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Christmas Eve Lone Wolf

VK recently wrote about “bunning up” (“settling down” for you old skool types) before the long cold winter drives the cuties indoors with their Netflix and Jenga slumber parties.  And it’s true — guys have a window of opportunity beween August and Thanksgiving to land a steady girl.  For reasons science hasn’t yet figured out, most breakups happen in August, usually precipitated by the women, who then go on a fall shopping spree for a new beau.  This is your opportunity to strike.  There is a crackle and sizzle in the autumn air as the girls radiate that “please just don’t fuck this up and you can have me” vibe.  The last thing they want is to be alone during the holidays.

A good rule of thumb is to bring your A game before the temps drop into the 30s.  Once the deep chill hides everyone under layers of wool and couples start appearing with their hands in each others’ pockets you’ll find your pickings slim.  But there is one glaring exception.  Perhaps the greatest pickup night of the year, yes even better than Halloween or New Years Eve, is Christmas Eve.

There won’t be many girls out on Christmas Eve but that won’t matter because the one or two you meet (and they will usually be by themselves lamenting their singlehood with a captive bartender) are out for one reason — to get swept off their feet by a guy who will take their minds off their misery.  Meet a reasonably attractive girl on Christmas Eve and if your game is minimally competent you are virtually guaranteed to close the deal that night.

The key is to not make it seem like you are two lonely souls destined to cross paths in a grungy hole in the wall.  That shit only works in the movies.  The reality is that it ruins her fantasy to meet a guy who is just as much a loser in love as she is.  So play up the angle that you have so many family obligations this holiday season you just needed a break from it all and a strong drink in a warm bar sounded perfect.  Tell her you never expected to meet anyone as cool as her out on a night like this.

Running game on a lone wolf means you can segue into rapport building quicker than normal.  A minute to spark attraction is all you’ll need.  Once her eyes are sparkling, move her over to a couch in a dark corner, ask her if she’d like to learn something about herself, and run a few psychological quizzes on her.  Then, lower your lids and your tone of voice and summon the sexual animal in you.  Christmas pheromones.

The last time I did this we left the bar at 9 since they closed early.  We bought a six pack of Michelob Light at the local Chinese take-out which is open year-round.  Since all the bars were closed and I deemed it too soon to head back to my place, we found a streetlamp and cracked open a few beers in the cold night air.  Not a single car drove by.  The city was quiet.  The context and atmosphere did half my work for me.

[crypto-donation-box]

Litmus Test

It’s easy for me to tell when I really like a girl, and it has nothing to do with banging her.  Banging just means the girl has met my minimum attractiveness threshold, but only those who far exceed it will be worth an extended edition of my time, energy, and resources.  I know that the things I do for a girl and the way I behave or feel when I’m in her company change depending on how attracted I am to her.

If I go down on a girl on the first night, she is in the upper tier of girls I bang.  The hungrier and more voraciously I attack her genitalia with my mouth, the more I like her.  Looking back on the girls I fell in love with, one commonality they all shared was my reckless disregard for personal hygiene and unpleasant odors when I buried my face deep into the folds of their furrows.  I think I orally devoured the vagina of one girl for half an hour before I even penetrated her.  To me, that is the equivalent of getting on bended knee and slipping a 6-month salary rock on her finger.

If I envision spending the rest of my life with her I will stick my nose into the canal and lustfully inhale her bouquet of womanhood, hardly noticing the pube floss or pussy juice mustache when I come up for air.

Other things I find myself doing with a girl I like a lot:

Cook her dinner.  (This is a big deal since I don’t even cook for myself.)

Write her emails longer than two sentences and properly punctuated.

Paint her.

Photograph her.  (B&W only.  Try this sometime, it is a huge turn-on for women to be instructed how to pose for the camera.)

Get nervous around her.  (Trust me, after many years in the field you will begin to miss the adrenaline rush of nervousness.)

Steal flowers from the neighbor’s garden for her.

Do a version of this.

There is no doubt the obesity epidemic in the U.S. tilts the dating playing field in favor of those women who manage to keep their figures.  The growing bloat of half the female population guarantees that slender women are more in demand than ever, and I believe this is a major contributing factor to the runaway egos and entitlement complexes of American women in general.

To see how this might be so, three premises need to be examined.

1.  Does obesity handicap the dating prospects of afflicted women more than it does afflicted men?

Since American men are getting fatter at about the same rate as American women it’s reasonable to ask if this neck and neck race to the fattest helps keep the dating market balanced and the prospects for finding love equal between the sexes.  The answer is no.  Men are much more visually driven than women when judging the opposite sex for mate worthiness and rolls of fertility-concealing blubber that disfigure a woman’s natural hourglass shape and sexually arousing appearance will harm her attractiveness to men a lot worse than being overweight will harm a man’s attractiveness to women.

This is a simple fact of life.  A rich or smart or funny guy who is 30 pounds overweight will have an easier time in the dating market than a kind and sweet and personable woman overweight by the same amount.  Guys have many more compensatory qualities they can bring to the table to neutralize the disadvantage of being fat, whereas fat women, no matter how well cultivated their other attributes, cannot win over the men they want without lowering their standards to the basement or accepting a life of constant pump and dumps from players on the prowl for easy noncommital sex.

Furthermore, it is a myth that fat guys, through the power of their expanding guts, magically discover the appeal of fat chicks.  The fat guys you see hooking up with fat chicks do so BECAUSE THEY HAVE NO OTHER CHOICE.  The truth is that fat guys lust after hot slender babes just as much as thin guys do.

2.  Does the obesity epidemic directly improve the dating prospects of women who stay in shape?

Given that fat girls have poor dating prospects even among fat guys, and that almost all guys are attracted to thin girls (the tiny population of fatty fucking fetishists to the contrary notwithstanding), the remaining thin girls will see their sexual market value skyrocket.  This smaller pool of attractive women means that each hot chick can date up higher than she would have otherwise.

A thin girl whose looks are magnified in contrast to the fat chicks around her and who is pursued by all the men will command a much higher price — and a bigger sense of self-worth — than a thin girl in a roomful of other thin girls who is pursued by a fraction of the available men who must divide their attention between multiple targets.

In the former scenario, it will not take the thin girl long to perceive her inflated market value and act accordingly.  A monstrous bitch shield ensues.

This is why the hot girl with a fat friend will subconsciously ENABLE HER FAT FRIEND’S WEIGHT PROBLEM, and why the fat girl will try to drag her hot friend into the bottom of the Ben and Jerry’s pint with her.  It is against the genetic interests of both of them to encourage female competition.  They are in it to win it, just like the rest of us.

3.  Do the numbers justify a connection between obesity and typical American woman attitudes?

Let’s check the numbers.  First, I’ll show through the illuminating power of my handy charts the ideal attractive weight for women.  (I’ve used the 1959 Met Life insurance tables for this analysis as they more accurately reflect optimum weights than recent tables which have had to adjust upwards to account for American “grade inflation”.)

Categories 

Ideal Weight: BMI 17.6 – 21.  99% of men find women in this range to be hot.

Maximum Healthy Weight: BMI 25.  The upper limit of what the medical establishment classifies as healthy weight.  (Note that “healthy” and “aesthetically pleasing to men” are not necessarily the same.)  30% of men will find women over the ideal weight but within the healthy weight sexually attractive.  The other 70% will think they are chubby, but still bangable if the effort required to close the deal is not too great.

Overweight: BMI 25.1 – 30.  The weight at which a woman becomes officially fat.  Less than 10% of men will find women in this range sexually attractive.  Men who can get slender girls will not even look twice at women in this group.

Obesity… and Beyond!: BMI 30+.  Over 98% of men will be actively repulsed by these women.

Height       Ideal Weight    Max Healthy    Overweight      Fatass!

5’0″           90-107             128                129-154             155+
5’1″           93-111             132                 133-159             160+
5’2″           96-115             137                 138-164             165+
5’3″           100-119           141                142-169             170+
5’4″           103-123           146                147-175             176+
5’5″           106-127           151                152-180             181+
5’6″           109-131           155                156-186             187+
5’7″           112-135           160                161-192             193+
5’8″           115-139           164                165-197             198+
5’9″           119-143           169                170-203             204+
5’10”         123-147           174                175-209             210+
5’11”         126-151           179                180-215             216+
6’0″           130-155           184                185-221             222+
6’1″           133-159           190                191-227             228+
6’2″           137-163           195                196-234             235+

Now let’s look at the demographics.  According to the 2000 U.S. Census, there are approximately 40 million American women between the ages of 20 and 39 (a range which roughly matches a woman’s fertile years and maximum dating marketability).  Using my handy chart above, we establish a threshold of BMI 25 as the point at which a woman takes a non-trivial hit to her sexual worth.  As her BMI steadily increases, more and more men will regard her with cold asexual indifference culminating in outright revulsion.  An American Medical Association study classified 52% of all women between the ages of 20 and 39 as overweight or obese with a BMI of 25 or higher.  (The CDC also has similar studies on obesity.)

That’s HALF of all women in the prime dating years who have damaged or even completely trashed their sexual appeal to men through sloth and gluttony.  They have made their search for love unnecessarily harder by their choices.

There are 20 million American women at a healthy weight competing for the attentions of 40 million men in the same age bracket.  Even this lopsided number doesn’t tell the whole story.  Of those 20 million women, a smaller number are at the ideal sexual attractiveness weight of BMI 17.6 to 21, given that the upper bound of healthy weight is BMI 25.  The ideal attractive BMI is about half the total healthy BMI, so the number of slender babes that are maximally attractive to the vast majority of men is really in the neighborhood of 10 million.  Remember that this analysis does not factor in facial ugliness which would surely whittle away at the number of attractive women further.

Finally, we must stipulate that the tendency of women as they age to date increasingly older men than themselves means that the figure of 40 million men is actually too low.  Extending the dating market of men to age 50 adds another 20 million to their total number.  Controlling for marriage makes no difference because the ratio of single men to single women remains the same.

This brings us to the final tally of potentially 60 million men hotly pursuing 10 million women.  That’s a 6 to 1 dating ratio.  Talk about a stacked deck.

If you want to know why American women have such unrealistic expectations, ridiculously out-of-sync standards, neurotically overblown egos, schizophrenic flakiness, and chronic selfishness –
it’s all in the numbers.
the fat, porky, tubby numbers. 

[crypto-donation-box]

How The Mighty Have Fallen

I have this old friend who used to be a guy’s guy.  Loved guy stuff , did guy things, and nurtured fierce loyalty to his guy clan of close buddies.  He was a ferocious looking beast with a barrel chest as deep as it was wide who could hip check and shoulder blast his way through any club crowd to get to the bar or a girl he wanted to meet.  His bumpngrinding was legendary.  As was his profuse sweating, which beaded up in great rivulets on his expansive simian brow as he danced under the hot club lights, stopping only to dab at the torrent of perspiration with fistfuls of cocktail napkins.  He was a magnificent distillation of pure testosterone.

We called him Silverback.

Then he met a girl, and suddenly Saturday afternoons were dedicated to throw pillow shopping.

Then he moved in with this girl, and his high-flying nightlife rompnstomping days were over.

Then he married this girl, and he dove headfirst into climbing the corporate ladder knowing one day he’d have to support a family in that perfect city for raising kids… Manhattan.

Now we hardly ever hear from him except for those times when his beloved is busy doing her own thing and he has a minute to spare in between catering to her needs.  This usually amounts to a 1.5 minute interim phone call from a park bench while he’s waiting to pick up his wife from her vegetarian yoga class.  Or, even better, a 30 second shout out from inside a cab when it is obvious from the background sound of his wife sitting next to him talking to someone else on her phone that he has been granted a brief window of opportunity to call a buddy.  The phone call invariably ends as soon as his wife’s call is over.

Me:  So how much time you got left to talk?
Silverback:  Come on, man, you know I can talk as long as I like.
Me:  She’s still on the line, then?
Silverback:  She does her own thing, I do mine.
Me:  OK, so how’s the new job going?
Silverback’s Wife:  Hey, honey, that was XXX.  Who’re you talking to?
Silverback:  Gotta go, bro.  *CLICK*

Now his wife is pretty, and young, and headstrong, and probably out of his league, so it’s understandable that he’d bend a little to accommodate her lifestyle.

But to go from Silverback to this? 


take me boutique shopping! 

The crack of that whip echoed through the hills and valleys of the Kingdom of Manhood.

[crypto-donation-box]

Toothbrush Game

There’s always a tense moment in the bright light of the morning after a stumbling late night hookup when the girl needs to use the bathroom and you feel a rush of anxiety as you wonder what personal items you have prominently displayed on your sink.  Eyebrow tweezers?  Check.  Five different facial scrubs and masks?  Check.  An old piece of used floss with bits of debris still on it that missed the garbage can?  Check.  And the state of cleanliness of your throne.  Did you leave the seat up providing her with a glorious panoramic view of your urine and pube encrusted toilet rim?

If you intend to fully embrace the role of skirt-chaser then keeping your bathroom in order and sparkling clean with potentially embarrassing personal effects hidden from sight will have to be a daily ritual.  Having a fresh spare toothbrush is one of those priorities.  A girl will receive your appendages into her womanhood but will balk at using your toothbrush.

Me:  There’s a toothbrush on the sink for you.
Her:  Why do you have a second toothbrush?
Me:  Umm… in case I drop mine in the toilet bowl.
Her:  Do you always stand over the toilet bowl when you’re brushing your teeth?
Me:  Yes, I pee and brush at the same time.  I like to multitask.
Her:  It’s frayed.
Me:  What?
Her:  The bristles are frayed.  Who else used this?
Me:  I probably did in the middle of the night.  It’s hard to tell which is which.
Her:  I can’t brush with this.
Me:  Look, if it bothers you that much use your finger.

There’s no way around the toothbrush conundrum except to have a new brush still in its original packaging ready to go for each girl.  I don’t want to run a dentist’s office or waste a toothbrush on the mouth of a one night stand, so they get a frayed brush now.  If they protest too much at least I know I’m dealing with an anal retentive freak.

Instead of pressing the matter she gamely ignored it.  That’s all girls really need — a ridiculous excuse so they can continue loving you.

[crypto-donation-box]

I Can’t Make This Shit Up

There was a shitstorm recently from offended female lawyers about my post on judging a woman’s femininity, sexual adventurism and relationship-worthiness based on her job.  I was tough on a number of different kinds of careerist chicks, but it was the lawyers who took the most umbrage and came out swinging their clitdicks with a vengeance, thereby proving my point in the most satisfactory way possible.

I’ve relied on my experience dating lawyers to bring my readers valuable first-hand knowledge of their inherent afeminine bitterbitch blackened souls of ballcuttery.  Truly, female lawyers (with one, OK, maybe two, exceptions) are a special breed of succubus you will not feel the slightest bit of guilt dumping a violent fuck into and leaving before the cum has crusted up on her face.

Sometimes, though, one man’s experiences aren’t enough to convince men thinking about dating a lawyer.  So we have stories like this to hammer home the message.

 Elana and David Glatt have filed a $400,000 suit against an Upper East Side florist, charging it caused them “extreme disappointment, distress and embarrassment” on what was supposed to be the greatest day of their lives by providing the wrong-colored hydrangeas for their Aug. 11 nuptials.

[…]

“After spending nearly $30,000 and over 12 months planning the flowers for their wedding, the flowers were not even close to what plaintiffs had bargained and paid for,” the Glatts charge.

[…]

“They sent us 200, 250 e-mails changing things up until the last minute. We did everything they wanted,” [the florist] said.

[…]

The suit says that was a disastrous difference, because “colors had been specifically chosen to match the tones of the room.”

As self-parody goes, this is high art.

Leaving aside the legal issues here and the exhorbitant damages she’s seeking, just try to imagine what it would be like to pledge your lifelong devotion to a woman who would spend $30K on wedding flowers and email the florist over 200 times with updated requests for getting the arrangements just right.  Is there any man alive who, if he were in the groom’s shoes, wouldn’t feel like an afterthought at a wedding like that?  A woman who is more in love with the wedding ceremony than with the man she is marrying = classic American cunt.

I can just picture what their marriage is going to be like:

“You got the regular 3-ply?  I TOLD you to get the strawberry scented 6-ply toilet paper!  WHY can’t you do anything right??  Only the little people get chafed assholes!!!”

Here is a photo of the hell cat:


i win cases with my adam’s apple!

Look closely.  Notice the alpha male glare in her eyes, the kind of aggressive glee you normally see on the face of a used car salesman who’s just suckered you into forking over full price for a lemon.  Her clenched jaw which says she is ready to do battle, anywhere, anytime.  The severe, triple-lacquered hairstyle with not one stray strand daring to spring out of line suggesting in her a tendency to view the sex act as either a necessary annoyance on the way to getting what she wants or a stress reliever before a big day at the office crushing testicles.  And is that a power suit with shoulder pads?

In short, nothing about this woman hints at anything feminine.  She sold her yin to the devil for a gift registry of wealth and taste.  Her sense of entitlement is so bloated no man could possibly keep his dignity and satisfy her at the same time.  And she doesn’t even have the saving grace of being hot.  Which brings us to the husband.  What kind of man marries a woman like this?  The answer is in the photo:

Elana Glatt and her husband David and mol Tobi are suing high-end Posy Floral Design, at 72ND Street,145 E. 72nd St., New York,


no, really, we’re in love.

Merry douchemas!  This guy looks like he’s already pre-emptively cheating on her and high-fiving his buddies about it over beers at Scores.  I’m wishing with my mind that he’ll do to his wife what Chad did to that deaf girl in the movie “In the Company of Men” and then excuse himself from humanity and get run over by a bus.

What we have in this case study is the epitome of everything that is wrong with 21st century American womanhood.  Luckily, all indicators are that these simulacra of women are having fewer kids than their more nurturing and traditional sisters, so I expect the wave of fembots currently clawing their way through the corporate machine to eventually dwindle to irrelevant numbers.

As much as you desperately want to believe your hard work and ivy league credentials matters to your mating prospects, ladies, men don’t give a shit what you do for a living.  In fact, as this story illustrates, your high-powered career will make you less of a catch, not more.  Men compete with other men all day long; the last thing they want is to come home and lock horns with ballbusting women.  And lawyers, being the generic parasites they are, are the worst of the worst.

On a related subject, I’d like any readers to find studies, if they exist, on number of children per woman by occupation.  I’d bet good money that lawyers are less fecund than elementary school teachers.

[crypto-donation-box]

Interracial Loving

My first dating experience years ago with a black girl was a positive one.  She was really cute with a penchant for wearing stiletto heels and a habit of flaky behavior that I found endearing.  I remember the reactions we got walking down the street together holding hands.  Most people let their glances linger a fraction of a second longer than they otherwise would have.  In hindsight, I understood why this might’ve created some curiosity in people; a white man with a black woman is one of the rarer combos.  Onlookers naturally want to figure out what’s bringing us two together, so they examine us for clues, maybe like matching shoes or to see if I was acting black or she was acting white.

I don’t give these things too much thought when I’m out with a girl of another race because I like to throw all my mental energy into enjoying the woman rather than overanalyzing the societal implications of our pairing.

But while we were dating some things did catch my attention.  The black guys we passed on the sidewalk stared at us longer than other people did and made Hmm mm damn sounds which I can only describe as a mixture of disapproval and respect.

The black women we walked by, on the other hand, had a much stronger reaction.  Curious and aroused, they eye loved me like I was the filet mignon of manmeat.  I think I could have given every one of them an open invitation to join me and my date later in the evening for a night of 50 on 1 group sex that would have qualified for the Gold Edition Penthouse Forum.

I recall the sex pretty vividly because she was exotic new territory for me.  I’ll admit I was intimidated when we started banging because I figured most of her experience was with black guys and their huge schlongs.  She climbed on top and a wave of relief swept over me when I hit her cervical wall.  I was big enough for her.

This next part I’m about to describe is a little racy, so those with small children may want to cover their kids’ eyes with their hands.  After a while we barebacked raw dogged it (thanks, roosh) and the money shots were incredibly stimulating for me.  I loved how aesthetically pleasing was the contrast between the white jizz and the black skin.  Like modern art, the geometric arrangement and bold ejaculatory strokes set against the dark canvas of her smooth skin prompted me to admire my handiwork like I was pausing in front of a particularly abstruse painting in a museum to contemplate its majesty.  Plus, it made finding the mess easier for cleanup.

We drifted apart quickly, but it was the age difference — or maybe my poor bump and grinding dancefloor skills — not the race difference, that was primarily responsible.  Though in thinking about it, I wonder if we had stayed together the racial differences wouldn’t’ve intruded at some point.  We didn’t date long enough for any “race issues” to potentially become a factor.  Nevertheless, I have fond memories.  Actually, I have fond memories from almost every girl I’ve let into my life.

Except the lawyers.  *shudder*

[crypto-donation-box]

Sex Machine

I strongly suspect there is a correlation between a woman’s body type and her preferred method of lovemaking.

Narrow hips + muscular upper body + high and tight ass + abs + dark forearm hair = Fucks like a man.


built to be on top with a riding crop

Curvy hips + baby fat + wide and plump ass + delicate upper body + small belly pouch = Makes love.


oxytocin factory

The farther a woman is from the ideal feminine, the more likely she will be to fuck like a sex machine, all pistons and friction.  She will be the type of girl who is not as emotionally hollowed by bed-hopping.

The closer a woman gets to the superfeminine in body shape, facial features, and temperament, the more submissive and tender will be her lovemaking.  For her, the culmination of the act is not in orgasm but in the bonding and the joy of knowing she is pleasing her lover.  Expect her legs to wrap around you during sex in a subconscious display of possession. 

[crypto-donation-box]

Signs Of Sluttiness

There are a few red flags that tip me off about a girl’s sexual history.  I’m a big fan of loose girls as they make my job easier, but there’s no doubt a girl who has spread for you, your friends, your father, mr. ed loses some luster in my eyes.

If I take a girl back to her place for the first time and her roommates act like my presence is no big deal, I lower my opinion of her.  I’m a guy these roommates have never met before, there to engage in explicit acts of defilement, and they’re coming up to me shaking my hand all smiles and telling me to make myself comfortable and would I like anything to drink?  This is how that gets processed in my brain:

Just another guy that XXX has brought back with her.  We’re so accustomed to this by now the shock and awe has worn off.  In fact, maybe I should tell him the house rules about disposing of used condoms.

Here’s a hint, ladies.  When I go back to your place and you have roommates, I want your roomies scurrying like rats looking for a dark place to hide.  I do not want it to be the View with special male guest.  Unless your roommates are cute females open to group sex, nothing kills the passion faster than a nonchalant hippie commune vibe.

***

I appreciate a girl who asks if I have a condom.  But when I don’t and she reaches into her nightstand to get one I don’t want to see six different varieties (especially Trojan Magnum) in half-empty econoboxes tumble out.  Again, this is what I’m thinking:

So you work as a condom quality control tester.  After much trial and error with repeated penetrations from an assortment of penis shapes and sizes you have zeroed in on your favorite brand.

“Happen” to have one lying around.  Ignorance is bliss.

***

Spontaneous dirty talk is hot.  Sex talk that sounds like either you watch a lot of porn and are trying to mimic a pornstar (which is kinda pathetic) or it was rehearsed over and over again with many different guys until you got it just right is not hot.  I don’t want our intimacy to sound scripted.

Yeah, right there, fuck me right there.  yeah you like it there don’t you?  Oh yeah, a little harder.  Harder.  HARDER!  you want some of this?  you like my tight pussy?  stick it in me deep.  all the way in.  fuck me fuck me fuck me oh yeah i’m a bad girl aren’t i? you like a bad girl dontcha?  oh yeah your cock is soo big it feels soo good a little more like that just like that.  you love jamming it into my hot wet tight pussy…

Sometimes silence is golden.  A soft moan goes a long way.

[crypto-donation-box]

Best Costume Ever

Related: Worst Costume Ever.

[crypto-donation-box]

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