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Safeway Siren

Sep 3rd, 2009 by

Standing in the mixed nuts section of Safeway, a blur of blonde caught my peripheral vision. Turning, I saw a gorgeous girl following a middle-aged man around the fruit bins. She looked about 18 years old, at the peak of her womanly ripeness. She was wearing velvet athletic shorts so small that the underside of her ass barely poked through the bottom, a divine demarcation between legs and buttocks. Her breasts were perfection — round, firm C cups that pulled her t-shirt taut. She walked with the bouncy, playful, slightly self-conscious gait of a younger girl swathed in the fleshy encumbrances of an older developed woman. She was a solid 9.

The man was pasty, dumpy, 45-ish, and smiling like a goof; a very happy herb, indeed. His body language was animated and he talked rapidly, cheerfully. Something about this duo was peculiar. This wasn’t a father-daughter team. I gathered my nuts and left the two behind. We rendezvoused again in aisle 9, next to the sardines and canned tuna. This time, the girl glanced at me with big eyes and parted lips, and if it wasn’t a trick of store lighting, her face blushed a pink hue. I matched her glance while the herb continued chattering in her ear, oblivious to our silent flirtation.

I lingered a bit around them to gather valuable information. She had an accent. She looked northern european; I suspected she was Dane or Norwegian, perhaps of Baltic descent. She had a limited grasp of English and, presumably, American culture, as the herb, who looked like he was about to die of a heart attack from swelling happiness, spent a lot of time slowly explaining the foodstuffs for sale and the pricing convention to her.

It didn’t take long for me to assess the situation; she was either an au pair or a foreign exchange student and the herb was the host family herbiarch. This was the most likely scenario. The three of us passed each other a few more times in aisles 7, 4 and 1. Each time she met my eyes with tender, yearning lust.

What grabbed my attention wasn’t so much that an au pair was flirting with me, but the behavior of the herb. I’ve never seen a more joyous middle-aged man. He was practically skipping down the aisles, his gums flapping a million miles an hour, his jowly cheeks inflamed a crimson hue, his voice a confident baritone of manly vigor. This was a man who clearly felt infused with new life. The physically close company of this young woman, who it should be noted smiled warmly at the herb and listened attentively when he spoke, shaved 20 years of age off his life. No windfall of riches, no business success, no winning home sports team can inspirit a man as vitally as a young, pretty woman in his thrall.

Naturally, the herb imagined more thrall than there was, if his au pair’s surreptitious flirting with me was any indication. But picture the likely contours of this herb’s life: A fat and dumpy sow wife, ingrate kids, crippling mortgage on an oversized house, sensible sedan, shit job, depressing neighbors, and a gloomy sunken aging face that young American women no longer seriously entertain with their flirtations staring back at him apathetically in the mirror every morning. One can understand why a herb of this caliber would spring to life inhaling the meagerest estrogenic perfumes of an 18 year old vixen.

At the cash register, herb and hottie rolled up behind me. As I placed my selection of delicious fruits and almond butter on the conveyor the girl nervously fidgeted with her shirt and peered down at her feet. A wave of shyness contorted her face and body. She pulled out a pack of gum which she fumbled and dropped to the floor. It landed on my shoe, so I bent over and retrieved it for her, never letting my eyes waver from hers. The herb must have noticed this change in her countenance because he stopped chattering about the great items one can find in an American supermarket and took his first look at me. Perhaps he pieced it together, but probably not. I smiled at them both and left the store.

My future. It won’t be that herb’s. Hookers, game and, if need be, expatriation to cash in on my Americanness with a much younger loving, sexy East European or South Asian woman. Anything less would be… uncivilized.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Biomechanics is God, Escape, Foreign Girls, Love | Comments Off

Reader Mailbag: Lez Just Be Friends Edition

Sep 2nd, 2009 by

Email #1: “It’s a part of my rock and roll fantasy”

 I absolutely love your blog. I have a question that maybe you can answer, but first let me point out, I am currently a corporate slave.
My question is, what is the best type of job to have to allow one to go out from 10-2 a.m. four days a week? I work a 8:30-5 job like most hacks, and am not able to do to stay out those hours and function at work; so, I usually go home at 11. Lame huh?
I don’t want to be a bartender because of the pay, and the fact that I like to go to 2-3 bars in a given night–I would not want to be confined to a single bar. Being a rock and roll musician can get one a lot of tale, but there are only a few that reach the level where they can have a comfortable life. I have thought about possibly becoming a realtor because then I could sleep in until 11, which would allow me to pursue fresh game until 2-3 a.m., since I could set my own work schedule. Other self-employment ideas would allow that as well, I just cannot think of other ideas.
Being on tv or radio can get one laid because it allows for fame; however, I find these options unrealistic because of the few slots open and all the competition.
(As a side-note, I have been considering setting up a nude photography business to attract girls which will do just about anything (note: not hardcore)).

In the culture,

S.

Any kind of job involving international travel, embassies, and diplomats should score you tons of poon. Bonus points if you can’t talk about your job in detail. Forget the 10-2 a.m. target acquisition window; that’s limited thinking. Your hunting grounds are everywhere and all the time. Going home at 11 p.m. is a non-issue. You should be doing most of your womanizing before 11 anyhow, when you aren’t competing with the late night sausage hordes.

International stays in a corporate or governmental context automatically give you a massive DHV inasmuch as you will be seen as the “expert from afar” or the exotic “other”.

Learn a language or two. Knowing how to speak the native tongue of your preferred foreign hottie is worth $50K in pickup workshops. I suggest Russian and Czech.

Some corporate careers are better than others at infusing you with a PUA attitude. Publishing, corporate law partnership, and Hill lobbyist come to mind. Real estate is good, too, because it puts you in contact with lots of gina tingly housewives and single yuppie lawyer cunts.

By the way, some bartenders make very good money. I know one who just bought a $400K condo with his fiancee.

Setting up a photography studio in your home is gold. Try to get a side job freelancing for a local rag. Submit your photos to art shows. Put ads on craigslist seeking models to pose for “avant-garde Parisian photographer in the US for a major gallery exhibit.” Never underestimate the vanity or the gullibility of America’s urban sluts.

Email #2: “Cause she’s cold-blooded, check it and see”

LMR ever?

The other night I had this 18yo on the back of my car, we had made out a few time. She was naked on the back seat with her legs spread open and her back against the window, I was naked and had just put a condom on, and just when I my dick touched her pussy and I was finding her glourious hole she said ‘Not gonna happen’ to which I replied ‘Well, it is happening’.
She then got dressed, said something to the effect of ‘I lost my virginity 2 nights ago (other guy not me) and im not gonna do it in the back of a car’ and I kept my usual aloofness but inside I was confused as hell.
WTF happened and wtf did I do wrong? Was it just LMR and I didn’t know how to get through it?

V.

Your retort was unacceptable. “Well, it is happening” forced the issue on her. You boxed her in, so no wonder she clamped up. A better response would have been to keep your cool, get dressed, and drive her home silently. She would have gotten confused and asked what was up, at which point you would say “I have to get up early.”

Look, dude, you’re dealing with a Class A skank whore. She lost her virginity two nights ago (if she’s telling the truth) to another dude and now she’s in the car fooling around with you. Chicks like this are master manipulators of male egos. They love the validation they get from hard cocks being pushed up in their faces, and then they power trip by denying those cocks sweet release. You need to play advanced aloof and indifferent game with these types. They are what are known as “primative women” and won’t respond to anything but glorious asshole game.

Email #3: “Edwina Scissorlegs”

Been reading your blog. Not gonna comment on some of your philosophy, but 99% of your tips seem right on.

I’ve been dating typical dykes for a while, which is getting boring. Straight girls seem hotter, more femme, and easier to just fuck for a while without having to move in on the second date. (I’m not even gonna talk about the bi ones.)

What’s your take on chicks who want to pick up other chicks? Any special tips for us butch bitches looking to break down the great straight barrier?

T. (woman’s name)

99%? Damn, I must be losing my edge. My take on lez chicks picking up straight chicks: Probably not much different than dudes picking up chicks. Not that I have much experience as a lesbian picking up chicks, but I’d imagine that whatever turns on a straight girl isn’t going to be much different depending on whether the game is coming from a lesbian suitor or a male suitor. In other words, if you’re a needy, desperate, cloying, awkward, ugly beta lesbian you’ll do about as well as a beta male. One exception might be that a straight girl contemplating sexual delights with another woman would be likely to emphasize the looks of her female suitor and de-emphasize her suitor’s social status. Why do I say this? Because in my observation, every experimental female bisexual couple I’ve known were hot, while the true blue dedicated lesbian couples I see around town all the time are usually quite ugly and mannish. My conclusion is that full-time lesbians are less concerned about looks in a long term partner (and in themselves). They probably respond well to 100% rapport game. So my advice for picking up bicurious babes is to make yourself look as good as possible, wear something trendily sexy (but not slutty), and give the girl a few sincere compliments about her style or the way she carries herself. Try to isolate her away from her friends as soon as possible, and spend a good hour or two in a dark lounge having deep profound conversation on a vinyl sofa.

In related news you can use, what is the ratio of gay men to lesbians in typical US cities? It’s gotta be 50 to 1.

Email #4: “Get in now! Only a few spots left!”

I found your blog on the advice of a very smart guy.  I read up on Game several years ago w/ the usual suspects, Mystery, Strauss, DeAngelo.  Have definitely lost my way over the years as I become more obsessed with new things (mostly poker and some career related projects).  Your blog is the best I’ve seen, and has really reinvigorated my belief in the benefits of it.  I’ll cut to the chase, I am a big believer in professional services, I’ve hired people to teach me lots of things.  I haven’t really seen a business component to your site but am inquiring if you offer customized analysis beyond the blog.

Regards,

N.

I’ve gotten a few emails like this guy’s lately. While I’m flattered, I doubt I will be offering any professional services, for a couple of reasons. One, while I’m quite good at observing flaws in a man’s game and general presentation, and giving him advice on what to fix, I’m a lackadaisical motivator. I don’t have it in me to “push you into sets” or “pump up your state”. Two, there a lot of businesses out there that provide pickup tutelage, game theory, and style advice. Some are good, some not so good. My impression is that the market for these services is currently saturated.

But I might consider doing one-on-one personal consultations for a small fee, or a beer, or maybe even free of charge, just for fun. I think I would get a kick out of helping a guy get positive reactions from women.

PS: Unless you are making beaucoup bucks off it, or you only play occasionally for fun, drop the poker. It’s a pointless timesuck. It’s World of Warcraft minus an avatar.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Reader Mailbag | Comments Off

Good News

Sep 1st, 2009 by

Game will never reach saturation point. There are too many disbelieving betas like this guy trying to gain status nipping at the heels of his betters.

(Link sent by an anonymous reader as a BOTM submission. It didn’t qualify, but it did get its own post.)

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Culture, Tool Time | Comments Off

The Perfect Answer To “I Have A Boyfriend”

Sep 1st, 2009 by

After Zeets’ barbarous romp through the SWPL cookout of the year, the Asian girl in attendance decided she couldn’t get enough of his Conanical brusqueness and the two of them went on a date a month later. Before the date, Zeets was informed by various palace guards and court whisperers that the Asian girl had a semi-serious boyfriend. This didn’t stop him.

ME: How’d the date go?

ZEETS: Pretty damn good. She’s into me, it’s easy to tell.

ME: How so?

ZEETS: Just the way she laughed at all my jokes. She smiled every time I spoke. And then back at my place we were sitting on the couch, and I started kissing her neck. She moaned loudly, high-pitched, like a horny kitten. I wonder if all Asian girls moan that loudly.

ME: So you got her back to your beastly sanctum.

ZEETS: On the ride over, she said “You know I have a boyfriend.”

ME: Oh boy, here we go. What’d you say?

ZEETS: I looked her right in the eye and said “I don’t care.” She didn’t say anything, but her eyes sparkled with lust.

******

There it is, folks. The perfect answer to the “I have a boyfriend” plaintive demurral, the last moist gasp of a blushing gina about to succumb to a torrent of tingles.

“I don’t care.”

Have there ever been three more beautiful words in the English language? “I love you”? Pshaw. Too plebian. A beta’s cheap substitute for passion. But “I don’t care” encapsulates the essence of alphaness; aloofness, assholery, and authority are communicated in the split second it takes to spit these three wondrous words.

It’s one of the premiere Alpha Phrases, and definitely qualifies as One Word Game, the powerful new seduction system which I am currently developing with a team of crack pussy aficionados.

As with all sciences dealing in the nebulosity of human behavior, there are contingencies and caveats in the use of the nuclear “I don’t care” game changer. One, don’t say it with anger. The words must escape your lips on a pitch of perfect neutrality, perhaps laced with a hint of impatience. Two, context matters. As I wrote in my post on handling the “I have a boyfriend” shit test, the timing of the BF bomb will determine your best response. If she tosses it at you right after you’ve said “Hi” (or worse, on the walk over), your “I don’t care” reply could incite resentment and anger. She’s saying it to get rid of you, not shit test you. But if she says it later, after you’ve gamed her for a minute and sparked her interest, then treat the BF line for what it is — a crass shit test, and a reflexive id-shaped anti-slut blurt. “I don’t care” should be your go-to answer.

Forget every other line you’ve read or heard; the “I don’t care” insta-rejoinder reigns supreme. Besides Zeets, two other men have told me about the lubricated reactions they got from girls when they responded with “I don’t care” after getting heaved on by the “I have a boyfriend” upchuck.

And why limit yourself?

HER: I don’t think I’ll have any free time this week to meet up.

YOU: I don’t care.

***

HER: Sorry I’m late.

YOU: I don’t care.

***

HER: I didn’t cum.

YOU: I don’t care.

***

HER: How many girls have you slept with?

YOU: I don’t care.

***

HER: I’m breaking up with you.

YOU: I don’t care.

***

HER: Do you love me?

YOU: I don’t care.

Can anyone deny that the man in each of the above scenarios comes off as totally alpha? Would you be embarrassed to have these conversational snippets of your love life shown on a Jumbotron in front of thousands? I wouldn’t. In fact, I’d beam with pride.

I now predict the overuse of “I don’t care” by millions of apprentice betas. Soon, saturation will mean that girls will respond with something equally witty or with an expert level shit test they deem unassailable. I will give the ladies no ideas here. The sexual arms race continues, straddling the Vaginot line between mutually assured destruction and mutually assured pleasure.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Game | Comments Off

500 Days Of Beta

Aug 28th, 2009 by

I got dragged by a chick to see the movie 500 Days of Summer……………. ah, alright the truth is I wanted to see it too, not least of which because Zooey Deschanel is such a doll, thereby making up for her lack of range as an actress.

I thought the movie would be a clever indie riff on the typical rom-com, but it turned out to be the usual insufferable paeon to the righteously inscrutable whimsy of women and the ingratiating helplessness of the beta male, leavened with a gimmicky forward and backward calendar hopping effect. The lead male character, Tom, played self-pityingly by Joseph Gordon-Levitt, is the culmination of thousands of generations of beta males distilled into one uber beta. Every time he was on screen, I wanted him to get gang raped by a horde of fokken Prawn. Instead, he just goes on his merry beta way the entire length of the movie. Luckily for him, he is good-looking in that nonthreatening way that appeals to weirdo chicks, so he snags quality pussy despite himself. Had his character looked like the typical guy his crippling betaness would have meant involuntary celibacy.

Here is a partial list of the repellent beta things Tom did:

  • He spends weeks pining for Deschanel’s character, Summer, before making a pseudo-backasswards-move. Game principle violated: The 3 second rule.
  • He peers over his cubicle wall at Summer (she’s the admin at his office) like a creepy stalker. If he was a fat, balding old guy this behavior would get him slapped with a sexual harassment suit. Game principle violated: Everything.
  • His first “date” with her is with a group of co-workers at a karaoke joint. Game principle violated: Avoiding LJBF territory.
  • After karaoke night, they are drunk and Summer makes an *obvious* girl-style move on him — that is, she gives him the veiled opportunity to grab her and kiss her right there. But he misses all the cues and takes her beta bait, agreeing that it would be great to be her friend. Game principles violated: Escalation. Recognition of IOIs.
  • In the copy room, she makes the first move and kisses him. Game principle violated: Being a leader.
  • Somehow, they wind up in her apartment and bang, though the viewer is left not really knowing why she decided to go for it. Game principles violated: Relying on your cutesy emo youthfulness to get any action from women. Obtaining the inaugural bang on her turf.
  • Tom daydreams about Summer constantly. Game principle violated: One-itis.
  • He blubbers incessantly to his friends and < Wise Latina voice > Wise Little Sister < / Wise Latina voice > about his love for Summer and how to win her back after she dumps him. Game principles violated: Pedestal-ization. Toolery.
  • When Summer dumps him in the diner, he is shellshocked. Game principle violated: Always keep two in the kitty.
  • After the ignominious dumping, Tom spends months in a deep blue funk, flagellating himself and bringing everyone around him down. Game principle violated: Irrational self-confidence. Alpha philosophy violated: Interchangeability of women.
  • Summer invites Tom to a party she’s hosting. Tom arrives filled to the brim with expectations that Summer will fall in love with him again, and, in what was the cleverest part of the movie, a split screen shows Tom’s expectations clashing with reality. At the party, Tom sees a fat diamond on Summer’s finger and realizes she is engaged. He sees the fiancee across the room, and then runs out of the party, his soul tormented, his penis shriveled. Run, Beta, run! Game principle violated: How to win back an ex-girlfriend. Alpha philosophy violated: Substituting wishful thinking for reality.
  • While pining for Summer, Tom’s Wise Little Sister tells him to try and remember all the bad times in his short-lived relationship with her. Tom then gets all hindsightful, and recalls in crystal clear clarity what he couldn’t see when it was staring him in the face — namely, all the red flags Summer was planting in his ass. Like the way she dropped his hand first when they were holding hands, or the way she stopped giggling at his mincing hipsterly jokes, or the increasing frequency with which she told him she was “busy that night”. Naturally, this awakening shakes Tom out of his depression. Game principle violated: LTR management. Alpha philosophy violated: Unerring grasp of women’s nature.

It’s possible the director intended his movie to be a subversive precautionary tale for men — act like this guy and you’ll be a loser in love — but I think it likelier that the movie’s point was to serve as a nostalgic wallowing for hopeless romantics (you know, the kind of guy who describes himself as a feminist and is always ready to hoist his latest lust object onto a gilded pedestal) and the c’est la vie wing of the aggro-emo feminized buttplugging beta masses. Case in point: Tom never changes his stripes and never understands how he fucked up. The overriding message of the movie is: Hey man, sometimes love hurts. And chicks are mysterious forces who want what their hearts want, so there’s nothing you can do about it except dance to their tune.

Give this movie to me and I would have had a mentor teach Tom the fine art of sacking up, blessed him with some game and LTR tips, and informed him of the bestial nature of women. Then the movie would have been re-titled 5 Days of Summer, because Summer would have run crying from the room after she found Tom boffing her hotter best friend.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Beta, Culture | No Comments »

Email From Mystery

Aug 27th, 2009 by

I received an email von Markovic (the pickup artist who goes by the pseudonym Mystery) in response to this post I wrote. I can’t vouch for the authenticity of the email, but the writing style and splendid vanity on display do sound like Mystery’s voice. I won’t reveal the email address from which this was sent in the interest of privacy. Anyhow, this stuff is kind of insider-y, so if it bores you you can go over to Andrew Sullivan’s blog and read about Beta of the Month Candidate Conor Friedersdorf’s continued fascination with game and yours truly.

Several points of your article are in err.

1. The mother is not, nor has she ever been, a stripper. She has been in Maxim UK tho. I continue to offer monthly seminars on picking up hired guns which include exotic dancers (and Maxim models).

2. My daughter is not yet 3, to speak of her getting sarged is in bad taste, hell it puts a shit taste in my mouth. Her continued privacy (safety) is my priority. Please refrain from playing with shit.

3. Deadbeat dad talk: it’s as if you have never met me yet speak as if you have. She lives in England with mom yes – close to family. I lived there around the time of my London bootcamp, then traveled to Toronto with them so we could all spend family time there for a couple weeks – we roasted marshmellows with my brother, sister, mother, etc. Then baby and mom returned to the UK while I did my SF bootcamp, LA bootcamp, some pitch meetings for a couple new shows, and a thing for comedy central. I move into my new place in the Hollywood Hills Sept 1. Mom and baby move 30 min. away with nanny (a gay guy) in a month. It’s difficult to be away from my daughter for sometimes weeks or more at a time. We video-skype to stay close – like living in the future. I do not live with mom presently, tho I’m having them living much closer to me.

4. My hair is gorgeous! 🙂

5. My nails look fine. Never had nail fungus, this is plain silly. Haven’t painted my nails black in a couple months tho I reserve the right to do so in the future. Or maybe even red.

6. Matador’s hair: yeah he’s had work done: he highly recommends the technology to those students who would benefit from it. Saying wig? Looks like someone wants his face punched in by a man bigger, stronger, and with more wealth than you.

Preselected: When I say I understand women (a mother, older sister, two nieces, a daughter), it means I get it. I get it.

Leader of men: don’t worry, while Matador would press you through the floor, I’m the guy in his ear saying, don’t do it he’s not worth it.

Protector of loved ones: my daughter is not yet 3. Keep her out of your marketing in the future please. What movie is, “fuck with my daughter and I kill you” from?

Willingness to emote: I’m hurt by your silly comments. As if I’d never read them personally. Such time spent will preclude you from playing with the big kids.

Successful risk taker: I may take risks with my career (notice the operative word: successful), but never with my daughter. She is safe and happy. Where did you come up with your conclusions?! Nail fungus? Deadbeat dad?

All this aside, pleasure to meet another person interested in the PUA. Mystery.

What do I do with the text I wrote, send it just to you or send it to my double opt in mailing list? I wonder how big the list is today.

Mystery – Sent from My iPhone.

I don’t know if he meant it, but for some reason I found his email really humorous, and even touching in a twisted way. It’s over the top, it’s all over the place, it’s… an emotionally charged powerhouse. Some of his points are strange (nail fungus?) but I think he was responding to comments left by my mischievous readers.

I would just add that, yes, you do have gorgeous hair, Mystery. And whatever Matador had done to his hair, it’s a work of art. Maybe he should shill for his hair restoration doc. Also, any pressing through the floor that Matador wishes to do should be redirected to superomega David Alexander. A good, solid pounding (face, not ass) would be the best thing for DA.

I don’t have any future marketing plans, but sometimes I wish I did. Rest assured, any marketing will not involve your daughter. 3-year-olds and moms wouldn’t be my target audience.

PS I highly recommend that all the new and befuddled readers who are coming from sites like Larry Auster’s and who seem to fall on the traditional conservative (read: beta) side of the ideological spectrum get up to speed by reading Mystery’s seminal work on the science and art of game. You may also want to read Magic Bullets by Savoy. Then maybe you’ll be equipped to discuss matters for which you seem to have zero understanding to date.

PPS On a personal note, Mystery is of my generation. We grasped the nature of women about the same time in our lives. For this reason, I feel a sort of kinship with him and his mission in life.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Ridiculousness, Vanity | No Comments »

Your Girlfriend’s Friends Are Your Enemy

Aug 26th, 2009 by

Here’s a helpful tip for all the men out there: If your girlfriend starts spending a lot of time with her girl friends, and begins speaking of them in glowing terms, you are being slandered. Count on it. This is how girls bond.

When you first begin dating a girl you’ll notice that she’s all too happy to build a connection with you on the backs of her girl friends. Her cattiness will be a sound to behold. If the world were a scratching post, women would be shredding it to its solid inner core. Knowing this compulsion for betrayal amongst women, you can capitalize by joining her in the robust disparagement. She will appreciate your sympathy and you’ll instill that good old-fashioned co-conspirator feeling in her.

Where it gets tricky is when suddenly, one day, she tells you about the great time she had last night drinking til all hours with her BFF Bitches-a-Lot. Recalling that BFF Bitches-a-Lot is the same friend your girlfriend informed you last week was a skank ho, you inquire as to whether Bitches-a-Lot’s skank ho-dom made an appearance last night. Now pay attention to her answer. Does your girlfriend laugh at your roguery and basically agree with you? You’re in the clear. Or does she patronizingly chide you for saying such horrible things, and then wax eloquently about how wonderful a friend BFF Bitches-a-Lot really is to her?

If the latter, you, my good man, were last night’s scratching post. Your girlfriend and Bitches-a-Lot renewed their BFF love over your moldering carcass. Caustic bean spilling and thinly veiled innuendo were served last night, and you were the main dish. Your dog was the garnish.

Never EVER trust a circle of happy girl friends. If you see a sly smile on your girlfriend’s friend’s face, know that they spent last night cackling over what a buffoon you are, and, if the BFF’s white-hot jealousy breached the conversational etiquette, snidely insinuating that you are:

  1. an unrepentant player
  2. a man ho
  3. selfish
  4. an asshole
  5. likely cheating
  6. bad boyfriend material and
  7. leaving tremendous logs in the toilet.

Who cares if all the above are true? The point is that as a man you shouldn’t tolerate saboteurs in your girlfriend’s ranks attempting to disrupt the good thing you’ve got going on. Single, overweight BFF’s are your absolute worst enemy, because their bitterness at being single and fat will only be assuaged by the cathartic release of wrecking your relationship with your girlfriend. Idle vaginas are the devil’s playthings. A single, fat BFF wants nothing more in life than the company of misery.

Unfortunately, there is not much a man can do *directly* to avoid the machinations of bitter BFFs. Stay a powerful alpha force in your girlfriend’s life, and she’ll humor her friends’ dangerous gossip games. It helps to remind yourself that a woman will never leave a man she loves based on the poison words of even her bestest BFFs.

If you want to be more proactive, an effective counterattack is shame. Women may have a bag full of shit tests and impenetrable bitch shields, but a rip roaring public shaming will bring them to their knees. The next time you are out with your girlfriend and her friends, casually ask the bitterest BFF how her dating life is going. Nod sympathetically as you mention how tough dating in this city can be for those of you who are very picky, and then tell her a good man who can appreciate her *interesting* personality is right around the corner. Remind her that when you were single, you got to catch up on a lot of hobbies, like kite flying and antique shopping. Hide your smirk.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Girls, Rules of Manhood | No Comments »

A Sad Day For America: Ted Kennedy Is Dead

Aug 26th, 2009 by

It’s a sad day. Ted Kennedy, lion of the left, has passed from this world. A vibrant melting pot of Americans of every persuasion mourn the loss, and hope to carry on his ideals in their own lives.

I, too, shed a tear. With a lump in my throat, I have written a deeply felt eulogy for Senator Kennedy. Pardon the hastily penned thoughts, but the words came spilling out of me like a deluge.

******

You, Senator Kennedy, are the slime and detritus of fish shit and flotsam that collects on the stones sitting at the bottom of the Chappaquiddick brine.

You, Senator Kennedy, are the bloated fermented sack of pestilent traitorous lying filth who helped pass the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 that in its effects has been a de facto genocide by another name against America’s majority and soon to be minority native sons and daughters, and from which calamitous effects you have spent a lifetime hypocritically barricading yourself behind the safe gates of lily white oases.

You, Senator Kennedy, are the greasy smegma that rings the pustuled, syphilitic cockhead of a piss and shit-stained gutter bum washed up on our streets with the help of an unlimited supply of family reunification visas.

You, Big Fat Fuck Ted, are a genuine American Traitor, brazenly disloyal to the American people while blindingly loyal to your twisted, fetid equalist ideology, and who should be thankful a blessed cancer ate your brain to mush instead of a hangman’s noose breaking your neck in the public square.

You, Kennedy scion, are an Avatar of the Great Lie, a repugnant purveyor of damnable falsehoods. The people of Massachusetts shame themselves in endlessly returning you to office.

Benedict Arnold commends you.

MS-13 laughs at you.

And I, Dear Dead Leader, do the happy dance over the gravesite of your lousy rotting corpse.

Rest In Torment, fucker.

(and people wonder why I stay anonymous.)

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Culture, Current Events, Goodbye America, Inner Beauty | No Comments »

Stop Worrying About Giving Women Orgasms

Aug 25th, 2009 by

We all know from endless studies and surveys that women have a more difficult time than men achieving orgasm during sex. Many theories have been put forward to explain this mystery, and even to explain why the female orgasm exists in the first place since it’s not necessary like the male orgasm is for procreation. Upsuck theory (women cum when their bodies want to “vacuum up” an alpha male’s seed), bonding theory (female orgasm releases hormones that bonds women to their partners), and mate assessment theory (alpha males don’t hurry love) all sound plausible, but perhaps the answer to the mystery of the inconsistent female orgasm is a lot more banal than any of those exotic theories. It might be that women who were born with their clits closer to their lips have an easier time cumming than women whose clits are a long ways off from their vaginas.

So if your woman has a clitoris-vagina distance (C-V distance) less than 2.5 centimeters, she’s going to think you’re the best lover in the world, no matter how much you smell like ass (link sent by Randall Parker):

[S]imple physiology may have a lot to do with orgasm ease — specifically, how far a woman’s clitoris lies from her vagina.

That number might predict how easily a woman can experience orgasms from penile stimulation alone — without help from fingers, toys or tongue — during sexual intercourse.

In fact, there’s even an easy “rule of thumb,” Wallen says: Clitoris-vagina distances less than 2.5 cm — that’s roughly from the tip of your thumb to your first knuckle — tend to yield reliable orgasms during sex. More than a thumb’s length? Regular intercourse alone typically might not do the trick.

How funny that all the rending of garments by men and women over how to please women in bed might come down to a simple matter of the woman being born with the luck of a short C-V distance. This explanation is so unsexy, but it has the advantage of absolving men of any responsibility for bringing their lovers to orgasm.

“You came already?? But I wasn’t finished!”

“Honey, blame your parents for your large C-V distance. Now be quiet, I’m trying to get some sleep.”

Personally, I haven’t noticed any commonalities among the easily orgasmic women I’ve been with, other than that younger women tend to be better lubed and quicker to cum than older women. (Older = 30+). I’ve been fortunate (or extremely skilled) that most of the women I’ve banged had no trouble reaching orgasm. It’s too bad I didn’t know about C-V distance before, because my natural curiosity for all things beyond the pale would have compelled me to eyeball my exes’ C-Vs while going down on them. I’m pretty sure one of my Russian exes had the shortest C-V in history, if premature vaj juice expulsion is any indication.

The theory of C-V distance does beg the question — why did women evolve variable C-V distances? Why aren’t all women equipped with short C-V distances and free flowing orgasms? Maybe like other variable traits, evolution has thrown a mix of C-Vs into the female population to fill niche ecosystems. Perhaps women with larger C-Vs make better long term partners and mothers because they aren’t being tempted to pursue orgasmic release with every high value guy they see.

I do have some observations about women and their orgasms.

  • Every woman has her unique “finishing position” which she favors for bringing herself to completion. They will want to revert to this position when they feel a big O is nearing the bend. There is no generalization that can be made about the finishing position, except that these positions tend to squeeze the woman’s box tighter. For some women, the finishing position is on top. For others, it’s ankles behind ears. Still others (likely those women who get off on the submissive aspect of lovemaking) favor doggy style for the cunt de grace.
  • An experienced man can usually tell when a woman is having a real orgasm. The gina contractions and facial tics don’t lie.
  • If you date a squirter, you will always know if she’s faking. Have towels handy.
  • Moaning is highly variable. Some women tense up and go completely silent at the moment of little death. Others cry out to their god (“I’m right here watching over you, babe”).
  • I once dated a woman whose clit was tiny. I could barely find it. She was only capable of orgasm through intercourse. Licking and fingering did nothing for her. She said the inside of her vagina was very sensitive. I took this to mean that she had a well-developed G Spot, which made it easier for her to cum from sex. I verified this when I stuck my finger up there and felt a large, ridged swatch of skin on her anterior vaginal wall.
  • I have faked an orgasm with women a few times in my life. Yes, ladies, men do it too. Sometimes we’re bored of the endless pounding. Or you’re not that hot.

I have a suggestion for men who want to make their frigid bitches cum. UNLUBED SEX. Yep, don’t wait for her to mist up, just shove your dry rod in by surprise. The friction created by the intense pain of sandpaper sex will force her clit closer to her labia, thus providing exceptional stimulation. Many tears of love will flow afterwards.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Girls, The Pleasure Principle | No Comments »

Jealousy

Aug 24th, 2009 by

Damian and I were out with a mixed group. One of the girls got very drunk on martinis (fast action truth serum) and pulled Damian aside for what I thought was the beginning of making beautiful music together. Later that night, Damian announced he was going home alone, and the rest of us were left with the job of escorting the drunk girl back to her urban single woman’s hovel, distinguished as they all are by mass quantities of pillows, toiletries, and shoes. Along the way, she mumbled “I just want to get laid before leaving town. How hard is it for a girl to get laid in this town?! By the way, what’s wrong with Damian?”

I though maybe Damian’s same night lay attempt had gone awry, that perhaps his game had gotten rusty, but no that wasn’t it. This girl was primed for his pistola, all he needed to do was say “I’ll take you home” and victory was his, and yet he beat a hasty retreat. She wasn’t bad looking, she had a nice ass, and she was leaving town for good in a couple of weeks. Christ, it’s like handing the pussy over on a platter, and garnishing it with an industrial-sized bottle of KY.

The next morning, I called Damian for an explanation as to why he violated the foremost single man’s honor-bound duty –

Never look a gift pussy in the labia.

– and he gave me his reason.

ME: What were you thinking? That was yours for the taking.

DAMIAN: First of all, I wasn’t attracted to her.

ME: Dude, she wasn’t bad looking. Definitely within your historical sphere of acceptability. She had a nice ass.

DAMIAN: I’m dating two other women, I’ve got nothing to prove. Plus, she was drunk, yapping like a chihuahua, and saying weird annoying shit.

ME: Like what?

DAMIAN: She found out through your girl that I’m going on a date with that Chinese girl XXXX. Then she started freaking out. [Imitating whiny nasally Jewish woman voice] “Whyyy? Why are you going out with an Asian girl? Is it because Asian girls are submissive? Do you want a submissive woman?”

ME: Wow. Awkward.

DAMIAN: Yeah, it was a turn-off. She kept it up for a while. Demanding explanations why I was interested in an Asian girl. I just wanted to get away.

ME: Her inner demons came streaming out. Must’ve been the martinis. Still, you could’ve just put cotton in your ears and gotten the bang. There’s a larger principle at stake.

DAMIAN: There’s a larger principle all right — getting a good, quiet night’s sleep!

***

Yet another amusing, and cringingly awful, DC dating escapade. The great thing about multiple martinis is that it’s one of the few elixirs that is capable of aligning a girl’s actual thoughts with the words coming out of her mouth. Never listen to what a girl says… unless she’s sucking down her ninth dirty olive.

It’s now my belief that most white women harbor a deep distrust, even jealousy, for Asian women. They see the Asian girl, like they see foreign women fresh off the boat, as competitors for the white men they have come to expect will bow and scrape before their precious white American vaginas. This jealousy contrasts sharply with the indifference they feel towards black and latino women taking their white men. The Asian woman occupies a special place in the mind of white women — with her neotenous features, softer skin, natural slenderness, and purported submissiveness the Asian girl comes armed with a fully operational arsenal of femininity that can bust through the deepest white woman’s bunker. And while most Asian girls who cross the racial Rubicon wind up with big galoot white herbs (see: Hope) or squishy pudding pop betas who look like Conor Friedersdorf, the impact on the white woman’s psyche is nearly the same as if the Asian women were taking all the alpha white men; namely, they sense their bargaining power in the sexual market is being undercut by a worthy foe.

Speculative stroll: The martini girl in this story was Jewish. Does the fact that Asian women possess intellectual firepower and educational attainment almost the equal of Jewish women cause the latter to feel particularly antagonistic toward them? You be the judge.

[crypto-donation-box]

Posted in Dating, Girls, The Big City Life, The Id Monster | No Comments »

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