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Using This Blog As A Pickup Prop

Apr 5th, 2010 by

A late 20-ish/early 30s woman with a passing resemblance to Jennifer Connelly sat down on the springless couch to my right, relieved that she found a spot to sit in the crowded coffee shop. She sunk all the way in like a turtle retreating into its shell, and I smiled and told her the couch already ate two people. She laughed while pulling out a laptop.

My laptop was in front of me, perched on my thighs. In between spurts of typing I reached to sip from a cup of dragon well green tea and to munch on toasted focacia with slices of brie. Because my balls weigh that of ten men, I am secure enough to write the previous sentence. Immediately, my thoughts drifted to meeting this woman and how I could best use my supranatural Lucifer-given talents to accomplish that.

I waited for ten minutes to pass. When a woman is forced by circumstance to loiter in your proximity, it’s best not to jump on her right away. A man must leave an impression that his interest in a nearby woman only piqued after his mind stopped being preoccupied by whatever he was doing before she arrived. So I continued typing while pretending her stimulating looks hadn’t yet registered in the cock-shaped part of my brain.

Finally, I delivered my opener.

“I’ve never seen someone so engrossed in their work. You writing the next great American novel?”

Standard operating procedure. I’ve used the line many times, although it felt fresher this go round. Perhaps I was inspired by my latent decision to toss caution to the wind with what was about to come.

She chuckled at my opener, and answered with the confident voice of a woman who is used to sparring with men.

“Not quite. More like the next great American Excel spreadsheet.”

A good-looking woman with a genuine sense of humor? Did I sell my soul to the devil in a dream? Oh wow, I’d better not screw this up. My game has to be super tight! No margin for error. Just dance with the script that brought me here. No need to improvise. Stay the course!

“Ooh. My Mom warned me about women who use Excel.”

“Oh, really?” she playfully parried. “And what did she warn you about?”

“They’re bad news. They can analyze a man and know what he’s all about in two seconds.”

“That sounds like a great gift to have!”

We chatted for five more minutes. She was slowly hooking. Eventually, the conversation found its way to a point where I could deliver the following line.

“Luckily for me, I’m totally inscrutable. For instance, I’m definitely not writing an Excel spreadsheet. So you can try not to be so obvious when you peer over my shoulder to see what I’m writing.”

Babe bait.

“You certainly think highly of yourself.”

“I’m just a boy trying to figure it all out.”

“Is that what you’re writing about? Figuring it all out?”

“Sort of. I write a dating and relationship blog. Unfortunately, it’s pretty popular. So I have a lot of stalkers. Cost of doing business, I guess.”

“A dating blog?”

“And relationships.” I show her the front page of the Chateau.

“And you’re citizen renegade?”

“Among other names.”

“So, if you’re such an expert on dating, why are you still single?”

“The better question would be: Why *wouldn’t* I still be single?”

“Oh no, you sound like trouble.”

Ka-ching!

“Wow, the prison warden said the same thing to me.” She smiled and I let a few seconds of silence break the badinage.

I put forth my most serious face. “Hey, I have a confession to make…”

I love the ‘confession’ line. It’s like a mini insta-vulnerability game pebble that I can toss into almost any conversation to boost the girl’s intrigue. Plus, it makes girls a wee bit nervous, wondering if I’m going to confess to something really sordid that would make them too horny to control themselves.

“My blog is pretty controversial. I write about the dark side of human social dynamics as well. People with closed minds would probably not be able to understand. So if you find yourself curious, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I suppose now I’m going to have to take a look some time.”

“Hey, listen, I’ve got to run. But before I do I’d like to grab your number so our conversation doesn’t have to stop here for all eternity.”

This is my new number closing line. So far, I like it.

We exchanged numbers. The next day, I called her and set up a date that evening. No need to wait two days. She wasn’t an early 20s flakeriffic chick. The date went well, and we ended with a kiss. My blog was discussed, briefly, when she asked if I was really like my blog persona in real life. After I assured her I was (and make no mistake, it was assurance she secretly wanted), we went salsa dancing. A kiss to close the night, and I told her I had a good time. I didn’t set up a time for a second date. Never make plans for a future date while on a date. It reeks of urgency. Best to just tell the girl you must go, and you had a good time. Leave her stranded knee deep in the wonderment of her uncertainty.

***

I admit that using my blog as proof of status to pick up girls is cheesy. One of my goals in writing this post was to show just how powerful raw status game can be for a man. There was very little in the way of calculated technique-based game as is commonly understood used in this pickup. Instead, I relied on the crutch of high status within my endeavor of choice.

Cheesy, and effective.

She will probably read this blog post, so what I’m about to write may cost me, and her, a chance to see where this will lead. Or not. As I walked home from that first date, I asked myself if I really wanted to date the kind of girl who would be intrigued by what I write on this blog. If past experience is prologue…

But that is an answer for another time.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Self-aggrandizement, Status Is King, Vanity | Comments Off

The Wig

Apr 2nd, 2010 by

9pm on a weekday night. I leaned like a pillar of masculine detachment against the edge of the bar, blessing the peasantry with my royal aloofness. I sipped a gin and tonic, surprised with myself for agreeing with a buddy to go out on a slow night for some drinks. I doubly surprised myself for being an hour early. My buddy called. He would meet me later at a different bar. I now had an hour to kill at the chic lounge filled with young women and few men. A weekday night miracle!

I surveyed the room for potential sex partners. To my right were two girls, both mid 20s, both bouncing conversationally off each other with an effortlessness that revealed their BFFness. One of the girls was extremely tall (almost my height), foreign looking, and unattractive in the face, though her body was stimulating. The other girl was shorter, olive skinned, and very attractive. She had big Bette Davis eyes, huge tits, and moist, full lips, but her outstanding feature, the one that caught my gaze and held it, was her long thick mane of raven colored hair, highlighted with iridescent streaks of indigo. She talked animatedly with her tall friend, swinging her head around and lashing nearby patrons with streamers of her midnight hair. I wanted to glide my hand through her thatch and yank hard.

Indigo Girl glanced over in that way that showed she was trying to hide that she was glancing over. I had my opening.

“You guys are making everyone else feel uncomfortable for not having as much fun. Have some consideration.” I knitted my brow in faux disapproval.

“What are *you* doing out tonight, Mr. Cool Guy too cool to have fun?” Indigo Girl smiled to flaunt an impressive rack of pearly white teeth, then stood up on tippy toes and did a ballerina twirl for me. I felt movement in my pants.

“I’m waiting for a friend, but plans changed. Now I’m here to support local business.”

Tall Girl laughed. “That’s very noble of you.” She spoke with an exotic Eastern European accent, and I could tell from her first words that she was smarter than the average chick. It is something in the cadence, the articulation. She took a step toward me, presumably to ask me a question.

Indigo Girl dodged in front of her advancing friend and looked up adorably at my alpha nostrils. “We just got back from a show.”

The more I looked at her the more it dawned on me how sexy she was. “The way you’re dressed I’d guess you saw a show at [X].”

“Good guess! Do you hang out there? I’ve never seen you before. But take that as a good thing. I get bored of that clique-y scene over there.” Though she was a little tipsier than Tall Girl, Indigo Girl also spoke with the electric snap of someone sporting a big brain.

“I’m a clique of one. Very exclusive.”

The girls laughed. Well, technically Indigo Girl laughed, openly and without affect. Tall girl, clearly the level-headed one of the two, grinned demurely and circled the rim of her cocktail glass with a long spidery finger. We talked amongst ourselves for twenty minutes. In that time I was able to piece together the scenario unfolding before me, and to then use my new knowledge to properly game these two chicks.

Best friends. Indigo Girl is the classic Eternal Ingenue. She is accustomed to getting her way with men, and she fumes when she doesn’t. She will shamelessly clamblock her girl friends if she notices them enjoying male attention. She is whip smart and Machiavellian, given to breaking hearts and wallowing like a happy sexy sow in the ups and downs of her own heart. Tall Girl is the Amazonian Alpha (literally as well as figuratively). She is used to surrendering the spotlight to her more attractive friends, but this constant indignity doesn’t stop her from being a fiercely loyal friend. She would be a world class maneater if she were prettier. I think she knows this.

It would be very easy for me to play these two girls off each other into a jealousy triangle of the ages. And I did.

We bounced to a two floor social venue a block down the street. It was crowded. The girls bought me a drink and we chatted for a while. I made sure to divide my chat time equally between the two, addressing one and then the other in turn. Suddenly, like a butterfly with ADD, Indigo Girl rushed to greet one of the bartenders, a handsome hipster she knew from her social circle. The greet became a long-ish conversation. Stepping up to Tall Girl, I moved my body so that she was forced to reposition herself with her back to Indigo Girl and Hipster Bartender. I knew Indigo Girl would look over at us if she saw me talking intimately with her friend, and I wanted her to see my hand on her friend’s back and my mouth whispering in her friend’s ear.

It worked. Indigo girl hopped over after only five minutes of watching me talk with Tall Girl. Shit test passed. But I knew that with a girl like her the shit tests were only beginning. Tall Girl, for her part, suspected that my desire was focused on her friend, but my calculated conversation sharing probably nursed a belief in her that she could rob me from Indigo Girl.

It is a great thrill to have two women vie for your attention, but it is an exquisite pleasure to puppeteer two *smart* girls.

I will spare some of the details of the actual gaming. Suffice to say, it was my usual schtick, except smartened up in deference to the targets. By smartened up, I mean palm reading with an occasional three syllable word thrown in.

Two hours later, we walked to Tall Girl’s apartment. I had called my buddy earlier to tell him I would cut the night short to pursue a worthier goal than drinking with him. He understood and informed me he would call in the morning for details. Bro code, you see. At Tall Girl’s place, we all collapsed on her sofa and flipped through her collection of artsy posters. Indigo Girl got up and flounced to the bathroom. I had to be careful. The two of them had surely been signaling the whole night to decide who would be the one to tame this magnificent beast with a chest full of peach vellus. My worst move would be to accidentally insinuate that Tall Girl was the one I wanted to bang. I looked at Tall Girl sitting next to me on the couch, her eyelids sensuously hoisted at half mast. Uh oh. I sprang up from the couch and pretended to read some books on the mantle.

When I turned around, still musing facetiously about the book I was holding, I saw that Tall Girl was sliding languorously down the couch, her dress hiked up mid-thigh and her legs splayed open. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. My eyes locked in on her shorn cunt, unable to tear away from the sight of labia and mons. It took an exceedingly strong dose of willpower to look away and up toward her homely face to remind myself that she wasn’t the one I wanted to bed. When I did, I saw that she was staring at me with sex in her eyes. Her mouth hung partly open. If she had been hotter, it would have counted as one of the sexiest motherfucking vignettes of my life.

As expected, her homely face jolted me back to reality. I put the prop book down and walked to the bathroom. Indigo Girl was rummaging through a box of ornamental scarves on Tall Girl’s bed. She was barking requests at Tall Girl from the bedroom. “I need a scarf that says professional, yet dangerous. What do you have, [Tall Girl]?”

I peered backward into the living room. Though my line of sight was partially obstructed, it looked to me that Tall Girl was stroking her pussy underneath her dress with her left hand. She arched her neck and gazed up at the ceiling.

I addressed Indigo Girl. “Hey, I’m gonna head out.”

Pause.

I continued. “Let’s go.”

It was a risky move. I had to get out of there before Tall Girl lunged at me and claimed me for herself. But I didn’t want to leave heavy-balled. There is always a point in the seduction when a bold move is required; when intentions must be demonstrated clearly and unambiguously. This time was no different.

Indigo Girl’s eyes glittered for a split second as she processed my words. Then she grabbed my hand and we headed out into the mild night.

We talked the whole time on the half hour walk to her place. Words flowed effortlessly. My boner never relaxed, not even when she did what I’m about to tell you.

“Hey, sexy boy I just met tonight, I’ve got something to show you.”

I thought please show me your incredible tits.

She reached a hand up to her head and pulled off her hair. Her beautiful, thick, lusciously long, raven colored hair, indigo highlights and all. Underneath was a head of matted, thin, mousy brown hair, cut short to just beyond the ears.

What the hell was this? Wig game? Was this her last ditch ultimate shit test to screen men just before she surrenders her body to them?

I managed the most poker-y face I could muster. “Wow, you had me fooled. Good thing you’re still sexy with short hair.”

I wasn’t lying. She was still sexy. Well, maybe not quite as sexy, but the drop in sexiness was only a half point. Nothing the god of gonadal stimulation wouldn’t let us into nirvana for.

“Yeah, I like to roleplay. Tonight was wig night. Wheee wigs!” She spun and jumped into my arms, wrapping her legs around my torso. My crotch bulged angrily. This was a girl going to NYU Stern for her MBA.

We made love… no, scratch that… we fucked four times through the night. Her tits were as stupendously squeezeable as I imagined. Her style of fucking was not out of character; creatively flexible, liberally lubed, risk-taking, and impassioned. Also a little slutty. Like purple saguaro girl, she had toys. Lots of them. And not some dimestore, brown paper over the windows low class shit. Her toys were the highest grade. She was a Type A++ personality and leapt out of bed at 8am for a spin class. I showed myself out the door, briefly greeting her gay roommate on the way out.

We dated… no, scratch that… we fucked for three months. The week before she left town, she called at 1am and invited me to her place. I walked over in the still night air instead of cabbing it. I wanted to enjoy the anticipation. Inside, she was stooped over on the bare concrete floor now stripped of furniture, snorting a line of coke with her gay roommate. She motioned for me to join them. The coke line laid out for me on the cold floor was mixed with dust and debris. I watched her be alive, though I was beset with a heaviness I knew would soon be alleviated.

Afterward, we laid on the floor like flower petals. She took my hand, held it, then let it go.

In the morning, on my way out, I noticed her wig was poking out of the kitchen trashcan. I walked silently over and gave it a quick stroke.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Closing the Deal, Game, Girls, The Good Life | Comments Off

Game Is Pushing Me Away From Love

Apr 1st, 2010 by

Sometimes ignorance really is bliss. Of the last 25 out of 30 girls I’ve slept with, I’ve used the following game tactics on all of them in almost the same order and at the same point in time of the pickup:

  • indirect opener, usually situational
  • if cockblock was present, one neg to cb asking if her friend is “always this way”
  • if cockblock wasn’t present, one neg directly to target about her “hair color being totally in style right now”
  • initiated kino sequence by laying my hand on her forearm, then later hand on her shoulder, then later still hand on her thigh
  • one dance twirl (her, not me)
  • one anchor (“hey could you watch my hat/scarf/pickup prop for me for a sec?”)
  • one DHV story about my time hiking a volcanic island
  • one to two venue change “bounces”, where i would simulate the experience of being on multiple dates by compressing it into two hours, making her feel she had spent more time with me than she actually did
  • two questions qualifying her, usually “cute chicks are a dime a dozen, what else do you have going for you?” or “are you low, medium or high maintenance?”
  • two rapport building routines (either the love test or the cube)
  • one age guessing game (her: how old are you?” me: “guess” her: [whatever answer] me: “perfect!” or “i don’t think you’re fun enough/mature enough for me”)
  • one vulnerability story (involves getting beat up by a bully i was trying to stop from beating up a nerdy schoolmate)
  • one major kino escalation (usually hand behind her neck)
  • kiss (i just go for it. no prepping) and/or number close
  • same night lay if propitious

25 girls. 25 lays, flings, or relationships. All of them gamed in almost the exact same manner to achieve the desired result. Like winding up a watch. Or tapping a knee to prompt a reflex kick. Or shaking a leash by the door so the dog comes running, knowing a walk and a refreshing poop is on the way.

Game enough girls successfully and the predictability becomes numbing. I imagine this is how girls must secretly feel when they slather on makeup and squeeze into sexy clothes and then get the predictable horndog responses from men around them. They enjoy the attention, but at the same time their joy is laced with resentment toward men. They resent that it’s all so deterministic. Women are particularly susceptible to this resentment of the opposite sex because they are more emotionally invested in the pretty lie that romance and love must “happen naturally”. Men, having in general less experience with inciting predictable responses in the opposite sex, don’t get so weepy-eyed for the loss of innocence when they learn a thing or two about how the opposite sex’s sexual attraction mechanism works.

Which is how I felt for a long time. Game used to be a blessing. But then, you get so proficient that the patterns become all that you see. Like the green cascading numbers in the Matrix, individual charming women morph into machines in your mind’s eye, fleshy cyborgs of buttons and levers and algorithmic code, with a power cord that leads straight to their vaj. In your drearier moments, you find it difficult to even hoist them to the level of a machine; you instead picture them as feral animals, all instinct, no heart. Feral animals that give you sustenance — meat, love, or preselection.

The first girl I fell in lust love with said two words to me. “Hi”. Twice. I didn’t game her. I didn’t know what game was, or even that women desired differently than men. But I did know the way she laid down on her stomach on a chaise lounge in her front lawn, reading a book, her pale-skinned thighs glistening in the summer sun as she swung her feet in the air like scissors. To this day, my memory of her retains a spark of mystery and whimsical, effervescent delight. I have slept with and fallen in love with many girls since, but with (almost) each one the spark and the whimsy have progressively dimmed. The dark knowledge of the crimson arts has given me what I want, but at a price. A steep price.

I bought a lover a diamond bracelet. Knowing that excessive complimentary gifts to a woman are inevitably value lowering, I presented the gift with the flourish of a scoundrel. “I was going to surprise you with a beautiful cubic zirconia, but unfortunately this is all I could steal back from my ex-girlfriend on short notice.” Smirk, pause, pause… yes… good reaction from her. I’m pleased with my handiwork. Very pleased. I think I’ll take a step back and admire the moment I just crafted.

I sometimes miss those unpredictable moments when I couldn’t take a step back.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Game, Love, Pretty Lies | Comments Off

The Number One Dead Giveaway That Your Wife Is About To Cheat

Mar 31st, 2010 by

The wicked knowledge is disseminating to the masses that women are natural born cheaters at heart; perhaps not as indiscriminately promiscuous as men, but neither as angelic as the Victorian and Christian ideal. Husbands all over the world are slowly becoming aware that their wives are compelled by ancient biological forces to cheat during the fertile time of her monthly cycle, and given the right incentives will act upon that urge to infidelity, usually with a higher status man, in order to acquire the beneficial genes in hopes of having a superior child which she can then foist upon her duped husband to help raise.

The princess pedestal has had three of its legs knocked out from under it, and the last leg wobbles precariously. Dark robed shadowy denizens of the Chateau welcome newcomers to its velvet-curtained corridors, where the last semblance of naivete will be stripped from you.

What to do with this knowledge?, some men will ask. Apply it!

First, you will need to know the details of your woman’s monthly cycle. You will need to acquaint yourself with “fertility awareness“.

Find out when your woman has her period. The monthly cycle begins from the first day she bleeds. Women ovulate about midway through their cycle (days 12-14), and sperm can survive inside a woman’s hoo-ha for 2-5 days. So from the middle of the second week to the beginning of the third week (days 10-16) is when your girlfriend or wife will be at her most fertile, i.e. most receptive to getting impregnated by whichever sperm happens to wander in during that time frame.

This fertile window (days 10-16 of her monthly cycle) can accurately be renamed “the cheating window”, because it is then that a woman will feel the strongest horniness for the seed of an alpha male. If she’s going to cheat, she is most likely to do it on these days. If you are a beta provider husband or boyfriend, you are in danger of being cuckolded on days 10-16. If you are an alpha husband or boyfriend the danger of betrayal is still there, because there is incentive for a woman to acquire the seed of multiple competing alpha males. However, alpha males have less to worry about than beta males, as women with alphas tend to be happier, both psychologically and sexually, and thus less prone to satisfy a gina tingle through infidelity. Even when women aren’t happy with their alpha mates, and seek the sexual embrace of Mr. Sensitivo for the emotional connection alpha hubby won’t or can’t give her, she is more likely to cheat with the soft-hearted betaboy fling during the infertile phase of her monthly cycle. Thus, the alpha husband/BF has less to worry about than the beta husband/BF should his woman wander.

Since a woman contemplating cheating during her fertile window subconsciously wants to ensure that any fertilization is done by an alpha male’s seed, and only an alpha male’s seed, she won’t want her vagina polluted with your tepid beta spooge. She will do everything in her power, in fact, to prevent you from penetrating her while she is ovulating.

Armed with this knowledge, we now know the number one dead giveaway that your wife or girlfriend is about to cheat on you:

Is she withdrawing sex during days 10-16 of her monthly cycle? Then you, my friend, are about to be betrayed.

If you hear from your woman “I have a headache” any time during her peak fertility, she has either cheated on you, is thinking about cheating on you, or is getting sufficiently turned off by your burgeoning betaness that cheating will soon become an option in the calculation of her moral universe.

Once fertile window sex withdrawal (FWSW) happens, particularly if you notice a trend of this happening over two or more monthly cycles, then you had better be ready to respond appropriately. By “respond appropriately”, I mean “get the upper hand”. Here are your choices:

  1. Preemptively dump her. (Husbands are shit out of luck on this option.)
  2. Game her. (As LTRs inevitably soften men, you will have to shake the rust off and return to pre-LTR form.)
  3. Take a mysterious leave of absence during her fertile window. (Counterintuitively, a sexually inquisitive wife or girlfriend will be less likely to act on her cheating impulse if her beta mate isn’t around to remind her why she loathes him so.)
  4. Preemptively cheat. (If you’re banging ass on the side, you won’t feel the sting of her sex withdrawal and possible betrayal as much.)

There is one caveat. The pill potentially fucks up the FWSW-cheating nexus by screwing with women’s hormones. If it’s true that women on the pill prefer less masculine men at whichever time of the monthly cycle, then it’s less predictable that her cheating with a more alpha lover will occur during ovulation. Betas take note. Your best bet for avoiding a rape-equivalent cuckolding is to date only women on the pill. Of course, this will mean she won’t have any kids with you, either, but childlessness beats unknowingly raising another man’s child any day of the month.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Girls, Marriage Is For Chumps, Self-aggrandizement, Ugly Truths | Comments Off

The Most Obnoxious Woman In The World?

Mar 30th, 2010 by

I wander the scorched wastelands of the human psyche, explore the depths of the musty ideologies hidden within, and drag them kicking and screaming to the oasis of cleansing truth so that you may be entertained from the comfort of your Barcalounger. My crusade over the past three years finding and eviscerating the hated enemies of beauty and truth has finally brought me face to face with perhaps the most execrable creature to stalk the consciousness of the Holy Hedonist Empire.

I hesitate to write this post because the horror you will find within is nearly beyond comprehension. I risk credibility if it turns out the entire article was a put-on, an act to stimulate an immunological response from a healthy psyche. I accept that risk, because the greater risk is in allowing a genuine abomination to go unridiculed.

From a Washington City Paper interview (hat tip: reader Mike), pay your shilling and enter the tent to feast your eyes upon Jaclyn Friedman, AKA “Fucking While Feminist”:

Jaclyn Friedman is, in short, a feminist rock star. She is the executive director of  WAM!: Women, Action & the Media. She edited the incredible Yes Means Yes!: Visions of Female Sexual Power and a World Without Rape, and continues the work of dismantling rape culture in her weekly pro-sex column. She writes as compellingly about taking off her shirt for fun as she does her college sexual assault. And she has been fucking under these conditions for nearly 20 years.

What is the difference between sex with a pro-sex feminist and sex with a pro-sex normal woman? Earplugs.

Fucking while feminist presents a peculiar set of challenges for the pro-sex single. How do you talk rape culture on a first date while still managing to get laid once in a while? How do you find the feminist guy who won’t self-flagellate to the point of unfuckability? How do you avoid dying alone, basically?

I’ll answer those questions for the City Paper interviewer.

“How do you talk rape culture on a first date while still managing to get laid once in a while?”

You don’t if you want to date men who aren’t afraid of their own penises.

“How do you find the feminist guy who won’t self-flagellate to the point of unfuckability?”

Such a man doesn’t exist. If he does, he is lying to you. Or gay.

“How do you avoid dying alone, basically?”

Cat cryogenics.

J[aclyn] F[riedman]: The way I hope it will work is that they ask these initial questions [about my rape culture books] before we meet in person. So then they can go offline and collect their thoughts and then respond to me. My profile says I’m a feminist. So a lot of people who would be really scared off by me, we don’t get very far. When the whole Polanski thing was going down, I had this big argument with a guy about Polanski. First date. And last one.

No surprise there. Though I can only read her words, I can vicariously hear her grating voice plucking out my ear hairs one by one, slowly to maximize the pain. Could you imagine going on a date with this shrike? She’s already arguing with you before the first round is ordered. If I get into *one* big argument with a chick within the first three months of dating her, I seriously consider dumping her. But a big argument on the first date is a giant red flag that proudly proclaims “Kneel before my mighty shit test, and pass or be emasculated by the swinging of my serrated clit dick!” Some shit tests are not worth passing. Sometimes it’s just an ugly, gnarled soul staring daggers of challenge at you from across the table.

Do you have any feminist litmus tests?

JF: I would like for there to be a set of feminist litmus tests that I could reference and use to find the right guy. Right now, I feel like I’m in an endless cycle of asking myself, “Am I willing to let this slide?” I’m mostly dating guys right now, which is fairly new for me. From my early 20s to my mid-30s I dated exclusively women and trans men.

Ah, so she’s in her late 30s or 40s now. That would explain the sudden biological urge to merge with sperm-manufacturing normal men. Experimentation is all fun and games until your subjects stop finding you a worthwhile lay.

I’m not romanticizing that, like “it’s so much easier with women”—let me tell you, it’s not. But it’s a different set of questions you have to ask. I don’t feel like I can go in to these dates expecting dudes to know as much about feminism or sexuality studies or rape culture [i.e., lies], the stuff that I live my life talking about and thinking about. I feel like I’m going to die alone if I do that.

Will your slavish adherence to your comforting lies have been worth it?

Here is what’s depressing about dating while feminist. Feminism is what I do with my life, it’s how I spend my days, it’s my job, it’s not just an opinion I have among many other opinions.

The most dogmatic ideologues are always running on the righteous fury of their opinions. They have to, because one stop to take a breath could mean the entire edifice of lies crumbles down on them from forward momentum. They secretly suspect, late at night when the terrifying silence leaves them alone with their innermost thoughts, that everything they believe is a lie. And so they shout hate and fear at the heart of the world. Imagine waking up one day to realize your entire life was a farce? And a deadly farce at that; one which withheld from you some of the greatest joys of life.

If I had a hardcore litmus test, the pool of men I could date would be so tiny.

I’ve got news for you, my cougar child. It’s getting tiny regardless of any litmus test you might impose. Which, ironically, will cause you to impose ever stricter litmus tests. The bruised ego drinks deeply from the chalice of the sour grapewine.

And then when you weeded out men who are gay, the men I don’t find attractive, the men already in monogamous, committed relationships—really, I would never get laid again. So I do feel that I have to try to be flexible out of necessity.

Older women either stiffen into celibacy or become Yogic masters of dating flexibility. As “Feminist While Fucking” seems to possess a man’s libido, she has opted to accept the dreary fact that her waning sexual market value places constraints on what she can, and can no longer, demand from the men she dates.

But if I were to end up with someone—and I do want a long-term, stable relationship with someone at some point—they would have to be feminist on some basic level. They would have to be.

Hey, betas, guess what! You now have your shot at tasting the curdled nectar of an aging radical feminist who has spent her prime years servicing a battalion of men, women, and transsexuals. All you need to do is nod in agreement when she discusses the finer points of the imaginary gender wage gap. Sound like a good deal? And turn off that sexbot when I’m talking to you.

Right now my basic litmus test is this: Is he interested in feminist issues when I bring them up?

Sure. I’ve noticed feminists are quicker to jump into bed than non-feminists.

And can he talk about them in ways that express curiosity and engagement and respect, instead of defensiveness or dismissiveness or attachment to stereotypes?

Feminists have hairy armpits and daddy issues.

If we can talk about this stuff in ways that are interesting and productive, I can work with it most of the time.

A good marriage will have a higher status husband and a better looking wife. Discuss.

[T]he only cisgender man I’ve been in a longterm relationship was a feminist when I met him. We would have feminism arguments where I was educated by him, and vice versa. And I thought, well, how lucky I am to have found a feminist guy! And he ended up being an ass . . . in somewhat unrelated ways.

Disturbed hardcore feminists are attracted to assholes, too. Red alert on Drudge.

Is there anything that men can mention in their dating profiles that tips you off to feminist compatibility?

JF: Well, this is my test: When I look at personal ads, I look at their lists of favorite books, movies, and music, and they have to list women in all of those categories.

Ok, here goes.

Favorite books: Anything by Stephenie Meyer

Favorite movies: Anything by Leni Riefenstahl

Favorite music: T.A.T.U.

Heh.

I also don’t respond to any guy who says they’re looking for a woman who “doesn’t have drama,” not because I have a lot of drama, but because I feel like that is code for women who have opinions.

This is super double secret code for “I will blab endlessly about utter bullshit while you sit and listen with the patience of a saint”.

. . I also have a couple things in my profile that are screeners, that I’m hoping will turn off people I don’t want to be bothered by. I mention feminism. I say I’m a size 16. But I do it all in a flirty way, like, ’size 16 can be sexy,” not in a way that says, “I AM ALL THESE THINGS. DEAL WITH IT.”

Proud feminist, aging spinster, fatty. What’s not to love? Rhetorical.

PS: Size sixteen cannot be sexy. Saying so won’t change the fact that the vast majority of men, particularly desirable men who don’t need to lie to get sex, are repulsed by the rolls of blubber you refer to as “curves”.

So when you tell people that you’re a feminist, do they have assumptions about what the sex is going to be like?

JF: A couple of guys were shocked that I like to play various games in bed, because I’m a feminist. That’s always really interesting to me. I’m always like, ‘Are you kidding me? The feminists I know are the craziest women in bed you can find!”

There’s gotta be an iron law of the land that states the less desirable the woman, the kinkier she is in bed. Compensation in da houze!

So do you meet guys who pass the feminist test but then turn out to be disappointments for other reasons?

JF: Oh God. There is a type of feminist guy who is so eager to fall over himself to be deferential to women and to prove his feminist bona fides and flagellate himself in front of you, to the point that it really turns me off. And it makes me sad, because politically, these are the guys that I should be sleeping with! You know what I’m talking about?

Color me unsurprised that a woman’s gina tingle doesn’t oscillate to a man’s political beliefs.

They haven’t internalized their feminism, so it’s always being externalized. And it places a lot of pressure on the women they’re with. There’s this very self-conscious performance of feminism. And it does sometimes feel like they want a cookie. . . .  OK, I know this is such a delicate conversation to have, but I want those guys to wake up because those are the guys I want to want to sleep with!

You want to want to sleep with men but your abrasive, unfeminine personality attracts eunuchs. Clever eunuchs who tell you what you want to hear in hopes of getting in your XL pants, but eunuchs nonetheless.

I sort of feel that I get cast in these dudes’ narratives as the Hellcat Dream Girl, there to prove how bad-ass they are because they’re dating such a bad-ass woman. They think it’s cute or sexy. But when I use that smart, outspoken bad-assery to challenge their own perspectives, it’s suddenly not sexy at all.

No shit it’s not sexy. What man worth his stones wants to spend time with a woman always pitched in heated battle against every perceived slight to her worldview? Especially when her perspective is a mountain of lies. Men get enough of that from other men. The point of women is that they aren’t men. But maybe we are entering an era of manjaws and art fags.

I feel like the same thing happened with the guy I dated for two years. He liked the idea of being a guy who would be with someone like me, but ultimately it turned out that he wanted someone who wouldn’t challenge him as much, a person who was easier and quicker to sweep away. I got evidence of that when, within three months of breaking up with me, he was dating a 23 year old who lists her political views on Facebook as “moderate.”

😆

I hope this field guide to Americanus afeminoxious was as unpleasant for you as it was for me. But really, there was nothing new here. Guests of the Chateau have all seen these creatures before, in special holding cells, their cries of torment under the lashings of my bulldykewhip striking a dulcet note on weary ears.

The more interesting question is what kind of man would so debase himself to willingly spend time in such a woman’s company? To suffer the tortures of the damned, his ears ringing with the demonic cacophony of femicunt war shrieks? To betray the last, good measure of his manly essence for a pittance of overripe pussy? What kind of man, indeed?

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Hitting The Wall, Misandry, Sluts, The Id Monster | Comments Off

Statements That Imply Your Higher Value

Mar 29th, 2010 by

“You’re very brave to come over to talk with me.”

“Your flirting is charming.”

“As we’re sitting here talking I can tell you seem really happy.”

“Wow! Don’t get too excited.” [Note: Not to be used sarcastically. That would be signaling lower value.]

“Hmm. Your hands are shaking.” [Doesn’t matter if they’re not shaking. Use as part of palm reading routine.]

“Hope I didn’t make you wait too long.” [Say after returning much later from talking with friends.]

“Your answers tell me that you are drawn to men who break your heart.” [Use as part of love test routine.]

“You have a… different… sense of humor/sense of style/way of looking at the world.”

“You have a quirky personality. I have a friend — he’s been single a while; I guess he’s picky — who would totally get you.”

“You’re not like most women. You seem like you want to know about me more than you want to talk about yourself.”

“Your eyes are dancing.”

“I have a confession to make. I forgot your name.” [You should say this to every girl at some point during the initial meet, regardless whether you remember her name. I have yet to experience a bad reaction from a girl when I said this.]

“A lot of girls in this city come on too strong with men. I’m glad you can talk with me without getting weird.”

“This is a pleasant surprise. You’re winning me over.”

Saying any of these things to a girl during the course of a pickup will artfully communicate your higher status relative to hers, which will in turn prepare her body for copulation.

PS: Try to use the word “girls” for women, and “men” for men, in your daily conversation.

[crypto-donation-box]

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Things Your Real Estate Agent Won’t Tell You

Mar 27th, 2010 by

In various hot spots around the city you will see units of public housing. Usually you can identify these complexes by the disrepair of the property and the empty liquor bottles littering the sidewalk in front. It’s easy enough to avoid renting or buying a place next to a dump, but what if the public housing is newly constructed? You could be fooled into thinking the neighborhood is a charming outpost of SWPLness.

There is another way to tell which properties are Section 8 hell matrices. Read the names. Almost all the low income properties (where there is a ceiling imposed on the income level of candidates for residency) have bright, sunshiney names like “The Horizon House”, “Hope Plaza”, The Dream on 17″, or “New Beginnings”. It’s a dead giveaway when you take the most noxious neighbors possible, and slap on their crack shacks the most innocuous, hopenchange-y names possible. Is this fooling anyone?

I think the same should be done for exorbitantly priced condo complexes in edge communities that are breeding grounds for non-breeding SWPLs. It would be great to immediately identify SWPL housing by its hypocritically earnest name. For example: “Sustainable Living Luxury Condos”, “Whole Foods In Basement So You Never Have To Venture Into The Neighborhood You Brag About To Your Suburban Friends Condo”, “The Super Artsy Lofts On Lobbyist Ave”, “$300,000 Premium To Pay For Hip Bar That You Can Walk To Condos”, and “No Impact Man Used To Live Here Apartments — Free Wifi!”.

I mean, if our sick culture is going to steep itself in lies, may as well go all out and lie like a rug. We can make a game of it.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Pretty Lies, Ridiculousness, The Big City Life | Comments Off

Sausage Fest

Mar 26th, 2010 by

What are the implications of imbalanced sex ratios? What happens when there are more men than women, or vice versa? In the matter of a surplus of men (i.e. a sexual market favoring women), we in the US may already be experiencing that on an enormous (heh) scale. I wrote about this misunderstood catastrophe in my groundbreaking post “Obesity to blame for game” (with illustrations!):

Game has been refined, taught and embraced by men in direct proportion to the shrinking pool of attractive thin girls. As the reduced supply of skinny chicks have seen their sexual market value skyrocket, they have adjusted by pricing their pussies out of reach for the average guy. In return, men have sought solutions to this new challenge in the rapidly advancing science of seduction. Where simple courtship worked in the past, it is no longer effective against the deep bunker defenses of the in-demand slender woman.

There are other reasons for the rise of game, but obesity plays a whale (heh) of a role. A fattening female population means we have a de facto male surplus. Some men will settle for fatties, (some men screw sheep), but most will prefer to stick it out competing for years in the dating market and avoiding marriage until they either drop out or get what they want — a thinner chick.

I also speculated what a female surplus would do to courtship dynamics. On many major college campuses, women outnumber men 3 to 2. I called this a poon nirvana for the typical college male and predicted how the excess chicks would alter the hothouse campus atmosphere: Women acting sluttier.Fat women ostracized more than ever.Betas taunted by a flesh machine churning out display product they cannot buy.Alphas living like harem kings.Alphas in general acting more caddish. More drinking, fighting, fornicating, and video gaming.Betas in general withdrawing more from social life to seek the sympathetic embrace of their computers or like-minded losers in love.Dating replaced by fucking (“hooking up” in the current nomenclature).Blowjobs and anal sex increasingly accepted as virginity-sparing sex substitutes.Later marriages.And finally, a tired rationalization hamster punching in overtime. The female mind has never been so besotted with challenges to her anti-slut barricade!

Since there are, generally, fewer fat chicks at college age than later ages, the national obesity calamity would not significantly counterbalance the absolute skewed sex ratio favoring college attending men.

There was an excellent discussion of sex ratio over at the “Evo and Proud” blog. Especially read the comments, where Peter Frost and Jason Malloy argued opposite sides, Malloy taking the position that, somewhat counterintuitively, a population of excess males means more well-behaved males, since women in control of the dating market are better able to fulfill their goal of finding a productive and reliable Dad to help raise children. Men under such constraints are therefore likely to rein in their latent caddishness and emphasize their daddishness to appeal to the limited number of available, choosy women. Malloy presents some evidence for his case.

I wasn’t convinced, though, because I thought Malloy’s premise was faulty. Do women instinctively prefer the Dad to the Cad, and if so, do alpha males and beta males pursue the same sexual strategy in a dating market with a dearth of women? What happens in societies that are structured to the benefit of women? That is, what do women actually choose when they can have their cake and eat it too? Peter Frost articulated my doubts in a comment at Dennis Mangan’s blog:

Jason [Malloy] ignored, however, the authors’ warning that female scarcity is socially beneficial only if there are limits on women’s sexual freedom:

“Remember that the background conditions under which imbalanced sex ratios have had their effect have been relatively constant from the time of classical Greece until the advent of the twentieth century. Earlier we called attention to the importance of the fact that structural power—economic, political, and legal—has invariably been in male hands. This condition has prevailed in every high and low sex ratio society that we have examined in detail. What this means is that sex ratio imbalances might well have radically different effects in a society where women had appreciable structural power.” (Guttentag & Secord, 1983, p. 233)

“… Young single women are not confined to the home and have much experience with the opposite sex. They make their own decisions about male friends or the choice of a husband. Either party to a marriage can now get a divorce if they want one. These changes that free young single people to choose their own mates and loosen the marriage bond favor the gender that is in short supply. In a word, structural constraints that have in the past neutralized dyadic power, particularly that of women, have disappeared.” (Guttentag & Secord, 1983, p. 239)

Does the current USA strike you as a society imposing limits on women’s sexual freedom? It is to laugh. Just the opposite is happening in Western cultures. If any gender’s sexual and marital prerogative is being straitjacketed, it is American men’s, specifically American betas.

What about China, where the male surplus has ballooned, prompting a slew of opinion articles warning of Chinese territorial ambitions and saber rattling to release the building pressure of millions of unsexed and unloved men? China is more patriarchal than the US, but in the big cities it looks to be changing, the urban culture quickly beginning to reflect the worst (best?) of the West.

A sex ratio favoring women might have very different effects in Afghanistan than in the US. In cultures where women have little incentive to slut it up, delay marriage, or pop out bastard spawn confident that the government will act as uber beta provider, they may well become more chaste, and pickier about choosing reliable Dad types. But in cultures of free-wheeling sexuality, easy availability of contraceptives and abortion, female economic empowerment, anti-male divorce laws, and disappearance of anti-slut social shaming mechanisms, women may very well respond to a favorable sex ratio by opening their legs for every alpha male to shower five minutes of attention on them, prefering to share the choicest cock with other women rather than monopolizing the ground beef cock of the squabbling male masses.

I’d like to get away from the macrocosm abstractions for a minute and ground the argument over sex ratio in something we have all experienced in real life. I have been in bars where there were way more men than women. There’s nothing more dispiriting to the inveterate player than walking into a roomful of Bob Evans. I can tell you exactly what happens in those situations.

  • Women’s egos explode. 5s think they’re 7s, 2s think they’re 5s, fat chicks think you desire them. You want to see an American girl’s entitlement complex break the sound barrier? Put her in a bar in a typical big city with other overeducated, chubby girls and surround with twice as many horny men. Add liquor and mix vigorously. Mystery likely had the inspiration for the neg when he was navigating a similar sad scene.
  • Men become irritable. Is a sausage fest a breeding ground for well-behaved Dads? Good lord, no. What usually happens is this: A small number of very smart men quickly assess the futility of the situation and bail for greener pastures. The rest drink to excess, gathering the courage to approach the one or two hot chicks in the room, only to discover that bitch shields are set at maximum deflection. Then the men become agitated, and oftentimes there is pushing and shoving, leading to fights. That’s when the women bail, because the atmosphere has gotten toxic. A few men remain behind for garbage hour, hoping to scrounge a scrap of snatch.

I’m agnostic on the issue of sex ratio and its impact on the overall mating market. I think there are other variables that are more important in determining how men and women behave in the most crucial market of all. Nonetheless, with a rising male-skewed China and a declining feminist USA, sex ratio may have profound effects on who next will grab the mantle of hyperpower.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Culture, Self-aggrandizement, Ugly Truths | Comments Off

I’m A Zit. Get It?

Mar 25th, 2010 by

This picture made me laugh:

Well, that’s one way to keep an ascendant China in check — export our fast food culture. It’s irresistibly scrumptious!

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Funny/Lolblogs, Globalization | Comments Off

Alpha Assessment: Big Tease Edition

Mar 25th, 2010 by

Do you think you have what it takes to bend the world to your whim? Are you…

alpha enough?

Reader RF raps the wrought iron lion knocker on the heavy oak door seeking admittance to the Chateau:

Night of the meeting, running game Riossy likely would approve of (though there’s always room for improvement), I hand her my phone and she puts her number in. I end with a kiss close.

Me: test.

Her: Hey bahbay!

Her: Yesy 1 2 3 [jesus, how drunk was she?]

Me: Got it. Let’s make plans soon.

The next day, i already had plans to go out with friends. I thought I’d try to stack the deck in my favor and texted her.

Me: going out tonight?

Her: I’m spending the night hanging out with my boyfriend.

Me: lol

Her: Yea sorry if I led you on, I am in a relationship and very happy so I don’t think we can be friends.

I didn’t respond after that – should I have negged harder after the last statement? I think the “lol” was sufficient – her behavior confirmed everything written on this blog – and anything beyond that seemed forced and petty. She was just a six, too, and not worth additional effort imo.

Ah yes, the drunk chick hookup. Expect a flake. With inebriated girls you are best attempting a same night lay, as the liquor loosens her inhibitory reflex. That is the upside of drunkenness. The downside happens when the inhibitions come storming back the next morning, and her anti-slut barrier stands taller and mightier than usual.

Leaving that aside, your game was fine up until the next day. I’m not a big fan of texting questions that require answers from girls. If you want to meet up with a girl, call her, and *tell her* what your schedule is like, and when you can see her. Asking if she’s free, or available, or if she’d like to join you is playing into the frame of female scarcity. Instead, you should be saying “Hey, we had a great time last night, let’s meet for cocktails and hookah smoking. I’m free Thursday.”

If you believe, like I do sometimes, that talking on the phone is becoming a lost art irrevocably replaced by texting and facebook emailing, then you may want to pursue the “trial text” strategy, of which I am an advocate.

Now, when she said she was hanging out with her boyfriend, you regrettably and utterly betatized yourself with that ego-pinpricked “lol” response. The LOL, when delivered in reply to an affront, signals to a girl that she got under your skin. LOL is the spontaneous bleat of the lamb after the wolf has sunk its teeth into the lamb’s shank. El Oh Eeeeeellll! El Oh Eeeeeeelllll! To a woman’s ears it sounds like this: “Ha, ha, you have shat upon my soul!”

Whether she actually has a boyfriend is irrelevant to how you should have responded after she told you she had a boyfriend. LOL was the worst response. Let’s examine the other three major types of responses you had at your disposal.

  1. Ignore her. Instead of LOL’ing, you don’t reply. Some people will say this is the alpha way to handle a cunt, but it’s also the easy way. Does an alpha always have to take the easy way? Where’s the fun in that?
  2. Give her the gift of pain. “He’s a lucky man. I wonder if he knows what a prize he has?” Sure, this won’t get you laid, but it will put a smile on your face.
  3. Tease her. “Perfect. I’m busy Thursday night with your boyfriend’s girlfriend. You’re buying first ten rounds.” This final option gives you an outside chance at hooking up should the winds of fickle tingle blow in your direction.

Unfortunately, once she sent that last ridiculously cloying and pointless explanation, you were left with few options other than ignoring it. Which isn’t so bad. Use the bad taste left in your mouth to fortify your strength of purpose for future pickup attempts.

***

Reader Effect whispers the password to the Chateau consigliere:

I was just wondering on the Alphaness of this move, in a standing situation.

You’ve been chatting with this girl. Mystery Style, you put out your hand. When she takes hold you lead her in closer. Put the opposite around her once she close enough and draw her in even closer so that your bodies are touching and release her hand while doing this. Use the hand she was holding to brush aside her hair bangs moving it behind her ear then following the jaw to lead her into the kiss. (assuming she has long, not tied up hair) End the kiss first, no leaning in, feet stayed planted during the whole thing. Take a small step away.

Kino escalation is often overlooked by men as a vital component to pickup, but physically pulling a girl closer into your body can backfire if there isn’t a solid base of attraction already established. A lukewarm girl is likely to read a handhold and a pull-in as an attempt by the man to cop a cheap feel. Better bet: Hold out your hand, wait for her to take it, and then let her hand rest in yours. See how long she keeps her hand in yours before she pulls away. That will give you a good indication of her feelings for you.

***

Reader valmont dons the black robes of a Chateau guest:

A very important question. I do online dating as a side dish with good results… however, I am often asked on dates

“what are you looking for?”

There was a girl who told me that she was tired of guys who promised her “the moon” and then did not commit to her. I told her that at the present moment I m not looking to get into something serious. I felt that her energy changed however we later made out and I walked her to the metro station. after a couple of days she sends me an email that “she appreciates my honesty but that we do not have the same expectations.”

I mean, she said that she did not want a guy who pretended to want something serious, however let’s be frank, should a guy tell a women on the first or second date that he is looking for something serious too (presuming he does)?

so again, how should a guy respond to questions such as “what are you looking for?” when they come up early in the dating phase?

“What are you looking for?”

Girls are asking you this before you’ve sexed them? Strange. Either you date aging, neurotic headcases or your vibe is telegraphing B E T A P R O V I D E R. There is only one way to answer an early game, pre-sex “what are you looking for?” stinky-ass beta bait:

“A delicious ham sandwich.”

Do try and say it with a straight face for maximum amusement.

Answering any other way will only make the bang more difficult to achieve. Why construct unnecessary obstacles to yourself? If she presses the matter, then you will have to get serious with her. But there is a right way and a wrong way to patronize a woman’s shit testing.

Wrong way: Play into her frame.

  • “I’m not looking for anything serious right now.”

Why give her an excuse to stop seeing you?

  • “I haven’t thought about it. Why do you ask?”

Why give her an excuse to continue harping on the subject?

  • “I’m looking for something serious.”

Lying is unnecessary in this situation, as I will demonstrate below. Also, saying this risks turning her off if you miscalculate and she’s *not* looking for something serious.

Right way: Control the conversation.

  • “I’m dating around until I find that one woman I really click with. I think anything serious should develop naturally, and not be forced. Don’t you?”

If she’s got trouble with that answer, you are officially dating an ovulating cougar who works 80 hour weeks at the law firm and has more cats than pints of Haagen Dazs.

The Chateau doors have now creaked shut. Escort yourselves to the property gate.

[crypto-donation-box]

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