable option? A man who walks into the marriage trap now is playing Russian roulette with three full barrels. Each feminist legal victory fills one more barrel with lead death.
Andrew Stuttaford says words fail him. Well, they don’t fail me. Please, Mz McDonagh, as I’ve implored other ghastly souls who’ve wandered into this happy hunting ground… do the world a favor and lay your head down in front of the wheels of a moving bus. There’s a dear.
It is spoken of in reverent tones by men from all walks of life, yet who can honestly say they’ve seen, let alone banged, a genuine hard 10 in the real world? The 10 is perfect female beauty, above which there is no better, only differently perfect. Some men, vexed by the philosophical conundrum of perfection in a trait that is ultimately perceived in the deep recesses of the male brain, insist there is no such thing as a 10, only grades of 9 that asymptotically approach perfection, but never reach it. I do not agree with these poseur pseudo-aesthetes. Beauty is largely objective, and most men will agree with surprising uniformity how individual women rank in the beauty sweepstakes. Some rare women do live, and have lived, who possess the pinnacle of feminine beauty. Perhaps women will evolve toward ever greater beauty, in which scenario the 10s of today may very well be the 8s of tomorrow, but that is a discussion for another post. Here, we are concerned with what activates present day boners, not the boners of the far future.
This post attempts to capture the elusive 10 by discovering whether there can be widespread agreement among men that such women exist. I have chosen pics from the reader submitted female photo page that best represent the hottest that womankind has to offer. I have taken care to select women from different races and ethnicities to add an element of dangercontroversy curiosity to the voting. All of the following women were rated 10 by at least one reader (usually the original submitter of the photo), so my personal preference was kept to a minimum.
Your job is to rank the following photos. You will notice that the rankings only go from 7 to 10. That is because none of these women would be voted under a 7 by 99% of men in the world. The truncated ranking weeds out the nerds suffering from Internet Male Syndrome who will downgrade a hot chick for having pointy elbows. If you are one of these celibate dorks, understand that your opinion is of no consequence at all. And, likely, neither is your sad and lonely pecker.
If the true 10 exists in real life as opposed to fantasy, then there will be one or more photos from the collection below where the ranking clusters around the top score. A woman who scores, say, 60% or more “10” votes, could rightly be considered to be an actual 10. Majority male rule works when we accept the premise that most men share a mental template for what constitutes female beauty. Scientific evidence and real world observation suggest this premise is true.
Choosing from among all the photos the most beautiful was trickier than it sounds. I wanted a representative sample of non-photoshopped girls, so I tried to mix in some snapshot quality girls-next-door along with the celebrities. The problem with identifying 10s off the street is that their beauty is so rare and captivating they are soon swept from their humdrum daily lives and shuttled straight into the elite lifestyle of model, singer or actress. If you are a man who wants to deflower a 10 before she escapes to an insulated elite bubble, you had better go young; 18-21, and no older.
One more thing. There are likely some relatively minor differences between men of the big four races in their beauty preferences. It’s been widely noted by non-PC brainwashed automatons that black men, for instance, like bigger (some would say fatter) butts on their women. Conversely, Asian men may prefer flatter asses and broader faces. And white men may like longer legs and stronger cheekbones. These differences aren’t big enough to swamp the universal agreement among men on what satisfies the fundamental characteristics of female beauty (neoteny seems to be a universally shared preference), but that they probably exist means that an Ethiopian’s 10, while still beautiful, will look considerably different than a Finn’s 10. Given this, I’ve included a poll at the bottom asking you to identify your race. It will be interesting to see if, and how, the racial breakdown is reflected in the scores for each woman.
Related to this post: Agnostic has a good post on how beauty may have evolved in population groups that spent more time tending animals, and thus exposing themselves to greater parasite loads. (Beauty acts as a signaler that you have the genes to cope with disease.)
Put your dick back in your pants, and start the voting!
That’s it for the 10 voting. Now tell us your race.
Lightning Round!
Is there such a thing as a perfect body? Vote on the woman in this photo:
Beauty, like any other addiction, can often dull the senses if it is consumed absolute. The remedy is to stare at the beautiful woman when she is standing next to a plain or ugly woman. The difference is a stark reminder that beautiful women may as well be a separate species from unattractive women. Don’t believe me? Look at this pic:
