Friday, May 29, 2009

Rank beats Position

The most attractive quality in a man is power.
The ability to influence the world around you to your liking.
The means to create an environment that suits your will.
That is what women select for in men.

Women lust for men who have a vision and the talent to create for themselves a live they deem worth living.

There is something deeply sexual to a woman about a man who knows what he wants and has got what it takes to get it.

All the characteristics of a human "alpha male" fall under this category. Women and men are attracted to these character traits.

As a result, high status males earn respect from both genders. And since these men further gain determination, assertiveness and confidence from their urge of realizing their goals, they will rise up in the social hierarchy and make recruit others to help them realize their dream.

This differentiates human alpha males from other species where rank in social hierarchies is often determined by brute force only. The result, however, is the same:

Alpha individuals are the ones with the highest social status.
(They are the socially most successful individuals, which includes mating frequency)

The trouble comes with the definition of social status. In particular for human societies there are two aspects of status/rank/social hierarchy that often get confused.

Humans tend to create social hierarchies or power structures that are highly institutionalized. As soon as a group reaches a certain size (more about that another time), we seem to move away from primal instinct and replace gut feeling with a fixed set of rules to determine rank. In other words, while a group of 5 people at a bar will rank each other by means of body language and other (mostly unconscious), this does not seem to work anymore for a company of several thousand employees, a sports club, a town or a whole country.

And while you would expect the same type of people succeed in larger social structures who dominate late night conversations at bars, we all know that is not the case. The reason for that is that you can climb up the social latter by means of inheritance, education or other rare skill, age and other factors that do not matter for most inter-individual interactions.

People get promoted after being at a company for a certain amount of time, and not (always) for their masculine traits. As a result there is a schism between a guy's social rank in terms of his position (his "prestige") and the rank he takes in whenever he interacts with other people (his natural "dominance").
[Note: Dominant men tend to make better careers, so while these two types of social status are dissociable, they typically correlate.]

So, if these factors are separable, which one is more important when it comes down to sex?
Is it the "house, the horse, the car" or "the cool appearance, the firm handshake, the unwavering eye"?

To answer the question one has to keep in mind that the female brain evolved long before there were sports cars, cigars and Brioni suits - let alone money. And while it is hard for a socially submissive beta guy to hide the many telltale signs of his insecurities (given that most of that gets communicated through unconscious body language), it is easy to fake success by lending money, suits or cars.

Accordingly, what women look (select) for in men is potential more than actual success. Women seek out men who have a set of character traits (such as being assertive, confident and domineering) which increase their chances at climbing up the social latter.

Rank beats position. It is not the wealth, title or position, but the "interpersonal power of men that makes them sexy". Hence, even the wives of the world's richest men like to bang guys in a cheap Holiday Inn. Another mystery of the world explained.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

The Alpha Poet

Meet Frederick Seidel.

Fred is a poet. Fred is very, very wealthy. But I couldn't tell you how Fred got his money, because Fred doesn't go bleating all over the media about these things. Fred is discreet, you see; he's classy.

So what does he do with his money? Well, he buys and races custom-built Ducati motorcycles. Did I mention that he's 73 years old? He travels all over the world. He's been to lots of "interesting" third-worldy countries in places like Africa and Southeast Asia. But if his poems are to be believed, what he really loves are Italy, Paris, London, New York. There he dines in the finest restaurants, wears clothes from the finest tailors, fucks beautiful women, and writes his poems.

Fred is not a dilettante poet; he's a real poet. If you are imagining Richard Branson writing poems, think again. People will be reading these for their literary merits a long, long time from now. In fact, nobody but his other extremely wealthy friends would have any idea who Frederick Seidel is if it weren't for his extraordinary poems. He reminds me a lot of the late 19th-century French writer Guy de Maupassant, who was also very wealthy and was not afraid to enjoy his wealth, who fucked half the young aristocratic women in fin-de-siecle Paris and sailed around in a three-man boat in the Mediterranean, and who also wrote some of the most beautiful little aphorisms and prose-poetry you will ever find.

A poet like Seidel could never have come out of the university writing program mill that churns out boring femynyst poet after churlish gray eunuch poet. Here are Fred's topics: sex, fucking, girls, death, terrorists, motorcycles, luxury hotels, slavery, history, literature, fucking, girls, sex, death, and sex. And fucking.

Here's a section from his poem "Rilke," which imagines a day in the life of the great German lover and poet Rainer Maria Rilke.

He's late to her. He thinks of her, waiting,
Limb by limb.

Her defenselessness and childlike trust!
Smiling to be combed out
And parted—and her lust
Touching the comb like a lyre.
To have been told by her not to trust her!

And he distrusts her.

And everywhere he sees
Hunchbacks and addicts and sadists
In braces in the cities,
Roosting in their filth,
Or plucking the trees,
In New York for true love,
In Boston for constancy.
You can be needed by someone
Or needy, thinks Rilke.

They clutch their loves like addicts
Embracing when they see
Hot May put out her flowers.
Or clutch themselves. They can't shake free.

It's beautiful, and it flows. But notice the alpha behavior. I'm serious. He's late to meet his girl. She's just laying there waiting for him. He sees the couples that clutch at each other like addicts, with contempt. Like the boys I see hanging off their women in the train. They won't be happy in the long run.

The next one is from the beginning of the poem "Casanova getting older." Can you hear the voice of the world-weary lover? He's so jaded, and meanwhile every little precious woman he takes to bed somehow views it as the most momentous occasion.


Do they think they are being original when they say
This is a new thing for me to ask, and ask
Do you love me?
Everyone these days keeps asking
Do you love me?
Everyone says
This is a new thing for me to ask.
The answer is yes.
This is a new thing for me to ask.

The answer is yes I don't.
Do you love me?
The answer is yes.
The eyes glisten with feeling.
The creature hath a purpose and its eyes are bright with it.

The woman is merely "the creature," and the poet has given her purpose just by wearily answering, "Yes, darling, I love you."

Seidel has lots of other wonderful poems about different things: tropical locales, motorcycle racing, terrorists blowing up trains full of lovely japanese schoolgirls, etc etc. But since this is a blog about sex and sexual dynamics, I will leave you with a final poem along those lines.

People who don't understand gender relations often confuse learning about these things with taking the joy and mystery and spontenaiety out of life. They are completely wrong, of course. Once upon a time no one knew that the stars were just gigantic balls of exploding hydrogen that were very, very far away. They were thought to be gods, or crystals in heaven with the angels, or something. Now the "mystery" of the stars has been taken away, and yet, for me at least, they have lost none of their power.

In this last poem of Seidel's, you can see the man with ultimate, calm and jaded sexual mastery is the same man who can write the most lovely and feeling lines about summer rain hitting the window. Here it is, in it's entirety, called....


Will you? Everything? Anything? Weird stuff, too?
I want to do anything you want me to.
I will meet you in an hour in the mirror.
I will meet you in front of the mirror.

When the cars have their lights on in the daytime when it's raining.
And the full-length bedroom mirror is the hostess entertaining,
And the summer downpour thrillingly thrashes the windows,
My naked in high heels shows me she can touch her toes!

The rainy city outside stretches around the world.
The rainy season inside the mirror gets whirled
Into a waterspout. No doubt
The dolphins in the mirror know what the water is about!

You love it all.
I love it when you make me get down on all fours and crawl.
I put you on a leash and spank you.
I thank you.

The value of a life which will end is unbearable,
And these are just some ways of bearing it. The joy is terrible.
The joy is actually terrible.
The sweetness of life is actually unbearable.

God looks up to His creation by dint of lying on the floor.
God lies there on His back on the carpet and looks. That's what you are for.
Hike your skirt up higher. There is nothing higher or more
Than Him you stand over and adore!

Seidel's publisher, all his books, and some audio of him reading his poems, are here.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

The Benefits of Sausage Fests

In "Roger Dodger" there is a scene where the experienced womanizer Roger Wanson tells his 16-year old virgin nephew Nick a central theorem of his philosophy of parties:

"It's a little harder to recognize than when you're in a bar
but the concept is the same.
There's an incredible moment
that happens when a party passes its apex, its peak.
As if by magic, suddenly
every person in the room is acutely aware
of the time. It is at that moment that the fear hits.
The fear of the empty apartment.
That is more than most people can stand.
Desperation creeps into the room like a fog.
Eyes begin to search the crowd anxiously.
Standards are drastically lowered. I mean, it's palpable.
This is the moment that separates a true champion."

What fictive Roger describes is one of the many human experiences that are shared by many, neglected by even more - and never appreciated in any other form of human self reflection than art.

The closest science ever got to investigating "empty apartment panic" relates to desperate crowds rather than desperate times.

Take this study by Peter Todd's group, for example.

The researchers investigated, using massive data collected during speed dating events, how the number of "options" (i.e. males present) impacted the mating choice of women.

What would be your guess?

This has direct implications: Would you rather stay or leave a party or bar - assuming you are the most alpha if there are more men than women present?

There are two surprises in this study:

1) The overwhelming number of (non-human) animals studied so far regarding this question showed decreased inequality when more males are present: Alpha males are less successful if there is a lot of competition.

2) For humans, this does not seem to be the case: The more men in the speed dating crowd, the choosier the women.

Note that the alpha always gets more attention (and sex) than beta and omega males. But the degree of this inequality is higher when others are in for the competition. A human beta male will profit from few rivals present. But a human alpha's attractiveness will get propelled to stratospheric levels if he is surrounded by whole squadrons of lesser men.

What does that mean?

Well, for one you should seek out bars that are crowded with men chasing tail if you believe you have what it takes. But by all means, do the complete opposite if you aren't quite there yet.

A simple explanation is that what defines human alphas is social dominance uber-alles. The more men present in a room, the more shoulders there are for an alpha to elevate himself above the crowd (thanks, stagetwo for the metaphor).

This may be different for animal species that signal alpha status by means of physical traits such as horns or feather ornaments. Thus, heavier competition hurts rather than helps the top guys.

This is a rather simple idea and there may be other factors at work, too. Moreover, speed dating data is certainly limited in revealing who women actually chose to sleep with when they go out. Yet, it does make sense if you accept the idea that women are attracted to socially dominant men.

There is another twist to the story that is fascinating.

From a woman's perspective this means that the more men are present, the less she will be attracted to any one of them. All the female attraction gets more or less bundled to a single guy!

And since that guy is likely to chose one (or two) girls only, the vast majority of women will be "leftovers". In other words, with more more men showing up at a party there will be less and less coupling. Women who really want to "find someone" would fare better at events with few men present.

I believe what Roger alludes to in his lecture to the innocent is an effect of the above. There is a moment at parties (with lots of men present) where the alpha makes his final move - thus demonstrating whom he chose for the night to all the other women. The other women now realize that they were chasing someone unattainable. Desperate looks. They are now accepting applications again. Of course, this will be in vain. The other men are too deep in the shadow of the actual object of desire.

I have seen women trying to take guys home at this point. They will openly advertise their willingness - just to get turned off and disappointed the moment the guys reacts (positively) to the offer. As long as all the other men are present, her natural desire - even if at the boiling point - will not be in his favor (hint, hint).
The opportunism Roger alludes to needs a high degree of skill.
He does not get laid.
While the 16-year old nephew turns out to be the alpha.

Monday, May 25, 2009

In Memoriam

Germany, 1945

For my grandfather, and every great American hero, from Bunker Hill, to Shiloh, to Iwo Jima to Kandahar.

New Guinea, 1943

Saipan, 1943

Spotsylvania, Virgina, 1864

Coral Sea, 1942

Okinawa, 1945

Germany, 1945

Korea, 1951

Iraq, 2003

Iraq, 2004

All WWII photos copyright Life magazine. Visit their online archive here.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Online dating = "Woof!" ?

About a year ago I went on for a while to try my hand at meeting girls online. My strategy was to put up a profile with good pictures and some requirements for the women who might want to date me. I was pretty severe: they had to be beautiful, had to read real books, had to know how to cook, they could do yoga but weren't allowed to talk about it, etc. etc. I didn't spend time trying to qualify myself, but instead suggested that the girls should qualify themselves.

Talking to my first couple of dates confirmed what should be obvious: that girls on dating sites are constantly inundated with "winks" and messages and groveling and propositions. Waiting for them to come after me was the winning strategy. First of all, I didn't have time to go trolling through all the pages and finding a girl that met my standards. Second of all, waiting for girls to contact me put the power back in my court. There's a certain desperate stink hovering around man's online profile: if he's a good catch, what's he doing online? Letting girls approach didn't remove this entirely, let's be honest, but it certainly put them in a lower position than my own, and that's really all that matters.

[For nascent alpha men that want to go this route, I highly recommend putting up a profile that is very demanding and then waiting patiently for women to come after you. You may put up hints about the most interesting parts of your life (if you make good money, or you travel, or you are well-read, or well-hung, etc. etc.) but do not brag about these things. Dropping a subtle hint is the key. Then wait patiently, patiently for girls to contact you. You have a far greater chance of landing a girl who came after you than you do of landing a girl who you have been chasing. It might be tempting to start winking at every half-cute girl you see... but you are strong! You stand tall.]

So rather than troll the profiles, I just checked my email once a day and saw who had approached me and, if she was cute in her pictures, responded as I saw fit. I got probably five good lays with 7's and 8's (no 10's in the online dating world, sorry guys), one of whom turned into one of the better medium-term relationships I have had in recent years. All in all, it was a worthwhile experience. I got pussy, I got over the stigma of online dating, and I learned a lot about power dynamics between men and women.

After a few months, and a couple of real dud dates (including one of the only times I turned down a 9 for sex... a tall, stunning black model with the most incredible legs, but my God she was annoying and retarded and had the worst manners I have ever seen), I looked at my dating situation, decided I had enough warm water to go diving in, and canceled my account to save myself the 60-odd dollars it was costing me.

Just the other day for the first time in ages, I checked my "garbage" email account that I use for signing up for various programs. You know, the one that gets swamped with spam and that you don't use for work or for friends, but only for shit like On the top of the inbox list was a proposition from match asking me to check out these new "matches" they had sent me. So I clicked over and that led me to a little 30-minute investigation of the prospects out there.

One word: woof! I couldn't believe how ugly the women were. I knew there were lots of ugly women, and I don't begrudge them looking for love online... everyone deserves a shot at finding an equal. But if memory serves, there used to be a few cuties mixed in with the heifers. But I clicked through a few hundred people and hardly found a single one that piqued my interest. And keep in mind that most people put up pictures that are far more flattering that the real deal.

I live in New York City where there are more beautiful women than anywhere else in the country with the possible exception (depending on your taste in girls) of Los Angeles. There are certainly more single women here than anywhere else. So that's not the issue. The field is vast and deep.

So I'm curious... have my standards gone up that much (possible, but I've had high standards for a long time now), or has something happened either (A) among the pool of desperate women, or (B) to the general pool of women who venture onto online dating sites? Or maybe is not the right place to look anymore? For social experiment reasons I am curious.

Comments, please.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Alphas need love, too

My friend Mack is a "natural". He has "always been good with women", but he has a hard time explaining why he thinks that is.

I like to surround myself with men who have the gift of being naturally attractive (these men are very personable in general), but I only have a handful of friends who manage to have the sexual success of Mack.

When it comes to women, Mack does things that defy the reality most men live in.

Mack is well known for his "bathroom closes" (meaning he likes to fuck women he just met at the bar in a stall at the Men's room). Over the course of an average night on the prowl he gets to do that about 2-3 times before he heads home (I have seen women line up, literally).

Now, what is so interesting about Mack is that he got in touch with the PUA/seduction community some years ago. What drew him to that crowd was both his fascination about women and his keen intellect. He was less motivated to "get better" than to understand what is going on, i.e. why the things that work for him do work.

I have seen several "naturals" join in on the theoretical discussions of the community over the years, and most of them had an experience akin to that of a world class pianist starting to wonder about the minute movements of each of her fingers in the midst of a Rachmaninoff concerto: brain fart. Unconscious competence doesn't work when you think about it. Pretty much all of these guys stalled for a while.

Not so Mack. Mack was able to soak in all the diverse theories on how to pick up women, while remaining unfazed when it came to his own actions. There never was a moment where Mack 's behavior had changed. And neither did his success with women.

One night Mack and our common friends sat together at a buddy's house, shot some beers and talked about the lifelong quest for self improvement that brought all of us together in the first place.
Mack lead (or should I say: dominated) the discussion. With a six-foot-something frame, about 300 pounds of body mass, a bald head and a remarkable lack of softness in his voice, Mack's appearance simply is too intimidating for most of us to voice disagreement with his statements.

Mack decided we all should play a little game. He is very fond of "exercises" designed to get feedback from others on your behavior, ideas and plans for life (probably because he needs these kinds of social settings to get any honest feedback or advice from others given is level of intimidation).

The particular game he had in mind resembled one of us blurting out a brief statement of a life improvement goal we were working on, followed by a limited amount of time allocated for the rest of us to brainstorm about that idea.
It turned out to be fun, and valuable for anyone of us.

But when it got Mack's turn, he alluded to something about getting better with women. We all grinned. Yeah, right. Mack sure was about to joke.

"I want to know from you guys", he said, "if it is a good strategy to tell a woman right away that you want something serious?"

There was loud silence for a moment. Coming from Mack this really sounded like a joke, yet there was a gravity and sincerity in his voice that signaled that he was serious. Dead serious.
Nobody dared to say anything for the first second following Mack's statement. And during the next second the group dynamic slowly shifted. It started to become awkward that no one replied, so we all started staring at Mack's best friend. He was the one who should be able to understand; if anyone it was him who would know where this is coming from. And after another long second, he finally opened his mouth:

"You really want to find a great girl, right? I know. You have enough of the fucking around. It has been so long since you had someone you were serious with. And I always felt that you never really got over her."

Silence again.

"Man, I think you are right", Mack replied, "I feel ready for finding someone to truly love again. My question is - should I be open about that? Should I state my intention right away? Wouldn't that be the most honest?"

My thoughts started racing. I an instant I understood where he was coming from. Mack actually felt bad about wanting more than sex from a woman.

Part of his amazing sexual results were based on the fact that he approached the other sex with the mindset of a beautiful woman: He sincerely assumed that he was seen as a sex object by the girls he approached; and therefore he thought that his desire for a relationship was a hidden agenda turning him into someone creepy. Hence, he thought he should be stating right away that he was looking for a relationship - the same way that he had always been stating that he just wanted sex.

I was baffled.

My whole life I had believed a simple fact of life others had told me:
Men just want sex. Women want relationships.

I thought back about my Dad warning me while I was still in my teens. He advised me to not trust women whenever they dispute wanting something serious ("They all do, son. So treat them responsibly in your approaches.") . I thought about my female friends lamenting about their incapability of keeping a guy around after hooking up. And I thought about my own experiences with women, who became clingy the morning after what seemed like a once night stand. I was confused.

"Geez! Do not tell them that right away!" Mack's friend jumped in.

"Let her wonder about it." Someone else said. "She will bring it up after the second date or so."

"If I would only get to that stage." Mack sighed. "How do you get there? How do you tell her that this is not just sex?"

The situation could not have been more ironic. Here you have some guys who met because they wanted to learn how to become more than just a "maybe I like you after three dates"-kind of guy, and one of them asked how to become exactly that. What is natural to most of us guys (women wanting to be in more than a sexual relationship once attracted) was the opposite of what was natural to Mack (women wanting to have instant sex - just to leave right after).

Note that Mack's problem wasn't that he was looking for someone that he liked more than the other girls. It is true that you can be very good with women if you do not really care. The nonchalant behavior that turns women on comes free if you feel either way about having sex with her. Yes, it takes more than a basic skill set to be really good with women even if you do care - especially if you care a lot. This is why many great seducers tend to fail once they find a woman that they deem their "match".

Not so Mack. He really treated these women the same way as he treated all his (many) other lays.

Mack's problem was something else.

Mack is as close to the ideal of a "short term Lover" as can be. Women do lust for him and have trouble inhibiting their urges when he is around because his bad boy-ishness triggers the dark side of female desire.

But what helps him to get blow jobs from married women in the backroom of a club while their husbands sit and wait at the bar, is the very same conglomerate of traits that makes women leave him right after they got the big 'O'.

The profound lack of anything signaling Provider qualities is a warning sign to women thinking long term.

Women have told me before that noticing a gentle side on a man who had just taken them home and roughed up in the bedroom will switch the "remaining stop lights from red to green". It is at that very moment that women start liking a man (in addition to being attracted).

As we all know, with liking goes some of the sexual attraction (Oh, beta-ization what are bitch thou art!). But it also brings on fantasies of a common future, a relationship and an urge to get a guy's cum for kids. If a same night sex asshole-turned-nice leaves a woman after in the morning, she will fail bad, sad, dirty and used - because she started to have hopes.

Not so Mack. Mack is the ultimate alpha. His mating strategy was formed by evolutionary forces that favor men to spread their genes widely while investing close to none (population biologists call this an r-strategy). Women sense that in a man. Hence they want Mack for just that.

Funny thing is - just as betas are learning to become more than "just providers" in order to keep a woman's juices flowing, Mack had to learn to not "just be a alpha" (i.e. unattainable).

And while most guys struggle to reverse engineer what it takes to turn on (and to never lose) a woman's genitalic lubrication, Mack had to reverse engineer how to signal a potential for investment into offspring (k-strategy) in order to find a mate.

A mix of the two contradictory signals being a man who might stay and help raising kids and being the kind of man to whom fucking hordes of other women has become second nature is ultimate aphrodisiac for women (they call it "romance").

Mack is a fast learner. Last time I met Mack he seemed (even )more content than usual. He smiled told me that he is in a happy relationship.
Sorry ladies...

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

"Pull My Hair... Please"

Another little war story:

Juana is about the most SWPL girl I have ever met, which is ironic because she's not even "W". She's a 3rd-generation Mexican-American from California. But she used to work at the Apple Store, for God's sake. These days she works in the HR department of a mid-sized bank in NYC. A more vanilla job you would be hard pressed to find. She's a firm Obama supporter, the kind that's almost cultish in that creepy way you see in the big coastal cities. (I'm no GWB fan; he was an epic failure and an embarrassing black mark on our glorious record of American kick-assed-ness; but even in the deepest heart of Crawford, Texas, people didn't treat Bush like the new Christ-child the way hardcore Obama people do with their guy.... I've come near punching the mopey-faced, pale, dried-up harridans I see in my neighborhood wearing "Hope" and "Progress" t-shirts (James Bond, my ass), lo these seven fucking months after the election. Give it up, my dearies: it's over, and your man already won. What the fuck is this, Maoist China? Must we adulate the Dear Leader in clothing form?).

Juana and I used to fuck. She latched onto me at one of my work functions, where I was doing my semi-regular thing of acting as group leader for a public event. She's got a real Aztec-princess beauty, with a straight nose, brown skin, super-strong leg muscles and long, lustrous, silky black hair. When I looked at her I could imagine the original Native Americans that Cortes must have encountered. Her eyelashes aren't that long, but they're so black and thick that she has an almost Cleopatra look in her big, dark eyes. I was immediately drawn to her, and we had a nice little fling during a time when I had to be on the road 2-3 weeks out of the month. She was one of the sassiest bitches I have ever been with, and I found that very attractive. I loved beating down her attempts at shit-testing me. It was almost too easy, they were so transparent. And she would visibly get excited every time I laughed at her. But I was way too busy with work and travel to consider getting serious with anyone.

She knew I was seeing other girls, and one night when I was fresh from a trip to Latin America, outside my apartment she said point-blank that it was either full commitment to her or nothing. The choice was so easy and I said, "Okay, well, nice hanging out with you. Take care."

A few months later I ran into her. She was looking great, and I re-opened her. Turns out she had, in the interim, gotten back together with her ex-boyfriend of many years. I felt one little piece of regret that I couldnt fuck her little Aztec-princess body again and promptly moved on.

So when she texted me out of the blue several months later, all I could do was chuckle. "Are you at awake?" she texted me.


"Can you meet me at the bar?"

I met her at the bar down the street from my house. I had assumed it meant she was recently broken up and she wanted to hook up. But as soon as I got there she said, "I just needed a man's advice. I've only been talking to my girlfriends about this..."

It was a classic "be my shoulder to cry on" situation. She laid out all her relationship problems. All the stupid SWPL couples-therapy shit she was trying with her boyfriend. I almost stood up right then to leave. But I took a step back mentally and, annoyed though I was, decided to view it as a good moment to observe how girls try to garner emotional ego-boosts without giving anything in return. We had a talk; I tried to be straightforward and honest about the problems she described.

Interestingly, she was upset that her boyfriend (8 years older than her) wouldn't quit his career to focus on marrying her and being a good daddy to their theoretical child. He had a very impractical, performing-arts style dream/job, and even in his late 30's was still not really achieving success. The middling success he did have required him to chase petty engagements all over the country, and her objection to their relationship was that he needed to give up the dream and be home for her and their hypothetical baby. I told her, point-blank but kindly, that it was bad to ask a man to give up his dream (however pathetic and unrealistic as this guy's dream might have been). That if she ever got what she said she "wanted," a man with no conquering ambition and dreams, that she would be sorely disappointed. I even made a little gesture of a pussy drying up with my closed fists.

I was starting to see her boyfriend as a classic Alpha male who refused to give up his life purpose just to please a woman. She sure seemed to be agonizing over this, and a woman agonizing over a guy is a strong indicator that the man is at least half-alpha. But then she said that she had insisted on couple's therapy and he had agreed. Zarathustra! I declare this to be so unmanly as to be roundly pathetic. Never, ever agree to the sick modern feminist institution of "couples therapy," which is just a euphemism for "The woman is always right; the man is a thoroughly evil creation." Real therapy for a couple is for the man to fuck the woman so hard she has trouble getting out of bed in the morning. It's cheaper, too.

We talked for a while and she eventually ended up talking about why things didn't work out between the two of us. It was clear that the fact that I was fucking other women was both (A) the reason she loved me so much, and (B) the reason her SWPL, couples-therapy-addled mind was having trouble processing my very presence. Our heads got closer. She blinked those princess Cleopatra eyes at me, and my hand went to her long, thick, silky black hair.

"You know what I liked best about you? You pulled my hair so hard," she whispered, blinking her Aztec eyes.

I don't need more prompting than that, and I started pulling her hair hard, right there in the bar. I kept it up for a while, pulling hard enough to make her moan and then releasing and chatting, only to pull it even harder moments later. This went on for a good twenty minutes.

Finally I got her up and on her bike and told her to ride home. We walked together a hundred yards or so to the point where our paths diverged (her back to her "boy"friend and me back to my pad). She hugged me tightly and whispered, "Pull my hair," into my ear. I laughed and said, "Don't tell me what to fucking do," and then yanked on her hair harder than ever before.

She moaned. I slapped her on the ass and she got on her bike, all wobbly-legged, saying, "We're just friends." Classic, bald, female rationalizing of her essentially emotional behavior.

"Yep, just friends," I said. A week later I got another late night text...

Even the most dedicated "feminist" is a pull-my-hair girl underneath. It's not even that hard to uncover her inner whore. She just wants an excuse. Make no bones about it: she'll blame someone else (you, her boyfriend, her therapist, the Republicans). Nothing could ever possibly be the fair result of her own actions. But she's easier to read than a "Pussy for Dummies" starter book. Just open up to page one and begin...

Monday, May 18, 2009

Spiritus Animalis

I sometimes wonder why there are so few books about the experiences that come with working in academia. What makes professional science so interesting is that each academic field creates its own little world (or better: a model of it) inside the big Ivory Tower, and then fills it up with the most extreme characters imaginable (often close to caricatures of stereotypes).

My own work covers research topics ranging from philosophy to psychology, sociology, biology and engineering (I love my job). Accordingly, I attend scientific meetings regarding each of these fields. And each time I return from one of them (like this week), I wonder about the cultural differences and idiosyncrasies that have evolved for each discipline.

To put it bluntly:
The number of assholes you encounter in academia is directly proportional to the increased technical nature of the field.

[Note: I am talking about the type of asshole behavior that roots in inner insecurity and lack of true dominance, i.e. being mean for no obvious reason (other than some chicks to impress)]

You see, while philosophy conferences tend to be laid back and chill, there is a good chance that someone will bitch about your work at psychology meetings and the atmosphere is outright aggressive when science turns into engineering.
Why is that?

I believe that almost all of our behavior is shaped by the need to procreate.

"if you allow time for taking off clothes, making some phoney gesture of affection, having a bit of banal conversation and getting dressed again, the amount of time spent actually having sex is about eleven minutes.' Eleven minutes. The world revolves around something that only took eleven minutes."

Or, as Benedict Smith put it in "Sauce":
"'Are you qualified to fuck me?' is what each of us are asking and attempting to ascertain each and every day of the week, each minute of the hour, and each second of each minute."

It follows from that that if men behave like dicks, it is because they adapted to an environment that favors dick-ish behavior (to get sex).

And, if the proportion of jerks in one social setting is higher than in another, it must be because there is even more to win and less to lose by adhering to the "self-obsession of narcissism; the impulsive, thrill-seeking and callous behaviour of psychopaths; and the deceitful and exploitative nature of Machiavellianism. (aka the "dark triad" that turns women on)"

While it is likely that there are more than one factor at work, I believe that it is not a coincidence that there is a correlation between the number of women in each academic field and the prevalence of assholes.

The less women there are in a social setting, the more aggressive the males.

You might expect the engineering field to be overpopulated with socially inept nerds who have given up on women - and there is some truth to that. But, as long as there are young female students present, there will be testosterone flowing.

Many of these gray haired men were shunned by their peers during childhood and adolescence. They had to pay a high price for their extraordinary intelligence and wide range of interests. They sat quietly in the corner for most of high school and college, daydreaming about the "cute girls" around them; just to find all romantic fantasies shattered by some "jocks", who "scored" those very same "hot chicks".
Again and again, these brainy guys would fail in their shy attempts at getting a girlfriend - or keeping them, given the male competition of rugged "go-for-its" who seemed to be anything but what mom had told them is attractive to women.

So how come these juvenile nice guys turn into adult dicks?

Well, once they become distinguished professors they finally are someone in social terms - a respected chief or head of a laboratory, research institution or university. And with the power and prestige that comes with that (restricted to their small little world of the field that they are experts in, of course) - there time has finally come.

Young female students suddenly pay attention - even find them attractive. The power and coolness that comes with age is overshadowing the effeminate qualities of their sensitive, intellectual minds.

The nerd come prof finally gets laid - by the same young girls who did not even acknowledge his existence some decades ago. There is a something akin to a "groupie" culture in academia. It is an environment in which "brainy" equals alpha.

Accordingly, there is an interesting social dynamic at scientific meetings. It is a mating market where elderly men meet ambitious and insecure young female students. The competition between these older guys is real and sexual in nature (even if they don't realize).
And that produces assholes.

[I will let you in to their secret:
It is easy to become dominant in academic discourse - by remaining destructive.

You can profit from the fact that nothing is certain (and as the joke goes - even that is questionable) by being critical all the time.

Answering each and every claim, ingenious as it may be with a nonchalant "Yeah, right." attitude guarantees you a win. You will come across as a critical thinker with a disciplined, stern, inquisitive mind by simply questioning everything that is being said or shown.
Plus, people tend to get defensive when someone gets offensive. Thus, they will start qualifying themselves to you and thus become submissive instead of disarming you with an offensive "Well, what do you think?" counterattack.]

Now, most men I know do not want to be assholes. Accordingly, among guys trying to get better with women there is a tendency in seduction to distill "whatever is attractive about assholes" from being mean and cruel. Likewise, women say they like assholes for "what comes with it" (confidence etc.), and not the asshole-side itself.

So, is the solution really to be a "strong, masculine man" rather than a "jerk"? Is it possible to take on all the "positive" traits of assholes while remaining a nice guy at core? To be dominant but friendly? To become a non-supplicating gentleman?

I postulate that this is possible, and it will get you far. But not all the way.

There is a reason that fierce competition between men (such as on a scientific meeting with many powerful men and few young attractive females) turns even nerds into world class assholes.
A strong, confident, independent, non-reactive, powerful man is attractive. Very attractive.
But, a genuine asshole is will always be (even) more attractive.

It might not be politically correct. We might not like it. And it does not mean you have to be an asshole to be good with women. Yet, at least when it comes to casual sex, women prefer narcissistic, asocial, cunning men over anything else.

It is the principle of the supernormal stimulus. What assholes do is taking the strong Man and exaggerate everything that differentiates them from unattractive males.

Women dream of strong, independent, powerful men. They love them. But they do anything, literally anything when they get fucked by an asshole of goatse proportions. And it gives them the most (sexual) pleasure.

Women know this (even though they hate to admit). But they have cannot help themselves. It is like in the joke where the scorpion stings the frog that carries him over the water:

"He tells me over and over that he loves me so He gives me love that I never got from you He loves me too, his love is true Why can't he be you

He never fails to call and tell me I'm on his mind And I'm lucky to have such a guy; I hear it all the time And he does all the things that you would never do He loves me, too, his love is true Why can't he be you

He's not the one who dominates my mind and soul And I should love him so, 'cause he loves me, I know But his kisses leave me cold

Women have a thing for evil men. Men will conform to the female ideal (I consider the opposite trend we are witnessing in the wake of feminism to be a fad).

The academic world is just a model for what is happening to a lesser degree in society as a whole.

Given that - can you imagine what this world would be like if women preferred nice guys over bad boys?

True Romanticism

It occurred to me today that my philosophy when it comes to men and women is essentially romantic. I don't mean that in the romance-novel, chick-flick sense of the word, but in the John Keats, William Blake sense.

Against my better judgment I tried to talk some classical worldview philosophy into a feminist over the weekend. When you look at it from a certain perspective, feminism is a doctrine of profound alienation. It is a war on the very nature of existence.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that I support equal protection under the law for women, that I support women's voting rights, that rape (actually committed, and not trumped up) is a crime against the dignity and safety of the individual — and every being, male or female, deserves a chance at dignity — and it is a degradation to the culture at large. It is the duty of the powerful to protect the vulnerable, as random, self-serving violence in whatever form is an insult to the humanity of both weak and strong. Once upon a time these ideas were not considered "feminist," but merely right and noble. Nobility is not in fashion anymore.

The great crime of the brand of feminism prevalent today is that it either (A) pretends that no differences exist between the genders — or that, laughably, gender is a "social construct" — or that it (B) superficially acknowledges differences only to immediately assert that we should not speak of such differences, let alone let them guide our actions.

But what fool would see the lion lay down with the lamb? How depressing, how profoundly alienated from existence. They long for the world to be other than as it is. How sad to see women at war with their own nature. They call their "nature" a product of the patriarchy. They think it is dreamt up, created in a false image. Men, too, stand in trembling horror at their own essential masculinity. So crusades are organized, villains strung up from the town clock. If they could, these holy warriors would launch hydrogen bombs of rage into the very heart of the galaxy. How unfair a galaxy it is! How dare it allow for the destruction and rebirth of stars in a horrible clash of fire and gravity.

The world is one great whole, and it is neither good nor evil that women are born to a certain reality and men to another. It is simply the nature of things. Ironically, the SWPL feminists that cannot bring themselves to relax into the truth of gender difference often profess a dilettantish appreciation for "Eastern Wisdom." Ironic because Chuang-tzu, or any old no-name Taoist master, would find their perpetual war on human nature to be quizzical at best.

To my dear feminist I said: the world is not a mechanism to be fixed, it is a plant that grows of its own accord. To which she replied that if it is a plant, it is a domesticated houseplant to be manipulated and watered and bred, which was missing the point entirely. She cited technological change to support this view. To which I replied with a weary sigh, "Yes, yes. Of course. I love a good polio cure as much as the next man." But it's the joy that's the thing... Why manipulate the world if it doesn't bring you joy to do so? From where I sit I see no joy at all in feminism, only anger, righteousness, and recrimination.

Of course, even the alienation of the profoundly alienated is part of the whole, and I am a hypocrite exactly to the degree that I let it bother me. Oh well. In my defense, I'm not that bothered, really. Just wistful at times.

On the other hand, another teaching of the old wise Taoist fools is that opposites do not truly oppose, but only make each other possible. No black without white, no up without down. So then the existence of such vast hordes of sad women pent up with petty aggression at their own souls just makes it all the sweeter to find a real woman, someone happy with who she is, in tune with her deep, true feminine power; a woman who can be an amusing trifle in the afternoon, a powerful sea of rage and love under the moon, and a butterfly of impossible beauty in the morning. Her native intelligence not tightened up in a self-regarding death-grip of righteousness, but flowing out into the world as love and creation. That's a woman that can inspire a weary man to rouse himself from sleep every day.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Why Gentlemen prefer Blondes

"Nothing makes sense in biology - except in the light of evolution."

Of course, this truism directly applies to the bizarre nature of female sexuality.

[If you think of it - isn't it amazing that there is any theory at all that can explain why mass murderers get more love letters than your average well behaved and educated white collar worker with house, car and six digit income.]

But, let's not forget - it is applicable to male sexuality, too.

We tend to shake our heads at the female lust for a man with power above all else.

However, this is in part due to the fact that the male preference for young women with visual beauty above all else is the societal standard.

We have learned to accept that beauty, in the form of symmetrical facial structures, well developed sexual dimorphisms and there like are equal to "attractive". We have difficulty understanding that high social status/dominance has the same effect on the other gender. The female preference for male power is not ingrained in our culture (yet) to the extend that we accept the male preference for female beauty as a given (and this may change).

Thanks to the prevailing dogma, men still have limiting beliefs about their looks (as opposed to "appearance"). It is hard to realize for a man socialized in our times that whether or not you are handsome simply does not matter. And likewise, women (still) fail to realize that it is their looks only that count and are pron to Sysiphus-esque work on their appearance in order to increase their mating market value. Not realizing that their attempts of gaining social proof by surrounding themselves with hordes of men have the opposite effect.

Yet, even the male lust for young, well formed women is somewhat bizarre and rather strange if you manage to rid yourself completely of the socialization we all share (or take on the female perspective):
How come we don't give a flying fuck about who she is if we are horny and out on a hunt for pussy? Why does it not matter at all if she is smart, well educated, generous, warm, loving, funny - if she is not hot/fat/ugly/old?

Evolutionary theory predicts both, women blinded by a man's power/influence/social status - and men blinded by what signals health and fertility.

But how far does the explanatory power go?

Master Dogen and I have hinted in previous posts on how evopsych approaches to seduction - for all its benefits - sometimes turns into the ridiculous.

While there certainly is truth in women trying to get beta "Provider" males to commit and spend their resources for nestbuilding purposes, all the while lusting for "Lover" sperm received through rough sex, it does not take a Ph.D. to understand that effect if black fingernail polish on women might be different from the effect of a peacock's tail on a hen.

The key is to be rational about Game.

Think before you act.

A sober, inquisitive mind(set) is what separates those who successfully apply the collective insight the "community" gathered during recent years from suckers who fall for catch phrases or those who spend (three digit amounts of) money for listening to someone's random thoughts on how to "score".

When it comes to Evolutionary Psychology and its spinoffs for "pickup", the problem is one that is well known to life scientists as "Adaptionist Storytelling":

The innate problem of lack of verification (or better: falsification) of any historical claim has been a criticism of evolutionary explanations of anything ever since Darwin wrote "The Origin of Species".
The problem is that one can explain almost anything and everything by assuming it gave humans some kind of evolutionary advantage during hominization.

This can be demonstrated by the wealth of theories (and the impossible task of pitting them against each other to find out which is true) for some of the "mysteries" concerning human behavior - the odd things humans do that do not seem to increase their fitness, such as:

- women living long after their menopause
- homosexuality (documented for many more animal species)
- female orgasm (Yeah. Why? Seriously.)
- suicide
and so on.

This problem of a whole field of science has inspired one of my favorite researchers to submit a paper that was supposed to persiflage "adaptionistic" ideas (the guy happens to be featured in this week's issue of the New Yorker).

It's title:

"Why Gentlemen prefer Blondes"

Its theory:

"Several authors have suggested that certain florid displays of secondary sexual characteristics - such as the peacock's tail or the rooster's bright-red wattles - may serve the purpose of 'informing' the female that the suitor is healthy and free of dermal parasites (6, 7). I suggest that being blonde, or light-skinned, serves a similar purpose. Every medical student knows that anemia, (usually caused by intestinal parasites), cyanosis (a sign of heart disease), jaundice (liver disease) and skin infection are much easier to detect in fair-skinned individuals than in brunettes."

This is as brilliant as it is funny. No wonder. The author managed to be among the most successful vision scientist before becoming the leading expert for phantom limb pain (and therapy) before becoming the leading expert on synesthesia. And just recently he even got a newly discovered (by him) dinosaur species named after him.

Be as it may, I love the paper for the nerd joke in its first sentence (in which he inappropriately cites a good friend of his, with whom he shares a certain reputation of flirtatiousness):
"It is well known - although rarely acknowledged in polite company - that in Westem cultures there exists a distinct esthetic/sexual preference among men for blondes over brunettes (Anstis S M, personal communication)."

The paper got famous (somewhat surprisingly since it was burried in a lowe level journal lacking peer-review).

More surprisingly, it was taken seriously.

People must have missed the tongue-in-cheek last sentence of the paper (emphasis mine):
"Although originally intended as a satire on ad hoc sociobiological theories of human mate-selection, I soon came to realize that this idea is at least as viable as many other theories of mate choice that are currently in vogue."

The fact that the author of the study publicly declared it a hoax after realizing that this reality had gotten lost on some made no difference whatsoever. To this date, one can find defenders of the idea - after all, who could prove it wrong?

This history of a joke gone bad simplifies the danger of evolutionary explanations of human behavior.

We tend to grant "sciency" (sounding) explanations more authority than others. This is a good thing in general. But it opens the door for pranksters, and worse - cranks. Your own sharp mind is your best weapon to delineate fact from fiction since there are also cranks on the other side of the fence claiming that "all evolutionary psychology is pseudoscience" (often for obvious moralistic reasons since people like to mistake the "is" for the "ought", and vice versa).

If you go through the world with open eyes, aware of the fallacies of the mind that betray all of us. If you refrain from mistaking anecdotes as statistical evidence. If you test your ideas (and other people's claims) by wagering on them. If you subscribe to the notion of lifelong learning. If you do all these things, you will be able to derive for yourself what is lijkely to be true and what is likley to be wrong.

I, for one, do not prefer Blondes.

(Then again, I am not a true gentleman either).

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

So What, Then?

This is the last post in the series that includes The Master and the Slave, Fuck Being a Fucking Pussy, and The Two Kinds of Assholes.

Mr. Berme was a Vietnam veteran, and a teacher of philosophy. In my last year of high school — lo, these many years ago — I was in an honors humanities program, and Mr. Berme the vet co-taught the class with a canny old bat named Mrs. Oldes. Oldes was in charge of literature and art, and Berme was in charge of history and philosophy. This was unlike any class I have had before or since.

This wasn't a typical "honors" class, where you just had to punch in and punch out, do the work and pad your college applications. Oldes/Berme (as we called it) was different. This was a classical education, the kind British kids used to get in the days of the Great Pink Empire (minus, unfortunately, the Latin grammar).

On the days that the usually-shrieky Mrs. Oldes yielded the floor ("DEATH IN THE BATHTUB!!!!" she would scream when we read about Clytaemnestra and Agamemnon, or "Hagia Sophia was... THE GREATEST!!!" when studying Byzantine architecture), Mr. Berme calmly provided a counterpoint. This old, grizzled Nam vet used to wander through the classroom, randomly picking up objects and turning them over in his hands, examining them as if they held the secrets of the universe within, as he spoke calmly about Plato or Aquinas or Kant. Sometimes the item in his hands would be a student's binder. He would pick it up on one side of the room, right off your desk without warning, turn it over in his hands several times, slowly, making his way across the room saying something like, "Why did Plato ban the poets from his Republic? Does that not upset our modern sensibilities about the place of art in society? What can he be trying to tell us?" Then he would finally come to his point ("Because metaphor is a lie!") and slam the binder down on a completely random desk forcefully, eliciting a startled jump from the poor student, and walk on. After class we always had to meet up and exchange all the shit that Berme had caused to migrate about the room.

One day Berme was lecturing on Nietzsche. I remember listening with my usual half-awake mind, phasing in and out, looking over at the incredible tits on Kerry Edwards, trying to imagine what she looked like all smothered in vegetable oil and tomato purée. Berme was making his usual migration from one side of the room to the other, carrying some random kid's book with him.

"Nietzsche wants us to be strong and individualistic," he said. He stood in front of my desk with a deep pause and set the book down on my desk. I looked up. Berme continued with a deep seriousness: "And not namby-pamby.... or wussy."

It's hard to describe just how he said that word, "wussy," but I will never forget it. He spoke with a sort of deep contempt, his eyes off in the distance, almost spitting the word out, despite it's lack of plosive sounds. It's as if he were having a Vietnam flashback, in which he could see a fellow soldier pissing his pants or crying to his mama. "Wussy," the way Berme said it that day, stuck in my mind forever, as the worst thing you could be. The fact that he also used the word "namby-pamby" just made it all the more funny and quotable. My whole senior year my buddies and I went around saying things like, "This is fucking great! And not namby-pamby..... or wussy."

And that my dear friends, is where fucking chicks meets Nietzschean philosophy. I'm done giving pep-talks for a while. 11minutes has alluded before on this blog to those pep-talk PUA posts where the author has nothing more to say other than "get your shit together and the rest will follow." It's really not very useful, now is it?

It's not news that you need to be strong. It's not news that being a weakling beta asshole is a dead-end in the pussy-maze of life. There's a never-ending chicken-egg debate about which comes first, being an alpha or getting laid. The easy answer is well, duh, they go hand-in-hand.

And that conventional truth is just that: true. Nevertheless, if you don't already have complete mastery over your desire for women, there can be something insidious about trying to meet girls. There's a basic neediness. Even feeling 100% good about yourself, fulfilling all of Herr Doktor N's requisites for ubermensch-hood, the very fact you have a desire that you cannot meet without the consent of another being — and that being a woman, no less — seems like a fatal chink in the armor.

Well, all I can say is that needing woman is part and parcel of being a man. It is your essential nature, just as it your essential nature to feel violent, to feel protective of your home city and country, to love your friends like brothers, and to remember your mother on Mother's Day. It is not a weakness, it is a strength. The desire for women is a fucking glorious thing. And in fact the only thing greater than the longing is the release itself.

And the release itself is all the more glorious because as it passes it brings on an even greater state of longing.

The sense of incompleteness that comes when you don't get the girl is not bad. It is good. It's not good because it teaches you some lesson; it's not good because it might spur you to greater accomplishment (though surely these are good things). It is good because it is what makes you a man. A human, mortal, and yet more than human.

If you can lose your way with a girl and damn yourself, turning to that traitor moon with a spit-blood curse, and then laugh it all off, you're already there. The next one is a lamb and you are a wolf. Fucking her is the greatest triumph, and the greatest joke.

Something about the way Mr. Berme said that line captures the whole essence of the thing. Just don't be namby-pamby; and for god's sake, don't be a wussy.

Desire must always outpace the soul, and I would not have it otherwise.

Monday, May 11, 2009

The Two Kinds of Assholes

This post is a follow-up to The Master and the Slave and Fuck Being a Fucking Pussy

There are two kinds of assholes: Weak assholes and strong assholes.

Weak assholes are weak men. They come at the world from a position of weakness that they have put themselves in. They don't achieve much with their lives and they blame other people for their problems. When it comes to other men, they resent the greatness they see. When the great man is someone far off, like a titan of industry or a brave U.S. Marine they sneer and mewl, calling these men unfeeling oppressors. When it is someone closer to home — like a friend who is trying to improve himself by, say, spending less time drinking and playing video games, or starting out on a new exciting career — they feel betrayed and often try to sabotage his new project. This they can do subconsciously; in fact, doing it subconsciously is often the first refuge of the weak man, because to come right out and call his friend a traitor would take more balls than he will ever have.

Weak men are often Nice Guys. They whine and complain that women don't love them. They can't understand why everyone doesn't see their special uniqueness. They are precious, delicate snowflakes, a wonder of nature in their infinite sensitivity and complexity. If the world doesn't treat them like this, it's because the world is a terrible place. If a girl doesn't feel sexually attracted to him, it's because of she's a bitch, or because she's been fooled by a slick, scheming "real asshole," (i.e., a Strong Asshole).

When weak men don't get their way, which is often, the weak asshole comes out. They lash out at the world with bitterness. Or they pull into their own shell, feeling surly and unappreciated. And this way of moving through the world just makes them less attractive, causing more bitterness.

Passive aggressiveness is the hallmark of the weak asshole. If he were merely surly and bitter, he might be more fun. We've all met guys who are extremely acerbic and dry, and they can often be a lot of fun. But the weak asshole, through all his bitterness and self-absorption, stridently maintains that he is not a jerk, that he is not bitter. It is his hypocrisy that makes him truly contemptible.

Women do not like weak assholes, and, frankly, neither do I... See, ladies? We have so much in common. I guess I'm just a sugar-coated sweetheart deep down. Like this guy...

Strong assholes are men who move through the world with force. Because he comes from a position of power, the strong asshole feels good about himself. He's worked hard, and he has had to make sacrifices. Hard work and sacrifice give meaning to the pleasures he does indulge in. He is not wracked with guilt, because he has nothing to feel guilty for. When a strong asshole sees a weak asshole, up close or far away, he is sometimes filled with contempt, but just as often he barely takes notice. He is too busy living his own life to worry about what some other punter is doing.

Strong men understand that inner greatness is nothing without outer works. Rather than waiting for people to notice how special they are, they go out and do things, and let the rest go to hell.

The "asshole" side of the strong man is a side-effect of his central masculinity. He's not trying to be a jerk, but it happens anyway. He understands that there is conflict in the world, that not everything is going to be gumdrops and lollipops. He doesn't shit on people just because he can; but neither does he shrink from asserting himself when the time is right. When he sees something he wants, he goes out and gets it. People standing on the sidelines, weak men muttering bitterly, call it being an asshole. But he doesn't care what they call it.

Strong assholes are far more capable of real compassion than weak ones. Strong men don't have a hidden agenda. They have a public one. And so they can act from a place of real kindness when they want to. Strong men can compete openly with other men without resenting them. Strong men can admire other strong men. And strong men can love their women openly, and with power and real feeling. They do not cling; instead they seize.

Women like strong assholes. And that's what confuses weak men who try to adopt the poses of the strong asshole. They get the "asshole" part down, but they never manage the strength.

You have to see yourself as a god first, and behave like one. Even when no one is looking. All the asshole stuff flows naturally from that. You can try and put the cart before the horse, and you might get a few dozen yards down the track. But life is a journey of many miles, and you'll be better served to get shit straight rather than learning a few neat tricks.

Yesterday I inspired myself with references to the raging Achilles, so I'll leave you with a couple of quotes from Lattimore's classic translation.

Achilles is not a good guy or a bad guy... that's too modern a distinction. He is a great man — half mortal, half divine. A hero. And he went to war knowing full well that the prophecy said it would be his doom. Did he mope about the prophecy? You be the judge...

As inhuman fire sweeps on in fury through the deep angles
of a drywood mountain and sets ablaze the depth of the timber
and the blustering wind lashes the flame along, so Achilleus
swept everywhere with his spear like something more than a mortal
harrying them as they died, and the black earth ran blood.
Or as when a man yokes male broad-foreheaded oxen
to crush white barley on a strong-laid threshing floor, and rapidly
the barley is stripped beneath the feet of the bellowing oxen,
so before great-hearted Achilleus the single-foot horses
trampled alike dead men and shields, and the axle under
the chariot was all splashed with blood and the rails which encircled
the chariot, struck by flying drops from the feet of the horses,
from the running rims of the wheels. The son of Peleus was straining
to win glory, his invincible hands spattered with bloody filth.
--Book 20

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Fuck Being a Fucking Pussy

In the last post, we saw how Nietzsche drew a sharp distinction between "Master morality" and "Slave morality." To sum up, Master morality pits the obvious Good against the obvious Bad (i.e. the beautiful is superior to the hideous). On the other hand, Slave morality pits Good versus Evil, with "evil" as a new category that encompasses any virtues that might be seen as "oppressive," such as selfishness, excellence, and arrogance.

What astonishes me, the older I get, is how our culture wants to vilify the Good Man, as embodied in the ancient heroes of old Greece. Feminism has crept so far into our collective bones as to make good, strong men wary of showing their worth. I can't in good conscience put all the blame at the feet of feminism, as there are many different and interlocking threads that have woven the current cultural world. But feminism, especially to the degree that it has suckered in actual men, is one of the guiltiest parties in our rogue's gallery of misfit ideologies.

It hurts women more than anyone. A man with a brash nature and a broad chest, a man who stands up straight and fights for his tribe and his country, still attracts women. But those very women are made to feel guilty for the pulsings of their own loins. These women are made to feel that they should prefer a pale-faced, hipster-bearded, chardonnay-drinking, NPR-listening pussy. And those women, poor fillies, accept those men and live out their unhappy lives. Or they cheat with cocky alphas while their beta husbands stay home and watch HBO series about real (fictional) men like Tony Soprano or Sheriff Bullock. These women, for all their failings, do deserve a bit of sympathy. What would you do in their place?

I don't mean to absolve women of their agency in choosing men that will make them truly happy. And I do subscribe to the (well-proven) notion that women are the ultimate arbiters of male behavior... that is to say, if women choose one kind of mate, the males will conform to fit the mold. But it's ridiculous to pretend that the men don't also have a choice to make. Because you do.

A lot of the literature in the PUA community on the web is geared toward giving natural betas the tools to seem like alphas. As someone who fully supports the unadulterated, wholesale return to the patriarchy of old, I have no problem with that. Most men cannot be true alphas, and it is in the interest of all humans, male and female, to give respectable, law-abiding betas the means to assume power again. But my particular interest lies elsewhere.

If you truly feel at heart that you are a piss-ant, that you deserve only the dregs of pussy that life and a diligent study of "game theory" can teach you, this post isn't for you. Go back to some bullet-point PUA website and put some more gel in your hair. But if you, like I did once upon a time, feel that you are a god among men, who is acting to less than your full potential because of the rules of modern society, please read on.

It's probably true that only 1 out of 10 men is a true alpha. In a tribe of 60-70 humans in the ancestral environment, that meant that only 2 or 3 males were true alphas, including the young boys. But if you look around modern American society, probably only 1 out of 1000 males acts like a true alpha. That means there are literally tens of thousands of American males not living up to their real potential.

Roissy in DC, for example, is a great writer, and also a great professor of the truths about men and women. But if you read his site carefully, you will see that his definition of a good man starts and stops with getting quality pussy. Roissy clearly has the chops to pontificate as he does. But he leaves a gap in the real definition of manhood. Men achieve things. The convenient bailout move for modern American alphas (and for beta pretenders) is to assume that the world has gone to shit, that the country has gone to shit, and all to such a degree that a man can't possibly be expected to do anything with his god-given prowess. "Oh the Mexicans are ruining everything," "Oh, the feminists make it too hard," and etc. etc. Fair enough... but...

But a true Viking doesn't give a shit about the world as it is. Doesn't let anything, anything, stop him from realizing his true manhood. Roissy is a prophet of the downfall, but I want to tell you all about the uprising. The uprising of real men. The uprising of strength and courage and fortitude.

Go lift some weights. Sign up for the military. Read the epic stories of great men. Achilles, Julius Caesar, Admiral Nelson, General Patton. There is no essential difference between the heroic men of ancient tales and the true alphas-in-waiting reading this blog. The only existential difference is that you happen to live in a world that wants you to behave like a pussy. That's a handicap, for sure. It's handicapped me. But it's no excuse. Turn off the internet porn; turn off the NPR. Who gives a fuck what hippie-shit farmer pickled your potatoes? Who gives a fuck if you can name all the members of Wolf Parade? Fight Club this shit, my friends.

A quote to leave you with. For vocab reasons, let me tell those of you who don't know, that a capon is a male bird that never fully develops its sex organs. In chicken society, once a male cock has asserted its dominance over a brood, other male chickens that are born fail to develop testicles as they enter puberty. It is a survival mechanism that keeps them from having to fight the real male of the brood, the dominant rooster. But what a poor existence... How much more glorious to be a bright-feathered cock!

Between two sailors on a man-of-war in the British Navy in the early 19th century, looking at a beautiful specimen of full-feathered male bird (and "Jack"'s first reply is sarcastic, if you don't catch it):

Stephen said, "Have you ever contemplated upon sex, my dear?"

"Never," said Jack, "Sex has never entered my mind, at any time."

"The burden of sex, I mean. This bird, for example, is very heavily burdened; almost weighed down. He can scarcely fly or pursue his common daily round with any pleasure to himself, encumbered by a yard of tail and all this top-hamper [a nautical term]. All these extravagant plumes have but one function — to induce the hen to yield to his importunities. How the poor cock must glow and burn, if these are, as they must be, an index of his ardour."

"That is a solemn thought."

"Were he a capon, now, his life would be easier by far. These spurs, these fighting spurs, would vanish; his conduct would become peaceable, social, complaisant and mild. Indeed, were I to castrate all the [sailors], Jack, they would grow fat, placid and unaggressive; this ship would no longer be a man-of-war, darting angrily, hastily from place to place; and we should circumnavigate the terraqueous globe with never a harsh word."

Our country, our world has become a ship of capons: fat, placid and unaggressive.

There is peace in the life of a capon. No fighting, no glory. This is most certainly the proper route to choose for most men. If you think that's what you want from life, you should choose it with all your heart. There is no shame in being a capon, growing fat, and finding a certain gray breed of happiness. But if you have ever thought yourself capable of more; if you have ever felt that horizon calling you to bigger and greater things: you must press on. Fighting spurs means blood and pain. But it's worth it; and luckily, the choice is yours.

Tomorrow: the two kinds of assholes.