Something that troubled me for a long time, but in a vague way where I couldn't put my finger on it, is the pressure that society exerts on people to insert themselves into a specific context. It took into my late 20s before the rough outlines of the problem took shape. Society, it turns out, demands that you define yourself as a bunch of things. You're supposed to be a gender, a race, a religion, a political affialiation, etc.
When I was a teenager, one of the biggest difficulties I faced is that I didn't define myself as anything in particular. I was smart, but I definitely knew I didn't want to be one of the smart kids. If you have any experience of American society, you know that the smart kids are not the place to be. Being a smart kid carries with it a certain aspiration. You're supposed to want to achieve some list of upper middle class things that matter. Good grades. Good college. Good job. Good life.
None of that really rung true for me. I've never enjoyed doing things from a list. I bore too easily for that to work.
I also completely whiffed on the importance of carving out an identity, contextualizing myself. I mean, it literally never crossed my mind that I was supposed to be defining myself when I was growing up. Even now, with an understanding of the idea, it feels very alien to me.
Not just socially alien. I mean, alien in the sense that you would feel extremely fucking stupid if everyone expected you to glue a fake third arm to your torso and use it because that's what they do. It wouldn't matter whether you glued the arm or not. Glue it on, and you'll feel like a fucking idiot because you don't need a third arm, so fuck that. Don't glue it on, and you'll still live with the weird realization that everyone glues on a fake third arm they don't need.
I've never been someone to put on a performance for others. I don't mean that in the sense that people do when they say, "I'm keepin shit real." Keepin it real is just a performance focused on conspicuous authenticity. It's still a performance conducted for the benefit of others in understand how you contextualize yourself in the tribe. You're the realest motherfucker who ever realed. Basically, modern hipsterism.
What always confused me when I was younger, though, was the anger that comes back when you refuse to perform for others. I'm not talking the nee-neener stuff that's typical of dumb human bullying. I'm talking the sub-psychotic rage that people feel when you don't give them an opening to get what they want.
The Contract of Mutual Performance
Part of the implied contract of the great human circlejerk is that I'll perform for you, and you'll perform for me. If I do all the steps to the dance, then I'll get the reward I want.
It's astonishing how embedded this is. You see it when you fail to perform your half of the dance, and that ultimately leads to them being denied the reward they seek. I've seen people literally go into blue screen of death mode. I've seen a lot more of them blow up to try to instigate shit.
The assumption baked into all human interactions is that everyone is involved in a game. If you fail to give someone their reward for playing the game, it's a judgment upon them. Shit doesn't just happen. The net effect is that people get pissed when they don't get theirs, even if you've displayed zero interest in doing the dance with them. It's your job, as a member of a society, to play the game.
What's funny is that human beings don't react by assuming you're an alien to their society. Again, shit doesn't just happen. You've devalidated them, and that triggers a rush of angry emotions.
People will do one of two things:
1) They will try to explain you away, but within a context that suits them.
2) They will get angry.
The funny thing about explaining you away is that the context still has to fit their cultural norms. For example, the guy who doesn't want to fuck the young chick who's offering herself up must be gay. It's not a point up for debate, because the alternative answer is that she isn't as hawt as she thinks herself to be. And . . . well . . . all the guys who've dry humped her leg stand as testament to her hawtness, so . . . fuck that.
As a human being, you're never allowed to exist outside a context. You're supposed to be actively fostering an identity that allows others to trade with you in order to get what they want. It's also understood that you're supposed to be trying to maximize your returns. It's not enough that you might want pussy. You're also expected to maximize the amount and/or quality of pussy you get.
I never understood that as a teenager. Or as a college student. I really only had a vague outline of the idea by my late 20s. It was only in my 30s that I figured it out.
Even when i arrived at a full realization, it was simply a piece of information. I didn't suddenly say, "Huzzah! Now I can slay the pussy!" I definitely understood the implication, and I did act on it when it suited me. I just didn't see it as something that necessarily defined me.
I still don't see anything as defining me, but lack of self-definition isn't acceptable. Again, you're job in contextualizing yourself is to facilitate trade. That includes the trade of your companionship and your seed. You're supposed to leverage whatever you can achieve with your status to breed to the best of your ability. If you don't do that, then you're either gay or . . . well, there isn't another option.
The funny thing with the fixation that people have with assuming a person is gay because of their non-responsiveness is that it still assumes you're open to trade. In other words, the underpinning logic is that the rejected woman simply failed to bring the right goods for trade. If she had the right goods for trade, then you would've activated and sex would've ensued.
FTR, I say from personal experience that it takes a while to fully exhaust this logic. I can remember being out in a very seedy underground nightclub a little over a year ago, and I just wasn't feeling it. A lot of time I just get out to get out. Sometimes the best cure to the blahs is to just go do anything, even if you're not going out with intent.
This guy who I kinda half-recognized from being around the same scene a few times decided to chat me up. To be clear, he was what I can only politely call obviously gay. I'm arrogant enough that just because I'm not gonna fuck you doesn't mean I won't drop a little aloof game on you just for the joy of emotional sadism.
I told him upfront I was straight, because there's really nothing that amps the feeling of emotional sadism up like watching a person bash their head against the wall against all reason. Don't get me wrong; I get why he thought it was worth a try. I wasn't feeling it in a dark room full of barely clothed women who were writhing all night. It's hard for me to ever put my finger on what precisely clicks for me with a chick. I just know when it happens.
I can't particularly remember the guy's sales pitch, except for some sort of creepy guy game he dropped in the form of "You know you're a very good-looking person." Like I'm supposed to be just so flattered that suddenly I'm going to fuck him after ignoring his advances. He eventually gets tired of failing and leaves well enough alone. By most standards, a slightly sad-for-him but whatever ending. He took his shot, so yay champ.
Therein lies my point. It always takes a long time for people to just give up and leave me be.
I cannot for the life of me tell you why sometimes the switch just trips on. I just know that the bulk of the time that it doesn't switch on, no matter how much futile social dancing you do to induce me to trade. The irony here being that physical dancing very much improves your odds. It's worth a try.
What depresses me a bit about human existence is knowing that I'll be subjected to anger for not wanting to contextualize myself in a way that facilitates sex. If I'm lucky, I might be subjected to being asked if I'm asexual. I'm not, but I at least respect the rare person who can be bothered to think outside the box.
In truth, I'm just so very bored. An occasional woman comes along who's exciting enough to cut through that boredom, and there's a good chance I might fuck her. Most people, though, are dreadfully boring, and I get far more entertainment out of watching them contort themselves trying to get my attention.
Saturday, February 17, 2018
Tuesday, January 23, 2018
Written by women, for women
If you read the blog much, you know I have a lot of misgivings about politics. More accurately, I have misgivings about politicization. Politics, I suppose, is just an extension of humans humaning. I pretty much skipped 2016 and 2017 because of the US election and the whole Donald Trump thing, though you can watch me try to handle my gag reflex over the coming right-wing, male shitnado from back in January of 2015.
I suppose I should've had some thoughts on the inevitable left-wing, female counter-reaction of 2017 and 2018, but I was just keeping my head down trying not to get sprayed in shit. Seriously, people suck in as many directions as there are on an eleven-dimensional compass. Who knew?
If you keep up with the confluence of American pop culture and politics, you've probably caught the revenge porn-y story of Aziz Ansari, a dopey manlet of a half-comedian whose virtue signaling attempts at feminism pretty much prepositioned him for a shit sandwich. (I don't really hate the guy, but goddamn is his comedy lame. He did do a joke about a sweater that was good, though, so there's that. I really don't get the whole attentionwhore-industrial complex at all.)
Imaginably, this led to whatever passes for soul searching these days. You know, motherfuckers creating clickbait from every angle and seeing which angle agitates the most clicks. There was the genre of "creepy/lame is as bad as rape, and every allegation should treated as gospel". (No it isn't, and OMFG what happened to due process?!?!) There was the genre of "Oh, this counter-reactionary shit is going too far." (Probably, but such is the nature of cultural reactions, counter-reactions, and over-reactions. I mean, Hollywood isn't exactly turning into Romania after the fall of communism.)
Then there was my favorite: the "Is our boys learnin?" genre.
The one that actually tipped me over into writing an article was this one: When Pop Culture Sells Dangerous Myths About Romance.
It actually starts out with a pretty good case. Fundamentally it boils down to "Say Anything" is a creepy fuck movie, and it's romanticization is dumb and wrong.
But, from the beginning there are references that piss me off. Specifically, the idea that the disgusting pop culture trash that women produce for women somehow informs the rape-y-ness of guys. You know what I'm talking about. 50 Shades of Grey. Twilight. Gossip Girl.
It's not the majority of the rape culture playlist, but it's definitely worth asking an important question: why the fuck do women like rape-y stories so much?
I'm a believer that the common female fantasy is the product of a desire to be desired. There's even a bit of a humblebrag component there. It basically translates to, "I'm so fuckin hawt that guy was ready to rape me."
It doesn't change the fact, however, that some of the most questionable rape culture artifacts are aimed at women as the primary consumers. Guys didn't learn anything from the movie Say Anything because they stopped paying attention to the plot fifteen minutes in.
Worse, some of the rape-y-est shit is written by women, for women. I mean, EL James read Twilight and pretty much said, "Oh, you think your gross stalker story was rape-y? Hold my fuckin beer. I'm gonna write some full-on dubious consent porn fanfic that includes relentless acts of emotional sadism and irregular deviations from an established model of affirmative consent. Poorly. Very poorly. Daringly poorly."
It's mind blowing. Frankly, feminism needs to get its house the fuck in order. Or face the fact that there's something really deep-down fucking dark in women's souls that's attracted to aggressive sexual predation.
If I saw someone constantly feasting on shit and always finding ways to only dine at places that served actual human feces, I would assume that person has some form of coprophagia. I would assume, despite any protests to the contrary, that their relentless consumption of actual shit was a demonstration of a love for eating shit. Because seriously, who complains about eating shit and then demands that they be served shit that was prepared by other shit eaters?
In the whole #MeToo movement, there's a lot of truth. I mean, even hardcore Red Pill gamers would acknowledge that jerking off into a potted plant in front of an actress is probably not even Plan Z, let alone Plan A. Or that it's even a plan as much as a gross reaction to having your plan stunted before it could bloom into whatever dubious consent scenario you were hoping for as the person with all the power. It's the sort of profound truth that shouldn't be profound, but apparently is for some guys. Again, humans suck in more directions than three-dimensional space can accurately describe.
Once you start trending into the Aziz Ansari territory, especially equating him to Harvey Weinstein, I'm out. Fuck you. That shit was revenge porn.
And do we really need to reframe the story as an object lesson in how boys are learning the wrong things?
Also, who the fuck thinks that any straight boys were watching Say Anything? Trust me, they were watching Fight Club and dreaming of the day they could find a hawt goth chick and fuck here like Tyler Durden. Seriously, it's literally written all over the PUA blogs. There was even a modestly famous PUA who went by the handle of Tyler Durden.
I mean, if you're gonna discuss heteronormative male sexuality, it might be instructive to start by looking at heteronormative male sexuality. Cuz talking about Say Anything and a bunch of whiny love songs is actually studying products that we manufactured for heteronormatively female consumers.
But that's not what we're doing. It seems that women don't even have the cultural vocabulary to describe how men see sex. Apparently women really are from Omicron Persei 7 and men are from Omicron Persei 9.
Conversely, men I don't think even have the right anatomical charts in their heads to describe the female experience. Seriously, there are right now a bunch of Jesus-y Mike Pence motherfuckers running around this world objecting to the use of birth control while not realizing precisely why they don't 20 children. (Hint: it's birth control.)
The problem is that rewarding aggression essentially triggers compound interest. If you reward one sexually aggressive man, you can expect two more to appear. And women reward male sexual aggression. In fact, they write Homeric epics about it.
If you think about it from an evolutionary standpoint, what is the downside for the Y chromosome in being sexually aggressive? If you're hot and it works, congratulations on being hot. If you're hideous and it fails, well it was at least worth a try because you're unfuckably hideous. (And you can apparently always just release your pent up tension into a potted plant. Again, who knew?)
One of the biggest reasons so many guys think all feminism is bullshit is because women are, frankly, sitting on the wrong side of the old "physician heal thyself" invocation. Women treat everything as an externality. The title of Hillary Clinton's book after she lost the 2016 election was "What Happened?"
I talked a bit about this problem three years ago on the blog. I will now crassly quote myself because I have fucking earned the right to do so . . .
Women like men who treat women like dirt. I mean, there's a fuckin reason that Pride and Prejudice is one of the most republished and repurposed more than anything in the English language outside of Shakespeare and the Bible. Women get wet for Mr. Darcy, and I probably should be concerned that they also get wet for Christian Grey. (Hmmm . . . what's the commoanlity?) Ladies sure seem to like their emotional sadism and dubious consent, yesno?
Until women can explain with a straight face why they so thoroughly enjoy literature that involves hot rich guys treating them like utter dogshit, they're not going to be taken seriously. So . . . what I'm actually saying is that women will never be taken seriously, because treating women like dogshit is pretty much the same as giving hydrocodone to a fentanyl junkie: deep down they wish you'd give them even harder shit to get fucked up on.
Until women are willing to cross the Rubicon into city of their own desires, they're not going to come up the winners in this fight. As the leading consumers of rape fantasy porn, it's on women to embargo themselves.
I suppose I should've had some thoughts on the inevitable left-wing, female counter-reaction of 2017 and 2018, but I was just keeping my head down trying not to get sprayed in shit. Seriously, people suck in as many directions as there are on an eleven-dimensional compass. Who knew?
If you keep up with the confluence of American pop culture and politics, you've probably caught the revenge porn-y story of Aziz Ansari, a dopey manlet of a half-comedian whose virtue signaling attempts at feminism pretty much prepositioned him for a shit sandwich. (I don't really hate the guy, but goddamn is his comedy lame. He did do a joke about a sweater that was good, though, so there's that. I really don't get the whole attentionwhore-industrial complex at all.)
Imaginably, this led to whatever passes for soul searching these days. You know, motherfuckers creating clickbait from every angle and seeing which angle agitates the most clicks. There was the genre of "creepy/lame is as bad as rape, and every allegation should treated as gospel". (No it isn't, and OMFG what happened to due process?!?!) There was the genre of "Oh, this counter-reactionary shit is going too far." (Probably, but such is the nature of cultural reactions, counter-reactions, and over-reactions. I mean, Hollywood isn't exactly turning into Romania after the fall of communism.)
Then there was my favorite: the "Is our boys learnin?" genre.
The one that actually tipped me over into writing an article was this one: When Pop Culture Sells Dangerous Myths About Romance.
It actually starts out with a pretty good case. Fundamentally it boils down to "Say Anything" is a creepy fuck movie, and it's romanticization is dumb and wrong.
But, from the beginning there are references that piss me off. Specifically, the idea that the disgusting pop culture trash that women produce for women somehow informs the rape-y-ness of guys. You know what I'm talking about. 50 Shades of Grey. Twilight. Gossip Girl.
It's not the majority of the rape culture playlist, but it's definitely worth asking an important question: why the fuck do women like rape-y stories so much?
I'm a believer that the common female fantasy is the product of a desire to be desired. There's even a bit of a humblebrag component there. It basically translates to, "I'm so fuckin hawt that guy was ready to rape me."
It doesn't change the fact, however, that some of the most questionable rape culture artifacts are aimed at women as the primary consumers. Guys didn't learn anything from the movie Say Anything because they stopped paying attention to the plot fifteen minutes in.
Worse, some of the rape-y-est shit is written by women, for women. I mean, EL James read Twilight and pretty much said, "Oh, you think your gross stalker story was rape-y? Hold my fuckin beer. I'm gonna write some full-on dubious consent porn fanfic that includes relentless acts of emotional sadism and irregular deviations from an established model of affirmative consent. Poorly. Very poorly. Daringly poorly."
It's mind blowing. Frankly, feminism needs to get its house the fuck in order. Or face the fact that there's something really deep-down fucking dark in women's souls that's attracted to aggressive sexual predation.
If I saw someone constantly feasting on shit and always finding ways to only dine at places that served actual human feces, I would assume that person has some form of coprophagia. I would assume, despite any protests to the contrary, that their relentless consumption of actual shit was a demonstration of a love for eating shit. Because seriously, who complains about eating shit and then demands that they be served shit that was prepared by other shit eaters?
In the whole #MeToo movement, there's a lot of truth. I mean, even hardcore Red Pill gamers would acknowledge that jerking off into a potted plant in front of an actress is probably not even Plan Z, let alone Plan A. Or that it's even a plan as much as a gross reaction to having your plan stunted before it could bloom into whatever dubious consent scenario you were hoping for as the person with all the power. It's the sort of profound truth that shouldn't be profound, but apparently is for some guys. Again, humans suck in more directions than three-dimensional space can accurately describe.
Once you start trending into the Aziz Ansari territory, especially equating him to Harvey Weinstein, I'm out. Fuck you. That shit was revenge porn.
And do we really need to reframe the story as an object lesson in how boys are learning the wrong things?
Also, who the fuck thinks that any straight boys were watching Say Anything? Trust me, they were watching Fight Club and dreaming of the day they could find a hawt goth chick and fuck here like Tyler Durden. Seriously, it's literally written all over the PUA blogs. There was even a modestly famous PUA who went by the handle of Tyler Durden.
I mean, if you're gonna discuss heteronormative male sexuality, it might be instructive to start by looking at heteronormative male sexuality. Cuz talking about Say Anything and a bunch of whiny love songs is actually studying products that we manufactured for heteronormatively female consumers.
But that's not what we're doing. It seems that women don't even have the cultural vocabulary to describe how men see sex. Apparently women really are from Omicron Persei 7 and men are from Omicron Persei 9.
Conversely, men I don't think even have the right anatomical charts in their heads to describe the female experience. Seriously, there are right now a bunch of Jesus-y Mike Pence motherfuckers running around this world objecting to the use of birth control while not realizing precisely why they don't 20 children. (Hint: it's birth control.)
The problem is that rewarding aggression essentially triggers compound interest. If you reward one sexually aggressive man, you can expect two more to appear. And women reward male sexual aggression. In fact, they write Homeric epics about it.
If you think about it from an evolutionary standpoint, what is the downside for the Y chromosome in being sexually aggressive? If you're hot and it works, congratulations on being hot. If you're hideous and it fails, well it was at least worth a try because you're unfuckably hideous. (And you can apparently always just release your pent up tension into a potted plant. Again, who knew?)
One of the biggest reasons so many guys think all feminism is bullshit is because women are, frankly, sitting on the wrong side of the old "physician heal thyself" invocation. Women treat everything as an externality. The title of Hillary Clinton's book after she lost the 2016 election was "What Happened?"
I talked a bit about this problem three years ago on the blog. I will now crassly quote myself because I have fucking earned the right to do so . . .
For women life is something that happens to them.Women seem to collectively refuse to take responsibility for their own sexuality, even a solid 50 years into the supposed sexual revolution. Everything in the world is a set of externalities acting upon them. There's never a point where women ask themselves, "Why do we consume so much pop culture materials that is seriously rape-y AF?" Women never ask themselves serious questions about their own romanticization of rape. Instead, they pretend that hetero boys actually watched Say Anything and took away a lesson from it. (They didn't, and they didn't. Again, they were watching Fight Club. I cannot emphasize that strongly enough.)
Women like men who treat women like dirt. I mean, there's a fuckin reason that Pride and Prejudice is one of the most republished and repurposed more than anything in the English language outside of Shakespeare and the Bible. Women get wet for Mr. Darcy, and I probably should be concerned that they also get wet for Christian Grey. (Hmmm . . . what's the commoanlity?) Ladies sure seem to like their emotional sadism and dubious consent, yesno?
Until women can explain with a straight face why they so thoroughly enjoy literature that involves hot rich guys treating them like utter dogshit, they're not going to be taken seriously. So . . . what I'm actually saying is that women will never be taken seriously, because treating women like dogshit is pretty much the same as giving hydrocodone to a fentanyl junkie: deep down they wish you'd give them even harder shit to get fucked up on.
Until women are willing to cross the Rubicon into city of their own desires, they're not going to come up the winners in this fight. As the leading consumers of rape fantasy porn, it's on women to embargo themselves.
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
Why so aloof? Sometimes The Second Girl wins
If you've read much of my blog, you might have noticed a pattern that occurs when I describe social sets. I'm talking to one chick, and then her friend cuts in. You can see a prime example here. I'm not a huge fan of a lot of PUA-type theories, but I think social proof, the notion that people find something more interesting if they see others coveting it, is a solid one worth keeping mind.
This post has been on my mind for a while, but I've wanted to process it. Back in January of this year, 2017, I had met a chick at a fairly large party, north of 100 people in a private space that a friend of mine has access to. I was talking with some friends, and the conversation was getting pretty loud -- the kind of loud that attracts additional participants.
This girl who had been sitting by herself in the far corner of the room comes over, asks to sit down at the table where I'm standing. I say sure and keep going at the conversation. She's trying to participate, but she's pretty demure and this is a really loud and raucous set.
Eventually three of her friends show up and join the conversation. We're all BSing and eventually the topic turns to BDSM. One of my male friends I had been talking to and a completely separate female friend who was there are both heavy into some serious shit. I've been known to partake, too.
The Quiet Girl is intrigued and trying to steer the conversation. However, two of her three friends are much more boisterous. The one is in a committed relationship. The other is recently divorced, and she's little thick in the way I tend to like my women -- small top along with serious ass and thighs.
Every one of them is somewhere between pretty to downright knockout. The Committed Chick is a professionally trained dancer, 26, and frankly a high 9 in hawtness. The Thick Girl, 29, is a former competitive horse rider. The two demure girls are sisters, 20 and 25, both a little skinnier than I tend to like.
At some point, the conversation turn to pain tolerance. When it comes to consensual sexual violence, this is my wheelhouse. Not something I bring up much on the blog, but I don't fuckin play when it comes to hair pulling, spanking, pinching, etc. I've had partners look like they were in an auto accident when I was done.
The Thick Girl has been nudging in and trying to get my attention. She's definitely trying to cut her friends out.
At this particular moment, she decides she's gonna play big, and says she's always wanted to try BDSM. My male friend who's into it says something about having the right equipment with him, and he asks her if she wants to try nipple clamps.
Occasionally, I am possessed of the right thing to say. There are just moments where I can draw a line from A to B to C, and this was one of them. I looked at the Thick Girl and said, "No need. I can do it bare-handed."
She looks instantly interested. Pulls her shirt up. Pulls her bra down. present titties.
I look at her and say, "This is gonna hurt. I've had women say it's worse than nursing a teething child."
She laughs and leans in. I say, "Alright." I grab a nipple, and she drops to the floor in pain, barely missing the table with her face.
She's laughing, but not getting up. There's a whole room of people sort of waiting to see how this plays out. I just keep looking at her in agony.
Finally, after more than a full minute, she pulls herself up by the table. I ask her how it felt. She replies, "OMG, that was painful but I loved it!"
The room is relieved. My female friend asks her if she is okay. The Thick Girl says yes.
After a couple hours, we decide to go barhopping with the group. By this point, the Thick Girl is flying on raw energy after some dancing with me and a little more physicality (not anything quite so vicious as the initial nipple pinch, mind you).
She drifts off several times, and eventually the Quite Girl works her way over to me and we start talking. She's dropping indications of interest left and right. Knee touches, etc. Laughing at all my jokes.
I don't think too much of it because by this stage I have the Thick Girl eating out of the palm of my hand. She's grabbing drinks for the group, dancing with every guy there, laughing, and even torturing a beta male friend who's the manager of the place we settled down at to keep drinking.
I'm in full social game mode by this point. I even start up a conversation with a whole separate set of women who were there when I realize they all were alumni from the university I attended.
This ends up being an almost going til dawn kinda thing, as the two groups of women merge into one giant pile, along with me, the beta male friend, and another male friend of the first group who decides to move in on the alumni association. (Strangely enough, the Committed Girl's BF shows up, but he doesn't participate. Conversely, that dude was pretty fuckin hot in his own right, so . . . can't envy a winner too hard, man.)
Eventually the Thick Girl and I trade information and part ways. We make sure to set a date for the next weekend.
Party Hard
Next weekend comes, and I set up a date at what is as underground of a club as I know. This is the full people on Molly type place. I've seen it go to 10am. This is as sexualized a club environment as you'll ever see -- I've seen people literally fuck on the dance floor.
The Thick Girl calls me a little before midnight when we're supposed to meet up, and she's basically complaining that the Quiet Girl wants to come out with us. I don't have an issue with this, but apparently the Thick Girl is already in mate-guarding mode. I tell her to just sort it the fuck out because I'm gonna go get my party on with or without them. (Even when I have my social game on, aloof and uninvested is always a card I'm willing to play.)
Imaginably, she finds a way to appear -- without the Quiet Girl -- within ten minutes. To say things went the direction I went them to would be an understatement. And she was pretty damned vicious. This is full-on, back-and-forth, fucking up-against-the-wall in public shit. She even smacked me in the face. (Which followers of the blog will recall, is a go sign for me.)
I also win the "who has more energy game". She gave up and went home at 3am. I kept going and picked up another chick by 5am for a session of totally disposable makeout and titty play. (I'm a dedicated ass man, but damn that girl had some titties.)
By the middle of the next week, the Thick Girl is in emotionally deep. Probably a little deeper than is healthy. She's in full-bore "I need to hear your voice" at 2am on a Wednesday night mode. There's a lot of the standard barfing her emotional guts out to me stuff, which, again, you'll find happens a lot with me, as seen here.
She also gets into some comfort testing, emotional support stuff. And that's where things kind of went downhill. I told her this is a lot to pin on a guy she met a couple weekends ago and that she should be leaning on her friends for that kinda thing. Then she admits that the friend who serves that role is normally the Quiet Girl, and . . . well, you can imagine how that worked out.
This goes on like this for a couple more weeks until it becomes pretty clear to her that I'm intense but not the perfect guy. I'm a good conversationalist, but you'll find a limit to what that actually gets ya. I confess I did some pretty shitty things, like telling her about the 5am Titty Girl when she asked what I did the rest of that night. I also told her she shouldn't fuck up her friendship over a guy -- which, ya know, ladies, is actually pretty goddamned good advice.
As you can imagine, that sort of emotional and physical intensity is unsustainable. The End.
Autopsy
There's a lot to unpack from that story.
Probably the most obvious for regular readers is something to the order of "holy shit, that's a lot of social game for an aloof guy!" It is. As I've said elsewhere, though, I can roll social game hard when I feel the impulse to do so.
I do think it's funny how many times I go for the girl who cuts in. I love energy and verve from women. It works. Ladies, if you're trying to win a social set, it's definitely worth a try.
One thing that sticks out in my mind is how much women treat their close friends as sexual competitors. It never fails to amaze me how much effort they'll put into cutting in to grab a potential mate and then completely cutting their friends out in a retention effort.
I probably should have given the Quiet Girl more attention, but I've learned over the years to focus on banking the clear win when I have one lined up. You can definitely fuck yourself up trying to make a harem play or shooting for a threesome. Given the Thick Girl's later emotional outbursts and demonstrated mate guarding behaviors, I feel like that was the right play.
The Thick Girl and the Committed Girl were the queen bees of the group, and I feel pretty confident that favoring the Quiet Girl would have been a uniquely bad plan. Cutting against the queen bees when they're still present tends to backfire.
Anyway . . . for once you kids get a pretty detailed and relatively non-aloof story (if you just ignore the part where the Quiet Girl loses bigly).
Probably some good social dynamics stuff to ponder in there. A lot to be said for being a little outrageous and making yourself the center of attention in a social set. It probably helps that my male friend (the guy into BDSm who's mentioned waaaay early in the story) was a skinny dude who wasn't gettin any love from the girls at the initial party. If you can use your male friends as props, well . . . hey, at least he got to see some titties, right? He still retells that story.
There ya go. A relatively non-aloof tale from the Aloof Guy.
This post has been on my mind for a while, but I've wanted to process it. Back in January of this year, 2017, I had met a chick at a fairly large party, north of 100 people in a private space that a friend of mine has access to. I was talking with some friends, and the conversation was getting pretty loud -- the kind of loud that attracts additional participants.
This girl who had been sitting by herself in the far corner of the room comes over, asks to sit down at the table where I'm standing. I say sure and keep going at the conversation. She's trying to participate, but she's pretty demure and this is a really loud and raucous set.
Eventually three of her friends show up and join the conversation. We're all BSing and eventually the topic turns to BDSM. One of my male friends I had been talking to and a completely separate female friend who was there are both heavy into some serious shit. I've been known to partake, too.
The Quiet Girl is intrigued and trying to steer the conversation. However, two of her three friends are much more boisterous. The one is in a committed relationship. The other is recently divorced, and she's little thick in the way I tend to like my women -- small top along with serious ass and thighs.
Every one of them is somewhere between pretty to downright knockout. The Committed Chick is a professionally trained dancer, 26, and frankly a high 9 in hawtness. The Thick Girl, 29, is a former competitive horse rider. The two demure girls are sisters, 20 and 25, both a little skinnier than I tend to like.
At some point, the conversation turn to pain tolerance. When it comes to consensual sexual violence, this is my wheelhouse. Not something I bring up much on the blog, but I don't fuckin play when it comes to hair pulling, spanking, pinching, etc. I've had partners look like they were in an auto accident when I was done.
The Thick Girl has been nudging in and trying to get my attention. She's definitely trying to cut her friends out.
At this particular moment, she decides she's gonna play big, and says she's always wanted to try BDSM. My male friend who's into it says something about having the right equipment with him, and he asks her if she wants to try nipple clamps.
Occasionally, I am possessed of the right thing to say. There are just moments where I can draw a line from A to B to C, and this was one of them. I looked at the Thick Girl and said, "No need. I can do it bare-handed."
She looks instantly interested. Pulls her shirt up. Pulls her bra down. present titties.
I look at her and say, "This is gonna hurt. I've had women say it's worse than nursing a teething child."
She laughs and leans in. I say, "Alright." I grab a nipple, and she drops to the floor in pain, barely missing the table with her face.
She's laughing, but not getting up. There's a whole room of people sort of waiting to see how this plays out. I just keep looking at her in agony.
Finally, after more than a full minute, she pulls herself up by the table. I ask her how it felt. She replies, "OMG, that was painful but I loved it!"
The room is relieved. My female friend asks her if she is okay. The Thick Girl says yes.
After a couple hours, we decide to go barhopping with the group. By this point, the Thick Girl is flying on raw energy after some dancing with me and a little more physicality (not anything quite so vicious as the initial nipple pinch, mind you).
She drifts off several times, and eventually the Quite Girl works her way over to me and we start talking. She's dropping indications of interest left and right. Knee touches, etc. Laughing at all my jokes.
I don't think too much of it because by this stage I have the Thick Girl eating out of the palm of my hand. She's grabbing drinks for the group, dancing with every guy there, laughing, and even torturing a beta male friend who's the manager of the place we settled down at to keep drinking.
I'm in full social game mode by this point. I even start up a conversation with a whole separate set of women who were there when I realize they all were alumni from the university I attended.
This ends up being an almost going til dawn kinda thing, as the two groups of women merge into one giant pile, along with me, the beta male friend, and another male friend of the first group who decides to move in on the alumni association. (Strangely enough, the Committed Girl's BF shows up, but he doesn't participate. Conversely, that dude was pretty fuckin hot in his own right, so . . . can't envy a winner too hard, man.)
Eventually the Thick Girl and I trade information and part ways. We make sure to set a date for the next weekend.
Party Hard
Next weekend comes, and I set up a date at what is as underground of a club as I know. This is the full people on Molly type place. I've seen it go to 10am. This is as sexualized a club environment as you'll ever see -- I've seen people literally fuck on the dance floor.
The Thick Girl calls me a little before midnight when we're supposed to meet up, and she's basically complaining that the Quiet Girl wants to come out with us. I don't have an issue with this, but apparently the Thick Girl is already in mate-guarding mode. I tell her to just sort it the fuck out because I'm gonna go get my party on with or without them. (Even when I have my social game on, aloof and uninvested is always a card I'm willing to play.)
Imaginably, she finds a way to appear -- without the Quiet Girl -- within ten minutes. To say things went the direction I went them to would be an understatement. And she was pretty damned vicious. This is full-on, back-and-forth, fucking up-against-the-wall in public shit. She even smacked me in the face. (Which followers of the blog will recall, is a go sign for me.)
I also win the "who has more energy game". She gave up and went home at 3am. I kept going and picked up another chick by 5am for a session of totally disposable makeout and titty play. (I'm a dedicated ass man, but damn that girl had some titties.)
By the middle of the next week, the Thick Girl is in emotionally deep. Probably a little deeper than is healthy. She's in full-bore "I need to hear your voice" at 2am on a Wednesday night mode. There's a lot of the standard barfing her emotional guts out to me stuff, which, again, you'll find happens a lot with me, as seen here.
She also gets into some comfort testing, emotional support stuff. And that's where things kind of went downhill. I told her this is a lot to pin on a guy she met a couple weekends ago and that she should be leaning on her friends for that kinda thing. Then she admits that the friend who serves that role is normally the Quiet Girl, and . . . well, you can imagine how that worked out.
This goes on like this for a couple more weeks until it becomes pretty clear to her that I'm intense but not the perfect guy. I'm a good conversationalist, but you'll find a limit to what that actually gets ya. I confess I did some pretty shitty things, like telling her about the 5am Titty Girl when she asked what I did the rest of that night. I also told her she shouldn't fuck up her friendship over a guy -- which, ya know, ladies, is actually pretty goddamned good advice.
As you can imagine, that sort of emotional and physical intensity is unsustainable. The End.
Autopsy
There's a lot to unpack from that story.
Probably the most obvious for regular readers is something to the order of "holy shit, that's a lot of social game for an aloof guy!" It is. As I've said elsewhere, though, I can roll social game hard when I feel the impulse to do so.
I do think it's funny how many times I go for the girl who cuts in. I love energy and verve from women. It works. Ladies, if you're trying to win a social set, it's definitely worth a try.
One thing that sticks out in my mind is how much women treat their close friends as sexual competitors. It never fails to amaze me how much effort they'll put into cutting in to grab a potential mate and then completely cutting their friends out in a retention effort.
I probably should have given the Quiet Girl more attention, but I've learned over the years to focus on banking the clear win when I have one lined up. You can definitely fuck yourself up trying to make a harem play or shooting for a threesome. Given the Thick Girl's later emotional outbursts and demonstrated mate guarding behaviors, I feel like that was the right play.
The Thick Girl and the Committed Girl were the queen bees of the group, and I feel pretty confident that favoring the Quiet Girl would have been a uniquely bad plan. Cutting against the queen bees when they're still present tends to backfire.
Anyway . . . for once you kids get a pretty detailed and relatively non-aloof story (if you just ignore the part where the Quiet Girl loses bigly).
Probably some good social dynamics stuff to ponder in there. A lot to be said for being a little outrageous and making yourself the center of attention in a social set. It probably helps that my male friend (the guy into BDSm who's mentioned waaaay early in the story) was a skinny dude who wasn't gettin any love from the girls at the initial party. If you can use your male friends as props, well . . . hey, at least he got to see some titties, right? He still retells that story.
There ya go. A relatively non-aloof tale from the Aloof Guy.
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
If I tossed your dog shit comment, that means it was dog shit
Comment moderation is on, people. Make peace with that fact. If I think you're trying some lame ass shit to get me to moderate a comment and show it, I'm tossing it.
My view on dumbfuck commenters is the same as what they tell you about old meat in your fridge: when in doubt, throw it out.
My view on dumbfuck commenters is the same as what they tell you about old meat in your fridge: when in doubt, throw it out.
Monday, December 12, 2016
A Great Attention Whore, or THE GREATEST Attention Whore EVER? You decide
It's been a while since I've posted anything. That's mostly a case of why repeat the same shit. It took time, but . . . NOVELTY IS UPON US! I spent the better part of this weekend working over a single, large social group in a club setting. Infiltrating a large group isn't usually my preferred play, but this was a case where I could see an easy path forward.
The females I'd count as a solid 8, two 7s, a 6, a 5, and a soft 3.5 (I'm kindly awarding the slag an additional half point for at least being clean, dressed decently, and doing her hair -- even slags deserve an attaboy. Remember ladies: got yer hair did is a full half-point.). All three of the guys are beta enough to not count.
The problem is that the one 7 is a monstrous attention whore. As you might guess, the two beta orbiters basically spent the whole weekend backing up dump trucks full of affirmation and pouring it on her.
She's a super-cute spinner type who, frankly, could upgrade her game a little and improve a full point. She's a skinny but not in-shape person who could easily tighten her body up and get hotter, but she's also the motor of the group. She's the one dancing with everybody, the one singing karaoke, etc. Those beer carbs giveth, and they taketh away.
To say the 8 knows her status in the group would be an understatement. The betas aren't even allowed to talk to her, and she seems to be the only one in the group who was allowed to shit test me.
The other 7 ended up being my real target. Pretty blonde girl with a big enough butt to make her self-conscious. She didn't let guys grind on her or anything the whole weekend -- and this is a majority black club, so that's some real effort on her part. Demure, well-behaved, put-together type who parked herself next to me when we went for food at the end of the second night, and she kept finding ways to quickly touch me and then pull away before it became too forward. That sort of behavior in women is the fast path to having my attention.
When my order came, I stood up, turned around and asked the bartender for some ketchup. I gamed her a little bit, we chuckled, whatever. Those nice, fun, mini practice games are always a good way to get your energy up.
I suddenly feel the Attention Whore literally pushing against me as she leans across the bar. She's parked herself in the seat I just vacated, and she's trying to achieve as much body-to-body contact as possible.
The 8 and the blonde 7 shut down instantly. All banter done. All talk done.
I literally grabbed the chair and lifted it and her a full foot away from me to convey my displeasure. One of the beta orbiters ambles over and tries meekly to game her, and I do everything in my power to redirect her bullshit toward him. Finally, I just turn and start eating because food.
Did I say the Attention Whore wasn't subtle? She moves back over, but this time settles for elbow-to-elbow contact. (For those who think women don't do game, just remember this chick was recalibrating!) She leans in, asks if she can have some of my french fries. There's like one-quarter of the GDP of Idaho sitting there, so I told her have at.
Sure enough, the shit-testing 8 doesn't miss a beat. "Are you really just gonna let her eat your fries like that?" I said something to the effect of "I don't need all of that. She's doing me a favor." (Apparently, you can fail a shit test by not displaying an appropriate level of food aggression! Next time I guess I'll just have to snap a 95-pound girl's wrist to make sure the queen bee knows I'm a legit insanity wolf.)
I resume eating, and for grins I start talking up the beta orbiter and no one else. All bitches are on lockdown until further notice.
Did I say the Attention Whore wasn't subtle? She taps me on the shoulder and starts trying to feed me. I wave her off and say, "Don't get weird." (Yes, I dropped a People of Earth joke on her.)
Both of the beta orbiters are moving in, and I try to work them into the conversation in order to enforce the freeze out. The blonde 7 senses the opening and tries to get back in the game, but don't worry because the Attention Whore isn't subtle. She gets up for a second, adjusts her chair and sits down facing the blonde while simultaneously forcing ass-to-crotch contact with me. A minute later, the 8 cuts between the blonde and the Attention Whore. The blonde is now literally being double-covered by the two most socially dominant females in the group.
Apparently, the 8 is very committed to her food aggression plan, because she starts taking french fries without asking and even manages to swipe a half-eaten chicken finger. I confess at this point I'm feeling rather dispirited and wondering why the fuck I deviated into group game, which is not my preferred game.
The Attention Whore now decides to grab a wad of french fries, jams them two inches away from my mouth and says, "It's not weird." My inner white trash peeks out at that moment, because I glared at her and said, "I don't know you ferfuck. It's weird." She puts the fries down and pushes her ass into me. She then offers the fries again, muttering and pouting,"It's not weird." I push her hand down, but I did give her a pretty good squeeze on the ass cheek because I'm honestly at the point where, fuck it, I'm not even the one running game at this point and I know it.
I fucking swear women can smell from a mile away when a superior member of their group is trying to ice the deal with a guy. The slag comes into the bar from outside and immediately invokes some sort of treaty obligation under the Slag-Attention Whore Axis demanding backup in her full-blown attempt to make the 5's soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend status official. This is full shit-starting five-alarm slaggery, complete with claims that he threatened to hit her.
Faced with having to abandon her positional advantage, the Attention Whore suddenly becomes the sanest and most reasonable person on earth. "Is 5 in a safe spot?" "Sure, next door at the pizza place." "Are they going anywhere?" "No." "6 is with her, right?" "Yeah." "Then leave it the fuck be."
Clearly, Henry Kissinger was right: great powers don't commit suicide to save their allies.
Don't worry, the 8 now senses her chance to fuckin ruin everything for everyone. A full demonstration of the 8's social dominance ensues, as she grabs the blonde 7 by the arm and pushes the two beta orbiters out the door to ride posse on the destruction of her friend's relationship. The Attention Whore has "dafuq" written all over her face, but once the rest of the group is outside, she follows without saying a word to me.
I ask the bartender where the bathroom is and go take a piss. Eventually I walk outside and past the pizza place. At this stage, apparently the 5 is now fighting to preserve her boyfriend's status with all the other group members in full-bore pitchfork mode. The now-ex-boyfriend sees me walking away from the pile and asks if I care if he walks with me. We get about half-a-block before the slag goes into full screaming bitch mode and draws the ex-boyfriend back into the fight. At this point, I'm prepared to amputate above the knee, so I leave him to his fate and go find my car a couple blocks away.
As I'm writing all of that out, I'm realizing there are other moving parts definitely in play besides the Attention Whore. Clearly I walked into a situation where the knives were already out, and I totally failed to ask the question, "What y'all holdin behind yer backs?"
I've never dealt with a group situation that got this ridiculous, but there's a sick sort of beauty to how it all unfolded. I start out feeling like I have the situation on a good track with the blonde 7, but I literally turned my back for a minute and a fuckin prairie war breaks out.
I'm not even clear what the fuckin 8 who dominated the group was trying to accomplish. I wouldn't rule out the possibility this was a case of her pissing on everyone just to remind them who the fuck is queen bee. My best guess was that she was trying to contain the two 7s and maintain an option to make a move only after she administered her shit tests.
As best I can tell, the major mistake I made was making a clear play for the blonde 7 when my assessment of her status (relatively high, though artificially inflated due to my preference for how she comported herself) did not match the group's assessment. I had her ranked 2 of 6 while the group had her ranked 3 of 6, and the group's #2, the Attention Whore, was willing to engage in carpet bombing to achieve her goal.
In short . . . "women, right?!" Or maybe it's "people are the worst." I mean, why not Seinfeld? I already have Sartre and Chekov's Gun worked into the story.
So . . . yeah . . . it takes a lot to make me publish these days, but there ya go.
The Group
The group itself consists of six women, three guys (not including me, because I'm-an-outsider-FTW). One of the guys is an ex-boyfriend of one of the chicks who just hasn't figured that fact out yet. The other two are the worst form of beta orbiters imaginable. Of the chicks, I'd say one is legitimately high-end hot, one is a full point behind her, two are legitimately cute, one is okay, and one is a legitimate slag who starts shit (God bless the commitment of female-centered groups to keeping one genuine "why do you even talk to her" chick in the group).The females I'd count as a solid 8, two 7s, a 6, a 5, and a soft 3.5 (I'm kindly awarding the slag an additional half point for at least being clean, dressed decently, and doing her hair -- even slags deserve an attaboy. Remember ladies: got yer hair did is a full half-point.). All three of the guys are beta enough to not count.
The Situation
The problem is that the one 7 is a monstrous attention whore. As you might guess, the two beta orbiters basically spent the whole weekend backing up dump trucks full of affirmation and pouring it on her.
She's a super-cute spinner type who, frankly, could upgrade her game a little and improve a full point. She's a skinny but not in-shape person who could easily tighten her body up and get hotter, but she's also the motor of the group. She's the one dancing with everybody, the one singing karaoke, etc. Those beer carbs giveth, and they taketh away.
To say the 8 knows her status in the group would be an understatement. The betas aren't even allowed to talk to her, and she seems to be the only one in the group who was allowed to shit test me.
The other 7 ended up being my real target. Pretty blonde girl with a big enough butt to make her self-conscious. She didn't let guys grind on her or anything the whole weekend -- and this is a majority black club, so that's some real effort on her part. Demure, well-behaved, put-together type who parked herself next to me when we went for food at the end of the second night, and she kept finding ways to quickly touch me and then pull away before it became too forward. That sort of behavior in women is the fast path to having my attention.
Enter the Attention Whore
This is the point where the Attention Whore made what I can only call the least subtle move I have ever seen a chick make. Three of us were seated along the bar while our food was coming out (me, the 8, and the blonde 7) and turned to watch people doing karaoke. Attention Whore and the orbiters were, no surprise, doing karaoke because, ya know, hell is other people. The 6, the 5, the slag and the boyfriend got lost at some point.When my order came, I stood up, turned around and asked the bartender for some ketchup. I gamed her a little bit, we chuckled, whatever. Those nice, fun, mini practice games are always a good way to get your energy up.
I suddenly feel the Attention Whore literally pushing against me as she leans across the bar. She's parked herself in the seat I just vacated, and she's trying to achieve as much body-to-body contact as possible.
The 8 and the blonde 7 shut down instantly. All banter done. All talk done.
I literally grabbed the chair and lifted it and her a full foot away from me to convey my displeasure. One of the beta orbiters ambles over and tries meekly to game her, and I do everything in my power to redirect her bullshit toward him. Finally, I just turn and start eating because food.
Did I say the Attention Whore wasn't subtle? She moves back over, but this time settles for elbow-to-elbow contact. (For those who think women don't do game, just remember this chick was recalibrating!) She leans in, asks if she can have some of my french fries. There's like one-quarter of the GDP of Idaho sitting there, so I told her have at.
Sure enough, the shit-testing 8 doesn't miss a beat. "Are you really just gonna let her eat your fries like that?" I said something to the effect of "I don't need all of that. She's doing me a favor." (Apparently, you can fail a shit test by not displaying an appropriate level of food aggression! Next time I guess I'll just have to snap a 95-pound girl's wrist to make sure the queen bee knows I'm a legit insanity wolf.)
I resume eating, and for grins I start talking up the beta orbiter and no one else. All bitches are on lockdown until further notice.
Did I say the Attention Whore wasn't subtle? She taps me on the shoulder and starts trying to feed me. I wave her off and say, "Don't get weird." (Yes, I dropped a People of Earth joke on her.)
Both of the beta orbiters are moving in, and I try to work them into the conversation in order to enforce the freeze out. The blonde 7 senses the opening and tries to get back in the game, but don't worry because the Attention Whore isn't subtle. She gets up for a second, adjusts her chair and sits down facing the blonde while simultaneously forcing ass-to-crotch contact with me. A minute later, the 8 cuts between the blonde and the Attention Whore. The blonde is now literally being double-covered by the two most socially dominant females in the group.
Apparently, the 8 is very committed to her food aggression plan, because she starts taking french fries without asking and even manages to swipe a half-eaten chicken finger. I confess at this point I'm feeling rather dispirited and wondering why the fuck I deviated into group game, which is not my preferred game.
The Attention Whore now decides to grab a wad of french fries, jams them two inches away from my mouth and says, "It's not weird." My inner white trash peeks out at that moment, because I glared at her and said, "I don't know you ferfuck. It's weird." She puts the fries down and pushes her ass into me. She then offers the fries again, muttering and pouting,"It's not weird." I push her hand down, but I did give her a pretty good squeeze on the ass cheek because I'm honestly at the point where, fuck it, I'm not even the one running game at this point and I know it.
A Slag Appears
I fucking swear women can smell from a mile away when a superior member of their group is trying to ice the deal with a guy. The slag comes into the bar from outside and immediately invokes some sort of treaty obligation under the Slag-Attention Whore Axis demanding backup in her full-blown attempt to make the 5's soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend status official. This is full shit-starting five-alarm slaggery, complete with claims that he threatened to hit her.
Faced with having to abandon her positional advantage, the Attention Whore suddenly becomes the sanest and most reasonable person on earth. "Is 5 in a safe spot?" "Sure, next door at the pizza place." "Are they going anywhere?" "No." "6 is with her, right?" "Yeah." "Then leave it the fuck be."
Clearly, Henry Kissinger was right: great powers don't commit suicide to save their allies.
Don't worry, the 8 now senses her chance to fuckin ruin everything for everyone. A full demonstration of the 8's social dominance ensues, as she grabs the blonde 7 by the arm and pushes the two beta orbiters out the door to ride posse on the destruction of her friend's relationship. The Attention Whore has "dafuq" written all over her face, but once the rest of the group is outside, she follows without saying a word to me.
I ask the bartender where the bathroom is and go take a piss. Eventually I walk outside and past the pizza place. At this stage, apparently the 5 is now fighting to preserve her boyfriend's status with all the other group members in full-bore pitchfork mode. The now-ex-boyfriend sees me walking away from the pile and asks if I care if he walks with me. We get about half-a-block before the slag goes into full screaming bitch mode and draws the ex-boyfriend back into the fight. At this point, I'm prepared to amputate above the knee, so I leave him to his fate and go find my car a couple blocks away.
Autopsy
As I'm writing all of that out, I'm realizing there are other moving parts definitely in play besides the Attention Whore. Clearly I walked into a situation where the knives were already out, and I totally failed to ask the question, "What y'all holdin behind yer backs?"
I've never dealt with a group situation that got this ridiculous, but there's a sick sort of beauty to how it all unfolded. I start out feeling like I have the situation on a good track with the blonde 7, but I literally turned my back for a minute and a fuckin prairie war breaks out.
I'm not even clear what the fuckin 8 who dominated the group was trying to accomplish. I wouldn't rule out the possibility this was a case of her pissing on everyone just to remind them who the fuck is queen bee. My best guess was that she was trying to contain the two 7s and maintain an option to make a move only after she administered her shit tests.
As best I can tell, the major mistake I made was making a clear play for the blonde 7 when my assessment of her status (relatively high, though artificially inflated due to my preference for how she comported herself) did not match the group's assessment. I had her ranked 2 of 6 while the group had her ranked 3 of 6, and the group's #2, the Attention Whore, was willing to engage in carpet bombing to achieve her goal.
In short . . . "women, right?!" Or maybe it's "people are the worst." I mean, why not Seinfeld? I already have Sartre and Chekov's Gun worked into the story.
So . . . yeah . . . it takes a lot to make me publish these days, but there ya go.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
Dear Abby needs to hire someone with game
The quote:
And the answer:
Hahahahahaha!! It is a game. LOLz were had. This bitch is never gonna get her gina tingles going from this poor sad sack of a guy.
My husband of two years is every girl's dream man - the kindest, gentlest, most patient guy. He loves me for everything, including my flaws. I honestly believe he is the only one who could ever handle me.
So why am I cheating on him?
And the answer:
You're playing at matrimony as if it were a game instead of a deep, enduring partnership.
Hahahahahaha!! It is a game. LOLz were had. This bitch is never gonna get her gina tingles going from this poor sad sack of a guy.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
How I see the world as a deeply uninvested male
Something that's been floating around my mind lately is the idea of how women objectify men like me, but they wish -- magically / somehow -- that a guy like me is going to come around and be nice. The entire romance novel industry is based on this premise, and like all forms of pornography, that's a clue as to how realistic it is.
A big chunk of what makes women so fucking dangerously nuts is that they think they're going to somehow magically split the difference on this one, gaining the interest of a male they see as an ideal alpha / dominant / billionaire with an 8-inch dick who can fly and then stuffing him into a container where he'll be awesome and fun and domesticated and loyal to her. Minding you, the minute he concedes to any of this, her attraction begins to drop like a rock.
With a guy like me, it's worse because I make it very clear upfront that zero concessions are going to be made. I'm not even gonna be bothered to lie to you even once in order to sleep with you. I am direct and honest about how I do things, and this leads to lots of pouting from women.
The logic on the female side is that she gains validation from every concession that an alpha male makes in order to sleep with her. That is what makes me a deeply infuriating guy: you're not getting a single concession from me. You can take that snatch of yours anywhere you damned well please, because I am not making any concessions. Pussy just ain't that important to me.
The cosmic joke of this is that women are wired to freak the fuck out when a guy does that. The lack of a single concession by a prospective mate makes him more attractive. And there are women who get completely jacked on that feedback loop. No concessions raises attraction, and then the higher attraction level makes her want to push harder.
The problem is that there's no exit from that loop. That's where I end up dealing with women who end up screaming at me, shoving me and having to be escorted away by security. They don't know how to jump out of the loop, so they basically escalate until they're left with no remaining option except violence and threats.
Something that's hard for me to get across to women is this: if you like me, hooray, but forget trying to make me do or be anything you want me to be. Just skip it, because it's not happening.
As I said, what's hilarious is that women lose there shit when a guy treats them this way. I was messaged a couple weeks ago on a kink website by a chick. I looked at her profile, saw she wasn't into anything I was really into and I told her that there's nothing there and she needed to move on. Also, if I'm being 100-percent honest, she could have used to lose 30 pounds and 5 years.
Did she move on?
Oh, hell no! Instead, she responds by telling me how much that raises her interest. I tell her several times, not gonna happen. That leads to attempts at initiating a longer conversation. I'll humor that as long as its not completely retarded. Then eventually she drops "aren't you gonna try me before you deny me?"
OMFG. I can't imagine being so hard-up that I'd ever say anything like that to anyone.
I will say that it never helps that I tend to go soft on women who aren't at the top of the heap in looks. I'll never drop a pure "fuck off" on them. I do this for the same reason you wouldn't punch a retarded kid: it's not cool to be mean to those who can't really defend themselves.
My point, ultimately, is that women go ga-ga over uninvested men, and then they get pissed when it turns out that univested men tend not to get very invested.
I think it's great that you want to feel good about yourself. Have at. I just think it might be a little wiser to find someone other than me to scratch that itch.
A big chunk of what makes women so fucking dangerously nuts is that they think they're going to somehow magically split the difference on this one, gaining the interest of a male they see as an ideal alpha / dominant / billionaire with an 8-inch dick who can fly and then stuffing him into a container where he'll be awesome and fun and domesticated and loyal to her. Minding you, the minute he concedes to any of this, her attraction begins to drop like a rock.
With a guy like me, it's worse because I make it very clear upfront that zero concessions are going to be made. I'm not even gonna be bothered to lie to you even once in order to sleep with you. I am direct and honest about how I do things, and this leads to lots of pouting from women.
The logic on the female side is that she gains validation from every concession that an alpha male makes in order to sleep with her. That is what makes me a deeply infuriating guy: you're not getting a single concession from me. You can take that snatch of yours anywhere you damned well please, because I am not making any concessions. Pussy just ain't that important to me.
The cosmic joke of this is that women are wired to freak the fuck out when a guy does that. The lack of a single concession by a prospective mate makes him more attractive. And there are women who get completely jacked on that feedback loop. No concessions raises attraction, and then the higher attraction level makes her want to push harder.
The problem is that there's no exit from that loop. That's where I end up dealing with women who end up screaming at me, shoving me and having to be escorted away by security. They don't know how to jump out of the loop, so they basically escalate until they're left with no remaining option except violence and threats.
Something that's hard for me to get across to women is this: if you like me, hooray, but forget trying to make me do or be anything you want me to be. Just skip it, because it's not happening.
As I said, what's hilarious is that women lose there shit when a guy treats them this way. I was messaged a couple weeks ago on a kink website by a chick. I looked at her profile, saw she wasn't into anything I was really into and I told her that there's nothing there and she needed to move on. Also, if I'm being 100-percent honest, she could have used to lose 30 pounds and 5 years.
Did she move on?
Oh, hell no! Instead, she responds by telling me how much that raises her interest. I tell her several times, not gonna happen. That leads to attempts at initiating a longer conversation. I'll humor that as long as its not completely retarded. Then eventually she drops "aren't you gonna try me before you deny me?"
OMFG. I can't imagine being so hard-up that I'd ever say anything like that to anyone.
I will say that it never helps that I tend to go soft on women who aren't at the top of the heap in looks. I'll never drop a pure "fuck off" on them. I do this for the same reason you wouldn't punch a retarded kid: it's not cool to be mean to those who can't really defend themselves.
My point, ultimately, is that women go ga-ga over uninvested men, and then they get pissed when it turns out that univested men tend not to get very invested.
I think it's great that you want to feel good about yourself. Have at. I just think it might be a little wiser to find someone other than me to scratch that itch.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Quelle surprise! PUA marketing assholes complain about holes in their walled garden!
For reasons that fall readily under the headings of "unhealthy interests" and "trying to stay hip," I manage to poke my head into some of the bigger blogs in the right-wing cryosphere manosphere, PUA, men's rights, whatever other flavor of the week / rebaranding bullshit that's going on.
One complaint that I've always had with these fucks is their perverse commitment to monetization. For people involved in a jihad to save humanity from feminists and libruls, they sure do spend a lot of time selling you books and other bullshit. You'd think these sort of ideologues would be funneling that money back into saving civilization, but . . .
Let's just be honest. The whiny manosphere stuff is a sales pitch modeled on the early days of right-wing talk radio. That's why they're complicit in selling self-contradicting bullshit. "Women are sloots!" "Sloots are bad!" "Women only want relationships!" "Men should be plowing sloots!" "The loss of patriarchical households is ruining cibble-luh-say-shun!"
You'll note that consistency of message means nothing to these guys. Thematic and even ideological purity can get tossed right over the side of the HMS Manosphere if it means ginning up the outrage monkeys and getting more people clicking. They are, at the end of the day, crass marketers.
And now they're pissed that a lot of people are seeing the cracks in their walled garden business model and escaping. To wit, this "neomasculinity" bullshit from RooshV:
The bolding is mine.
Here's the thing with these dweebs . . . their formulate is astonishingly easy to replicate. In fact, you can readily start a subreddit and start pimping it, which is exactly what happened. And, of course, people figure out that they don't need the books and they don't need all of the right-wing political bullshit. Pretty soon, the audience has escaped the walled garden.
Like all marketing assholes, their solution is . . . fucking rebranding.
If you don't like the conversation, change it. And that's what they're aiming to do.
Isn't it funny how quickly they get pissed when all their little jihadis run off without any guidance from their central revolutionary council? It's almost like keeping everyone in the walled garden and hooked up to the marketing machine is more important than the message itself. Gee. What are the chances that a right-wing leaning group of marketers might just be exploitative assholes soft peddling angry ideology in order to extract money from gullible and angry guys?
So, rebranding it is. Of course, it is. What else would it be? Allow the young guys to go around without their paid gurus? BAH! That's very unlikely.
Let's be realistic. Most guys who amble into PUA / Red Pill / men's rights / manosphere stuff do so to get laid. The whole ball of wax is just cognitive behavioral therapy for people who are too proud to go to a therapist.
Girls are scary? Approach. See? It's not so bad.
That's not a massive revelation. It's Cognitive Behavioral Therapy 101. Identify a fear, then minimize the patient's anxiety by allowing them to learn that the experience is not going to be the end of the world.
In that regard, by bringing basic cognitive behavioral approaches to a mass of young men who are never going to visit a therapist without being ordered to do so by a judge, they're doing a massive service. Who gives a fuck how these guys take that first step as long as they take it, right?
The problem is that the marketers know most of the guys bail out from the rest of the program once the basic approach anxiety problem is resolved. That hurts the bottom line.
One of the creepiest things they do, in fact, is pimping the rape accusation fears of their audience. Think how perversely, fucked-uppedly cool that is?
You're selling a program for guys who are afraid of girls, right? What sells the success of the program better than, "Dude, you might be accused of rape once bag one of these sloots!"
How clever is that? And there's a wonderful push-pull. The reader in anxious and angry about the lack of available poosy, but on the other side of the equation you're also making him anxious and fearful about his possible success.
You're already selling to cognitively challenged and vulnerable audiences with this shit. These are the same guys who used to buy products to improve sexual prowess advertised in the back of titty mags back in the 1970s. Their judgment is, shall we say, often questionable.
The best part, though, is that basic cognitive behavioral therapy works. So the scam starts with something that's very scientifically valid. And that leads to the inference by the exploited party that, gosh, maybe this other stuff they say is legit, too!
It's a fascinating racket, but . . . people figure this shit out.
There's a reason a lot of people turn to the unguided forums for advice. The fact is that basic cognitive behavioral practices can be taught to anyone by anyone. Think about it. These fuckin far-right morons figured it out and passed it along, ferfucksake!
Most guys who get into this stuff want to get laid. I've seen the data on the subject. The retention rate for readership in the TRP world is fucking miserable, and a lot of the dropout rate is caused by success. Guys don't need to read all of the whiny rape accusations bullshit and the racist, anti-immigrant bullshit. They don't need the deeply anti-feminist screeds.
All they need is a soft nudge -- the cognitive behavioral nudge -- toward confronting their sexual anxieties.
That's not to say that the entire conversation is invalid. Quite the opposite. The battle of the sexes is a totally evergreen topic, and that's of course why marketers of all stripes constantly find a way back to it.
The problem, however, is that a number of the vulnerable and gullible are escaping the walled garden. They're finding free sources of information. They're learning that basic cognitive behavioral approaches to their sexual anxiety concerns are far more useful than three hundred blog posts about false rape accusations and how Hillary Clinton's cunt has an agenda set on strangling Western civilization.
My advice? Take the good, throw out the bad.
And for the love of gawd, always be aware that these motherfuckers are crass marketers.
One complaint that I've always had with these fucks is their perverse commitment to monetization. For people involved in a jihad to save humanity from feminists and libruls, they sure do spend a lot of time selling you books and other bullshit. You'd think these sort of ideologues would be funneling that money back into saving civilization, but . . .
Let's just be honest. The whiny manosphere stuff is a sales pitch modeled on the early days of right-wing talk radio. That's why they're complicit in selling self-contradicting bullshit. "Women are sloots!" "Sloots are bad!" "Women only want relationships!" "Men should be plowing sloots!" "The loss of patriarchical households is ruining cibble-luh-say-shun!"
You'll note that consistency of message means nothing to these guys. Thematic and even ideological purity can get tossed right over the side of the HMS Manosphere if it means ginning up the outrage monkeys and getting more people clicking. They are, at the end of the day, crass marketers.
And now they're pissed that a lot of people are seeing the cracks in their walled garden business model and escaping. To wit, this "neomasculinity" bullshit from RooshV:
The red pill is a non-commercial version of PUA with cultural observations thrown in. They hold firmly and obsessively onto rigid dogmas such as the alpha/beta male dichotomy to explain all male behavior while basing their “truths” upon a shaky foundation of pop evolution. Because it has no council of elders to guide the ideology, it is now being steered by the mob and watered down—or outright trolled—by entryists who are blue pill.
The bolding is mine.
Here's the thing with these dweebs . . . their formulate is astonishingly easy to replicate. In fact, you can readily start a subreddit and start pimping it, which is exactly what happened. And, of course, people figure out that they don't need the books and they don't need all of the right-wing political bullshit. Pretty soon, the audience has escaped the walled garden.
Like all marketing assholes, their solution is . . . fucking rebranding.
If you don't like the conversation, change it. And that's what they're aiming to do.
Isn't it funny how quickly they get pissed when all their little jihadis run off without any guidance from their central revolutionary council? It's almost like keeping everyone in the walled garden and hooked up to the marketing machine is more important than the message itself. Gee. What are the chances that a right-wing leaning group of marketers might just be exploitative assholes soft peddling angry ideology in order to extract money from gullible and angry guys?
So, rebranding it is. Of course, it is. What else would it be? Allow the young guys to go around without their paid gurus? BAH! That's very unlikely.
Let's be realistic. Most guys who amble into PUA / Red Pill / men's rights / manosphere stuff do so to get laid. The whole ball of wax is just cognitive behavioral therapy for people who are too proud to go to a therapist.
Girls are scary? Approach. See? It's not so bad.
That's not a massive revelation. It's Cognitive Behavioral Therapy 101. Identify a fear, then minimize the patient's anxiety by allowing them to learn that the experience is not going to be the end of the world.
In that regard, by bringing basic cognitive behavioral approaches to a mass of young men who are never going to visit a therapist without being ordered to do so by a judge, they're doing a massive service. Who gives a fuck how these guys take that first step as long as they take it, right?
The problem is that the marketers know most of the guys bail out from the rest of the program once the basic approach anxiety problem is resolved. That hurts the bottom line.
One of the creepiest things they do, in fact, is pimping the rape accusation fears of their audience. Think how perversely, fucked-uppedly cool that is?
You're selling a program for guys who are afraid of girls, right? What sells the success of the program better than, "Dude, you might be accused of rape once bag one of these sloots!"
How clever is that? And there's a wonderful push-pull. The reader in anxious and angry about the lack of available poosy, but on the other side of the equation you're also making him anxious and fearful about his possible success.
You're already selling to cognitively challenged and vulnerable audiences with this shit. These are the same guys who used to buy products to improve sexual prowess advertised in the back of titty mags back in the 1970s. Their judgment is, shall we say, often questionable.
The best part, though, is that basic cognitive behavioral therapy works. So the scam starts with something that's very scientifically valid. And that leads to the inference by the exploited party that, gosh, maybe this other stuff they say is legit, too!
It's a fascinating racket, but . . . people figure this shit out.
There's a reason a lot of people turn to the unguided forums for advice. The fact is that basic cognitive behavioral practices can be taught to anyone by anyone. Think about it. These fuckin far-right morons figured it out and passed it along, ferfucksake!
Most guys who get into this stuff want to get laid. I've seen the data on the subject. The retention rate for readership in the TRP world is fucking miserable, and a lot of the dropout rate is caused by success. Guys don't need to read all of the whiny rape accusations bullshit and the racist, anti-immigrant bullshit. They don't need the deeply anti-feminist screeds.
All they need is a soft nudge -- the cognitive behavioral nudge -- toward confronting their sexual anxieties.
That's not to say that the entire conversation is invalid. Quite the opposite. The battle of the sexes is a totally evergreen topic, and that's of course why marketers of all stripes constantly find a way back to it.
The problem, however, is that a number of the vulnerable and gullible are escaping the walled garden. They're finding free sources of information. They're learning that basic cognitive behavioral approaches to their sexual anxiety concerns are far more useful than three hundred blog posts about false rape accusations and how Hillary Clinton's cunt has an agenda set on strangling Western civilization.
My advice? Take the good, throw out the bad.
And for the love of gawd, always be aware that these motherfuckers are crass marketers.
Friday, May 1, 2015
Possibly the worst sentence I have ever read
This review gives rise to this . . .
We all struggle to maintain a certain level of economy in our use of language, but there's a difference between having a bit of diarrhea of the mouth and just flat-out needlessly jamming adjectives in there sideways to lard up a fucking sentence.
First, if you've never been in a river that's in full flood, let me assure that they are not fucking warm. Why does a flooding river need to be warm? Fucked if I know. This dude just wanted to make his labored metaphor about poetry sound more poetical.
Second . . . yeah, reviewers are typically terrible fucking writers. They're often writers who write about writers because they wish they could be writers, so they find jobs writing about writers in order to be writers.
Third: "languid physicality"? Huh? Unless you're describing what happens to an NFL nose tackle's gut while he's being blocked by two other guys, I struggle to see how anything that's at once capable of physicality can also be languid. #EnglishFail
Added bonus . . . this fucking sentence . . .
If you ever write a 542-page epic poem, you're an asshole. If you ever encourage people to fucking read a 542-page epic poem, you're a retard. Seriously, who the fuck writes a 542-page epic poem "in which even Jesus and Sonny Liston speak"?
Is that a fucking joke? I swear to gawd this guy was just stapling words the fuck together without any forethought. I assume that the only reason anyone would ever write a 542-page poem of any type is to troll the shit out of wannabe intellectuals.
SMFH. Just because you can use the English language to form sentences doesn't mean you should.
But "What About This" is an authentic outpouring like a warm river in full flood; you get swept off the bank and its languid physicality destroys you.
We all struggle to maintain a certain level of economy in our use of language, but there's a difference between having a bit of diarrhea of the mouth and just flat-out needlessly jamming adjectives in there sideways to lard up a fucking sentence.
First, if you've never been in a river that's in full flood, let me assure that they are not fucking warm. Why does a flooding river need to be warm? Fucked if I know. This dude just wanted to make his labored metaphor about poetry sound more poetical.
Second . . . yeah, reviewers are typically terrible fucking writers. They're often writers who write about writers because they wish they could be writers, so they find jobs writing about writers in order to be writers.
Third: "languid physicality"? Huh? Unless you're describing what happens to an NFL nose tackle's gut while he's being blocked by two other guys, I struggle to see how anything that's at once capable of physicality can also be languid. #EnglishFail
Added bonus . . . this fucking sentence . . .
Editor Michael Wiegers carefully selected this work from 10 collections, including parts of "The Battlefield Where the Moon Says I Love You," Stanford's best-known work — a swollen, ambitious 542-page epic poem in which even Jesus and Sonny Liston speak — as well as reams of unpublished work.
If you ever write a 542-page epic poem, you're an asshole. If you ever encourage people to fucking read a 542-page epic poem, you're a retard. Seriously, who the fuck writes a 542-page epic poem "in which even Jesus and Sonny Liston speak"?
Is that a fucking joke? I swear to gawd this guy was just stapling words the fuck together without any forethought. I assume that the only reason anyone would ever write a 542-page poem of any type is to troll the shit out of wannabe intellectuals.
SMFH. Just because you can use the English language to form sentences doesn't mean you should.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Some answers are too easy
I was reading this artricle, The mystery of billionaires’ long marriages, and all I could think was . . . how the fuck do we not discuss the obvious answer?
Women objectify male status and success. Yes, that status and success can be contextual, as anyone familiar with the idea of a chick being into a drug dealer will tell you, but the important thing is that women will stick through almost anything to be with a successful guy.
Even the article's discussion of the divorces among billionaires, such as Elon Musk leaving his wife for an actress, fit nicely into the Red Pill view of relationships.
A billionaire man who isn't inclined to cheat is unlikely to have a cheating wife, because he fulfills all the criteria that women seek in men. He'd have to be an astonishingly unaggressive, ugly and unfuckable pussy of a man, and even then I'm not sold there'd be a lot of fears of infidelity. Women lerv success, and if you have piles of success just sittin around, your wife is not going to leave you, especially if it's clear that your success is permanent, and not some weird one-off thing (for example, athletes' wives will cheat on them).
I don't feel inclined to condemn the female attraction to success. In part, that's because I think people tend to tag the "gold digger" thing as the source of trouble when in fact it's a more basic attraction to success. In the absence of a monetary economy, women would find another measuring stick for success, I promise.
I do, however, shake my head at the failure of people to comprehend the idea of success objectification.
Women objectify male status and success. Yes, that status and success can be contextual, as anyone familiar with the idea of a chick being into a drug dealer will tell you, but the important thing is that women will stick through almost anything to be with a successful guy.
Even the article's discussion of the divorces among billionaires, such as Elon Musk leaving his wife for an actress, fit nicely into the Red Pill view of relationships.
A billionaire man who isn't inclined to cheat is unlikely to have a cheating wife, because he fulfills all the criteria that women seek in men. He'd have to be an astonishingly unaggressive, ugly and unfuckable pussy of a man, and even then I'm not sold there'd be a lot of fears of infidelity. Women lerv success, and if you have piles of success just sittin around, your wife is not going to leave you, especially if it's clear that your success is permanent, and not some weird one-off thing (for example, athletes' wives will cheat on them).
I don't feel inclined to condemn the female attraction to success. In part, that's because I think people tend to tag the "gold digger" thing as the source of trouble when in fact it's a more basic attraction to success. In the absence of a monetary economy, women would find another measuring stick for success, I promise.
I do, however, shake my head at the failure of people to comprehend the idea of success objectification.
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Game has penetrated too far into the public conscience
I never offer much in the way of field reports anymore, but this Friday had a sequence of interesting events that are worthy of discussion in the world of aloofness and social-sexual game.
I had been out much of the day because I was helping a friend with some wacky fun drilling holes into the floors of his place and running cabling. (I got skillz . . . and 18-inch-long drill bits . . . but mostly skillz.) It was a full day of guy time, including partaking of the local sports team losing. He had to boot me out early due to work / sleep commitments, so I took myself to a bar in the next town over (college town, BTW).
It's important to remember that I went there to watch sports. (Yes, I paid a cover charge to watch sports.) FTR, if you can quantify anything in this world, it's a fair bet that I'm trying to angle my way into making a buck from it. Imaginably, that means that gamble on anything and everything that hasn't been nailed down. And when I'm trying out something new, I do not distract easily. The new gambling enterprise, BTW, is baseball, and the math is working out to be very consistently profitable.
That informs this next part . . . the bar I went to keeps it's sports-watching section right next to the dance floor, allowing people to go to the sports bar section for drinks and permitting the bar to not have to operate a third bar area (the first is for a larger social area at the front that resembles a large college rec room) in order to service the dancers and the sports watchers. This is actually one of the least scummy bars I know (if you follow the blog much, you know I prefer bars where the drugs and violence flow), and the crowd here is a little different than my usual suspects -- this is not a place I go to run game.
So, that's the setup. Clean bar, watching sports, tracking in my head how successful my math work is.
If you ever want proof that disinterest is the flame that lights the pussy fire, this is the story for you. I'm standing way off to the side, near the bathrooms in fact, watching my sports and minding my own business. A group of college chicks who were in full dance mode kept creeping closer. I didn't make much of them because drunk dancing college chicks are just par for the course in this place -- it's the definitive place for white girls to get white girl wasted and dance like monkeys being electrocuted (again, not my kinda bar at all). Eventually the monkey herd starts getting too close, but I stick to the same game plan that I always use in every situation: ignore everyone in the whole fucking world.
Again . . . disinterest is the pussy ignition button. (It dovetails nicely with the concept of devalidation. Apologies for the link to Chateau Heartiste, but even right-wing racists fucks can be correct about some facts, and this is one of those times.)
The shortest girl in the group takes the first shot, dancing epileptically in front of me. Dancing doesn't draw me out, so she tries dancing and asking my why I'm not dancing. I blow her off with some variant of "I'm not required to." She tries the usual pull on the arm thing, but I resisted. Eventually she just resorts to leaving her drink at my table as a pretense for coming back. Whatever.
By this point, other guys are gathering around, and they slowly start slicing off portions of the herd. I'm thinking I have a fighting chance of getting on with my greater concerns for gambling money.
Wrong.
Instead, the short girl and her taller, skinnier friend circle around and run the "come dance" routine again. I'm still not buying it.
And then the proof that game is too fucking ingrained in our culture hits: the tall girl snatches the knit cap off of my head (it's been a cold spring in the Northeast, and I was rocking the knit cap plus car coat look). Yes . . . this chick actually did the steal the hat game technique. She walked off with it and hid behind the DJ booth with her friend, so I had to walk across the dance floor to recover it. The DJ saw the look on my face, grabbed the cap from her, giving it to me, and told her, "This guy wants hit hat back."
I went back to my spot for a few minutes, but eventually decided to relocate away from the dancing herd. This bought me about two innings of baseball watching before the tall girl decided to really properly crawl up my ass this time. To say that I was getting everything including the kitchen sink thrown at me would be an understatement.
Of course, she starts with the arm pull and "come dance" sales pitch. No sale, so she tries chatting my up. I'm largely ignoring everything she says, but the bitch is physically blocking my view of the TV screens. She starts asking what I'm doing there. "Watching baseball." Are you from around here. "No." Then where are you from. "Not here, that's where."
What's funny is that the whole time I can see that none of this is registering with her. Young women who see themselves as desirable have no context for rejection. She's working under the assumption that I'm just gaming her because game has reached a level of social penetration such that it has become the default explanation in young women's heads for why a man would act the way I do. Ugh.
It is interesting, however, to watch how quickly women degenerate into beta male game. Her next sales pitch was, "You seem like a really sarcastic and cool guy." I respond, "The sarcastic part is right."
She goes through the guessing my age game through so many iterations that out of pity I just eventually tell her that she got it right like two tries back. That elicits something in the form of "That's really cool."
Then she takes the next step down the ladder to creepy guy game, telling me that I "smell too good." I made a statement to the effect of, "No old man smell. That's what I was shooting for."
She then decides to indict my rudeness. She overtly states that my behavior is rude. I blow this off and don't even respond.
She actually fucks up and goes for alpha male game next, and I probably should have given her the points for this one, but she was already pissing me off, so I didn't. She tells me that my beard makes me look like "an Amish businessman." That is a good one.
Unfortunately, she undoes that small success in the next try by asking, "Why do you keep making me yell?" (Implication being that by this point in the conversation I should have closed the gap between us. At this stage, she's overtly complaining about the fact that the social-sexual script is not being followed.) I respond, "I ain't making you do shit."
Next tack: explosive behavior game. She yells loudly directly into my ear. I don't even recall what she yelled.
Understand something about my upbringing. I come from the type of background that fosters difficulty in joining the middle class white world. This is a pretty good description of the default set of skills you learn coming from my type of background:
This is one of the reasons I stick to the scummier bars, night clubs and places full of rude boys. If I'm in a club full of armed black guys, half of whom are dealing drugs, I can function in that environment. I know the rules and customs, and I get along nicely in those environments because people from bad backgrounds recognize each other. You carry it a certain way, and people who've had to carry it the same way understand you on first sight.
To be clear, this is where I know this whole situation is just exceeding the parameters of my upbringing. The truth is that the middle class white world and my assbackwards, ain't learned nothin' redneck ass get along mostly because I follow a policy of detente. I keep the fuck out of the way -- aloof -- and the world leaves me the fuck alone. In return for this courtesy toward me, I focus my considerable intelligence on beating the system for profit instead of engineering a virus to wipe you fuckers out. Or just grabbing the next middle class drunk white college girl who pisses me off and duct taping her up and throwing out to die in the woods.
That's the deal. That's how the world and I plan to get along well enough for me to die a natural death in my 70s rather than a death by lethal injection in my 50s. (The appeals process takes forever. And fuck The Man, I'm using every appeal and exhausting the system's resources.)
I tell the chick, "I'm working very hard here to avoid just overtly telling you to fuck off, but you're really not getting the point here." I then do my best to look past her rather than at her.
In any other social context, surely she would have gotten the point. But she's a drunk white college girl who has never been rejected. The funny thing is that she's not expressing anger. She's not upset by my behavior. She's just blank because she's failing to process what's going on.
The only explanation I have for her behavior is that so many guys are now running PUA game on chicks that she's just operating under the assumption that I'm negging her or devalidating her or whatever. I get that chicks who see themselves as the cream of the crop don't understand rejection, but this chick is crossing over to a seriously Rain Man / autistic / Mr. Spock from Star Trek level of social retardation at this point. Women who see themselves as hot chicks simply don't exist in a world where rejection happens, and they sometimes behave worse than the worst aspie on the planet simply because they've never needed to learn the basic social skills needed to not be killed for saying or doing the wrong thing.
Her response to all of this was to playfully try to tap my beer bottle out of my hand when I went to take a drink. That was psychological trigger time for me. I looked at her and said, "Touch my beer again and I'll break your fuckin wrist."
If you ever want proof of how sheltered middle class, young white women are, this is it. She pulls up her shirt sleeve, exposing her little bird-boned wrist and holds in front of me.
For a moment, I thought perhaps this was finally going in a direction that I could understand. My brain was primed for the white trash outburst that fits contextually from my upbringing. I was expecting something in the form of a loud, "Go ahead motherfucker! Be a big man and break my wrist!" sort of display.
Instead, she just stood there holding her skinny wrist in front of me. No affectation. No emotional response. Just presenting it. This is just pure escalate and antagonize game, with maybe some fucking turn-on element from reading 50 Shades of Grey or some horseshit (besides The Game, 50 Shades is probably the next worst book in terms of drilling into the cultural supercontext and making life annoying for all single people).
Realizing that the context is not going to be white trash outburst -- unfortunate, because that would have brought the bouncers and solved the problem -- I realize that the overt physical threat is only rewarding her behavior. She wants attention, and the threat is attention.
So, I tell her, "Either you fuck off, or I'm going to have someone from security make you fuck off." (Whoo-hoo! I win points for de-escalating and using the wealthy white man's approach to the problem rather than going all white trash . . . which is my default mode.)
She rolls her sleeve up, steps back about a foot, but just keeps looking at me. This is like the human equivalent of the Blue Screen of Death. She doesn't do or say anything. Her expression doesn't change. This chick just stands there for at least a full minute. Not mad, not happy, not laughing, not nervous, not pissed. She's literally not processing anything, not doing anything. I guess she was trying to see how long of a stare down she could give me before I'd say something. That or I completely broke her software.
Out the corner of my eye, I see a security guy doing a walkaround of the place, and I give him a small hand gesture to come over. He comes over, I look at him and tell him, "I told this chick to fuck off, and she isn't fucking off."
The guy steps between me and her. As best I can tell, she doesn't say anything to him, but he does have to lean into her a bit to get her to move. He eventually gets her herded together with her herd on the opposite side of the dance floor. There's no gesturing or anything, so I eventually lose interest and resume watching my baseball game. By the way . . . my team won, I made money, and I made money on my full slate of bets for the day. Eventually the chick and her friends disappear entirely, although I didn't notice when it happened.
I'd like to say that's the end of the story, but if you read this blog for long, you know that I have an emotionally abusive streak and never leave well enough alone. Being an instinctive predator, I decided to scoot along about an hour later to the next white girl bar in town, knowing full well that this chick was going to be there. I just wanted to see how she'd respond, because I like to poke at things and see if they're still alive.
When I see her in the crowd -- and it was disgustingly crowded -- I decide to walk past her group, ignore her and keep going. Again . . . for science.
I eventually took up a spot on the opposite side of the dance floor from her group. It takes her about half an hour, but she eventually works her way over to my end of the dance floor. She doesn't say anything. Instead, she moves directly to my left and stands there dancing by herself for about ten minutes. Never says anything. Doesn't touch me. Just stand there dancing . . . right to my left. After ten minutes, she gives up and starts working her way through the crowd back to her friends.
The place was disgustingly crowded, as in smell of human sweat and swimming in humidity from body heat, so I decided to move along to a more dive bar type of club so I could properly be myself and enjoy myself. She never showed up there, and I managed to spend my night being chatted up by a shot girl who was trying to get my name and life story.
Weird experience. I have to say that I've never had to have a bouncer actually make a chick go away before. That's a new one.
I think part of the problem is that this chick didn't have any context besides game for processing my behavior. The idea that I was genuinely ignoring her and wanted her to fuck off did not compute. The only thing that made sense, in her mind, was that I was freezing her out.
Practitioners of game will tell you to not push a woman to a point where she thinks you're uninterested. What gets lost is that some women have themselves rated so far up the hot chick scale that they can't imagine male disinterest toward them. They don't know what to do when confronted by it. The truth is, they don't even register that it's a form of confrontation. All they see is guys gaming them, and they're just trying to process what your game is and bridge you toward participating in their game. The idea that you'd not want to play just isn't anywhere in the script.
That said, I've never seen a woman fail like that before. Women get pissy. They get whiny. Violent? Sure. I've never seen one just go into stand-by mode and stop functioning.
That was different.
I had been out much of the day because I was helping a friend with some wacky fun drilling holes into the floors of his place and running cabling. (I got skillz . . . and 18-inch-long drill bits . . . but mostly skillz.) It was a full day of guy time, including partaking of the local sports team losing. He had to boot me out early due to work / sleep commitments, so I took myself to a bar in the next town over (college town, BTW).
It's important to remember that I went there to watch sports. (Yes, I paid a cover charge to watch sports.) FTR, if you can quantify anything in this world, it's a fair bet that I'm trying to angle my way into making a buck from it. Imaginably, that means that gamble on anything and everything that hasn't been nailed down. And when I'm trying out something new, I do not distract easily. The new gambling enterprise, BTW, is baseball, and the math is working out to be very consistently profitable.
That informs this next part . . . the bar I went to keeps it's sports-watching section right next to the dance floor, allowing people to go to the sports bar section for drinks and permitting the bar to not have to operate a third bar area (the first is for a larger social area at the front that resembles a large college rec room) in order to service the dancers and the sports watchers. This is actually one of the least scummy bars I know (if you follow the blog much, you know I prefer bars where the drugs and violence flow), and the crowd here is a little different than my usual suspects -- this is not a place I go to run game.
So, that's the setup. Clean bar, watching sports, tracking in my head how successful my math work is.
If you ever want proof that disinterest is the flame that lights the pussy fire, this is the story for you. I'm standing way off to the side, near the bathrooms in fact, watching my sports and minding my own business. A group of college chicks who were in full dance mode kept creeping closer. I didn't make much of them because drunk dancing college chicks are just par for the course in this place -- it's the definitive place for white girls to get white girl wasted and dance like monkeys being electrocuted (again, not my kinda bar at all). Eventually the monkey herd starts getting too close, but I stick to the same game plan that I always use in every situation: ignore everyone in the whole fucking world.
Again . . . disinterest is the pussy ignition button. (It dovetails nicely with the concept of devalidation. Apologies for the link to Chateau Heartiste, but even right-wing racists fucks can be correct about some facts, and this is one of those times.)
The shortest girl in the group takes the first shot, dancing epileptically in front of me. Dancing doesn't draw me out, so she tries dancing and asking my why I'm not dancing. I blow her off with some variant of "I'm not required to." She tries the usual pull on the arm thing, but I resisted. Eventually she just resorts to leaving her drink at my table as a pretense for coming back. Whatever.
By this point, other guys are gathering around, and they slowly start slicing off portions of the herd. I'm thinking I have a fighting chance of getting on with my greater concerns for gambling money.
Wrong.
Instead, the short girl and her taller, skinnier friend circle around and run the "come dance" routine again. I'm still not buying it.
And then the proof that game is too fucking ingrained in our culture hits: the tall girl snatches the knit cap off of my head (it's been a cold spring in the Northeast, and I was rocking the knit cap plus car coat look). Yes . . . this chick actually did the steal the hat game technique. She walked off with it and hid behind the DJ booth with her friend, so I had to walk across the dance floor to recover it. The DJ saw the look on my face, grabbed the cap from her, giving it to me, and told her, "This guy wants hit hat back."
I went back to my spot for a few minutes, but eventually decided to relocate away from the dancing herd. This bought me about two innings of baseball watching before the tall girl decided to really properly crawl up my ass this time. To say that I was getting everything including the kitchen sink thrown at me would be an understatement.
Of course, she starts with the arm pull and "come dance" sales pitch. No sale, so she tries chatting my up. I'm largely ignoring everything she says, but the bitch is physically blocking my view of the TV screens. She starts asking what I'm doing there. "Watching baseball." Are you from around here. "No." Then where are you from. "Not here, that's where."
What's funny is that the whole time I can see that none of this is registering with her. Young women who see themselves as desirable have no context for rejection. She's working under the assumption that I'm just gaming her because game has reached a level of social penetration such that it has become the default explanation in young women's heads for why a man would act the way I do. Ugh.
It is interesting, however, to watch how quickly women degenerate into beta male game. Her next sales pitch was, "You seem like a really sarcastic and cool guy." I respond, "The sarcastic part is right."
She goes through the guessing my age game through so many iterations that out of pity I just eventually tell her that she got it right like two tries back. That elicits something in the form of "That's really cool."
Then she takes the next step down the ladder to creepy guy game, telling me that I "smell too good." I made a statement to the effect of, "No old man smell. That's what I was shooting for."
She then decides to indict my rudeness. She overtly states that my behavior is rude. I blow this off and don't even respond.
She actually fucks up and goes for alpha male game next, and I probably should have given her the points for this one, but she was already pissing me off, so I didn't. She tells me that my beard makes me look like "an Amish businessman." That is a good one.
Unfortunately, she undoes that small success in the next try by asking, "Why do you keep making me yell?" (Implication being that by this point in the conversation I should have closed the gap between us. At this stage, she's overtly complaining about the fact that the social-sexual script is not being followed.) I respond, "I ain't making you do shit."
Next tack: explosive behavior game. She yells loudly directly into my ear. I don't even recall what she yelled.
Understand something about my upbringing. I come from the type of background that fosters difficulty in joining the middle class white world. This is a pretty good description of the default set of skills you learn coming from my type of background:
If you live in a place that’s unsafe, where the schools and community have broken down and families are under strain, then you might lose some of your chances to learn self control. Actually, being impatient and impulsive and being quick to anger might even be skills that keep you alive.
This is one of the reasons I stick to the scummier bars, night clubs and places full of rude boys. If I'm in a club full of armed black guys, half of whom are dealing drugs, I can function in that environment. I know the rules and customs, and I get along nicely in those environments because people from bad backgrounds recognize each other. You carry it a certain way, and people who've had to carry it the same way understand you on first sight.
To be clear, this is where I know this whole situation is just exceeding the parameters of my upbringing. The truth is that the middle class white world and my assbackwards, ain't learned nothin' redneck ass get along mostly because I follow a policy of detente. I keep the fuck out of the way -- aloof -- and the world leaves me the fuck alone. In return for this courtesy toward me, I focus my considerable intelligence on beating the system for profit instead of engineering a virus to wipe you fuckers out. Or just grabbing the next middle class drunk white college girl who pisses me off and duct taping her up and throwing out to die in the woods.
That's the deal. That's how the world and I plan to get along well enough for me to die a natural death in my 70s rather than a death by lethal injection in my 50s. (The appeals process takes forever. And fuck The Man, I'm using every appeal and exhausting the system's resources.)
I tell the chick, "I'm working very hard here to avoid just overtly telling you to fuck off, but you're really not getting the point here." I then do my best to look past her rather than at her.
In any other social context, surely she would have gotten the point. But she's a drunk white college girl who has never been rejected. The funny thing is that she's not expressing anger. She's not upset by my behavior. She's just blank because she's failing to process what's going on.
The only explanation I have for her behavior is that so many guys are now running PUA game on chicks that she's just operating under the assumption that I'm negging her or devalidating her or whatever. I get that chicks who see themselves as the cream of the crop don't understand rejection, but this chick is crossing over to a seriously Rain Man / autistic / Mr. Spock from Star Trek level of social retardation at this point. Women who see themselves as hot chicks simply don't exist in a world where rejection happens, and they sometimes behave worse than the worst aspie on the planet simply because they've never needed to learn the basic social skills needed to not be killed for saying or doing the wrong thing.
Her response to all of this was to playfully try to tap my beer bottle out of my hand when I went to take a drink. That was psychological trigger time for me. I looked at her and said, "Touch my beer again and I'll break your fuckin wrist."
If you ever want proof of how sheltered middle class, young white women are, this is it. She pulls up her shirt sleeve, exposing her little bird-boned wrist and holds in front of me.
For a moment, I thought perhaps this was finally going in a direction that I could understand. My brain was primed for the white trash outburst that fits contextually from my upbringing. I was expecting something in the form of a loud, "Go ahead motherfucker! Be a big man and break my wrist!" sort of display.
Instead, she just stood there holding her skinny wrist in front of me. No affectation. No emotional response. Just presenting it. This is just pure escalate and antagonize game, with maybe some fucking turn-on element from reading 50 Shades of Grey or some horseshit (besides The Game, 50 Shades is probably the next worst book in terms of drilling into the cultural supercontext and making life annoying for all single people).
Realizing that the context is not going to be white trash outburst -- unfortunate, because that would have brought the bouncers and solved the problem -- I realize that the overt physical threat is only rewarding her behavior. She wants attention, and the threat is attention.
So, I tell her, "Either you fuck off, or I'm going to have someone from security make you fuck off." (Whoo-hoo! I win points for de-escalating and using the wealthy white man's approach to the problem rather than going all white trash . . . which is my default mode.)
She rolls her sleeve up, steps back about a foot, but just keeps looking at me. This is like the human equivalent of the Blue Screen of Death. She doesn't do or say anything. Her expression doesn't change. This chick just stands there for at least a full minute. Not mad, not happy, not laughing, not nervous, not pissed. She's literally not processing anything, not doing anything. I guess she was trying to see how long of a stare down she could give me before I'd say something. That or I completely broke her software.
Out the corner of my eye, I see a security guy doing a walkaround of the place, and I give him a small hand gesture to come over. He comes over, I look at him and tell him, "I told this chick to fuck off, and she isn't fucking off."
The guy steps between me and her. As best I can tell, she doesn't say anything to him, but he does have to lean into her a bit to get her to move. He eventually gets her herded together with her herd on the opposite side of the dance floor. There's no gesturing or anything, so I eventually lose interest and resume watching my baseball game. By the way . . . my team won, I made money, and I made money on my full slate of bets for the day. Eventually the chick and her friends disappear entirely, although I didn't notice when it happened.
I'd like to say that's the end of the story, but if you read this blog for long, you know that I have an emotionally abusive streak and never leave well enough alone. Being an instinctive predator, I decided to scoot along about an hour later to the next white girl bar in town, knowing full well that this chick was going to be there. I just wanted to see how she'd respond, because I like to poke at things and see if they're still alive.
When I see her in the crowd -- and it was disgustingly crowded -- I decide to walk past her group, ignore her and keep going. Again . . . for science.
I eventually took up a spot on the opposite side of the dance floor from her group. It takes her about half an hour, but she eventually works her way over to my end of the dance floor. She doesn't say anything. Instead, she moves directly to my left and stands there dancing by herself for about ten minutes. Never says anything. Doesn't touch me. Just stand there dancing . . . right to my left. After ten minutes, she gives up and starts working her way through the crowd back to her friends.
The place was disgustingly crowded, as in smell of human sweat and swimming in humidity from body heat, so I decided to move along to a more dive bar type of club so I could properly be myself and enjoy myself. She never showed up there, and I managed to spend my night being chatted up by a shot girl who was trying to get my name and life story.
Weird experience. I have to say that I've never had to have a bouncer actually make a chick go away before. That's a new one.
I think part of the problem is that this chick didn't have any context besides game for processing my behavior. The idea that I was genuinely ignoring her and wanted her to fuck off did not compute. The only thing that made sense, in her mind, was that I was freezing her out.
Practitioners of game will tell you to not push a woman to a point where she thinks you're uninterested. What gets lost is that some women have themselves rated so far up the hot chick scale that they can't imagine male disinterest toward them. They don't know what to do when confronted by it. The truth is, they don't even register that it's a form of confrontation. All they see is guys gaming them, and they're just trying to process what your game is and bridge you toward participating in their game. The idea that you'd not want to play just isn't anywhere in the script.
That said, I've never seen a woman fail like that before. Women get pissy. They get whiny. Violent? Sure. I've never seen one just go into stand-by mode and stop functioning.
That was different.
Friday, April 10, 2015
The difference between outcasts and willful outsiders
I was making the mistake of reading around some of the PUA, men's right and other right-wingish, pro-manish stuff that's out there to survey the current landscape, and I happened upon this bit about being a high school outsider. I found the blod post interesting in large part because 1) it stands in stark contrast to my own experience and 2) it reminds me a great deal of a friend's experience.
The crux of what this guy, Chris, who runs the blog Good Looking Loser, had to say was encapsulate in three paragraphs.
Para 1, describing his hometown:
Para 2, his thesis:
Para 3, the true "holy shit" moment for me:
So, let me address the holy shit factor first. Where I grew up, the ass beatin' you would've gotten for pulling bullying shit like that, even in 4th Grade, would have been unreal. If your parents didn't do it, someone would have done. If all else failed, one of the male teachers would have found a way to make it happen (likely by recruiting a few of the boys who had been raised right).
This might as well have grown up on the fucking moon when I compare my experiences to his. If you read the blog much, you may recall that I grew up dirt poor and rural. While high school shit happened, it happened within a specific context, and most of it was standard jousting for position. There weren't even that many kids who engaged in bullying in my high school, at least relative to what I hear people describe happening elsewhere.
It's funny to me reading that post because it reminds me that there are three types of outsides in this world:
To some extent, a lot of the tension that I experience in life arises from pressure that others wish to apply to people who they see as potential social assets to join their group. The problem in my case is that I have such a well-developed image of myself as a casually aloof outsider just passing through Western civilization like an anthropologist handing out machetes and shotguns to the locals (this isn't a joke; Napoleon Chagnon actually did this!!) that it's very hard for me to make the necessary mental and emotional leaps to ever be included in any group. I enjoy being an outsider, largely because it allows me to appropriate for myself the right of relentlessly pointing and laughing at the stupidity of others.
If you go and read the post by Chris and then compare it to some of the stuff that I post, you'll notice a lot of differences. For shit and grins, let's actually compare and contrast . . .
First off, trust me when I tell you that shutting of the attention spigot is likely the worst form of abuse that you can inflict upon a woman. That's the money shot if your goal is to really grind a woman down and question her self-worth. You can beat a bitch senseless, and she'll love it because physical abuse is attention and attention means emotional investment. If you wanna really fuck a woman up, you have to feed her about three breadcrumbs of attention and then cut the supply off entirely the moment she thinks she just might have a fighting chance.
What interests me, however, is that we arrived at the same point from very different starting lines. Chris wanted to be one of the cool kids and wanted the girls' attentions. I aimed to always be an outsider and a fuck-up, and I only wanted the girls' attention if they could be crammed within the very limited space allowed by definition of myself and my limited set of social skills.
At the end of the equation, however, we both wanted to get revenge on the girls. He wanted revenge because they hadn't paid attention to him. I wanted revenge because I didn't understand what the fuck they were trying to get me to do and felt confused and hurt by the entire experience.
It's worth re-reading one of the earliest posts on this blog if you wonder just what a socially retarded mess I was. http://aloofguy.blogspot.com/2011/11/road-to-aloofness.html
Here's the truth of it. I was so socially retarded that I actually thought:
I was dumb as a motherfucker when it came to girls.
For example, my first kiss came during a summer party that a friend of friend's family was throwing (they were very devout and decent people from a good background -- just because I was white trash didn't mean I didn't know decent and well-off folk, which is typical of small town rural life in America). I was going into 7th grade the next year, and one of the 8th grade girls who was there (I didn't know who she was) took a shine to me and spent the whole day trying to make her intentions known to me, asking about, trying to corner me and chat me up, etc. None of this registered with me, and in fact I thought she was bullying me.
Toward the evening, the adults had asked the older kids (ya know, 7th and 8th graders) to organize a game of hide and go seek for the younger kids. Eventually the 8th grade girl (usually I change names to protect the innocent on this blog, but in this case I really can't recall what her name was!) got her turn to be it. She made a point of seeking me out, and found me behind a bush at the very edge of the property. She then went straight in for the kill, grabbing me and planting a kiss right on my mouth.
Being the socially retarded mess that I was, I quit the game and spent the trip home bitching to my friend about the girl. His parents never invited me to anything after that tirade, BTW.
At my old age, I of course understand what happened. What happened was I had won the fuckin lottery in terms of middle school accomplishments and then proceeded to light my ticket on fire and run away. Worse, I was pleased with my choice!
I can remember years later discussing this story with a woman on a first date, and she just smiled and laughed, telling me that it was the cutest first kiss story that she had ever heard. In retrospect, I know that most people would think it was a really cute story, but for me it was awful and left me feeling a tad violated. (There is an argument to be had here that if a boy did this to an awkward girl that it would be viewed as closer to a sexual assault than a cute story of young love.)
I think that difference is relevant. Why?
The big advantage I had over a guy like Chris is that I was practically a perfect natural to some of the real nuts and bolts elements of sociosexual game. Having an aloof personality and a strong personal need to push others away allowed me to easily avoid the neediness trap that usually catches guys well before they discover the basic social dynamics of game. I also displayed signs of authority problems at that age, and that of course always sells well in the sexual marketplace. You also create an obvious abundance mentality when all of the girls around you see how retarded one of the hot ones is willing to go. In short, I was packin' aloof bad boy game from the day that I hit puberty, and I couldn't even be bothered to care that I was.
My biggest regret about high school isn't that I could have been cooler than I was. My biggest regret was that I didn't understand just how much pussy I was swimming in.
I've said before on the blog that it would be pointless to go back in time and tell my younger self the deal simply because my younger self would not have cared.
I was so angry about the way girls played the game that it wouldn't have mattered to me. In more than one case, I got the picture well enough to understand that a particular girl liked me. Trust me, when you're sitting in 9th grade Spanish class with a girl leaning back on your desk and tossing her hair around trying to provoke a response, you do get the rough outline of her intentions. For me, at that age, it was pure anger at the idea that this whole dumb process was somehow required.
In that particular case in 9th grade, I just wanted that girl to stew in her own insecurities and self-hatred for not responding to my direct indication of interest in her. I got the idea, vaguely and roughly within my limited scope of social skills, that she wanted me to do something, but I was so pissed that she hadn't provided any response to my direct request, in writing, for a relationship that I simply figured she could go fuck herself. If she cared, she'd do what I did. That's simply how I saw the issue.
I somehow doubt that the younger me, even with the whole concept stretched out in a straight line and explained in detailed, would have changed his disposition in the slightest. If anything, I suspect that I would have been even more angry. Even now, the whole concept of how women half-assedly flirt with guys and then expect guys to carry the entire burden of a potential rejection leaves me feeling a little chaffed. I may understand the concepts, but I still don't find the whole enterprise amusing in the slightest. It's still chickenshit.
It's also important to realize that I never processed the idea that puberty had actually happened to me. I had a self-image going back into elementary and middle that was based in being fat and smart and poor. The fact that puberty had rectified my basic shortcomings didn't get processed until I was in my late 20s.
In fact, in retrospect, I think that's where the real evidence of my social cluelessness sits. Even through college, the idea just never sunk into my brain that attractive women found me to be attractive. The biggest problem that I had was making the logical leap to the idea that I was expected to form up as part of the in-crowd, be successful and just act like an attractive and successful person is supposed to act. The concept just never struck me.
Even now as I progress well into my 30s, I may understand the concept, but I also take a perverse pride in laying waste to it. I still quite enjoy watching women go stupid over me and then treating them like shit. I've never ceased to get a kick out it.
Somewhere along the way, I simply developed too ingrained of an image of myself as an outsider, a poor kid, a fuck-up, a fat kid, etc, that it became very easy and very normal to me to sit on the periphery of humanity. I'm proud of it. The idea of seizing my right to be a handsome and successful man has zero appeal to me.
As a willful outsider, it doesn't feel right to me to be cool and to be lavished with attention. What feels right to me is to treat those people like shit and then sit there smirking at them when it sinks in that I'm not playing with them: I really am just mistreating them for my own amusement.
It is funny. I never get tired of watching some cute young thing's face change when she realizes that at least one man in this world just isn't buying into her bullshit, no matter how desperately she tries to explain herself.
I also can't lie: watching almost every single girl who comes into my orbit and shoots out the other side then proceed lose 10 to 20 pounds within six months is the greatest form of ego massage a man can experience. It happens like clockwork, and it is frankly fascinating to watch, especially if you have a sadistic streak and like to watch women hate themselves. I don't even have a strong preference for thing girls! I just like watching the consequences of their internal turmoil and self-hatred boil up into real world results.
I should also point out that frickin lerv feeding a woman just enough line to make her think she has a chance. The longer they stay on the line struggling and fighting, the more I like it. It's hard to find the ones that will stay there for months or even years, but damn is it satisfying when ya do.
I don't think I can ever understand, on a gut level, why anyone would fight to be one of the cool kids. It's just more fun to make everyone feel like shit because you won't join them. And it's even more fun to string them along and watch their puzzled expressions.
The crux of what this guy, Chris, who runs the blog Good Looking Loser, had to say was encapsulate in three paragraphs.
Para 1, describing his hometown:
The premise for the wildly popular 90's show "Beverly Hills 90210" was based on Winston Churchill High School and the town of Potomac (and Bethesda, MD.).
Para 2, his thesis:
My advice is to become OBSESSED with your appearance.
Para 3, the true "holy shit" moment for me:
I know what it's like to be teased when my brother died from cancer. (4th grade)
So, let me address the holy shit factor first. Where I grew up, the ass beatin' you would've gotten for pulling bullying shit like that, even in 4th Grade, would have been unreal. If your parents didn't do it, someone would have done. If all else failed, one of the male teachers would have found a way to make it happen (likely by recruiting a few of the boys who had been raised right).
This might as well have grown up on the fucking moon when I compare my experiences to his. If you read the blog much, you may recall that I grew up dirt poor and rural. While high school shit happened, it happened within a specific context, and most of it was standard jousting for position. There weren't even that many kids who engaged in bullying in my high school, at least relative to what I hear people describe happening elsewhere.
It's funny to me reading that post because it reminds me that there are three types of outsides in this world:
- Outsiders who are looking in through the window and wishing to join the cool kids.
- Outsiders who are pissing in through skylight and laughing their asses off.
- Outsiders who are just passing through and don't care whether the natives kill each other.
To some extent, a lot of the tension that I experience in life arises from pressure that others wish to apply to people who they see as potential social assets to join their group. The problem in my case is that I have such a well-developed image of myself as a casually aloof outsider just passing through Western civilization like an anthropologist handing out machetes and shotguns to the locals (this isn't a joke; Napoleon Chagnon actually did this!!) that it's very hard for me to make the necessary mental and emotional leaps to ever be included in any group. I enjoy being an outsider, largely because it allows me to appropriate for myself the right of relentlessly pointing and laughing at the stupidity of others.
If you go and read the post by Chris and then compare it to some of the stuff that I post, you'll notice a lot of differences. For shit and grins, let's actually compare and contrast . . .
The Life of Chris
- Wealthy school district
- Obsessed with body image
- Wanted to be cool
- Mostly harmless poppped collar type
- Struggled to get the attention of the opposite sex
- Emotionally abused girls through systematic rejection
The Life of the Aloof Guy
- Dirt poor school district
- Barely aware of the concept of body image
- Willfully firebombing what little passed for cool
- White trash raised around people who committed several homicides and numerous suicides
- Confused by the attention of the opposite sex
- Emotionally abused girls through systematic rejection
First off, trust me when I tell you that shutting of the attention spigot is likely the worst form of abuse that you can inflict upon a woman. That's the money shot if your goal is to really grind a woman down and question her self-worth. You can beat a bitch senseless, and she'll love it because physical abuse is attention and attention means emotional investment. If you wanna really fuck a woman up, you have to feed her about three breadcrumbs of attention and then cut the supply off entirely the moment she thinks she just might have a fighting chance.
What interests me, however, is that we arrived at the same point from very different starting lines. Chris wanted to be one of the cool kids and wanted the girls' attentions. I aimed to always be an outsider and a fuck-up, and I only wanted the girls' attention if they could be crammed within the very limited space allowed by definition of myself and my limited set of social skills.
At the end of the equation, however, we both wanted to get revenge on the girls. He wanted revenge because they hadn't paid attention to him. I wanted revenge because I didn't understand what the fuck they were trying to get me to do and felt confused and hurt by the entire experience.
How socially retarded was I in school?
It's worth re-reading one of the earliest posts on this blog if you wonder just what a socially retarded mess I was. http://aloofguy.blogspot.com/2011/11/road-to-aloofness.html
Here's the truth of it. I was so socially retarded that I actually thought:
- Girls who liked me in high school did so purely because we had been around each other.
- Overt sexual or physical advances weren't any sort of proof of any actual interest.
- Some girls just liked to talk about stuff that interested them with me.
- If a girl liked me, she would let me know, especially if I had already said something.
- Girls simply jerked guys around because they were batshit crazy. (This, however, was based upon my sister, who was crazy enough that a fake pregnancy scare was her go-to move to get a guy to be more serious in a relationship.)
I was dumb as a motherfucker when it came to girls.
For example, my first kiss came during a summer party that a friend of friend's family was throwing (they were very devout and decent people from a good background -- just because I was white trash didn't mean I didn't know decent and well-off folk, which is typical of small town rural life in America). I was going into 7th grade the next year, and one of the 8th grade girls who was there (I didn't know who she was) took a shine to me and spent the whole day trying to make her intentions known to me, asking about, trying to corner me and chat me up, etc. None of this registered with me, and in fact I thought she was bullying me.
Toward the evening, the adults had asked the older kids (ya know, 7th and 8th graders) to organize a game of hide and go seek for the younger kids. Eventually the 8th grade girl (usually I change names to protect the innocent on this blog, but in this case I really can't recall what her name was!) got her turn to be it. She made a point of seeking me out, and found me behind a bush at the very edge of the property. She then went straight in for the kill, grabbing me and planting a kiss right on my mouth.
Being the socially retarded mess that I was, I quit the game and spent the trip home bitching to my friend about the girl. His parents never invited me to anything after that tirade, BTW.
At my old age, I of course understand what happened. What happened was I had won the fuckin lottery in terms of middle school accomplishments and then proceeded to light my ticket on fire and run away. Worse, I was pleased with my choice!
I can remember years later discussing this story with a woman on a first date, and she just smiled and laughed, telling me that it was the cutest first kiss story that she had ever heard. In retrospect, I know that most people would think it was a really cute story, but for me it was awful and left me feeling a tad violated. (There is an argument to be had here that if a boy did this to an awkward girl that it would be viewed as closer to a sexual assault than a cute story of young love.)
The difference
For me, the frustration of dealing with other human beings has always been the unwanted pull from them. For a guy like Chris, the frustration arose from wishing that they were pulling him toward the social center.I think that difference is relevant. Why?
The big advantage I had over a guy like Chris is that I was practically a perfect natural to some of the real nuts and bolts elements of sociosexual game. Having an aloof personality and a strong personal need to push others away allowed me to easily avoid the neediness trap that usually catches guys well before they discover the basic social dynamics of game. I also displayed signs of authority problems at that age, and that of course always sells well in the sexual marketplace. You also create an obvious abundance mentality when all of the girls around you see how retarded one of the hot ones is willing to go. In short, I was packin' aloof bad boy game from the day that I hit puberty, and I couldn't even be bothered to care that I was.
My biggest regret about high school isn't that I could have been cooler than I was. My biggest regret was that I didn't understand just how much pussy I was swimming in.
I've said before on the blog that it would be pointless to go back in time and tell my younger self the deal simply because my younger self would not have cared.
I was so angry about the way girls played the game that it wouldn't have mattered to me. In more than one case, I got the picture well enough to understand that a particular girl liked me. Trust me, when you're sitting in 9th grade Spanish class with a girl leaning back on your desk and tossing her hair around trying to provoke a response, you do get the rough outline of her intentions. For me, at that age, it was pure anger at the idea that this whole dumb process was somehow required.
In that particular case in 9th grade, I just wanted that girl to stew in her own insecurities and self-hatred for not responding to my direct indication of interest in her. I got the idea, vaguely and roughly within my limited scope of social skills, that she wanted me to do something, but I was so pissed that she hadn't provided any response to my direct request, in writing, for a relationship that I simply figured she could go fuck herself. If she cared, she'd do what I did. That's simply how I saw the issue.
I somehow doubt that the younger me, even with the whole concept stretched out in a straight line and explained in detailed, would have changed his disposition in the slightest. If anything, I suspect that I would have been even more angry. Even now, the whole concept of how women half-assedly flirt with guys and then expect guys to carry the entire burden of a potential rejection leaves me feeling a little chaffed. I may understand the concepts, but I still don't find the whole enterprise amusing in the slightest. It's still chickenshit.
It's also important to realize that I never processed the idea that puberty had actually happened to me. I had a self-image going back into elementary and middle that was based in being fat and smart and poor. The fact that puberty had rectified my basic shortcomings didn't get processed until I was in my late 20s.
Making the leap of logic doesn't help
In fact, in retrospect, I think that's where the real evidence of my social cluelessness sits. Even through college, the idea just never sunk into my brain that attractive women found me to be attractive. The biggest problem that I had was making the logical leap to the idea that I was expected to form up as part of the in-crowd, be successful and just act like an attractive and successful person is supposed to act. The concept just never struck me.
Even now as I progress well into my 30s, I may understand the concept, but I also take a perverse pride in laying waste to it. I still quite enjoy watching women go stupid over me and then treating them like shit. I've never ceased to get a kick out it.
Somewhere along the way, I simply developed too ingrained of an image of myself as an outsider, a poor kid, a fuck-up, a fat kid, etc, that it became very easy and very normal to me to sit on the periphery of humanity. I'm proud of it. The idea of seizing my right to be a handsome and successful man has zero appeal to me.
As a willful outsider, it doesn't feel right to me to be cool and to be lavished with attention. What feels right to me is to treat those people like shit and then sit there smirking at them when it sinks in that I'm not playing with them: I really am just mistreating them for my own amusement.
It is funny. I never get tired of watching some cute young thing's face change when she realizes that at least one man in this world just isn't buying into her bullshit, no matter how desperately she tries to explain herself.
I also can't lie: watching almost every single girl who comes into my orbit and shoots out the other side then proceed lose 10 to 20 pounds within six months is the greatest form of ego massage a man can experience. It happens like clockwork, and it is frankly fascinating to watch, especially if you have a sadistic streak and like to watch women hate themselves. I don't even have a strong preference for thing girls! I just like watching the consequences of their internal turmoil and self-hatred boil up into real world results.
I should also point out that frickin lerv feeding a woman just enough line to make her think she has a chance. The longer they stay on the line struggling and fighting, the more I like it. It's hard to find the ones that will stay there for months or even years, but damn is it satisfying when ya do.
Conclusion
It's intriguing to see the difference between someone who's trying to pull people in versus someone who is trying to push them away. It's also interesting to examine how we each get our kicks from getting revenge on the opposite sex. Life experiences take us all to strange places, and a few of us end up being really fucked up messes.I don't think I can ever understand, on a gut level, why anyone would fight to be one of the cool kids. It's just more fun to make everyone feel like shit because you won't join them. And it's even more fun to string them along and watch their puzzled expressions.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Perhaps my primary complaint about women
I was dwelling on the past the other day, and a particular pattern over my lifetime struck me. To be clear, this isn't a relationship pattern. This a pattern that pertains more to how I respond to the initial flirtation and attempts at feeling me out that women try.
Particularly what I don't like is the assumption that I as a particular type of man who they might happen to like am somehow wasting a perfectly good life by not being what they what me to be. I've been subjected to multiple variants of comments (including in the comments section of this blog) to the effect that it's terrible to see such a good alpha male waste his life by being me.
If you know much about me from reading the blog, then you'll know that I'm not a fan of the alpha male label. One, because it's dumb to assign dog pack concepts to human. Two, because most guys I know who seek out the alpha male label do so for really dumb reasons. There are fake alphas doing it for pussy. There are guys who really want to be large and in charge. There are dude with unresolved shower rape issues from their time in on the varsity football team.
I don't see myself as an alpha male, and I object to the idea that I'm obliged to see being an alpha male as a worthy goal. I understand that most guys given the chance to have women call them alpha males would leap at the opportunity. Therein, for me, is half of the problem. What's the big deal about being a big deal if you sit around like a fourteen-year old girl really want to be a big deal? It's kind girlie and not very becoming of an actual man.
It's easy to tell that women are so used to men defining themselves as the pursuers of women that women struggle to process any other dynamic. The idea that a man wouldn't want to be an alpha male is deeply foreign to the average woman.
To be honest, you, as a woman, are well within your rights to want to have an alpha male in your life. I think it's lame, but I also think religion and politics are lame, and somehow society keeps chugging along despite my objections to those too.
Where it starts to piss me off is that I end up being the object of a lot of anger from women for not wanting to participate in the great alpha male game. There has been a clear consensus among the women I've known in my lifetime that there's something deeply wrong with how I play the game. To make the problem worse, they get very pissed that I refuse to play the game. It seems to be a high crime for a man to opt out of this bullshit, and most women are heavily insulted when they try to flirt with a guy and simply has no part of playing the alpha role that she wishes to cast him in.
Understand, I have had my fair share of women lash out physically at me for not playing along. We're not talking about women just being pissy about it. There are sore losers all over the world, so that's not my problem.
What bothers me most is the implication that I, as a man who has all the potential to fit within this obnoxious and highly objectified role of the alpha male, have not right to want to be anything else.
Women expect men who can reel women in to be out doing as much of it as they possibly can. And that in its own right is fine. The problem arises when they simply refuse to leave it at that.
Hey, if some other guy wants to be your dancing monkey alpha male, hooray for him. But don't make it my problem just because you think I would make a superb alpha male. So fucking what if I would? It's not my goddamned job to be whatever you feel I should be.
I get that the supply of men who can fit the objectified dominant role in a relationship is very low. I do not, however, consider it my fucking civic duty to make up for that by pretending to be what you want me to be just so you get a little tingle down in your girl parts.
I'm not required to be anything, and it amazes me how lacking in self-awareness women are when they start dropping shit like that on me. So what if I'd make a great alpha male? It might be a fuckin' tragedy for you, but it's just not something I want in my own life. Fuck that. That whole dynamic is obnoxious, and I have every right to chart my own path outside of the norms that women want me to conform to.
I just don't care enough about the well-being of your pussy to be bothered with being the man you think I should be.
Particularly what I don't like is the assumption that I as a particular type of man who they might happen to like am somehow wasting a perfectly good life by not being what they what me to be. I've been subjected to multiple variants of comments (including in the comments section of this blog) to the effect that it's terrible to see such a good alpha male waste his life by being me.
If you know much about me from reading the blog, then you'll know that I'm not a fan of the alpha male label. One, because it's dumb to assign dog pack concepts to human. Two, because most guys I know who seek out the alpha male label do so for really dumb reasons. There are fake alphas doing it for pussy. There are guys who really want to be large and in charge. There are dude with unresolved shower rape issues from their time in on the varsity football team.
I don't see myself as an alpha male, and I object to the idea that I'm obliged to see being an alpha male as a worthy goal. I understand that most guys given the chance to have women call them alpha males would leap at the opportunity. Therein, for me, is half of the problem. What's the big deal about being a big deal if you sit around like a fourteen-year old girl really want to be a big deal? It's kind girlie and not very becoming of an actual man.
It's easy to tell that women are so used to men defining themselves as the pursuers of women that women struggle to process any other dynamic. The idea that a man wouldn't want to be an alpha male is deeply foreign to the average woman.
To be honest, you, as a woman, are well within your rights to want to have an alpha male in your life. I think it's lame, but I also think religion and politics are lame, and somehow society keeps chugging along despite my objections to those too.
Where it starts to piss me off is that I end up being the object of a lot of anger from women for not wanting to participate in the great alpha male game. There has been a clear consensus among the women I've known in my lifetime that there's something deeply wrong with how I play the game. To make the problem worse, they get very pissed that I refuse to play the game. It seems to be a high crime for a man to opt out of this bullshit, and most women are heavily insulted when they try to flirt with a guy and simply has no part of playing the alpha role that she wishes to cast him in.
Understand, I have had my fair share of women lash out physically at me for not playing along. We're not talking about women just being pissy about it. There are sore losers all over the world, so that's not my problem.
What bothers me most is the implication that I, as a man who has all the potential to fit within this obnoxious and highly objectified role of the alpha male, have not right to want to be anything else.
Women expect men who can reel women in to be out doing as much of it as they possibly can. And that in its own right is fine. The problem arises when they simply refuse to leave it at that.
Hey, if some other guy wants to be your dancing monkey alpha male, hooray for him. But don't make it my problem just because you think I would make a superb alpha male. So fucking what if I would? It's not my goddamned job to be whatever you feel I should be.
I get that the supply of men who can fit the objectified dominant role in a relationship is very low. I do not, however, consider it my fucking civic duty to make up for that by pretending to be what you want me to be just so you get a little tingle down in your girl parts.
I'm not required to be anything, and it amazes me how lacking in self-awareness women are when they start dropping shit like that on me. So what if I'd make a great alpha male? It might be a fuckin' tragedy for you, but it's just not something I want in my own life. Fuck that. That whole dynamic is obnoxious, and I have every right to chart my own path outside of the norms that women want me to conform to.
I just don't care enough about the well-being of your pussy to be bothered with being the man you think I should be.
Monday, February 2, 2015
What I know at this stage in my life
These are in no particular order. This is rather stream of conscience.
1. The amount of information I know is huge. The amount of actionable information I know is small.
At my old age (soon to be 37), I've realized just how much information there is in this world and how very little of it ever helps you make a real decision.
2. I'm going to die childless and alone.
The math simply supports it. If I were inclined to show a shred of humility in how I respond to women by now, it would have popped up in my behavior enough to make a difference.
3. If you really want to control a woman, forget violence of any kind.
I never was one to be physical toward women, but as I've dealt with more and more of them over the years, the utter lack of utility of being physical toward a woman has become even clearer.
Go start a Fetlife profile and see how many women right now are trolling the internet hoping for just one brutal guy to be emotionally invested enough in her that he wants to beat the fuck out of her and put her in her place. For far more woman than will ever admit it, a good beating is practically a fuckin Christmas present. Rihanna's made the last half of her recording career into nothing but an ode to domestic violence and the desire to fuck brutal men.
But, as a guy, you can't win playing that game. If you want a woman to really be under your thumb, you have to just let her go entirely off your radar. It's like dealing with a child who constantly threatens to run away -- the only solution is to completely ignore the threats and special pleadings and just get on with your day.
4. If a woman wants your attention, there's no limit to what she will try.
5. Failing to pay attention to a woman rarely dissuades her.
Women, unless they've been treated as reprehensible for clearly obvious reasons (extreme obesity, serious signs of genetic defects, extreme small chestedness -- pretty much only really extreme failings), don't register the concept of a soft rejection.
It's one of the things that bothers me most about women. On balance, I prefer to be nicer about rejections where possible. It sucks to be rejected, and I try to soften the blow as much as possible.
6. Softening the emotional blow is pointless.
There's no version of a soft, safe, controlled landing with women in any sort of emotional business. The best you can ever manage is to just thoroughly discourage a woman to the point that her attention-seeking ego can't take it anymore and she eventually gives up. But as long as you remain softly engaged, she'll be willing to keep hoping and hoping and hoping.
When it comes to getting women to go away, "cut deep and cut once" is the preferred approach. If that fails, cut deep and cut a second time. And keep cutting until she gets the goddamned point or she's emptied her entire soul out on the floor in front of you.
7. Women are, on balance, good decision makers. Until they want a particular man.
In most day-to-day decisions, I recommend discussing them with a woman. I don't always advocate following a woman's advice, but you should definitely hear at least one woman's perspective regarding almost ever serious decision you ever make.
The absolute exception to this is is anything romantic. Never, ever listen to a woman when it comes to matters of the heart.
A woman's view of love is as sensible as a dog's view of eating roadkill: they'll swallow the most poisonous shit on the planet just to feel a little fuller.
Beyond that, be aware that the allure of "the right man" makes every woman you meet dangerous. For the right man, a woman will kill her own kids. For the right man, a woman will abandon here entire family. For the right man, all fucking bets are off.
Women think it's hilarious that men can be honeypotted, but the truth is men get over it and often correct their mistakes moving forward. Women will do the same dumb, dangerous shit over and over and over again hoping that the next guy who's "right man" material will somehow see her virtues.
8. Don't be too invested in attracting women.
I think it's a huge mistake to start fashioning yourself into what women like. Lots of guys on the internet right now are discussing what a great idea it is to be fit, successful and dominant in order to attract women. I deeply disagree with this point.
Be fit. It's a good choice. Don't sweat any more success than you really need to do your thing the right way every time. Fuck dominance. Just be as commanding as you need to be to negotiate life's turns, and beyond that let the rest of the world burn.
Being the image of perfection and desperately wanting it is lame and contrary to what it means to be a man. Own your shit, but be aware that there of lots of assholes trying to convince you there's other shit you should own that doesn't matter. Big, studly PUA moves are shit that you don't need to own. They're not your shit. They're someone else's crazy, and you should keep other people's crazy out of your life whenever possible.
9. Women flock to the idea of a particular man.
I can remember a couple years ago reading a few pages on the web of women talking about Viggo Mortensen. The prevailing view was nearly universal: he's ugly as sin, but women want to fuck him hard.
The idea of who you are as a man means waaaaaaay more than anything else with women. The simple way you go about your business is what will get you laid.
The gut-level feeling that a guy is simply "right" in some way is what gets women going. And nothing makes you feel more right to a woman than simply being present in the world without letting it all get to you. Be in command of your existence, and waste little time expecting to command the world around you. Women eat that shit up.
Women know that hard ass boss men are always the fuckers trolling Fetlife looking for a domme to shove a dildo in their asses and then pull it out and make them clean it off with their mouths. Don't be the hard ass boss. Women frown on that. Be the guy who just is present and capable without being a mouthy and in-charge fuck.
10. Lots of women are doing it wrong. Who cares?
There are lots of women who get their social signals mixed up and pick the wrong guy. There are lots of women who overemphasize the most wrong and brutal sexual signals too. There are lots of women who get wet for hot cars and nice suits.
Those things are their problems, not yours.
The fact that a certain class of woman might have ignored you or misjudge you means nothing. They're working through their own crazy shit just as much as you're trying to work through your own crazy shit. The fact that their crazy might not fit together like Lego blocks with your crazy doesn't mean much. Stop letting it bother you.
11. Stop relaxing and instead just focus on your own ideas.
To really be a man, you need to define your own world and your own sphere of influence. That means cutting the bullshit and building your own fully formed ideas about the world. It means exploring your interests without any regard to what the human race things of them.
12. Embrace the hopelessness of all existence.
Life is meaningless. There is no God and there is no salvation. You will die and be forgotten. Within a few million years at the very, very most, the universe will show no evidence that humanity was ever here. Forget trying to be meaningful or successful in the big and broad sense. Focus on your existence and abandon any delusions of grandeur. It's pointless.
You're not even the tiniest speck on the surface of the tiniest speck. And that's OK.
Someday, this bubble in space-time that we think of us the big and important and totally awesome and relevant universe will collapse. There will be no evidence that any of this horseshit ever happened. So none of it matters.
If you always wanted to know what human flesh tasted like, there's no compelling reason not to give it a try. If you always wondered what it would feel like to jump to your death, have at. Always wanted to be the pivot man in an MMF threeesome? Go for it. Wondering whether a diet of nothing but ketchup is the big breakthrough you need for improved fitness? Bottoms up. Wanna speed? Do it. Think unprotected sex sounds like a swell idea? Do it. Just wanna play video games and eat Doritos until your heart prematurely resigns from play? Enjoy.
That's all a list of shit I don't care to do, but it is all irrelevant and will soon be gone. Don't sweat any of it.
13. I don't particularly want to change.
At my old age, I've realized that however much change I might have in me has already been spent. I don't have it in me to become anything else at this stage in my life. There's not much use in feeling bad about that fact.
One of the biggest realizations of my life was coming to the conclusion that I've managed to completely blow off at least three perfectly marriageable women in my time. Bigger realization: I don't even care.
Does it hurt a bit to think about it? Yeah.
Would I do anything differently if presented a new chance? Nope.
On some level, I simply prefer to be me, even if it means dying alone and childless. It's not some noble battle, either. It's just me being me.
14. No matter how hard you try, you won't achieve all of your goals.
And that's not a bad thing.
If I had the resources to do everything that I wanted and I started going through the list in the most efficient manner possible, I couldn't possibly do it all before I died. There's no reason to feel bad about that fact.
If you leave behind a couple stories for other people to tell about your exploits, then you did well.
1. The amount of information I know is huge. The amount of actionable information I know is small.
At my old age (soon to be 37), I've realized just how much information there is in this world and how very little of it ever helps you make a real decision.
2. I'm going to die childless and alone.
The math simply supports it. If I were inclined to show a shred of humility in how I respond to women by now, it would have popped up in my behavior enough to make a difference.
3. If you really want to control a woman, forget violence of any kind.
I never was one to be physical toward women, but as I've dealt with more and more of them over the years, the utter lack of utility of being physical toward a woman has become even clearer.
Go start a Fetlife profile and see how many women right now are trolling the internet hoping for just one brutal guy to be emotionally invested enough in her that he wants to beat the fuck out of her and put her in her place. For far more woman than will ever admit it, a good beating is practically a fuckin Christmas present. Rihanna's made the last half of her recording career into nothing but an ode to domestic violence and the desire to fuck brutal men.
But, as a guy, you can't win playing that game. If you want a woman to really be under your thumb, you have to just let her go entirely off your radar. It's like dealing with a child who constantly threatens to run away -- the only solution is to completely ignore the threats and special pleadings and just get on with your day.
4. If a woman wants your attention, there's no limit to what she will try.
5. Failing to pay attention to a woman rarely dissuades her.
Women, unless they've been treated as reprehensible for clearly obvious reasons (extreme obesity, serious signs of genetic defects, extreme small chestedness -- pretty much only really extreme failings), don't register the concept of a soft rejection.
It's one of the things that bothers me most about women. On balance, I prefer to be nicer about rejections where possible. It sucks to be rejected, and I try to soften the blow as much as possible.
6. Softening the emotional blow is pointless.
There's no version of a soft, safe, controlled landing with women in any sort of emotional business. The best you can ever manage is to just thoroughly discourage a woman to the point that her attention-seeking ego can't take it anymore and she eventually gives up. But as long as you remain softly engaged, she'll be willing to keep hoping and hoping and hoping.
When it comes to getting women to go away, "cut deep and cut once" is the preferred approach. If that fails, cut deep and cut a second time. And keep cutting until she gets the goddamned point or she's emptied her entire soul out on the floor in front of you.
7. Women are, on balance, good decision makers. Until they want a particular man.
In most day-to-day decisions, I recommend discussing them with a woman. I don't always advocate following a woman's advice, but you should definitely hear at least one woman's perspective regarding almost ever serious decision you ever make.
The absolute exception to this is is anything romantic. Never, ever listen to a woman when it comes to matters of the heart.
A woman's view of love is as sensible as a dog's view of eating roadkill: they'll swallow the most poisonous shit on the planet just to feel a little fuller.
Beyond that, be aware that the allure of "the right man" makes every woman you meet dangerous. For the right man, a woman will kill her own kids. For the right man, a woman will abandon here entire family. For the right man, all fucking bets are off.
Women think it's hilarious that men can be honeypotted, but the truth is men get over it and often correct their mistakes moving forward. Women will do the same dumb, dangerous shit over and over and over again hoping that the next guy who's "right man" material will somehow see her virtues.
8. Don't be too invested in attracting women.
I think it's a huge mistake to start fashioning yourself into what women like. Lots of guys on the internet right now are discussing what a great idea it is to be fit, successful and dominant in order to attract women. I deeply disagree with this point.
Be fit. It's a good choice. Don't sweat any more success than you really need to do your thing the right way every time. Fuck dominance. Just be as commanding as you need to be to negotiate life's turns, and beyond that let the rest of the world burn.
Being the image of perfection and desperately wanting it is lame and contrary to what it means to be a man. Own your shit, but be aware that there of lots of assholes trying to convince you there's other shit you should own that doesn't matter. Big, studly PUA moves are shit that you don't need to own. They're not your shit. They're someone else's crazy, and you should keep other people's crazy out of your life whenever possible.
9. Women flock to the idea of a particular man.
I can remember a couple years ago reading a few pages on the web of women talking about Viggo Mortensen. The prevailing view was nearly universal: he's ugly as sin, but women want to fuck him hard.
The idea of who you are as a man means waaaaaaay more than anything else with women. The simple way you go about your business is what will get you laid.
The gut-level feeling that a guy is simply "right" in some way is what gets women going. And nothing makes you feel more right to a woman than simply being present in the world without letting it all get to you. Be in command of your existence, and waste little time expecting to command the world around you. Women eat that shit up.
Women know that hard ass boss men are always the fuckers trolling Fetlife looking for a domme to shove a dildo in their asses and then pull it out and make them clean it off with their mouths. Don't be the hard ass boss. Women frown on that. Be the guy who just is present and capable without being a mouthy and in-charge fuck.
10. Lots of women are doing it wrong. Who cares?
There are lots of women who get their social signals mixed up and pick the wrong guy. There are lots of women who overemphasize the most wrong and brutal sexual signals too. There are lots of women who get wet for hot cars and nice suits.
Those things are their problems, not yours.
The fact that a certain class of woman might have ignored you or misjudge you means nothing. They're working through their own crazy shit just as much as you're trying to work through your own crazy shit. The fact that their crazy might not fit together like Lego blocks with your crazy doesn't mean much. Stop letting it bother you.
11. Stop relaxing and instead just focus on your own ideas.
To really be a man, you need to define your own world and your own sphere of influence. That means cutting the bullshit and building your own fully formed ideas about the world. It means exploring your interests without any regard to what the human race things of them.
12. Embrace the hopelessness of all existence.
Life is meaningless. There is no God and there is no salvation. You will die and be forgotten. Within a few million years at the very, very most, the universe will show no evidence that humanity was ever here. Forget trying to be meaningful or successful in the big and broad sense. Focus on your existence and abandon any delusions of grandeur. It's pointless.
You're not even the tiniest speck on the surface of the tiniest speck. And that's OK.
Someday, this bubble in space-time that we think of us the big and important and totally awesome and relevant universe will collapse. There will be no evidence that any of this horseshit ever happened. So none of it matters.
If you always wanted to know what human flesh tasted like, there's no compelling reason not to give it a try. If you always wondered what it would feel like to jump to your death, have at. Always wanted to be the pivot man in an MMF threeesome? Go for it. Wondering whether a diet of nothing but ketchup is the big breakthrough you need for improved fitness? Bottoms up. Wanna speed? Do it. Think unprotected sex sounds like a swell idea? Do it. Just wanna play video games and eat Doritos until your heart prematurely resigns from play? Enjoy.
That's all a list of shit I don't care to do, but it is all irrelevant and will soon be gone. Don't sweat any of it.
13. I don't particularly want to change.
At my old age, I've realized that however much change I might have in me has already been spent. I don't have it in me to become anything else at this stage in my life. There's not much use in feeling bad about that fact.
One of the biggest realizations of my life was coming to the conclusion that I've managed to completely blow off at least three perfectly marriageable women in my time. Bigger realization: I don't even care.
Does it hurt a bit to think about it? Yeah.
Would I do anything differently if presented a new chance? Nope.
On some level, I simply prefer to be me, even if it means dying alone and childless. It's not some noble battle, either. It's just me being me.
14. No matter how hard you try, you won't achieve all of your goals.
And that's not a bad thing.
If I had the resources to do everything that I wanted and I started going through the list in the most efficient manner possible, I couldn't possibly do it all before I died. There's no reason to feel bad about that fact.
If you leave behind a couple stories for other people to tell about your exploits, then you did well.
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