It’s a truism that oftentimes the things that feel good to us are also good for us. A recent German study found that men live longer if they marry younger women, and that the longevity benefits accrue with each additional year the woman is younger than the man. (Hat tip: reader Conscientious Observer)
A man’s chances of dying early are cut by a fifth if their bride is between 15 and 17 years their junior.
The risk of premature death is reduced by 11 per cent if they marry a woman seven to nine years younger.
Every man reading this is saying to himself “They needed a study for this?”. Every woman reading this is saying to herself “I cream for my oevrlord!”.
And in a shocking… shocking, I say!… discovery, olderwomen are bad for a man’s health.
The study at Germany’s Max Planck Institute also found that men marrying older women are more likely to die early.
What about the fabled cougars and their false bravado boosterism for the delights of hard-up boy toys?
The results suggest that women do not experience the same benefits of marrying a toy boy or a sugar daddy.
Wives with husbands older or younger by between seven and nine years increase their chances of dying early by 20 per cent.
Hilarious. As for women dying younger when married to an older man, that’s a feature, not a bug. Since he’s older and has a shorter lifespan as a man, she’ll die right around the same time as him. Hollywood romance!
Bride with her father and mother
The study’s authors theorize why this might be so.
Scientists say the figures for men may be the result of natural selection – that only the healthiest, most successful older men are able to attract younger mates.
“Another theory is that a younger woman will care for a man better and therefore he will live longer,” said institute spokesman Sven Drefahl.
I have a better theory. When a man is banging a hot chick half his age he wants to stay alive as long as possible! Incentives matter.
Maxim #93: The rare older woman-younger man pairing is like a lab experiment gone wrong. It violates the natural order of things, and leaves its practitioners emotionally twisted and in a constant mental race to hyperrationalize their subpar mate choice.
The younger man in such a bizarro world December-May coupling has no interest in her rusty muff beyond dumping a few fucks in her until someone younger and hotter comes along. The older woman knows she is an expedient hole and will never be loved by her boy toy, nor will she ever truly be able to love him. (Women are wired to experience difficulty falling in love with younger men.) Hers is a loveless future of cats and belly roll lint.
And so what you see are weirdo new-age divorcees and rode hard and tossed away wet single moms bleating most loudly about the glories of the younger man, because in point of fact they cannot attract the sorts of men they most want. They wave away their sad predicament with a bowl of sour grapes and transparent sloganeering. There are certain types of women nearly all men avoid for anything more substantial than a few rolls in the hay. Two types that are always at the top of that no-go list are eccentric, deranged divorcees and bitter, emotionally arid, caustically unfeminine single moms.
Go forth, brothers, and sweep a younger woman off her feet. You now have the stamp of science validating your lechery.
There was some discussion in the comments to this post about the benefits or hardships of the foreign girlfriend/wife. I fall squarely in the camp of those who believe that foreign girls are superior to American girls when the pros and cons are fairly weighed.
I’ve had long term relationships with a Russian girl and a Polish girl. Both were exquisitely pretty, feminine, slender, and most importantly for an LTR, sweet-natured. One was interested in getting her green card and staying in the States, but not once did I ever feel she was using me for the opportunity at American citizenship. Both girls genuinely loved me, and I them. You can tell a woman loves you when you press your hand against her chest after kissing her and her heart is racing.
Some claim that the foreign girlfriend/wife, because she misses the cultural affinity, will invariably cheat on her American boyfriend with a co-ethnic. This has not been my experience or the experience of those men I know who have dated foreign girls. When a woman falls in love, she is much less likely to cheat. Foreign girls, even when their conscious motives are calculating, fall in love just as deeply with American men as do American women. They are women first, scheming Slavic mercenaries a distant second. While you may not speak her language or enjoy pickled herring, the tightness of your game and your general disposition and character as a man more than compensate for the cultural differences. Vacations to her homeland to stay with her family for a few weeks and day trips to ethnic festivals on the weekends more than suffice to keep your foreign girlfriend placated.
There is more good news. Contrary to the conventional wisdom and seething envy of American feminists, foreign women make better wives than American women. According to the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services:
“…marriages arranged through [international matchmaking] services would appear to have a lower divorce rate than the nation as a whole, fully 80 percent of these marriages having lasted over the years for which reports are available.” The USCIS also reports that “… mail-order bride and e-mail correspondence services result in 4,000 to 6,000 marriages between U.S. men and foreign brides each year.”
So go forth, American brothers, and poach those Eastern European countries of all their hotties. It’s the alpha thing to do.
A while back on this blog I mentioned in passing that I had a comfort building routine I use which isn’t, as far as I’m aware, especially well-known in the seduction community. The routine was given to me by a friend. Its effectiveness is without doubt; of all the women I’ve charmed with the love test, my bang rate is 90%. For a long while it was my go-to comfort stage routine; I was on auto-pilot when I used it.
Since I’m feeling generous I will share it with everyone here. Virginal routines that haven’t yet gone mainstream are worth their words in gold, so get on your knees and kiss my triskelion ring for this gift I give you. All I ask is that you don’t use the routine on girls if you happen to be in St Louis, Soweto, Prague, Warsaw, Toronto, or the Australian outback. It’s bad form to cross the streams.
As with all psychological routines designed to elecit an emotionally bonding reaction in a girl and to demonstrate your perspicacity, the way to segue into the love test without sounding a false note is to say “I can tell you something about yourself with a simple game”. Most girls, as long as you have built attraction with them, will bite at this delicious bait.
If you are a girl reading this post who remains unviolated by my tremendous manhood, you may want to give yourself this test before reading the answers. Just read the italicized parts and cover up the answers underneath with your hand.
The Love Test
You will ask the girl a series of six questions within a story in which she is presented with two choices as an answer for each question. She must choose one or the other, and she has to go with her gut. Remind her to answer quickly and to avoid lingering over a choice. At the end of the test, you will tell her what her answers reveal about herself.
“You have a lover, a man who is everything to you. He lives apart from you, but within walking distance. One day you decide to visit him. You have two paths you can take to get to his home. One is a short but boring path that will get you there quickly. The other is a long but scenic path with many beautiful sites that will take longer. Which do you take?”
If she answers “short”, this means she falls in love quickly. She is passionate and impulsive.
If she answers “long”, this means she takes a while to fall in love. She is circumspect and enjoys the buildup to falling in love.
“Along the path you come across rose bushes. The roses come in two colors — red and white. You decide you want to pick some roses for your lover. You are allowed to pick twenty roses of any combination of red or white. How many red and how many white roses do you pick?”
Red roses symbolize selflessness. A woman who picks more red than white roses is a giver in a relationship.
White roses symbolize selfishness. A woman who picks more white than red roses is a taker in a relationship.
[Editor’s note: You’d probably not be surprised how many women pick more white than red roses. This part of the test is a great screening mechanism for LTR material.]
“You arrive at your lover’s home and knock on the door. A family member opens the door. Do you ask to be let in so you can go to his room to see him, or do you ask the family member to bring him to the door?”
If she answers “ask to be let in”, she does not let arguments simmer in a relationship. She prefers having it out.
If she answers “bring him to the door”, she lets arguments slide and buries her anger. She avoids conflict and drama.
“You go up to his bedroom and he is not there. You want to leave the roses in his room. Do you leave them on his windowsill or on his bed?”
If she answers “windowsill”, she prefers more casual relationships where she doesn’t feel a need to see her lover very often.
If she answers “bed”, she prefers intense relationships where she sees her lover a lot.
[Editor’s note: Windowsill girls are cheap dates.]
“Your lover returns and you two spend the night together making sweet sweet sex. You both fall asleep and in the morning you wake up first. You lean over to his side of the bed to see if he is awake. Is he awake or still sleeping?”
If she answers “awake”, she is the type of girl who will try to change her man into her image of the perfect boyfriend.
If she answers “asleep”, she loves her man just the way he is, flaws and all.
“It’s the end of the day and time for you to say goodbye to your lover and go home. As before, you are presented with two paths to get home — a long but scenic path and a short but boring path. Which path do you take?”
If she answers “long”, she takes a long time to fall out of love. Breakups are hard on her. She is given to nostalgia and reminiscence. She is a natural romantic.
If she answers “short”, she falls out of love quickly. Breakups are short, sharp affairs that she gets over in no time and with little handwringing. She is a natural slut.
***
I remember this one particularly aggro lawyerchick I ran the love test on. These were her answers:
long
all white
asked to be let in
windowsill
awake
short
I enjoyed making her wince with pain during anal sex.
A recurring theme here, and one that has gone wholly underappreciated by our elites on the Left and the Right, is how insidiously the culture and the sexual market have changed since the advent of the Four Sirens of the Sexual Apocalypse. As a helpful reminder, here are the four sirens I’m talking about:
Effective and widely available contraceptives (the Pill, condom, and the de facto contraceptive abortion).
Easy peasy no-fault divorce.
Women’s economic independence (hurtling towards women’s economic advantage if the college enrollment ratio is any indication).
Rigged feminist-inspired laws that have caused a disincentivizing of marriage for men and an incentivizing of divorce for women.
As I have written, these changes are slowly, but powerfully, tectonically shifting the courtship playing field. The big winners are alpha males and the big losers are beta males. Alpha females continue to do well because their beauty is so rare that they can successfully leverage their mating capital even when market conditions turn unfavorable. Beta females lose their long term advantage under the new dispensation at the gain of an ephemeral, deceptively alluring short term advantage. The modern PUA, an amalgam of the wisdom of old-fashioned rakes and the science of new-fangled evolutionary psychology, is one outgrowth of this massive and heretofore misapprehended trend.
We’ve had 40 years of this informally polygamous system killing us softly, and the results can be seen directly in delayed age of first marriage, rising divorce rates, decreasing fertility, and harem volunteerism, and indirectly through the coarsening and bastardization of American sensibility and governmental policy (e.g., Title IX, multicult suicide pact, AA, open borders, the ascendence of the therapy culture, and just about every assinine court decision since).
Maxim #66: The worst thing to happen to America was women’s suffrage.
Naturally, changes on this scale don’t happen overnight. There was a store of good will and optimistic future time orientation bequeathed us by our beta male forebears — the men of the 19th and 20th centuries who built America into the hyperpower that made France shit its knickers — that will take generations to dissolve into the watery gruel of transnationalist solipsistic hedonism. We may even witness brief moments of cultural comeback, but the overall trend is unmistakeable. We are going the way of Rome.
A few months ago I had an email exchange with Randall Parker who writes two blogs I enjoy – Parapundit and Futurepundit. I wondered aloud what Greg Cochran — co-author of a PC shibboleth-smashing book about how human evolution has sped up in the last 10,000 years (and judging by his online persona a royal prick (my kind of guy) held in high esteem by his fellow genomic scientists) — anticipated the future shape of human evolution would take given the sexual marketplace changes I’ve written about on my blog. Specifically, I wanted to know if the Four Sirens would speed up human evolution even faster than the dawn of agriculture. This was Parker’s and Cochran’s reply (via R. Parker):
Contraception is a selective pressure for the desire to make babies and for less planning. Women who want to make babies won’t use the pill. Women who can’t plan for dinner won’t plan for getting a doctor’s appointment for a contraceptive prescription. I’ve written posts about this on FuturePundit. An Australian twins study found that Catholicism and fewer years of education are both positively correlated with fertility (no surprise on either score).
I asked Greg and Henry about this. Greg says in theory one can calculate the speed at which higher fertility will be selected for. But Henry says there’s not good data on the heritability of fertility.
As for other selective pressures: Greg has speculated that people will become more loyal to family. So the world will become more like the Middle East. Not good.
Greg also sees a biological eugenic arms race on the horizon.
Unencumbered by post-Christian ethics, the Chinese government recently passed a pre-1945-style eugenics law calling for the sterilization of “morons.” The ruthlessness of this law portends that if China implements genetic enhancements while the multiculturalist West either bans them or pursues a politically correct reengineering of human nature, the inevitable result within a few generations would be Chinese economic, and thus military, global hegemony. As the weapons scientist and evolutionary theorist Gregory Cochran pointed out, “We cannot opt out of this biological arms race any more than we could opt out of the nuclear arms race.” Therefore, those serious about either preventing or decreeing genetic engineering should start planning a preemptive nuclear strike on China, and soon.
Time to speculate about the future. In sum, we will have more people with lower future time orientation (i.e., the temperament to save for a rainy day and delay gratification for greater future gain), more impulsiveness (great for knocking up broads, not so great for building and sustaining first world levels of civilization), and more distrust of societal institutions in favor of tighter familial bonds (great for aspiring warlords and corrupt kleptocrats, not so great for maintaining a loyal national military or respect for the law or a basic sense of fairness).
In possibly what will turn out to be the juiciest irony in all of human history, feminism and its co-ideologies of deceit may usher in an America that looks more like a patriarchal Middle Eastern caliphate of their worst nightmares. The realization of the matricentric utopia that feminism has been clamoring for these last few generations will undo the very foundation upon which the rancid ideology was able to prop itself.
Human nature does not offer us a bottomless chest of treasure. Few are exempt from trade-offs, and no society can have everything its heart desires. To restore American greatness and comity of its people, feminism and its cousin -isms will have to be rolled back. This will mean women will sacrifice their earning power and some career freedom. The alternative is what we have now — economically independent women, freed from shame and the restrictions of their biology by the pill and abortion, following their vaginas straight into soft polygamy, state-supported single motherhood, and grossly unjust payday divorce settlements.
Now I will tell you how to save America from this fate. The answer will surprise some of you:
More PUAs.
America is beyond saving in the traditional ways. The rot has metastasized. There will be no glorious beta male uprising. Like one of the commenters from yesterday’s post pointed out, the first cute girl to bat her eyelashes at one of these revolutionary Che Betas will have him betraying the brotherhood faster than you can say “just the tip”. Nor will there be a repeal of the 19th Amendment, though there should be (and, no, I am really not kidding about that. Exhibit A: Cuntrag).
No, the solution is to give the New Girl Order *exactly* what it wants: Game, and an army of cads that practice it. Force feed the beast until it is choking on its own gluttony. The emissaries of the Great Lie must have the consequences of their ignorance and treachery shoved down their throats. In time, the unabashed pursuit of hedonism and the embrace of Darwinistic nihilism (two potent forces which, coincidentally, happen to have truth and pleasure on their side. Exhibit B: God is dead) will raze the neoliberal monolith to the ground, and from the ashes the eternal human cycle will begin anew, strengthened and revitalized. A complete reconciliation with our tragic destiny gives us the only chance to avoid it.
The April 2009 BOTM contest was a runaway. Mr. “Don’t Judge an Alpha by His Cover” won with his stirring video loveletter to an ex. Has there been a more repugnant — or cheesier — case of oneitis? Congratulations to reader Ben for that submission.
And now, the reader submitted nominees for the May 2009 Beta of the Month contest. The envelope, please…
May 2009 BOTM Candidate #1 was submitted by a boatload of readers but el chief got there first. This story about a New York Beta Times economics (!) reporter who was driven into deep debt by the reckless spending habits of his washed-up, dumpy, twice-bankrupt 49 year old Argentinian second wife has made the blogrounds, and I’m pleased to see the concepts of beta and herb, thanks in no small part to the yeoman efforts of your narcissistic narrator, filtering into the public square like a much needed anti-PC colonic.
Edmund Andrews is the beta chump who wants to blame the easy lending of the predatory mortgage loan sharks for his financial despair (he’s writing a book about the ordeal, detailing his descent into the middle class) but the truth is that most of his woes can be laid directly at the feet of his high maintenance shrike of a wife who misspent him into oblivion. Andrews is, to put it succinctly, a victim of his own betatude. He had options which he didn’t have the sack to avail himself of: Avoid marrying the old broad, or lay down the law in his household and cut off her thousand dollar weekly allowance.
Here are some choice quotes shedding light on his Gollum-like shrivelled beta soul (“My preciooous wants the 10-ply strawberry scented toilet paper and Whole Foods organically grown rutebagas. My middle-aged pendulous-boobed preciooous gets everything she wants or no sex for meee!”):
Patty was brainy, regal, sexy, fiery and eclectic. She was one of my closest friends when we were both students at an American high school in Argentina. Back then, we would talk together about politics and books at a coffee shop every day after school. We were not romantic in those days and went our separate ways after high school. But each of us would go through bruising two-decade-long marriages, and we felt that sweet spark of remembrance and renewal upon meeting again in middle age.
LJBFed? Check. “Dates” were sexually arid conversations about politics and literature? Check. “Sweet spark of remembrance” was a 49 year old wall victim deciding to settle for an abjectly grateful beta provider and clean out his accounts because she has a bad case of Princess Entitlement Complex? Check.
After a one-year bicoastal courtship,
You are a loser with women if you have to resort to courting floppy-lobed pussy 3,000 miles away.
Patty discovered a small but stately brick home in a leafy, kid-filled neighborhood in Silver Spring, Md.
Never let your wife “discover” the big purchases for you. You’re asking for trouble. The man should always make the decision on the big expenditures.
Having separated from my wife of 21 years, who had physical custody of our sons, I was handing over $4,000 a month in alimony and child-support payments. That left me with take-home pay of $2,777, barely enough to make ends meet in a one-bedroom rental apartment. Patty had yet to even look for a job.
$4K a month. How many of these wickedly unjust sad stories do men have to hear before they stop walking down the aisle entirely? And at 49 years old with no small kids to raise, I think Patty could get off her fat ass and get a job.
We had very different ideas about money. Patty spent little on herself, but she refused to scrimp on top-quality produce, Starbucks coffee, bottled juices, fresh cheeses and clothing for the children and for me. She regularly bought me new shirts and ties to replace the frayed and drab ones in my closet. She thought it wasn’t worth agonizing over nickels and dimes. I was almost exactly the opposite. My answer to any money squeeze was to stop spending. I would skip lunch at work to save $7. If I arrived at the Metro just before the end of rush hour, I would wait for five minutes to save 50 cents on the fare.
We were both building up grudges. “You can’t keep second-guessing me,” she told me angrily. “It’s small-minded and petty, and it’s not very attractive.” I was beginning to wonder whether she had any clue about how money worked. We were lurching from paycheck to paycheck, one big home repair away from disaster.
When a woman finally relents and marries a beta provider, she thinks to herself “well, at least I won’t have to worry about watching my spending by marrying this flaccid schlub”. The beta provider thinks “Wow, she really loves me!”. What we have here is… a failure to communicate.
Patty woke up, irritated by all my movement and my occasional moans of despair. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I can’t sleep,” I answered. “I’m panicking about money, because I don’t know how we’re going to pay all the bills that need to be paid right now.” I wanted her to take me in her arms and reassure me that everything would be O.K.
Window to the soul. A beta wants his woman to take him in her arms. An alpha takes his woman in his arms.
“I can’t believe you are doing this to me on my birthday,” she hissed in fury. “All I asked for was one day of peace — one day when you weren’t beating me over the head. And here it is, not even daylight yet, and you’re waking me up to berate me about money.”
“Son of a bitch, what did I do to you?” I asked, punching my pillow in the dark. “Do you think I enjoy having a panic attack? I can’t help what I’m feeling. I’m just scared out of my mind.”
“That’s it!” Patty snapped, getting out of bed and pulling on her robe. “I’m not going to listen to any more of this. I’m going to sleep downstairs.”
In the morning, she let me have it.
If I didn’t know any better I’d think Andrews was the wrongdoer here. Women are so very VERY good at absolving themselves of any accountability and transferring all the guilt and blame to the idealistic, hapless beta dupe. If you read me, you can save yourself Andrews’ fate because you will understand the true nature of woman — the dark swirlings of her soul that are hidden from even her own awareness.
“You lied to me,” she told me as I got coffee. “You said that what I saw on the outside was pretty much what you were. But you’re completely different. If I had known what you were really like, I would never have come out here.”
And here it is, finally. The truth revealed in a moment of angry frustration that strips away the veneer of her feral animal heart. She never really loved him. She only loved his money stream and the security his station in life promised to an aging hag like herself. If this guy was any sort of man, he would have backhanded her across the face and threw her shit out the window. But instead he will go on blaming himself, blaming mortgage lenders, blaming the fates, and he will pretend his personal hell reaffirms the love he and his harridan wife share. This is what the walking dead do. They know not the exquisite pleasures of the living.
herbus maximus
******
May 2009 BOTM Candidate #2 was also submitted by a boatload of readers but Alpinestar got ahead of the pack. It’s the short but sweet story of a wonderful beta boyfriend who chooses to stick by his whoring girlfriend (who is so ugly it’s a miracle he was able to get it up for her) and raise the cuckoo’s egg of another man. A man, it should be noted, who the whore banged on or very near the same day she banged our featured BOTM candidate. Some human refuse should just be removed from circulation.
Mia Washington decided to get some expert advice when she and her partner noticed that twins Justin and Jordan had different facial features.
Paternity tests then revealed what had happened – two eggs had been fertilised by two different sperm and there was a 99.99% chance the twins had different dads.
Mia later admitted she had had an affair and got pregnant by two different men at the same time.
She told TV channel Fox 4: “Out of all people in America and of all people in the world, it had to happen to me. I’m very shocked.”
How horny does a woman have to be to jump from one unprotected cock to another in the same day? How stupid?
(And I wonder how she will explain this to her two kids when they’re older. “Momma, why is Jordan my half-brother?” “Well, boy, Jordan got a different baby daddy than you.” “But we’re twins, momma! We was born at the same time.” “That’s right, boy, your daddy put his penis in me on the same day Jordan’s daddy put his penis in me.” “But why, momma?” “Shut yo face, boy, b’fo I smack it off!”)
And while it sounds rare, recent research indicates that one in 12 non-identical twins are so-called bi-paternal, with a rise in fertility treatment and changing sexual behaviour being blamed.
If true, this is a portent of sexual dystopia.
Mia’s partner James Harrison is father to one of the boys.
He told Fox 4 that he had forgiven his fiancee for having the affair and intended to raise both children as his own.
However, he admitted it had been tough discovering the truth.
“It’s a day by day thing. It’s going to take time to build the trust like we had,” he said.
Betas are quick to forgive. If you ever feel the impulse to forgive a cheating whore, you are probably acting out of fear that you can’t do any better. Forgiveness, like Jesus Christ’s other cheek, is the first refuge of the loser with no options.
This guy is in a bit of a bind. One of the kids is his, so emotionally it would be tough for him to walk away from both. And being that this is the “community” we’re talking about, a black man who decides to stay with his biological child and help raise him is a small miracle in itself. My advice to him would be to de facto dump the ugly whale girlfriend and start finding a new woman, while lavishing all his fatherly attention and gifts on his biological child. Ignore the other kid entirely. Put the moral onus on the whore to hunt down the other dad and browbeat him into supporting the consequence of his spermal contribution. I’d also get a lawyer and consider some kind of split custody arrangement. The last thing he wants to do is be forced by the state to send a cut of his pay in child support to the whore so she can buy cheesy poofs by the pallet and fall on more cock than a gay nymphomaniac whose farts whoosh.
Mia is pregnant AGAIN but this time she said there was “no question” that James was the dad.
This is the story of the time I attempted to pick up a stripper while she was working her shift at a gentlemen’s club. I failed at this attempt. As you read my story, try to figure out where it went wrong.
***
I showed up with two buddies. We went to the upper floor where the crowd is usually less raucous at strip clubs than on the ground floor. The waitress sat my friends at a table while I grabbed a stool at the small bar and sat there. The bar was closer to the stage my target would be dancing on, about fifteen feet off, but not so close that I would be obligated to watch her dance and feed her singles.
I knew my target peripherally. She was an acquaintance of a friend. We had briefly crossed paths at a party once, but I was dating someone seriously at the time and didn’t bother making an obvious move on her. But I had flirted and she had reciprocated my flirting. At the strip club, I did not expect her to recognize me, and even if she did I figured she wouldn’t come running over to say “Hi” because most strippers don’t like to mix “real world” with “writhing naked on a stage world”.
I ordered my drink ($10 Miller Lite) and chatted with the female bartender. I made sure not to look over at the stage for longer than a glance and kept my attention focused on the bartender and a dancer who had come by to join our conversation. I was the only man sitting at the bar. The rest were gathered in semi-circles around the two stages admiring the dancers like live artwork. Every couple of minutes one of the guys would stand and march toward the stage for extra special attention in the form of the girl waving her crotch inches from his face. The herbier guys would say “thank you” and put the singles in her garter or even in her hand, as if giving her a present. The rougher looking guys would smirk and put the singles in their mouths and the girl would pull the bills out with her cleavage or ass crack.
My target, Redbush, came up behind me and warmly said hi. She did recognize me. She was one of those girls who looks radically better with makeup and wearing little clothing.
After brief intros, I mentioned that I was there for a bachelor party but that this scene isn’t normally my thing. She noticed my bold pinky ring and asked me about it. Strippers are drawn to shiny happy things like petite pierced noses to coke lines, so I made sure to wear a lot of peacocking jewelry that night.
“Where’d you get that ring? It looks cool.”
“An ex gave it to me. Supposedly the ring signifies some kind of secret club that all ballet dancers belong to. I never gave it back after we broke up because I think it looks good on me.”
She pressed her index finger and thumb around my ring and giggled. I told her to be careful, it has special powers that cause girls to obsess over me. I then ran a pre-Style original ring routine on her. It was not as refined as Style’s version would be, but it got the job done. Her eyes glittered with attraction. I mentioned that of the two of us, I was sporting the hotter jewelry, and proved this by putting my ring against her necklace. This maneuver gave me an opportunity to break the physical barrier, not the easiest thing to do when your target is a stripper in the middle of her shift.
We talked for about ten minutes, then she said it was her turn to dance and I should come over to watch. She pointed at the stage she would soon be gyrating on. I nodded and flashed my patented half-smirk. Patented, folks.
Naturally I would not be going over to the stage like every other hard up loser. Although the girls are the ones naked before the men, they have all the power. This is something feminists don’t understand, but then feminists aren’t very smart. Walking over to the stage to watch her dance and give her dollars would have been the equivalent of neutering myself and dangling the detached sack from her rearview mirror like lucky dice. I stayed put at the bar and turned my back on Redbush, only looking over for a second to smile at her. She had a pretty vagina, her labia just the right size (no more than a 1/4 inch extended outward and right and left lobe symmetrical) and her sensibly trimmed pubes as bright red as her hair.
It is erotically electrifying to experience the juxtaposition of the nakedness of a girl you have just been talking with in a normal manner while she was partially clothed. It’s similar to how a businesswoman walking crisply down the street could blow your mind if she pulled you into an alley and ripped off her starched blouse and skirt.
After her dance, she walked up behind me, panties and bra back on, and put her hand on my shoulder.
“You didn’t see me dance! I was right over there.”
“Oh, wow, I missed it. Guess I was wrapped up in the fun over here.”
“Hey, my shift ends soon. I’ll be next door at the pub if you want to stop by for a drink.”
“Sounds good.”
She disappeared. I remained at the bar for another half hour, enjoying the anonymity of the new dancers who had just taken the stage. After a couple of Miller Lites and not one single dollar spent on a dancer, I told my buddies I was heading over to the pub to meet one of the strippers for a nightcap. I didn’t want them coming with me because I knew at that late hour the pub would not have enough female patrons to occupy my friends. They would be reduced to hovering around me and my stripper.
At the pub, she was sitting alone against the bar, sipping (chugging really) a draft beer. I sat next to her. The music was loud, and made louder by the emptiness of the bar. I counted six people, including us and the doorman. She wasn’t smiling. A blue funk had draped down her face. Perhaps she was tired. We made some small talk, but it felt like too much work. The words, the fun, the smiles, weren’t coming as effortlessly. I felt myself chasing her response, initiating every new topic to draw her into our little bubble of love.
The doorman whisked by us and she talked with him for a few seconds. He left, and she turned to me. “I’m going to go now.” She eked out a wan smile, abruptly twisted her hips, and marched out the door. I never saw her again.
When you start getting good with women — that is, when you begin noticing their eyes light up when you talk rather than their eyes avert looking for the nearest exit — your biggest obstacle (besides logistics) won’t be your lack of game; it will be too much of your game. It is very easy to overqualify yourself to women because once you see with your own eyes how powerfully game works you will have a natural inclination to press your full court advantage beyond its usefulness. And because we have a human tendency toward too much of a good thing, you will often lose women in set and have no clue why, and thus no handle on how to refine your game. Overqualification is like blood pressure, the hidden disease that slowly kills your success as a player. You hardly recognize when it is happening.
One thing you learn over the years hunting the vast pink veldt for fresh pussy is how much more sensitive than men are women to being underqualified to a prospective mate. In fact, science has shown that couples are happier in relationships in which the man is less attractive than the woman. It makes sense, then, that a man whose game comes on too strong could ping a woman’s “cad” radar and convince her that he is too risky as a long term prospect.
How will you know when you’ve overqualified yourself? It’s a tough call. The signals are so subtle you’ll need lots of experience to know when to dial down your game. A few pointers:
Is she nervously checking out other women while you’re gaming her? She’s worried at the amount of female attention you receive and how well she can keep your attention.
Is she displaying particularly nervous or bashful body language? She thinks your high value is such that her less-than-perfect body can’t measure up to the types of female bodies she assumes you are used to bedding.
Does she suddenly get defensively snippy for no apparent reason? She’s crouched into a face-saving posture and her ego has taken over her emotions. Lawyer cunts are especially prone to this behavior.
Does she half-jokingly say things like “You’re probably like all the other guys. You won’t call.” or “Promise you’ll call?” A girl who believes she’s in your league won’t resort to airing her doubts out loud.
Does she put herself down? She’s fishing for compliments because she wants reassurance that you really think she is cute.
Does she accuse you of being a player or a heartbreaker? This is typically a shit test, but remember, buried in every shit test is a corn kernel of truth. If she says it, she’s thinking it. You’ll need to parry her test without sounding too beta. Best answer: “I used to be something of a player I guess, but those days are behind me now.”
***
Here are some tips for keeping your game in check and avoiding overqualification:
Psychological routines like the Cube or palm reading are great, but don’t run more than one in a night. Spread out your best material over a few dates. It’s easy to club a woman over the head with routines.
Tone down the cocky funny. Don’t neg her more than once, and don’t neg a 6.5 or below unless you are an ugly man.
Don’t get too seductive on the first meet. Save the bedroom eyes when you have her in a private place.
Don’t make out with her too passionately on the first meet. Exquisitely tempting lip brushes and dances of the tongues are better day 2 tactics, after rapport has been established.
Don’t hit on another girl immediately after getting her number. Give it room to breathe, soldier.
Don’t sound too “polished”. Say something stupid or goofy once in a while, so that she can make fun of you.
Expose a vulnerability. Alpha dominance is best served with a garnish of endearing flaws.
When you number close, say “I’m looking forward to seeing you.”
If you leave a woman feeling like you may have overqualified yourself, there is a last-ditch maneuver you can do which will lessen the odds that she will withdraw from your pursuit. I have tried this on girls I thought were withdrawing from me because they were afraid I was out of their league. If a girl is making it difficult for you to set up a second date, or she doesn’t respond promptly to your flirty trial texts, and you think it might be because she has pegged you as too alpha for her pay grade, send the following text after a few days of radio silence:
“Please no gameplaying.”
In three little words you have just allayed any fear she may have harbored about the strength of your interest in her, while exposing a delicious vulnerability of the sort that women LOVE to discover in dominant men. If she likes you, she will reply to this text instantly, usually with something like “I hate gameplaying too.” Carry on, my wayward PUA.
Women are not special little snowflakes in either the vaginas they possess or the insecurities which burden them. Women mostly share the same self-doubts: “I’m fat”, “I’m past my prime”, “He doesn’t appreciate me for my mind”, “He’s going to use me”, “OMG cankles!”, “My boobs are small/saggy/veiny/covered by an acre of areola”, “I hope guys can see how smart — SMRT smart! — I am”, “I hope he doesn’t think I’m a slut”, “She’s wearing the same shirt as me! Panic at the disco!”, etc etc.
You mission, should you refuse to be weighed down by useless pangs of guilt, is to make a woman’s insecurities your ally in the pursuit of closing the deal. You want to drive a wedge between her and her self-confidence. The reason is elementary: Women wish to date up. So a man can either raise his own status to appeal to the girl he is trying to pick up (see: Game, medical school), or he can lower the girl’s status so his status seems higher in comparison (see: Game, Skittles Man). He can also do both, but this might be overkill on women who are less than an 8. The last time I exercised both options on the same woman, it was with regular reader and bean diddler Sara, and you all can see the results of that in the comments.
Women are the gatekeepers to sex, but what exactly is the gate? It’s her self-perceived status relative to yours. Or, her beauty. Quite simply, if a woman perceives she is more beautiful than the kind of woman you can be expected to snag, she will give you a harder time than she would to a higher value man who looked and acted like the sort of man used to dating women of her beauty caliber. This dynamic also works with status metrics like educational attainment, because women project their desires onto men and assume men will up- or downgrade them on things that are important to women. We know better, of course.
Men have two intrinsic playing field advantages in the sexual marketplace. One, men have a longer window of sexual desirability. A typical 35 year old man has better prospects than a typical 35 year old woman. He won’t need to settle as far down the mate ladder as she will. Two, men can better withstand blows to the ego. We are designed to take a licking and keep on ticking, as we are, barring rare exceptions, the initiators of courtship. If you want to bang hotter women than you are accustomed to, you must leverage both of these advantages to the maximum.
Knowing this, you can easily improve your odds with any woman by subtly exposing her insecurities using the implements of psychological mindfucking. The trick is to avoid direct assault on her soft underbelly. You don’t tell a girl “I like your low rider jeans, but aren’t you worried that it accentuates your muffin top?” No, you need to breach her defense perimeter indirectly, like a Trojan horse:
“I’m sort of an exercise buff, so I appreciate a woman who feels the same way about keeping fit.”
Any woman with fat issues will hear this: “Does he think I’m not into keeping fit? Are my belly rolls undulating??”
More examples of the art of exposing female insecurities:
Use on a girl who looks like she might be self-conscious about her boobs: “Yeah, fake boobs are weird. If only women knew that most men prefer real, firm, round boobs.”
Use on girls pushing up against 30: “I think younger women are overrated. Sure, they have great figures and are spontaneous and always up for fun, but their lack of… maturity… can get tiresome after a while.”
Use on girls who have a slutty past (thanks to me, you’ll be able to tell) and are worried about being pigeonholed as a one night… hole: “Most guys are too judgmental about a woman’s life choices. I don’t believe in that. Only weak people feel a need to live according to other people’s expectations.” (Irony intended.)
Use on girls who are insecure about their smarts: “I just finished reading Joyce, but I’m not going to bother you with that. It’s a little high brow.”
Use on girls who are insecure about being perceived as high maintenance: “You like playing frisbee? Funny, I never would have taken you for the down to earth type.”
Use on girls who have bad fashion sense and worry about it (*every* girl worries about how she dresses): “I think it’s refreshing that you’re secure enough to wear flip-flops without irony. Not every girl cares about keeping up with the latest trends.”
Note for the haters: If my experience is any guide, women of high self esteem will fold like cheap lawn chairs to ego-evisceration game even quicker than putatively low self esteem women. Especially the grad school and lawyer chicks.
1. I find your comments on recent social/demographic changes (alphas and women rising, the return of quasi-polygamy) fascinating, as well as your additional theory that male birth control and sex robots will mitigate that trend. [This] link supports your theory.
2. I sent you a very long email a while ago asking whether I should A. become a philosophy professor, where I would be alpha in a beta profession, doing something I am passionate about or B. stay in law (which I dislike) and try to save enough money to start a business that I am interested in, but not passionate about. That would help me be a millionaire. I never heard back from you. Your opinion is very important to me, because the biggest thing preventing me from going to grad school (around age 30, finishing when I am around age 40) is concern that I will not attract women during my best window of opportunity.
3. In general, I would like to hear more commentary from you about wealth and attraction, the importance of having a “mission” or doing what you’re passionate about, and ways to increase testosterone (e.g. weight lifting).
4. I think no moderation of the comments is a good idea. The amount of comments you get is staggering, and I think bodes very well for your book.
5. I can’t wait to hear more about your book. But predator sluts is not a good title; it comes across too hostile and angry, like Ross Jeffries (btw what was with you repeatedly berating a woman in your comments about how she looks like she was hit over the head with a checkerboard—I can’t imagine George Clooney or Brad Pitt ever doing anything remotely close to that).
anon
1. The biggest impact on the sexual market in the near future will be widely adopted paternity testing, of the mandatory and voluntary variety. The biggest impact in the far future will be realistic sexbots. Also, a first world economy where women leap ahead of men in education and income is unsustainable. As is a first world society where most children are raised by single mothers. A good rule of thumb: If you want to predict the impact a policy or cultural change will have on a nation’s people, take note of how badly that policy would fuck with the prime Darwinian directive. Because if there is one constant in this world — one absolute truth that cannot ever be changed and will always usurp the best laid lies of our “progressives” and elites — it is this: Sperm is cheap, eggs are expensive. All of humanity’s wonders you see around you flow from this essential and unalterable truth.
2. Philosophy professor. Not only will you be happier (which will redound to your success with women) but you will be working in a context (high status within an academic hierarchy) that will open untold avenues of hot young poon to you. See: ‘Elegy’. Remember, status is more important than money. Money is just one tool among many for the acquisition of status. Of course, as with all efforts to grab the brass ring, there is an element of risk. If you aren’t in the top tier of philosophy professors, you may not get a job at all. Only you can judge whether a cushy tenureship is attainable with your abilities.
3. There are many nose-to-the-grindstone lawyers who spend their youth making partner. Then the money comes. Then the hot wife with socially approved educational credentials comes. And all is good. Until the divorce. There are also many starving artists, amateur photographers, freewheeling bloggers, and night owl bartenders who will go to their graves having been fucked and loved by 10 times the number of hot women than our law partner. Moral of the story: Passion, self-centeredness, aloofness, and confidence trump ordinary wealth nine times out of ten. It may even trump the extraordinary wealth of the billionaires’ club. As for weightlifting, do it. Throwing around iron will boost your confidence major, and quicker than anything else you do. Weightlifting should be like brushing your teeth; it’s a habit you will do until the day you die.
4. No moderation it is. Unless an angry ex happens to find the blog. But I’m not too worried about that, as I have amassed a closet full of blackmail material.
5. ‘Predator Sluts’ was a working title. It sounds hostile but it also catches attention. The other working title is ‘Tears of the Meaty Intrusion’. Regarding G. Clooney, the thrill of sadistic torment is not for everyone.
Email #2
From the comments:
As for hating weddings… we, and all your readers get it. You’ve almost got me convinced to completely stay away from marriage, but I also wonder what life would be like at 60 alone. A few thoughts
– Maybe I’m single.
– Maybe I have a live-in girlfriend (For less then 10 years from what I understand to not be considered common law marriage)
– Maybe I have an adopted child
– Maybe I have a biological child, maybe with said live-in girlfriend, but not likely
– At least one family member or friend I am close to has gotten a divorce
– You don’t have a marriage that may or may not be rocky
– You don’t have an existing divorce/child custody battles/child support payments/your finances wrecked
– You didn’t get to actually try out married life to see if you like it (raising children, dual income for nicer lifestyle, sharing household/child rearing duties)
He’s has suggested filling his needs with prostitutes and tequila, or something along those lines. At 60? Not buying it. That can’t be much of a happy life. This is wear pretty lies die, and that’s the only pretty lie I’ve our host decree.
richmond bachelor
There’s nothing stopping a man from having long term unmarried relationships well into his dotage. The great advantage of being a man is that you can date progressively younger women, relative to your age, as you get older. So at 40 you can bang (on average) 22-32 year olds. At 50 you have the pool of women in their 30s open to you. At 60 you can get a woman in her late 30s to mid 40s.
Of course, after a certain age — 60, usually, and depending on the man’s physical condition — the women you can get will all be past their expiration dates, tragic victims of the wall, so you will likely not find too many of your available prospects sexually attractive. This is where scotch and prostitutes fill the void. Assuming your sex drive is still strong at an advanced age (and if present is prologue, I’ll be sporting mourning wood in the casket) you can have your sexually unattractive but compatible aging girlfriend for companionship while getting your manly needs met with hookers and sweet single malt. No worries, at 65 you’ll have your pick of aging women with sparkling personalities to read the morning paper with you and go on long walks in the evenings.
Email #3
i would be interested in purchasing a PDF or just a Word file of your blog so far (that is unless you plan on publishing your writings).
I worry about internet sites vanishing over time and your stuff is pretty top notch.
danke
a NY italian american in south korea
Hey paesan! Bad news. I have nothing archived, so if WordPress goes, so goes the oeuvre. Like an assassin in the night.
Email #4
I seem to have stumbled upon the holy grail of romantic situations. Or have I?
Eight months ago, I met a super fine girl through a friend, then I invited her out a week later and brought her back to my place to hookup. Then we had sex two days later…without a condom.
Her boyfriend at the time was private contracting in Afghanistan for the moment, but he returned home two weeks later…oh did I forget to mention that they lived TOGETHER?
After a few months of her working her ass off to earn my respect (including moving into her own apartment, breaking up with the ex, and proving herself to me), I had her become my girlfriend. She met my family, we hung out a lot, I integrated her into my friends. We even said I love you.
But it wasn’t love, we just really like to fuck. Sexual chemistry has always been amazing…mostly because she craves my cock and I find her stunning. Yesterday, she changed the course of our relationship forever.
She works full time, goes to school full time, and lives 35 minutes away from me. We had a long conversation, starting with her asking, “do you feel like you’re spending enough time with me?” to her saying, “I want to keep you in my life, but I don’t want to feel the guilt from your expectations of me being a full time girlfriend.”
Here’s the agreement:
1. We are no longer boyfriend/girlfriend
2. Since she is so busy, we will see each other once a week.
3. She doesn’t love me, but when she sees me, she gets horny for me.
4. I can date other girls as much as I want, as long as I use a condom with the other girls.
5. She remains exclusive to me.
It looks like the relationship is coming to an end…instead of breaking up, we’ll just fuck until one of us stops calling.
On top of that, she also agreed to lose her anal virginity to me and take it up the butt.
I’m more confused than anything…should I see this as a victory and go forth to spread my seed?
Dre
A consistent amoral nihilist would say full speed ahead; if there is a moral imperative it rests with the woman who chose to cheat on her boyfriend deployed in a war zone defending the country in which she has the luxury of cheating free from consequence. But an aesthete would tell you that raw dogging the cheating whore of a man assisting the US Army in war is bad form. The nihilist and the aesthete in me are at odds. This is an unresolvable conflict, so I will defer instead to pragmatic reasoning — it’s probably not a smart play to boff a woman living with a guy who regularly handles high powered weaponry and has been trained in the art of remorseless killing.
As for your situation, when she said:
“I want to keep you in my life, but I don’t want to feel the guilt from your expectations of me being a full time girlfriend.”
you needed to pull back, which it sounds like you did from what you wrote. She was basically telling you in typical twisted femspeak: “You’re a great fuck but not boyfriend material”. The reasons you aren’t boyfriend material don’t matter, although it can be surmised that you playing the role of the “other man” forever poisoned your chances with her as something more than a thrill fuck. When women wantonly cheat, as your woman did when she agreed to condomless sex, they usually do it for the seed, not the security. When she said she loved you, she was probably lying. This is a blow to your ego I’m sure, but efforts to move her feelings closer to your own will only backfire. Remember, this is a girl who cheated, recklessly, on her live-in boyfriend stationed overseas getting shot at by rabid enemies. She is a whore of poor character, and you should be clear-headed enough — alpha enough — to avoid wanting any deeper entanglement with her. Treat her like the disposable hole she is. It’s what she wants.
So this is how I would rearrange your “whore’s agreement” with her:
1. You were never her boyfriend. You are her pimp.
2. You may or may not see her ever again, let alone once a week. She will abide your timetable, not hers.
3. You will never make love to her. You will fuck her. 90% of the time she will be in the doggy position.
4. You *will* date other girls, and you will lie to her that you used a condom.
5. Don’t count on it.
Your victory cums in doing what you please and refusing to play her marionette. When that last fuck arrives, and it will, don’t be surprised if it is the best lay you’ve ever had.
There are times when we men can’t help but gush our feelings of love for our woman. It’s Ok. Passionately pouring out your heart is not inherently un-alpha. But there is a right way and a wrong way to do it. For instance, right ways:
“I love you more than you will ever know.”
“I thought about your smile today.”
“I want to kiss you all over and make love to you all night.”
“My gargantuan member throbs for your squeezebox.”
Notice a pattern? Alpha passion is proactive, assertive, conspicuously noncommital, temporally ambiguous, and decidedly non-goopy. Here are the wrong (beta) ways to express your love:
“I’m so lucky to have you.”
Way to demonstrate lower value, champ.
“I don’t deserve you.”
Just what a girl wants to hear — she’s with an unworthy man. This is David Alexander’s go-to line.
“Our hearts beat like one.”
Homo say what?
“I love you SOOOOOOOO much.”
Are you a 15 year old girl?
“You are my everything.”
Poon Commandment III: You shall make your mission, not your woman, your priority. (Chicks dig guys drawing up blueprints for world domination.)
“I couldn’t go on without you.”
What she hears: “If you dump me I’ll kill myself.”
“Say you’ll never leave me.”
What she hears: “I’m a loser who can’t get another woman.”
“I will always love you.”
Great. You just gave her carte blanche to act like a high maintenance prom queen.
“You pooped in my toilet, and I haven’t flushed it in a week.”
This could work as humor if you say it deadpan. But if your eyes well up with tears and you clutch your chest in anguish while saying it, the effect will be ruined.
See the difference? Beta passion is needy, desperate, cloying, self-effacing. Some might argue that the whole idea of passion is to drop pretense and embrace the freedom of vulnerability, but I disagree. A woman’s alpha radar never stops monitoring for beta blips on her emotional space, so the next time she complains that you don’t show your soft side enough, you can take that to mean you’re doing your job, Skittles Man. Anyhow, it’s better to be romantic through actions rather than words.
If you do slip up and catch yourself uttering one of the above sappy beta romantic lines, you can save face by immediately following up with “… for me to poop on!”. Yes, even for the last one.
