It's so nice to know the natural sweetness of children can be sucked from their beings as young as five years old. Who needs all that pesky normality and humanity when we can have empowerment?
Good luck, America.
Monday, February 28, 2011
This Charming Young Lady is the Future of America
What a lovely world we live in. I can't think of a single reason a man would want to move out of the country and date foreign women...
<a href="http://www.bing.com/videos/browse?mkt=en-us&from=en-us_msnhp&vid=24217faa-4823-4f2a-9b9e-12673836acaa&from=en-us&fg=dest" target="_new" title="Little Girl Needs A Job">Video: Little Girl Needs A Job</a>
It's so nice to know the natural sweetness of children can be sucked from their beings as young as five years old. Who needs all that pesky normality and humanity when we can have empowerment?
Good luck, America.
It's so nice to know the natural sweetness of children can be sucked from their beings as young as five years old. Who needs all that pesky normality and humanity when we can have empowerment?
Good luck, America.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Even With a Part of a Woman's Body
"A man will fall in love with some beauty, with a woman's body, or even with a part of a woman's body (a sensualist can understand that), and he'll abandon his own children for her, sell his father and mother, and his country, Russia, too. If he's honest, he'll steal; if he's humane, he'll murder; if he's faithful, he'll deceive."
--Fyodor Dostoevsky. The Brothers Karamazov. (1880)
--Fyodor Dostoevsky. The Brothers Karamazov. (1880)
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Stealth One-itis
Once I talked to a really cute girl at a grocery store. She was my checker, and I had a lot of items, a random assortment of truly odd things I was buying. I was buying them for an unusual project, and I joked with her and teased her a bit trying to make her guess what it was. Eventually I told her and she had the "Wow you get paid to do that?" reaction I was going for. What a sweet, pretty girl.
Thing is, I was just visiting that town, and was in fact on my way out of town. I wasn't even thinking of getting her number. I was just enjoying a fun conversation with a pretty, young woman. (If you don't already live your life this way, incidentally, my question to you is: why not?)
This girl made quite an impression on me, though I didn't realize it at the time. It was her eyes, I think. Anyway, a few days later I was working on a story, and this girl's face came to my mind as clear as day, as the face of the female character in the story. So as I wrote, I kept picturing, and then describing in detail, her face. And not just that, but the way she moved, the way she laughed... and I made up all kinds of details about her, of course. She became a character, and the character I created was charming, and beautiful. I wrote about her day after day, and even described sex scenes between her and the male protagonist.
Much to my surprise — back at my day job — I found myself back in the same town, back at the same store, a month and a half later. I certainly remembered the girl that worked there. I spied her when I was headed to the check out counter. She must have spied me too, because she was acting as the floating bagger, moving from register to register according to perceived need, and she was definitely at my register when I came to the front of the line.
I joked around with the old guy who was ringing me up as she stood there and put things in my bag. (Never underestimate the power of letting a girl do things for you, whether it's her job or not.) After a few moments I locked eyes with her. "Aren't you that guy who [does that one weird job]?" she asked me. "I remember you."
I smiled and chatted her up a little as she finished bagging my things. She left the register before I was done paying and when I walked to the exit, she followed me pushing a stack of carts. I turned around and intercepted her at the parking lot, and asked her out for a drink. She said yes and I asked for her number.
"Oh that's a problem. I don't just give my number out."
______time out______
Pop Quiz.
What should Master Dogen have done?
A) Given her my number instead.
B) Told her that was too bad, and walked off.
C) Told her maybe I'd see her around then.
D) Told her I don't give my number out either, and that we were at an impasse, and smiled.
______time in_______
The correct answer is D). Or if you have a better idea, leave it in the comments. I should have said I didn't give my number out either. Or I should have said, "Oh you aren't giving it out. You're giving it to me." And then smiled like a cocky son of a bitch.
The worst thing that can happen is that it backfires on you and she refuses to give you her number. Big deal. It's just a girl.
But I said, "Alright" and gave her my number instead. And trying to think of something cocky to say, as I walked off, I gave her a shit-eating grin and said, "Don't forget now."
"I won't."
Ugh. Not an epic fail, but a fail nonetheless. I was actually trying, at that point, and I'm sure it came through. Letting her shoot me down and then giving her my number as soon as she asked was very beta. And then adding that needy "Don't forget!" just made it worse.
Why did I act like that? I had a sneaking fear of losing that girl. I forgot she was just a girl. Some part of myself was convinced she was really important. You see, I'd built up this girl in my mind, the same as if I had been pining over her as an actual potential serious girlfriend.
That way lies beta, my friends.
It goes to show how powerful your own mind can be over ... well, over your own mind. Even though I was just writing a story about some imagined character, using this girl's face as a template to help me imagine the character, I was subconsciously building her up in my mind. I had no conscious desire to long for this woman, but my mind didn't care. The power of imagining it was enough to train my brain into adopting a lovelorn, beta posture with her.
I know my transgression doesn't sound that bad, and indeed it really wasn't that bad. At least I chatted her up. At least I asked her out. But I was pretty disappointed in myself afterwards when I reflected on it. I don't make those kinds of basic mistakes very often. It was almost a trick of fate that it happened, but I'm glad it did because it reminded me how strong mind-conditioning can be.
I can't really endorse the Think and Grow Rich method of positive self-reinforcement. Only because the only reinforcement people feel if they read aloud to themselves some list of goals is the reinforcement of seeing themselves as weird, desperate, pathetic people who have to resort to tricks like that.
But I don't doubt that it has worked for some people. And I absolutely believe that "fake it till you make it" is a powerful philosophy. I've made it work for me not only with women, but in business, in speaking foreign languages, hell, even in playing chess. If you train yourself to believe you can do something, you will find that belief coming true very often.
On the other hand, negative training can be equally powerful. If you mope, if you pine after a certain girl, if you convince yourself you are a loser in some way or another, guess what? It comes true even faster. Nothing is more self-defeating.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Little Glories
... or part two of Being Comfortable With Women.
Thalia, my lesbian roommate, knocked on my door late one night. It was nothing unusual. She seemed a little drunk. She had just come home from being out with friends, and she was wearing a smudge of dark lipstick and Cleopatra eyeliner. Her long, long hair was done up in a ponytail, and she was wearing a snug black, bare-shoulder top, and A-line skirt.
She plopped down on my bed and lit a cigarette and handed the pack over to me. I had my window open and fan on already. It was an early July New York night, already the worst swelter of summertime had set in, coating every person in that city with a fine layer of sweat and grime. — the ugly ones wear it like a grease stain; the beautiful people just seem to glow a little more. Thalia, one of the beautiful people, exhaled a long draft of smoke at the window and said at last, "Dude, I don't want you to leave here!" She always called me dude.
I had already announced to the apartment that I would be moving into my own place at the end of the month. Living with three women was something I was comfortable with, as I have explained, but the very fact of having roommates at all was always a temporary fix in my mind. I belong alone, unless the person I am not-alone with has a special invitation.
Thalia sat nearer and nearer to me as we talked. She started with jokey comments about how I was abandoning her with "those two," i.e. our other, lamer roommates. But then she tucked her chin under her knees, and started to talk about how she would miss our late night chats and smokes, how I had to promise to come see her at the bar she worked at.
She reached up in a moment of silence and slowly undid her hair, letting it fall across one shoulder. Her other shoulder glowed softly in the diffused orange light of the streetlights beyond the window. The fan hummed away with a throbbing insistence. I reached up and put my palm against the side of her head, feeling how soft her hair was, and slowly slid my hand all the way down the tress to her elbow, her locked elbow that propped up her whole body as she leant on her palm. It was like petting a horse. She blinked twice, very slowly, like in a dream, and fell forward at me, kissing me like a lover.
Thalia and I fucked on my bed that night, my crappy mattress-on-a-floor bed, with the ashtray pushed away, slid halfway across the room. With the fan droning it's one note song. With the orange light streaking Thalia's olive flesh, first her dull shine of sweat and then her running beads of sweat. With all those millions of people out there, all around us, all drenched in the same palpable summer night. I remember looking up at her and thinking she looked like a painting of Venus as she fucked me with her gyrating hips, my hands on her slick back and that long, impossible cascade of perfect hair draped over one shoulder once more, bouncing and sticking to the pouty swell of her lower abdomen.
Afterwards, she told me how long she had wanted that. I felt the same way, but I didn't tell her that of course. She said she had lobbied the other two girls to let me move in because she thought I was cute, not because I had three sisters. We lay there for a while and I lazily drew patterns on her sweat-slick back with my finger, staring out the window. She didn't need to be told to go back to her room, and after a sweet while, she got up. There was no sense in alarming the other girls at this point. Hopefully they didn't hear us (for Thalia's sake; she had to go on living there), but walking out of my room in the morning as they cooked eggs would be out of the question.
I probably don't have to tell you the lessons here. I hope it's obvious. Thalia lobbied to have me as a roommate because she was attracted to me, but she never would have done it if she didn't also feel comfortable. Indeed comfort is just as important as attraction, which is Mystery Method 101. Neither would the roommates have allowed it if they didn't also feel comfortable.
Also, Thalia had presumably heard me with other girls in there. She had certainly met a few. Never underestimate the massive power of preselection. And having her her a girl crying out in the grips of an orgasm is the equivalent of letting her see me at the bar with 20 different pretty girls on the arm.
With my moving-out impending, she realized she had nothing to lose. A few weeks of "awkwardness" (AKA sex) was worth the pay off in pleasure (AKA sex). Add together a long standing comfort, a feeling of shared secretness (our late night cigarettes), a mutual attraction, alcohol, and a lack of serious consequence and the results are practically inevitable.
I saw Thalia on a recent trip to New York. Her lesbian lover (not attractive.. seriously unattractive) and her now share the room I used to have, the room Thalia and I fucked in like sweaty animals. She's put on a little weight, not a lot, but enough to break your heart just a little. It's pretty obvious where she's headed.
I do wonder though, on a hot summer night maybe, with the fan running, as she looks past her snoring girlfriend to the window, what she thinks about.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Being Comfortable With Women Pt 1: just me and the cat
After last week's little tragedy, a palate cleanser for y'all.
One of the most important things for a man to be able to do is to turn off the inner pussy-calculator. That is, turn off the horndog and interact with women — even attractive women — with no sexual overtones at all.
Hopefully, for most of you this goes without saying. Probably the first thing that springs to mind is the workplace environment. That's a dangerous place to spit game. Although, of course, a great many women are dying for you to do it; and game properly executed will decrease your chances of awkwardness and sexual harrassment suits by about 95%. [And it always helps to remember: 1) Be Handsome, 2) Be Attractive, and 3) Don't Be Unattractive.] Still, in today's climate, one can never be too careful.
Sometimes you need to turn off your inner player for the sake of your greater humanity. I suppose you could be the kind of person who is thinking about getting laid when consoling a woman over the death of her brother (or some such tragedy), but I'll pass. I get laid enough without having to stoop to being a chitinous shit-heel.
A few years ago I lived in an apartment with three women and no other males except the cat. (That cat and I used to bro down.) I grew up with three sisters and no brothers, in a pretty tight-knit family, so I don't feel strange being surrounded by females. In fact it feels quite natural to me. The girls who put out the craigslist ad mentioned that they preferred a female or a gay man but that they were "open to anyone cool."
After seeing the apartment and deciding it was where I wanted to live, I simply explained to them that I grew up with three sisters, and that living with three women seemed perfectly mundane to me. They called me the next day to offer me the room.
Now, I'm not claiming I was blind or on complete auto-pilot while I was there. The girls were a 5, a 6, and an 8, and I noticed them (especially the 8, natch). But I had already decided that I was going to live there, and the sanctity of a man's castle is worth more than a couple of blow jobs. It's a simple metric: by avoiding drama in the home, I was freeing myself to get more sex, not less. There were three women inside my city apartment; but there were approximately 4.1 million outside of it. If I was to be able to bring those girls home, I needed a home life free from drama.
All three of the girls were nice people, and easy to get along with. The 5 had a boyfriend across town and so I almost never saw her (the ideal roommate: pays the rent and is never home). The 6 was pretty uptight about her career and usually disappeared into her room at 8 pm after cooking her all-natural vegan dinner. The 8, however, was younger — about 24 — and liked to drink and hang out. I'll call her "Thalia" because her extremely long, pretty hair reminded me of a Greek muse or nymph. Women who aren't dirty hippies or club skanks with extensions rarely let their hair get as long as Thalia's was. But hers was about as lovely and silky and thick as you can imagine, and it was nearly down to her ass. Also, she was pretty.
Thalia and I became friends, often dropping by the other's room with two beers in hand, to sit and chat and smoke cigarettes out the window. We had a mutual understanding. We both liked each other, and we secretly teamed up against the other two, more uptight people in the house, though more in an esprit-de-corps kind of way than out of any real malice or bitterness. We smoked and drank beer and they didn't, so we had fun being "the bad ones." Harmless, friendly camaraderie.
I was never overtly sexual around Thalia for the reasons I just mentioned. But I do have a certain amount of natural game, mainly in the form of body language, self-confidence, and generally not caring what women think of me. So even though I never started calculating how best to game Thalia, it wouldn't be quite accurate to say I never gamed her. I just never tried.
Today's lesson is merely a reminder to keep yourself under control and keep your humanity. There are people out there who recommend you should basically be thinking about game 100% of the time. These people are assholes. They are boring to be around, and they tend to reek of desperation. Part of being attractive to women is being a well-rounded person. And part of being a well-rounded person is enjoying friendships without sex.
Since my "Little Tragedies" post was about a lesbian, I should probably mention that Thalia was also a lesbian.
But more about that in Part 2 of Being Comfortable With Women, to be subtitled, "Little Triumphs."
One of the most important things for a man to be able to do is to turn off the inner pussy-calculator. That is, turn off the horndog and interact with women — even attractive women — with no sexual overtones at all.
Hopefully, for most of you this goes without saying. Probably the first thing that springs to mind is the workplace environment. That's a dangerous place to spit game. Although, of course, a great many women are dying for you to do it; and game properly executed will decrease your chances of awkwardness and sexual harrassment suits by about 95%. [And it always helps to remember: 1) Be Handsome, 2) Be Attractive, and 3) Don't Be Unattractive.] Still, in today's climate, one can never be too careful.
Sometimes you need to turn off your inner player for the sake of your greater humanity. I suppose you could be the kind of person who is thinking about getting laid when consoling a woman over the death of her brother (or some such tragedy), but I'll pass. I get laid enough without having to stoop to being a chitinous shit-heel.
A few years ago I lived in an apartment with three women and no other males except the cat. (That cat and I used to bro down.) I grew up with three sisters and no brothers, in a pretty tight-knit family, so I don't feel strange being surrounded by females. In fact it feels quite natural to me. The girls who put out the craigslist ad mentioned that they preferred a female or a gay man but that they were "open to anyone cool."
After seeing the apartment and deciding it was where I wanted to live, I simply explained to them that I grew up with three sisters, and that living with three women seemed perfectly mundane to me. They called me the next day to offer me the room.
Now, I'm not claiming I was blind or on complete auto-pilot while I was there. The girls were a 5, a 6, and an 8, and I noticed them (especially the 8, natch). But I had already decided that I was going to live there, and the sanctity of a man's castle is worth more than a couple of blow jobs. It's a simple metric: by avoiding drama in the home, I was freeing myself to get more sex, not less. There were three women inside my city apartment; but there were approximately 4.1 million outside of it. If I was to be able to bring those girls home, I needed a home life free from drama.
All three of the girls were nice people, and easy to get along with. The 5 had a boyfriend across town and so I almost never saw her (the ideal roommate: pays the rent and is never home). The 6 was pretty uptight about her career and usually disappeared into her room at 8 pm after cooking her all-natural vegan dinner. The 8, however, was younger — about 24 — and liked to drink and hang out. I'll call her "Thalia" because her extremely long, pretty hair reminded me of a Greek muse or nymph. Women who aren't dirty hippies or club skanks with extensions rarely let their hair get as long as Thalia's was. But hers was about as lovely and silky and thick as you can imagine, and it was nearly down to her ass. Also, she was pretty.
Thalia and I became friends, often dropping by the other's room with two beers in hand, to sit and chat and smoke cigarettes out the window. We had a mutual understanding. We both liked each other, and we secretly teamed up against the other two, more uptight people in the house, though more in an esprit-de-corps kind of way than out of any real malice or bitterness. We smoked and drank beer and they didn't, so we had fun being "the bad ones." Harmless, friendly camaraderie.
I was never overtly sexual around Thalia for the reasons I just mentioned. But I do have a certain amount of natural game, mainly in the form of body language, self-confidence, and generally not caring what women think of me. So even though I never started calculating how best to game Thalia, it wouldn't be quite accurate to say I never gamed her. I just never tried.
Today's lesson is merely a reminder to keep yourself under control and keep your humanity. There are people out there who recommend you should basically be thinking about game 100% of the time. These people are assholes. They are boring to be around, and they tend to reek of desperation. Part of being attractive to women is being a well-rounded person. And part of being a well-rounded person is enjoying friendships without sex.
Since my "Little Tragedies" post was about a lesbian, I should probably mention that Thalia was also a lesbian.
But more about that in Part 2 of Being Comfortable With Women, to be subtitled, "Little Triumphs."
Being Comfortable With Women Pt 1.5: A digression on hair
In my last post, I promised a post called "Little Triumphs." But I realize that that's a little too militaristic for my sentiments. And it's my freaking blog. So we're calling this "Little Glories" instead. Actually, we're calling it a digression on hair. The Little Glory is soon to come. Those of you just looking for war stories, come back in 36 hours or so.
Thalia: picture her. Young, beautiful. Not mesmerizing, not perfect, not a 10, but very beautiful. The kind of woman we should all love and appreciate. The classic 8. She had full lips, dreamy dark eyes, and a mild, constant expression of sweet irony. Her breasts were medium sized, but young and high, and she had a classic, Greek slope to her waist, hips, and thighs. No man would call her Helen. But every man I have ever met would call her beautiful, and eminently fuckable
I already mentioned her fantastic hair. Hair shouldn't be undervalued. There are reasons men like luxurious long hair. Basically, your hair is a record of your health. Hair is dead, but it comes from a living follicle. Long, beautiful hair is physical proof of something that is otherwise very difficult to prove: a record of luxurious health.
If a woman suddenly starts taking massive amount of methamphetamines, for two months, and consumes only vodka and Cheetohs in that time, her hair will grow brittle and stringy as a result. It's very rare that a woman (or man) goes from full health, to two months of meth-headedness, directly back to full health. I do not deny that this is technically possible, but I have never seen it in real life and I don't expect to see it, ever. But if it were to happen, and the woman never cut her hair, you would see a distinct band, about an inch and a half long, of stringy, nasty crap that represented her time as a meth head.
This is why men (and women) appreciate lovely hair. I actually happen to have thin hair. I'm a devillishly handsome fellow, to be sure, and my regally thin crown only screams my masculinity, but I never chose the male curse. I surely wish it was otherwise, and that I were Alec Baldwin, follicularly speaking. But actually (factoid for the day, dear readers) it is the very presence of men like me that makes men like me love long haired beauties.
There is such a thing as female baldness. And it's profoundly unattractive. There is, of course, such a thing as male baldness, and it's about 10,000 times more common than female baldness. It's somewhat attractive, to some people at least. But it's a marker of maleness, to be sure. No one ever looked at Patrick Stewart and proclaimed, "Dude looks like a lady!"
And this is why long flowing hair is generally associated with women. Some men are capable of long hair. But no woman (except the genetic reject) is capable of baldness. The male-female dynamic when it comes to hair is especially noticeable when you factor in age. A young woman, stunningly beautiful, who shaves her head, might actually still be really hot. She's like the young hipster who wears a disgusting rat's nest hairdo, relying on her youthful skin and tight body to advertise her beauty. No fifty year old woman who isn't a cancer patient would ever shave her head. Ever.
Likewise, we all can think of young men who look sexy and desirable despite their long hair. Clay Matthews or Mick Jagger or a Jonas Brother. Maybe you ladies object to one or the other of these fellows (Clay too roided out and cavemannish, Mick too preening and scrawny, Jonas too babyish), but probably it's not the hair that does it. The hair is actually kinda hot. The way super boyish hair is hot on a pretty young girl. Oh man, dont' get me started on that one girl with a buzzcut in my freshman dorm. Yowza. (Blog material! I haz it!)
But no one — NO ONE, I say — thinks long hair on a 50-something guy is hot. 50-something guys can totally be hot to younger women. But it better be money or status or game or personality. Even a nice tan. It better not be your Fabio locks, holmes. A 55 year old guy with a ponytail is exactly as hot as a 55 year old woman with a shaved head. Ick.
Why? Because baldness (short hair) is male and flowing locks is female.
Long hair is a pain in the ass, I know. I fully understand why women get sensible haircuts. I have no beef with a woman who colors her hair or goes for funky cuts or whatever. It's not easy, I know. Trust me... my genetics, awesome and scary and Viking as they are, keep me from doing every rad thing I wish I could do with my hair.
But. If you women at all have the ability to grow long hair, and if you at all can manage to grow it for a couple of years without becoming a meth-head Cheetoh-eater, my personal advice is do it. It's freaking sexy. When in doubt, grow it out, ladies.
By the way, Roissy is hit and miss these days and he's lost the automatic endorsement I used to give him. Too much crap mixed in with the gold. But he's still one of the best out there, as you all know. On the subject of hair, here's one of the single best things that ever appeared on that blog.
So then... where was I? Oh yeah! Lesbians! Sex! Fun and games. Just hang on one more post, you jackals. I'm getting there. Sex.... hair... lesbians....
Thalia: picture her. Young, beautiful. Not mesmerizing, not perfect, not a 10, but very beautiful. The kind of woman we should all love and appreciate. The classic 8. She had full lips, dreamy dark eyes, and a mild, constant expression of sweet irony. Her breasts were medium sized, but young and high, and she had a classic, Greek slope to her waist, hips, and thighs. No man would call her Helen. But every man I have ever met would call her beautiful, and eminently fuckable
I already mentioned her fantastic hair. Hair shouldn't be undervalued. There are reasons men like luxurious long hair. Basically, your hair is a record of your health. Hair is dead, but it comes from a living follicle. Long, beautiful hair is physical proof of something that is otherwise very difficult to prove: a record of luxurious health.
If a woman suddenly starts taking massive amount of methamphetamines, for two months, and consumes only vodka and Cheetohs in that time, her hair will grow brittle and stringy as a result. It's very rare that a woman (or man) goes from full health, to two months of meth-headedness, directly back to full health. I do not deny that this is technically possible, but I have never seen it in real life and I don't expect to see it, ever. But if it were to happen, and the woman never cut her hair, you would see a distinct band, about an inch and a half long, of stringy, nasty crap that represented her time as a meth head.
This is why men (and women) appreciate lovely hair. I actually happen to have thin hair. I'm a devillishly handsome fellow, to be sure, and my regally thin crown only screams my masculinity, but I never chose the male curse. I surely wish it was otherwise, and that I were Alec Baldwin, follicularly speaking. But actually (factoid for the day, dear readers) it is the very presence of men like me that makes men like me love long haired beauties.
There is such a thing as female baldness. And it's profoundly unattractive. There is, of course, such a thing as male baldness, and it's about 10,000 times more common than female baldness. It's somewhat attractive, to some people at least. But it's a marker of maleness, to be sure. No one ever looked at Patrick Stewart and proclaimed, "Dude looks like a lady!"
And this is why long flowing hair is generally associated with women. Some men are capable of long hair. But no woman (except the genetic reject) is capable of baldness. The male-female dynamic when it comes to hair is especially noticeable when you factor in age. A young woman, stunningly beautiful, who shaves her head, might actually still be really hot. She's like the young hipster who wears a disgusting rat's nest hairdo, relying on her youthful skin and tight body to advertise her beauty. No fifty year old woman who isn't a cancer patient would ever shave her head. Ever.
Likewise, we all can think of young men who look sexy and desirable despite their long hair. Clay Matthews or Mick Jagger or a Jonas Brother. Maybe you ladies object to one or the other of these fellows (Clay too roided out and cavemannish, Mick too preening and scrawny, Jonas too babyish), but probably it's not the hair that does it. The hair is actually kinda hot. The way super boyish hair is hot on a pretty young girl. Oh man, dont' get me started on that one girl with a buzzcut in my freshman dorm. Yowza. (Blog material! I haz it!)
But no one — NO ONE, I say — thinks long hair on a 50-something guy is hot. 50-something guys can totally be hot to younger women. But it better be money or status or game or personality. Even a nice tan. It better not be your Fabio locks, holmes. A 55 year old guy with a ponytail is exactly as hot as a 55 year old woman with a shaved head. Ick.
Why? Because baldness (short hair) is male and flowing locks is female.
Long hair is a pain in the ass, I know. I fully understand why women get sensible haircuts. I have no beef with a woman who colors her hair or goes for funky cuts or whatever. It's not easy, I know. Trust me... my genetics, awesome and scary and Viking as they are, keep me from doing every rad thing I wish I could do with my hair.
But. If you women at all have the ability to grow long hair, and if you at all can manage to grow it for a couple of years without becoming a meth-head Cheetoh-eater, my personal advice is do it. It's freaking sexy. When in doubt, grow it out, ladies.
By the way, Roissy is hit and miss these days and he's lost the automatic endorsement I used to give him. Too much crap mixed in with the gold. But he's still one of the best out there, as you all know. On the subject of hair, here's one of the single best things that ever appeared on that blog.
So then... where was I? Oh yeah! Lesbians! Sex! Fun and games. Just hang on one more post, you jackals. I'm getting there. Sex.... hair... lesbians....
Thursday, February 10, 2011
First Principles
I hadn't written anything about sex for public consumption in a long time. When I posted something last weekend, I was happy to see it got an immediate response. People always appreciate well-written, thoughtful commentary on the issues they are most interested in.
Amazing at it seems, I forgot about the flip side to the positive response... the hater. The hater is everywhere, of course, not just in blog comment sections. And I don't particularly hate the hater, as the hater is part of the grand ecosystem of the world. He's like the cockroach. The cockroach is disgusting and lives in the nooks and crannies, feeding off of garbage and old food. No one likes to see the cockroach. But the cockroach is not bad, in the sense of evil. I mean, someone has to eat all that trash, right?
Also, the hater, like the cockroach, comes with certain territory. When I'm on the West Coast, I don't see our friend the cockroach so much. When I'm in New York, he's a more constant companion.
Likewise, if I were to write on something anodyne, like gourmet hipster chocolate bars, probably the hate wouldn't flow (unless I wrote as acerbicly and hilariously as the blogger over at Die Hipster). Or if I picked a mainstream topic and endorsed the official, mainstream, correct opinion. (Example topic: Egypt. Example of proper official mainstream opinion to have: "Oh those freedom fighters are so courageous!")
But if I write about sex relations, and if I write honestly, I can expect the haters to come, occasionally. 11minutes and I tend not to write with too much bitterness or venom. I generally avoid insults for the sake of insults. Occasionally, something is just too absurd for me to handle. Like this. Or this. Usually, though, you'll find me pretty respectful.
But hate — as I said, like the cockroach — does have its proper place. Haters remind us when we aren't being clear. Haters think one-dimensionally, so they are quick to point out what you sound like to a one-dimensional person. And this is important information.
So then, the most common brand of hate I used to get on this blog, was either, "You're an asshole; you exploit women," or the closely related, "You're a phony; you should be yourself." Both these complaints, in my opinion, reveal more about the plaintiffs than about me, but I don't want to get into a hate-the-haters post just now.
Instead, anticipating these kinds of comments to start popping up again (as they already have), as I write more on this blog, let me take a moment and state some of my first principles.
First of all, I have written a great deal about some of my foundational principles when it comes to women. See the following posts:
In Praise of Beautiful Women
Don't Just Feel... Do.
Mystery Does Not Equal Worth
Why I Love Difficult Women
True Romanticism
The Two Kinds of Assholes
In addition to what I have written in those posts, I will add the following statements. Each could be deserving of its own post, and perhaps I will write some of those posts in the coming weeks. For now, let me just state them as clearly as I can:
I've noticed two bad trends in blogs that treat the same topics that Alpha Status treats. One, the hedonist; the other, the resentful. The hedonist wants to learn about women to extract sex from them, devouring more and more, like a vast empty stomach that can never be filled. The resentful wants to see women suffer, because he has been hurt in the past.
These are two sides of the same nihilist coin. The hedonist beckons to the resentful man, saying, "Come this way brother. Here be pussy! Enjoy yourself!" And I have seen many resentful losers become cold-hearted players, who at least are enjoying their hedonism (a step up, in a way, from merely hating all life).
But resentment beckons to the hedonist too. It whispers in his ear, "Life is meaningless. Beauty fades. You will die old and alone, and then ... the black void." How can this not make one rage — however ironically — at the emptiness of the world. Every sunset, every loving moment, every exquisite orgasm, is tainted with emptiness. The hedonist and the resentful man are one and the same.
I can't convince any of my readers that nihilism is wrong just with a single blog post. It's a long journey, much of which cannot be put into words. All I want to do here is tell you that I, for one, reject it.
Writing a gender-realist blog in this day and age is like living in a tenament in New York City. There are bound to be some cockroaches. Let this post be a roach motel then, where I can direct them in the future. What say ye, me hearties?
Amazing at it seems, I forgot about the flip side to the positive response... the hater. The hater is everywhere, of course, not just in blog comment sections. And I don't particularly hate the hater, as the hater is part of the grand ecosystem of the world. He's like the cockroach. The cockroach is disgusting and lives in the nooks and crannies, feeding off of garbage and old food. No one likes to see the cockroach. But the cockroach is not bad, in the sense of evil. I mean, someone has to eat all that trash, right?
Also, the hater, like the cockroach, comes with certain territory. When I'm on the West Coast, I don't see our friend the cockroach so much. When I'm in New York, he's a more constant companion.
Likewise, if I were to write on something anodyne, like gourmet hipster chocolate bars, probably the hate wouldn't flow (unless I wrote as acerbicly and hilariously as the blogger over at Die Hipster). Or if I picked a mainstream topic and endorsed the official, mainstream, correct opinion. (Example topic: Egypt. Example of proper official mainstream opinion to have: "Oh those freedom fighters are so courageous!")
But if I write about sex relations, and if I write honestly, I can expect the haters to come, occasionally. 11minutes and I tend not to write with too much bitterness or venom. I generally avoid insults for the sake of insults. Occasionally, something is just too absurd for me to handle. Like this. Or this. Usually, though, you'll find me pretty respectful.
But hate — as I said, like the cockroach — does have its proper place. Haters remind us when we aren't being clear. Haters think one-dimensionally, so they are quick to point out what you sound like to a one-dimensional person. And this is important information.
So then, the most common brand of hate I used to get on this blog, was either, "You're an asshole; you exploit women," or the closely related, "You're a phony; you should be yourself." Both these complaints, in my opinion, reveal more about the plaintiffs than about me, but I don't want to get into a hate-the-haters post just now.
Instead, anticipating these kinds of comments to start popping up again (as they already have), as I write more on this blog, let me take a moment and state some of my first principles.
First of all, I have written a great deal about some of my foundational principles when it comes to women. See the following posts:
In Praise of Beautiful Women
Don't Just Feel... Do.
Mystery Does Not Equal Worth
Why I Love Difficult Women
True Romanticism
The Two Kinds of Assholes
In addition to what I have written in those posts, I will add the following statements. Each could be deserving of its own post, and perhaps I will write some of those posts in the coming weeks. For now, let me just state them as clearly as I can:
- Truth and Falsheood exist, independent of whether we like it or not. The fact that different people have different perspectives does not alter the fact that Truth exists; it simply means we must explore many different perspectives before we can be confident that our picture of the truth bears a reasonable resemblance to the actual Truth.
- Gender is real. Gender is not a social construct. Gender exists prior to society; all society does is take gender and express it in different ways, using different value systems and different kinds of presuppositions. Ironically, it is modern society's pieties about genderlessness that is "constructed." Gender is far more foundational than feminism.
- Humans evolved living in small bands, and the way we think and act today is largely a result of evolutionary pressures that applied in the ancestral environment. Some of the resulting adaptations are still adaptive today; many are obsolete, yet nevertheless remain very powerful.
- Truth and morality and goodness exist independently of evolution. There is meaning to life beyond the scientific. Science investigates and explains measurable phenomena; it is not the plenum of human knowledge. Nihilism is a false and pitiable reaction by modern people, who have lost all touch with profound silence and with the spiritual imagination.
- Human beings have worth that is independent of their role in society. It's easy for me to assert that women aren't as good at higher mathematics, on average, as men are. Because, you see, I don't see a woman's worth as a human being tied to her ability to do math; neither do I see a man's worth tied to any such thing. They are both valuable and worthwhile completely independent of their ability to do math (or bear children, or arm wrestle, or whatever). In old times, this was called the belief in the soul. If you can't believe in a soul (or some modern equivalent), if your worldview is completely meritocratic and technocratic, then you can't value a person as a person; you can only value their abilities. I categorically reject this soulless way of looking at humans; and therefore I have no problems acknowledging obvious differences between people's natural abilities.
- Feminism is a joke.
- Modern marriage is completely broken. This does not stop me from wishing it were otherwise. I do not consider monogamy to be "unnatural"; but it has always been difficult and requires the support of inner morality and outer society, both of which are in sad shape today. The modern man marries at his own risk.
- Feminism hurts women far more than it helps them. Women living under feminist pretenses are basically miserable. Then they blame their misery on men, rather than on feminism. Like how Stalin said the reason for the death of 5 million Ukrainian farmers was not enough communism.
- Women like strong men. Acquiescing to a woman's every whim is the surest way to make her feel empty inside. This is one reason so many women feel empty in modern society.
- People should live their lives basically in service to other people. It's the only way to really be happy inside. Loving other people and thinking of others is fundamental. The self-obsessed person is fundamentally miserable. The most interesting people are the ones who look out at the world and want to talk about it. The most boring people are the ones who gaze in on themselves and what to talk about me. Living for others does not mean being a doormat or working at a soup kitchen seven days a week (though it may mean that for certain people). It means being excellent. It means being the best person you can be; not being afraid to look reality in the face, to look yourself in the mirror, and to cheerfully take on every challenge life throws your way. Enrich the world with your presence. Think of yourself as a gift to the rest of the world... then give them a really great gift. Not some miserable, self-obsessed, weak, mealy-mouthed, resentful gray thing; but a serene, boisterous, cheerful, contemplative, hard-working, and fun-loving self. That is kindness.
I've noticed two bad trends in blogs that treat the same topics that Alpha Status treats. One, the hedonist; the other, the resentful. The hedonist wants to learn about women to extract sex from them, devouring more and more, like a vast empty stomach that can never be filled. The resentful wants to see women suffer, because he has been hurt in the past.
These are two sides of the same nihilist coin. The hedonist beckons to the resentful man, saying, "Come this way brother. Here be pussy! Enjoy yourself!" And I have seen many resentful losers become cold-hearted players, who at least are enjoying their hedonism (a step up, in a way, from merely hating all life).
But resentment beckons to the hedonist too. It whispers in his ear, "Life is meaningless. Beauty fades. You will die old and alone, and then ... the black void." How can this not make one rage — however ironically — at the emptiness of the world. Every sunset, every loving moment, every exquisite orgasm, is tainted with emptiness. The hedonist and the resentful man are one and the same.
I can't convince any of my readers that nihilism is wrong just with a single blog post. It's a long journey, much of which cannot be put into words. All I want to do here is tell you that I, for one, reject it.
Writing a gender-realist blog in this day and age is like living in a tenament in New York City. There are bound to be some cockroaches. Let this post be a roach motel then, where I can direct them in the future. What say ye, me hearties?
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Overqualified
When a girl perceives that you are out of her league, she requires a different approach. This perception could be accurate (you simply will never be attracted to her or interested in her in any way), or it could only be the result of a temporary situation (she perceives you to be out of her league because your status is so high).
Women are just like men in that they jealously guard their own status. If they make an inner calculation that something is going to cause them embarrassment, they will immediately shy away from it. We all know that men feel this intensely when it comes to talking to pretty women — classic approach anxiety. Half the posts on PUA blogs are about this topic, it seems.
Well, women have an equivalent mechanism. It's rarely a conscious thought process. It's rather more of an instinctual, self-rationalizing knee-jerk.
Imagine a social group with 14 women and three men. Two of the men are gay. This could be a community theater group, say. Now if that last remaining straight man is at all attractive, at least a few of the women will be attracted to him. But of those women, some will naturally be hotter than the others. Women are constantly calculating their social status... constantly. And if you hear a woman claim that's not true, she doesn't even think about that kind of thing, ask her if she has to think in order to make her heart beat.
If one of those women perceives that she has very small chances with the man, she will often go out of her way to disqualify herself. This could be in the form of coldness, sarcasm, aggression, or simply keeping as unseen as possible. She can tell herself that the reason the man didn't choose her was because of her own actions. This story is also a plausible story for her to present to her peers. She saves face in the social group and she keeps her ego intact within.
A man may also end up "overqualified" in the eyes of a woman in a different kind of situation. It doesn't have to be a skewed sex ratio that does it. For example, if a man has a very high status within his particular industry. I'm thinking here more of a high "cool factor" or "wow I wish I had your job" factor; not necessarily power or money. Both Anthony Bourdain and a junior VP at a big bank make a lot of money. But Anthony Bourdain's job is way cooler to a girl who is into cooking and traveling.
It's very possible for grown women to get awe from afar, just like a schoolgirl. Some signs of this are self-deprecating remarks, and she seems embarrassed to talk about your work but can't seem to stop asking questions, etc.
Rock stars get this all the time. Losers never get it. Men somewhere in the middle will get it from time to time. The more interesting and active your life is, the more often you will get it.
What to do when a girl has overqualified you and disqualified herself in her mind? Be nice. The initial work of attraction was already done for you. Or rather, you did it, but you did it when she wasn't even looking... building your career, becoming an awesome guy, etc.
So you don't need to neg. You don't need to be arrogant and overconfident and dominant. She's already attracted. You are already in the comfort stage with this girl; or you should be. The key is to make her feel like there's some shared conspiracy going on. In the case of the one girl among many, seek her out, plop down beside her and start venting your frustrations about something random. Ask her for her insight. Make her feel that only the two of you understand the world in just that way.
In the case of the girl who admires you from afar, find out something about her that makes her unique (anything, it could be the smallest most insignificant thing). She played the clarinet in 4th grade. Whatever. And talk about that. Make her feel special. Really, this is comfort stage 101. The important thing to realize is that you have attraction out of the way. Don't act like a beta chump, of course. But you definitely need to tone down your game significantly.
Women are just like men in that they jealously guard their own status. If they make an inner calculation that something is going to cause them embarrassment, they will immediately shy away from it. We all know that men feel this intensely when it comes to talking to pretty women — classic approach anxiety. Half the posts on PUA blogs are about this topic, it seems.
Well, women have an equivalent mechanism. It's rarely a conscious thought process. It's rather more of an instinctual, self-rationalizing knee-jerk.
Imagine a social group with 14 women and three men. Two of the men are gay. This could be a community theater group, say. Now if that last remaining straight man is at all attractive, at least a few of the women will be attracted to him. But of those women, some will naturally be hotter than the others. Women are constantly calculating their social status... constantly. And if you hear a woman claim that's not true, she doesn't even think about that kind of thing, ask her if she has to think in order to make her heart beat.
If one of those women perceives that she has very small chances with the man, she will often go out of her way to disqualify herself. This could be in the form of coldness, sarcasm, aggression, or simply keeping as unseen as possible. She can tell herself that the reason the man didn't choose her was because of her own actions. This story is also a plausible story for her to present to her peers. She saves face in the social group and she keeps her ego intact within.
A man may also end up "overqualified" in the eyes of a woman in a different kind of situation. It doesn't have to be a skewed sex ratio that does it. For example, if a man has a very high status within his particular industry. I'm thinking here more of a high "cool factor" or "wow I wish I had your job" factor; not necessarily power or money. Both Anthony Bourdain and a junior VP at a big bank make a lot of money. But Anthony Bourdain's job is way cooler to a girl who is into cooking and traveling.
It's very possible for grown women to get awe from afar, just like a schoolgirl. Some signs of this are self-deprecating remarks, and she seems embarrassed to talk about your work but can't seem to stop asking questions, etc.
Rock stars get this all the time. Losers never get it. Men somewhere in the middle will get it from time to time. The more interesting and active your life is, the more often you will get it.
What to do when a girl has overqualified you and disqualified herself in her mind? Be nice. The initial work of attraction was already done for you. Or rather, you did it, but you did it when she wasn't even looking... building your career, becoming an awesome guy, etc.
So you don't need to neg. You don't need to be arrogant and overconfident and dominant. She's already attracted. You are already in the comfort stage with this girl; or you should be. The key is to make her feel like there's some shared conspiracy going on. In the case of the one girl among many, seek her out, plop down beside her and start venting your frustrations about something random. Ask her for her insight. Make her feel that only the two of you understand the world in just that way.
In the case of the girl who admires you from afar, find out something about her that makes her unique (anything, it could be the smallest most insignificant thing). She played the clarinet in 4th grade. Whatever. And talk about that. Make her feel special. Really, this is comfort stage 101. The important thing to realize is that you have attraction out of the way. Don't act like a beta chump, of course. But you definitely need to tone down your game significantly.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Little Tragedies
A few years ago I had a position for a local company that involved training the employees of our clients. I hate being so vague, but you know, anonymity.
Most of the people I trained were pretty young. Once I walked into a client's place of business and saw a pretty, young girl sitting at a table, waiting. Being the fine, upstanding gentleman I am, I immediately started thinking about how I would strike up a conversation before my work was over. I talked to the owner of the place, and he said, "We only have one person for you to train, actually... she's sitting out front." Awesome.
She was 17 or 18, she was extraordinarily pretty and let's call her "Rowena." Rowena had dark eyes, elfin cheekbones, and a luscious mouth that showed a row of beautiful straight teeth when she smiled. She was a bit on the short side — positive points in my book — with a natural curve in her spine that made her lower abdomen push out in front and her rear in back. It's the kind of physique that screams sex without huge breasts or long legs.
I'm not sure how I kept it together so well during that training session. Because when she came into our place of business for the customary follow-up session, I almost totally lost my cool. I was showing her how to perform some basic operations, and I kept leaving off mid-sentence, totally unable to remember what I was trying to say. It went like this: Looking her in the eyes and seeing her looking up at me with that "teach-me" expression, looking back to the work and beginning my explanation, then suddenly forgetting everything I was trying to say, stammering for a moment, then looking back at her and saying... "Um..."
I did this at least three or four times. The training lasted a couple hours. It was afternoon on a bright, sunny summer day. I told her I was gonna go walk around in the park with a coffee and that she should come with me. She agreed, and after a while we ended up sitting on the grass. I can't quite remember exactly how I made the move, but I know it came naturally at the time. We kissed there on the grass, and after a while, strolled to my place (nearby), where we made out in the kitchen and on my couch.
She was a strikingly attractive girl, one of the three or four most naturally beautiful women I've been with. It didn't hurt, of course, that she was so young, spilling over with charm and sparkle and freshness.
I never saw Rowena again that summer. It was, in fact, a little over a week before I was to leave that job and that city to move to New York. I had already told her my situation (i.e. I didn't just up and leave without a phone call or anything like that). I contacted her once when I was home visiting my family for Christmas but she never got back to me.
Flash forward four years. I'm back in that city once again. I go into a local business — in fact, that same local business I used to work for — and there she is behind the counter. I recognized her, but couldn't place her at first. Her hair had changed, four years and many women had gone by in the meantime...
Many women. You, dear reader, don't yet realize how true that is. I'm getting there.
One thing I noted with dismay was her awful hipster hairdo. She still looked very cute, cute enough for the hipster pigeon's nest to be the self-handicapping of the natural beauty. But there was a general rattiness about her appearance and an incipient general slovenliness.
Back to many women. You see, on a return visit, I finally placed her. (Is your name Rowena? ...Yes, and you're Dogen). I pointed out a charm she wore on a chain around her lovely neck.
"That's a nice charm."
"Thanks. My partner gave it to me." She paused and gave a slow nod, as if to say, Yes, that's exactly what it sounds like.
"Ah! I see," I said. We both smiled and she seemed to blush a little.
"She has a matching one," said Rowena, just in case I didn't get the picture. After a moment, finding myself flat-footed again (what was it about this girl?) I ended by smiling and saying, "Well, it's lovely."
I see Rowena from time to time, but never in a social setting. Once I had a chance to get over her new-found lesbianitudishness, naturally I reverted to my default charming self. You know the drill (or you should): eye contact, a smile, teasing, general friendliness paired with the occasional withdrawal of my approval. I saw the flame of attraction in her eyes, but the opportunity to act on it never came up, and her self-proclaimed lesbian taken-ness complicated the whole thing.
Just the other night, I ended up having drinks with Rowena and some mutual friends. It wasn't a planned outing, just happened to run into each other. We spent some time talking one on one. We went outside for a cigarette. She mentioned casually her girlfriend, to which I said, "Oh yeah, how's that going?"
"It's ok. I mean, it's still going. I just, you know, it's not that serious."
I nodded, offering nothing.
"What about you?" she said after a moment. "You have anybody special."
"Nah, not really. I mean, it's complicated." I smiled.
"Ahhhh! You're giving me that look again," she said and laughed nervously, and looked back. That was the moment, the moment to go in for the kiss. But to my shame, dear readers, I didn't.
You see, I left out one complicating factor. Among our little group that night was her co-worker. This woman, somewhat pretty but nowhere near Rowena's league, is a true-believer ACLU, feminist, suspicious of all happiness or success. She always gave off a vibe of monitoring Rowena's behavior, making sure she didn't break with the sisterhood or anything. Classic cockblock.
Here's my read: Rowena had invested a lot of social capital in her "identity" as a lesbian. It's the kind of thing that is met with wild approval in towns like this one. People call you brave, forgive your every shortcoming, and generally fall over themselves to be friendly to you, if you simply announce you are gay. By not just fooling around with girls, but getting a "partner" and wearing her partner's charm, Rowena had publicly claimed a gay identity.
Here she is now: 21 years old, having doubts about her "partner", most likely having doubts about being a "lesbian," but surrounded by waves of people that call her brave for being gay, by people who show open bitterness and resentment of mainstream culture (like her coworker), and also surrounded by waves of the most mewling, pathetic, shoegazer betas you could imagine (those of you who have spent time on the West Coast or in North Brooklyn know what I mean).
And here she is now, one of the crown jewels of American women. An easy 9, only 21 years old, with an easy laugh and a naturally friendly personality. America may not have many truly worthwhile women left in her decaying corpse. But it's a big corpse, and there are bound to be a few. And here's Rowena... the 21 year old beauty, with her mixed blood, her bright eyes, her friendly demeanor, her sweetness, her wonderful little body, her attraction to men.... and she's chosen this cocoon-like lesbian existence from which there are few escapes. And everyone is telling her she's done the right thing, happiness be damned.
I may not be the right guy for Rowena, she may have only a casual and passing interest in me. Obviously she's attracted to me (we did make out, after all). But the way is very nearly cut off for her. Me, a guy who normally loves to charm women and make them happy in the push-and-pull of seduction — I was hesitating and temporizing because of the various roadblocks she has thrown up and now probably regrets. It's like the institutionalization of beta. You can fight it, but you better damn well pick your battles well.
I may run into Rowena alone tomorrow... we may get tipsy and get kissing and get naked for all I know. Or it may never happen, and she may become more and more entrenched in her social role, throwing away the most beautiful years of her existence as a female (she's 21 now), getting fat, getting covered in tattoos, getting bitter and becoming more and more reliant on the "community" of people that really just wants to claim her as one of their own and not offer anything back in the form of lasting happiness or love. If it's all an act (and that's only my suspicion, not an established fact), she'll realize it when she's already ruined goods, and start fishing for a beta to take her in before she completely hits the wall.
It's a little tragedy for me to not have kissed that girl the other night. It's another little tragedy — slightly bigger but still a blip in the big picture — that she may have very few chances to turn back before it's too late.
Most of the people I trained were pretty young. Once I walked into a client's place of business and saw a pretty, young girl sitting at a table, waiting. Being the fine, upstanding gentleman I am, I immediately started thinking about how I would strike up a conversation before my work was over. I talked to the owner of the place, and he said, "We only have one person for you to train, actually... she's sitting out front." Awesome.
She was 17 or 18, she was extraordinarily pretty and let's call her "Rowena." Rowena had dark eyes, elfin cheekbones, and a luscious mouth that showed a row of beautiful straight teeth when she smiled. She was a bit on the short side — positive points in my book — with a natural curve in her spine that made her lower abdomen push out in front and her rear in back. It's the kind of physique that screams sex without huge breasts or long legs.
I'm not sure how I kept it together so well during that training session. Because when she came into our place of business for the customary follow-up session, I almost totally lost my cool. I was showing her how to perform some basic operations, and I kept leaving off mid-sentence, totally unable to remember what I was trying to say. It went like this: Looking her in the eyes and seeing her looking up at me with that "teach-me" expression, looking back to the work and beginning my explanation, then suddenly forgetting everything I was trying to say, stammering for a moment, then looking back at her and saying... "Um..."
I did this at least three or four times. The training lasted a couple hours. It was afternoon on a bright, sunny summer day. I told her I was gonna go walk around in the park with a coffee and that she should come with me. She agreed, and after a while we ended up sitting on the grass. I can't quite remember exactly how I made the move, but I know it came naturally at the time. We kissed there on the grass, and after a while, strolled to my place (nearby), where we made out in the kitchen and on my couch.
She was a strikingly attractive girl, one of the three or four most naturally beautiful women I've been with. It didn't hurt, of course, that she was so young, spilling over with charm and sparkle and freshness.
I never saw Rowena again that summer. It was, in fact, a little over a week before I was to leave that job and that city to move to New York. I had already told her my situation (i.e. I didn't just up and leave without a phone call or anything like that). I contacted her once when I was home visiting my family for Christmas but she never got back to me.
Flash forward four years. I'm back in that city once again. I go into a local business — in fact, that same local business I used to work for — and there she is behind the counter. I recognized her, but couldn't place her at first. Her hair had changed, four years and many women had gone by in the meantime...
Many women. You, dear reader, don't yet realize how true that is. I'm getting there.
One thing I noted with dismay was her awful hipster hairdo. She still looked very cute, cute enough for the hipster pigeon's nest to be the self-handicapping of the natural beauty. But there was a general rattiness about her appearance and an incipient general slovenliness.
Back to many women. You see, on a return visit, I finally placed her. (Is your name Rowena? ...Yes, and you're Dogen). I pointed out a charm she wore on a chain around her lovely neck.
"That's a nice charm."
"Thanks. My partner gave it to me." She paused and gave a slow nod, as if to say, Yes, that's exactly what it sounds like.
"Ah! I see," I said. We both smiled and she seemed to blush a little.
"She has a matching one," said Rowena, just in case I didn't get the picture. After a moment, finding myself flat-footed again (what was it about this girl?) I ended by smiling and saying, "Well, it's lovely."
I see Rowena from time to time, but never in a social setting. Once I had a chance to get over her new-found lesbianitudishness, naturally I reverted to my default charming self. You know the drill (or you should): eye contact, a smile, teasing, general friendliness paired with the occasional withdrawal of my approval. I saw the flame of attraction in her eyes, but the opportunity to act on it never came up, and her self-proclaimed lesbian taken-ness complicated the whole thing.
Just the other night, I ended up having drinks with Rowena and some mutual friends. It wasn't a planned outing, just happened to run into each other. We spent some time talking one on one. We went outside for a cigarette. She mentioned casually her girlfriend, to which I said, "Oh yeah, how's that going?"
"It's ok. I mean, it's still going. I just, you know, it's not that serious."
I nodded, offering nothing.
"What about you?" she said after a moment. "You have anybody special."
"Nah, not really. I mean, it's complicated." I smiled.
"Ahhhh! You're giving me that look again," she said and laughed nervously, and looked back. That was the moment, the moment to go in for the kiss. But to my shame, dear readers, I didn't.
You see, I left out one complicating factor. Among our little group that night was her co-worker. This woman, somewhat pretty but nowhere near Rowena's league, is a true-believer ACLU, feminist, suspicious of all happiness or success. She always gave off a vibe of monitoring Rowena's behavior, making sure she didn't break with the sisterhood or anything. Classic cockblock.
Here's my read: Rowena had invested a lot of social capital in her "identity" as a lesbian. It's the kind of thing that is met with wild approval in towns like this one. People call you brave, forgive your every shortcoming, and generally fall over themselves to be friendly to you, if you simply announce you are gay. By not just fooling around with girls, but getting a "partner" and wearing her partner's charm, Rowena had publicly claimed a gay identity.
Here she is now: 21 years old, having doubts about her "partner", most likely having doubts about being a "lesbian," but surrounded by waves of people that call her brave for being gay, by people who show open bitterness and resentment of mainstream culture (like her coworker), and also surrounded by waves of the most mewling, pathetic, shoegazer betas you could imagine (those of you who have spent time on the West Coast or in North Brooklyn know what I mean).
And here she is now, one of the crown jewels of American women. An easy 9, only 21 years old, with an easy laugh and a naturally friendly personality. America may not have many truly worthwhile women left in her decaying corpse. But it's a big corpse, and there are bound to be a few. And here's Rowena... the 21 year old beauty, with her mixed blood, her bright eyes, her friendly demeanor, her sweetness, her wonderful little body, her attraction to men.... and she's chosen this cocoon-like lesbian existence from which there are few escapes. And everyone is telling her she's done the right thing, happiness be damned.
I may not be the right guy for Rowena, she may have only a casual and passing interest in me. Obviously she's attracted to me (we did make out, after all). But the way is very nearly cut off for her. Me, a guy who normally loves to charm women and make them happy in the push-and-pull of seduction — I was hesitating and temporizing because of the various roadblocks she has thrown up and now probably regrets. It's like the institutionalization of beta. You can fight it, but you better damn well pick your battles well.
I may run into Rowena alone tomorrow... we may get tipsy and get kissing and get naked for all I know. Or it may never happen, and she may become more and more entrenched in her social role, throwing away the most beautiful years of her existence as a female (she's 21 now), getting fat, getting covered in tattoos, getting bitter and becoming more and more reliant on the "community" of people that really just wants to claim her as one of their own and not offer anything back in the form of lasting happiness or love. If it's all an act (and that's only my suspicion, not an established fact), she'll realize it when she's already ruined goods, and start fishing for a beta to take her in before she completely hits the wall.
It's a little tragedy for me to not have kissed that girl the other night. It's another little tragedy — slightly bigger but still a blip in the big picture — that she may have very few chances to turn back before it's too late.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
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Before I moved to NYC, I met this little girl.
She's half Filipino, half white. Very pretty, cute little butt, and surprisingly full little boobs. Sparkling, dark eyes. Black hair. Can you picture the girl yet? I could go on....
She's about 5'3" if that helps you picture her.
I wasn't sure if she was 17 or 18 when we hooked up. But that's in the past tense... Now I know she was 17 at the time. Earlier tonight (here in February, 2011, because I just ran into this chick) she debated me (she's 22 now) about whether it was 16 or 17. I knew it wasn't 16. I would have remembered that. So we settled on 17. I wish I could tell my loyal readers that I slept with her, but it would be a lie. We only kissed in the park in the sunlight and the grass, and made out in my apartment an hour later....
Back tomorrow with more...
She's half Filipino, half white. Very pretty, cute little butt, and surprisingly full little boobs. Sparkling, dark eyes. Black hair. Can you picture the girl yet? I could go on....
She's about 5'3" if that helps you picture her.
I wasn't sure if she was 17 or 18 when we hooked up. But that's in the past tense... Now I know she was 17 at the time. Earlier tonight (here in February, 2011, because I just ran into this chick) she debated me (she's 22 now) about whether it was 16 or 17. I knew it wasn't 16. I would have remembered that. So we settled on 17. I wish I could tell my loyal readers that I slept with her, but it would be a lie. We only kissed in the park in the sunlight and the grass, and made out in my apartment an hour later....
Back tomorrow with more...
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