It’s a drinking holiday in Canada, the land where hoez are least tactful and most disgraceful. Canadian women are worse than American bitches. That’s a fact. I often tell this truth to you Americano brothers, and you never seem to believe me, despite evidence that is merely a click away. Since you guys needed a reminder, I have two or three.
Are you sure you wouldn’t like to move to Canuckistan, and help Mallory raise her bastard kid? She’s a binge drinker. That’s, like, super attractive.
She’s 35, and “doesn’t have kids but wants them…” I think that ship has probably already sailed away, dear… just like the chump you’re in search of.
“Wait, Boxer,” I hear you protest. “I could go to Canada and find a chaste, nice, first-gen immigrant.”
That’s true. Maybe a sweet Canadian-Muslim chickie, who loves God, and has inherited good religious values from her traditional parents.
Here’s Ayesha. She says she has a husband, but she’s on tinder because she’s “bored as fuk” (maybe that’s hoespeak for ‘looking for dicks to sit on’).
I bet you’re jealous of the man who has to pay the bills of this prize catch of a traditional wife, who is now cheating on tinder. Me too!
And lest the Americano brothers feel left out…
Meet Abbigail. The desperation is palpable.
Jazmin doesn’t say very much. For example, she doesn’t tell us whether her husband is going to be deployed when we meet for our one-night stand, or whether he’ll be on the stool in the corner, or whether he’s going to be joining the two of you for some bisexual kink. Personally, I’m inclined to assume that the photo is her way of advertising “no strings attached,” and “please don’t tell hubby.” Whatever her motivations, it’s pretty disturbing.
Sir I understand the blog for men. But how can a woman avoid being a skank ho especially if she is about to hit the wall or is post wall and tired of being a virgin?
As Aristotle would remind us, whenever an individual starts becoming a source of money or solutions to another’s problems, a certain dialectic is reached, in which each party becomes important to the other. Generally (again, I’m plagiarizing Aristotle’s ethics): The mentor in the relationship cares more about his charge than vice-versa. The man who pays, in money or time or information, tends to also be the one who feels more invested in the dialectic. Even so, as a source of solutions, the mentor also becomes important to the pupil, who tends to increasingly rely upon his benefactor as time goes on. This mode-of-being isn’t really noticed until some novel situation erupts, usually in the form of a dispute between mentor and pupil. Suddenly, the mentor’s decisions matter, as there’s an underlying assumption that the money/time/information might suddenly quit flowing.
Aristotle: Pupil of Plato in Childhood, Mentor to Alexander the Great as An Adult
Since the 1960s, at least in North America, most women have voluntarily dropped out of this dialectic. The average American female has no interest in meeting the needs of anyone but herself. Her energy has largely been redirected into behaviors which are generally useless, and serve only to enrich the ruling class at the expense of her family and community. A great example was brought up by Anonymous and Honeycomb in previous comments, where they discuss the phenomenon of women eschewing marriage in order to pursue sex with strangers, careers in paper-shuffling, and credentialism (i.e. getting degrees in subjects that are generally useless, or in subjects in which they will never pursue full-time work). While I disagreed that this was some sort of top-down plan by the elite to wreck society, there’s no denying that it is a general trend that has become increasingly widespread.
Many women ignore those behaviors that come with being either a mentor or a pupil, at least in the traditional sense, and seem to have no interest in behaving either as a wife or a mother. Moreover, these same women seem to have no interest in any sort of family-centered behavior (they aren’t competent daughters, neighbors or sisters, for example, either). While nearly all women will dabble in marriage or childbirth (Dalrock has stats suggesting that nearly 90 percent of women will, at some point, marry; and, the remainder of those will largely become skank-ho single moms), they instead act as though these are meaningless status indicators, and instead focus on careers and credentialism, while ignoring their husbands’ needs and putting their children in a day-care, to be raised (usually neglected) by strangers.
The average woman who goes down this path eventually finds herself surprised at how unhappy she is. The feminists promised her that she would “have it all” if she could only balance a career and a family. The feminists were and are liars, consumed with what Freud called “penis envy” (Read Freud’s work on this subject here).
Not only do such women not find their office jobs satisfying, but they also find themselves totally disempowered at home, as strangers raise their kids, and their husbands eventually seek out emotional (and sometimes sexual) intimacy elsewhere. Either their husbands will sublimate these needs into dumb hobbies (watching sports, drinking with friends, watching sleazy internet porn) or they will embark on a series of affairs. In short, the feminist “career woman” who is promised, by feminists, that she can “have it all” finds herself having nothing at all. Her only option at the end of the road is to get a divorce, but that will leave her even worse off than she already is, as a skank-ho single mom, who gets a monthly check. As such, she assumes an even lower status than she enjoyed previously.
Anyone can avoid this fate by following Uncle Ari’s advice: deliberating at length, and then acting decisively. Agnes Callard has a very good paper which begins with a description of the master’s teachings:
Aristotle’s theory of deliberation (bouleusis) is immediately familiar as a theory of what we, too, would call deliberation: a conscious, rational mental processes deployed by an agent in order to solve practical problems. He thinks, as we do, that deliberation is a form of thought that takes time, proceeds systematically rather than haphazardly, and ends by putting the agent in a position to choose rationally. Deliberation, for Aristotle as for us, is thought that answers the question, “what should I do?”
Any man or woman can avoid the unhappiness of following the feminist model by appreciating his (or her) own limitations. One can not “have it all”. A family is, by nature, a unit which is greater than the sum of its parts. With this in mind, one can start to journal his or her daily thoughts. Once clarified, write down your own goals. Keep track of the daily actions that make such goals manifest. If you observe some religious discipline, prayer or meditation can help. If you don’t, then taking fifteen minutes “off the grid” (phones off, no television, etc.) in quiet contemplation is a must. Dale Carnegie used to recommend this. Shift your focus from the momentary and fleeting nonsense of the now and begin envisioning yourself in the role you want, working backwards to your present situation, analyzing what you have to do to approach the end result you seek.
If you’re a woman who does not want marriage and family, I think that’s fine, but you should consciously make peace with the fact that you’re going to forge another path, and hold yourself to the same standards as a traditional man would, regarding honor, discipline, and mastery of your chosen craft. I happen to know women who made this choice early, and I respect them. If you do want to have a husband and family, then focus the vast majority of your attention on that. Proficiency in that area includes a husband who feels totally loved, completely respected, and safe to leave his home every day, knowing that his wife is competently tending to his financial, sexual, and emotional needs while he’s away (that means no cheating and no “girls night out”). It also means properly educating and socializing your children. Sending kids to the local public school is fine, but if a mother isn’t waiting at home, then most of their teacher’s efforts will be for nothing.
The career woman has responsibility for her work and authority over her subordinates. The married woman has responsibility for her husband and authority over her children. One can not serve two masters (now I’m plagiarizing St. Paul.) In short, responsibility and authority go hand-in-hand.
Jamie L. Jones, seen below, has been arrested for murdering her 6-year old son, a boy named Carl Rice.
best interests of the children…
For some strange reason, this skank-ho single mother took the corpse on a train ride to see relatives. Family members were disturbed by the fact that this wimminz had brought the corpse of her little child to the family reunion, and ended up calling authorities.
In keeping with media protocol, no mention of the boy’s father (we can assume his surname is ‘Rice’ – that’s about it) appears in the news release. He is erased, disappeared. His pain and his grief means nothing.
There’s really almost nothing else I can say about this depressing story. No sane society would put an individual of this calibre in charge of a child’s welfare, yet there are hundreds of thousands of these idiots out in the general population, waiting to snap and produce more corpses. Miss Jones is now in the jailhouse, due to receive a much lighter sentence than she deserves. Tomorrow it will be someone else.
Thanks to our brother Oscar, who is part of the Dalrock research team. Show him some love (here). Visit his blog (here). Read the full article at the Chicago Sun-Times (here).
So much for all the phony statistics which purport the local university to be more dangerous than a Bosnian rape camp. In fact, working-class women are much more likely to be raped than entitled feminist college girls.
Thanks to our brother Honeycomb for finding this gem, and to Weekly Standard for original reporting. From the article:
After more than six years’ intense focus on a purported campus rape crisis, Axinn’s study exposes the Obama administration’s Title IX regime for the elitist and politically-motivated overcorrection it was. Axinn and his team analyzed data from the National Survey of Family Growth, which asks Americans between the ages of 15 and 44—among other awkward and sensitive things—whether they’ve experienced forced intercourse. And they found that the women most likely to be forced into unwanted sex are the least likely to set foot on campus.
Today in my twitter feed, I got an unsolicited, never-asked for advertisement from the establishment media outlet “Red State”. This is a CONservative Republican advocacy site, which masquerades as a news provider. As such the politics are red, but the journalism is yellow.
My readers can view the article in question (here), entitled
“Watch as Ted Cruz Gives Democrats One of the Best Verbal Beat Downs…”
It will surprise none of my readers to read the article, and find that the first issue this cuck raises is that of skank-ho single moms, who supposedly need yet more monies, redirected from productive, healthy families, to fuel their immoral, decadent lifestyles.
Like the clever scumbag lawyer he is, Cruz paints freebies as “cutting taxes” on single mothers. Not only a lie, Cruz’ statement is an absolute inversion of the truth. The vast majority of single mothers pay no taxes. They get unearned income, yearly, in tax credits, which is spent almost immediately. Typically, these monies line the pockets of big-box multinational corporate retailers, drug dealers, and liquor distributors (not necessarily in that order) well before the year is out.
Tax Day for most of us is a day we write a hefty check and put it in the mail to the revenuers; but, for the skank-ho single mom, it’s the day in which free money comes in the mail. Cruz wants to double their already generous allowance, funded by the rest of us.
Married brothers and sisters with children, particularly those who vote for these CONservative clowns, ought to ask themselves why Cruz isn’t concerned about their children. Why are these CONservative idiots so insistent upon stealing the hard earned money that ought to go for your kids, and giving it over to trashy single mothers?
Of course, the Democrats are right to refuse skank-ho single moms an increase in their allowance; and Cruz is partly correct, in that they aren’t doing so out of moral conscience or concern for long-term consequences. If there was any sanity in our society, there would be a bipartisan effort to end all these allowances immediately, and an institution of a single-mother tax, or perhaps a mandatory sentence to a work-camp for single mothers, in order to recoup the social services monies wasted on their bastards. There would also be an immediate end to the jurisdiction of the family courts.
Perhaps, in the style of Ramzan A. Kadyrov (a truly great man, and one who loves intact families and children’s rights) all frivolous divorces could be retroactively nullified, with skank-ho wimminz being ordered back into their ex-husbands’ homes, to perform as they originally promised to do. Read about Kadryov’s successes (here).
Solomon, the original playa, is credited with writing the following advice in Proverbs 7. Read it in side-by-side, Hebrew-English, (here). What I’m quoting is the King James Bible, which you can check (here).
Without further delay, let’s see what our symbolic father Solomon has to say about running married hoez…
1. My son, keep my words, and lay up my commandments with thee.
2. Keep my commandments, and live; and my law as the apple of thine eye.
3. Bind them upon thy fingers, write them upon the table of thine heart.
As your father loves you, he doesn’t want you to stumble into unnecessary trouble. Trouble will find you anyway. There’s no reason why you should get lured into more of it.
4. Say unto wisdom, Thou art my sister; and call understanding thy kinswoman:
5. That they may keep thee from the strange woman, from the stranger which flattereth with her words.
There are these women who suddenly “appear out of nowhere” to offer up the ass. Of course, to you, she’s a complete stranger. You might think this is some sort of good fortune. Don’t be fooled. You’re her prey, and she’s been stalking you around the club (or the gym, or the workplace) for a good while, now. She’s a stranger to you, but you’re no stranger to her. Even as she’s telling you how fine you look, she’s thinking of what she can get out of you.
6. For at the window of my house I looked through my casement,
7. And beheld among the simple ones, I discerned among the youths, a young man void of understanding,
8. Passing through the street near her corner; and he went the way to her house,
9. In the twilight, in the evening, in the black and dark night:
There are always dummies in every crowd: suckers, looking to be separated from money and dignity. Our symbolic father, in the text, notices these types, and he feels sorry for them. They’re young. Perhaps they — like ya boy Boxer, and perhaps like you — didn’t have a close relationship with a natural father or elder brother to clue them in to the dangers of the world.
Solomon notes one, wandering around, looking for trouble. Perhaps this dolt was raised, as I was, by a divorcée, a skank-ho mommy, who led him to believe that women were safe, and that it is in the female nature never to lead a young man wrong.
10. And, behold, there met him a woman with the attire of an harlot, and subtil of heart.
Yup. Our father notes that this sucker is now being propositioned by an attractive but vacuous ho’. She’s been on the make all evening, looking for a simp just like him. Now she’s making her move, all while the poor dummy is imagining himself to have “lucked out.”
11. (She is loud and stubborn; her feet abide not in her house:
12. Now is she without, now in the streets, and lieth in wait at every corner.)
Solomon knows this ho’. She lives in his neighborhood. Bitch has a husband, but she causes so much trouble that he long ago gave up trying to keep her in line. He’s glad to be away from her, and only too happy to pawn her off on you. Now she’s out, looking for a chump… You’re the lucky winner.
13. So she caught him, and kissed him, and with an impudent face said unto him,
14 I have peace offerings with me; this day have I payed my vows.
15 Therefore came I forth to meet thee, diligently to seek thy face, and I have found thee.
It’s all very innocent. She doesn’t have a wedding ring on. She looks pretty fine. She starts spouting a lot of nonsense about “true love” and “fate” and new-age “soul mate” jargon. You’re just lapping it all up, right?
16 I have decked my bed with coverings of tapestry, with carved works, with fine linen of Egypt.
17 I have perfumed my bed with myrrh, aloes, and cinnamon.
18 Come, let us take our fill of love until the morning: let us solace ourselves with loves.
As our brother Deti has already reminded us (here), she’s looking for something. She can call it “love,” but it’s more likely to be an ego boost, a neurotic search for novelty, a bit of validation. She wants to remind herself she’s still “got it,” even if “it” is just the ability to trick a young guy into giving up his dick for the night.
Alas, our young brother isn’t quite as stupid as the old bitch first assumed. Solomon hears him suddenly object:
“You’re married, right?”
She’s quick to answer…
19 For the goodman is not at home, he is gone a long journey:
20 He hath taken a bag of money with him, and will come home at the day appointed.
21 With her much fair speech she caused him to yield, with the flattering of her lips she forced him.
Oh, Shit! His clever intuition was sadly short lived. She copped to it, but made it seem like a safe romp anyway. Like the idiot he is…
22 He goeth after her straightway, as an ox goeth to the slaughter, or as a fool to the correction of the stocks;
23 Till a dart strike through his liver; as a bird hasteth to the snare, and knoweth not that it is for his life.
He thought maybe he was the first young brother to be with this ho’. Not the case. Now he has the AIDS, the Herpes, and the drug-resistant Chlamydia. Oh, did you know that her husband and uncles are involved in an organized crime gang? (I guess she forgot to mention.) If the STDs don’t get you, those evil men will. It might be a good idea to leave town.
24 Hearken unto me now therefore, O ye children, and attend to the words of my mouth.
25 Let not thine heart decline to her ways, go not astray in her paths.
26 For she hath cast down many wounded: yea, many strong men have been slain by her.
27 Her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death.
No matter how many women you’ve bagged with day game, no matter how well you know the fairer sex, no matter how skilled you might think you are in Heartiste’s “Venusian Arts,” Solomon was ahead of you. If you have any smarts or self-awareness, you’ll take him seriously.
Back when ya boy Boxer was just a young cad, he met a dark haired chickie at a Los Angeles night club, who happened to be considerably older than he was. Boxer was then twenty-three, and Michelle (of course it’s not her real name) was, on that very occasion, celebrating her thirty-first birthday. She was surrounded by her friends (mostly other women), at the other end of the club, and I was surrounded by my friends, and somehow we ended up dancing together.
No, scratch that. It wasn’t “somehow we ended up”. She moved in. The brilliance of the married ho’ is that she sees a young brother as prey, and treats him accordingly. With catlike stealth and womanly cunning, she arranges her entrance as a mystery.
Michelle was incredibly attractive, despite being a full decade older than the women I usually hunted. In fact, I don’t think I had ever gone out with any woman who was even a day older than I was, before I met her. She also seemed out of my league, with a diamond tennis bracelet and a designer outfit. In any event, nothing happened that evening except an exchange of phone numbers. I had a new phone, with a (coveted) 213 area code. Her phone number seemed to come from the San Jose area, hundreds of miles north.
Michelle left me a voice-mail message the very next day, telling me that meeting me had been the highlight of her birthday, and telling me that while she would love to see me again, she would “leave it up to me” as to whether that happened.
Young brothers ought to pay attention to this little tidbit, because I find it disturbingly common with married hoez. They are like vampires. You have to invite them in. I suppose this is an effort at ego-defense, so that when caught, she can excuse her crap behavior to her husband with the idea that you took the initiative. The married ho’ will always, always, always paint herself as the poor victim of her own moral mistakes.
Naturally, I didn’t waste too much time. I got back with her the day after her voice mail, and she invited me over.
I arrived at her house, knocked on the door, not having no idea of what the night had in store… like a dog in heat…
Her apartment was both cute and immaculate. It consisted of a house in a “trendy” part of town, that was split up into a number of different units. It was perfectly furnished, smelled good, and had a number of interesting upgrades. I had been working construction jobs to put myself through my undergraduate studies, so I was complimentary. We started on the couch, moved to the floor of the hallway, and finally ended up in the back bedroom. I fucked her in every conceivable position, without a condom, and we finally fell asleep together. All of this was incredibly unusual for me. I usually hit it and ran. As we were getting ready to head out the next day, we made plans to see each other again, a few days hence.
I had an African-American friend (call him Harvey) at the time, who was at the nightclub with me, on the night I met Michelle. The very day after my first tryst, he saw me again, and while I never breathed a word, he seemed to have an almost supernatural ability to smell her on me. He tried to give me some good advice.
I bet that you even ate the pussy, huh? Why you gots to be so damned dumb? She gots you under her control, nigga! You gots to get away from that bitch.
Naturally, all of this sound counsel went unheeded; and the rest of our peers simultaneously congratulated and mocked my aged conquest, and we went out and got drunk.
I was, at the time, fucking a couple of other women, in the 21-22 range. Their post-teenage antics and petty drama suddenly seemed trite and ridiculous. I gradually saw them less and less, as Michelle and I saw each other increasingly more often. I was blissfully unaware of the real nature of our relationship, and everything seemed perfect, as Michelle was on her very best behavior at all times during our meetings.
After a few rendezvous, a few things began to dawn on me.
Michelle’s apartment seemed curiously untouched between my visits. If I left one of my CDs in the tray of her old player, it’d still be there, days later, when I came by for the next romp
Michelle’s bathroom was conspicuously empty of even the most basic supplies. How many bitches you know don’t have tampons or aspirin in the bathroom?
Michelle never really mentioned any of her family members. She was “from Montana” … which was one of the reasons we first started talking. I was “from Alberta,” which is the equivalent to people in California talking about their childhoods in Louisiana and Mississippi. But, where? Montana is an awfully big place. Billings? Helena? Missoula? Bozeman? Butte? No info. She didn’t tell me, and didn’t want to.
Michelle told me two different stories about what she did. In the beginning, she was the live-in manager for the apartment house. This was true. Later, she told me she telecommuted for Apple Computer. When I asked what she did for Steve Jobs, she was incredibly vague. What I did know was that in the spare bedroom/office, there was an expensive Apple workstation set up, so it seemed plausible. Even so, she had tons of very expensive jewelry, and she drove a new model sports car. It just didn’t make sense that she’d be living where she was living.
Michelle had two different phone landlines installed in her apartment. Ostensibly, one was for the modem that went to the computer/fax. I was only ever allowed to have one number. The second line was not for human use. Even so, there was a nondescript phone that would theoretically ring when the second line got an incoming call.
Michelle politely declined all offers to spend any time at my apartment. To this day, I don’t believe she ever even knew where I lived.
Michelle never wanted to spend more than two consecutive nights together. She was busy, and so was I, but I found it strange that she never wanted to go on a weekend trip, or to venture out very far. Our relationship mainly consisted of meeting for sex, and leaving, with plans for another meeting.
I’m unclear on exactly when it happened, but I remember the situation well enough. It happened two or three months into our fling. I’m lounging around in bed, when Michelle gets a call on her second line. At the first ring, she jumped up from the bed and ran, naked, into the office.
“You have to leave, now!” she told me, with a panicked expression on her face; as she ran back in and began to move around the bedroom.
“Why? What’s up?” I asked.
“There’s no time! You have to go!” she insisted, as she was throwing my pants and socks at me. “Get up! Get dressed! Hurry up!”
And now, dear readers, you are getting a glimpse into the simple, dull mind of a youthful Boxer. That’s right. I never figured it out until three months in. Michelle was married. Her husband, who lived in Cupertino, was the Apple Computer bigshot. He had phoned from the Burbank airport, and was moments away from “surprising” her for dinner and a night out.
I did leave, just in the nick of time. I probably passed husband’s cab, on the way down the street. I went across town, to visit Rachel (not her real name). Naturally I didn’t tell her that I had just fucked Michelle, raw and without a condom. Rachel got a condom. Rachel was 22, sorta dumb, and cute but not pretty. She was, as I remember, currently working her way through an associates degree at community college. I fucked the hell out of her, at the same time Michelle was likely getting fucked by her husband, and only an hour after Michelle and I had been fucking and sucking each other with abandon.
Rachel is still my friend. As of today, Rachel has been faithfully married to a very nice guy (and a good earner), for many, many years; and she has several kids by him. She was no virgin when she married (and I wasn’t the guy that originally turned her out) but she seems very happy living an honorable and monogamous lifestyle. She is the type of example of what can happen when one decides to take life seriously and embrace discipline.
Michelle is now divorced.
But here I’m getting ahead of myself.
Fast forward, two or three weeks after my great escape, and subsequent radio silence from Michelle, I get a voicemail from her. She wanted to see me again, and told me that she’d explain everything if I’d meet her at her apartment.
Her first story was that her husband was her high-school boyfriend, and that she was married to him before he “discovered” that he was a flaming homosexual. She told me that her marriage was a sham, that she was actually in love with me, because I “made her feel alive for the first time” or some such nonsense.
I told her, flatly, that I didn’t believe that. If he was a fag, why would he have objected to me being in her apartment? I left, unimpressed, with her looking all weepy in the doorway as I walked to my car and pulled away. I hit up Stephanie (not her real name) five minutes later. Stephanie lived in Boyle Heights, with her father, who drove the city buses around L.A.. We went out to dinner that evening, and I contemplated the consequences of having had condomless sex with what someone who claimed to be married to a San Francisco faggot for the past four months. I didn’t tell Stephanie about my current predicament, but I also didn’t have sex with her that night, either. I was just glad to be in the company, for a while, of a decent girl who seemed to like me, and who had never lied to me about shit that was so outrageous it defied description.
The next day, ya boy Boxer went down to the Los Angeles AIDS Foundation clinic and had himself tested. The results took a week to return. It was one of the longest weeks of my life. When the results came back neg, I felt like I had won life’s lottery.
I won’t lie. I saw Michelle a few times after that. Always in public places, and never at her apartment. She tried to get me to buy her dinner at some cheeseball lowbrow place (The Olive Garden?), and I declined. She had some shirts of mine and some music CDs. I tried and failed to get them back. In the interim, here are a couple of other things she revealed.
She had been, off and on, under the care of a psychiatrist. She was suicidal, and had previously received electroshock therapy.
On at least two occasions, when I had wanted aspirin/tylenol/ibuprofen, she had given me Valium instead. She explained that she loved the fact that she could fuck me, while I was half-conscious, and insisted that my erections were better. (I didn’t bother to ask after the details of this odd claim.)
While she was with me, she had found out about Stephanie, and had made a frivolous complaint to the Los Angeles Metro Transit Authority about Stephanie’s father, in an attempt to get him fired. I suppose she thought that if he lost his job, Stephanie would be less attractive to me, or something. To the best of my knowledge, all that meddling came to nothing.
She insisted that her husband was indeed a homosexual, but admitted that he had sex with her also. She boasted that I had “tasted him” on multiple occasions. (That makes me want to vomit, all these years later.)
Her absences were due to her going back to her primary home, in Northern California. She made weekly excuses to “check on the rental property” in Los Angeles to justify her trips to see me. (I’m sure her husband was only too happy to be rid of this headcase, and was glad to see her go, every time).
At one point, early on, she had me practice signing different names in different handwriting. I didn’t know what she was getting at, and thought it was ridiculous, but I did it anyhow. Months after it was all over, she insisted that, during this early game, I had actually forged her husband’s signature on an application for credit. She claimed the credit card arrived at the Los Angeles house a few weeks later. She attempted to blackmail me with this idea, threatening to report me for credit fraud if I didn’t come back to her house for sex, there and then. I assumed she was bluffing and laughed at her, but, who knows? That was the last conversation I ended up having with this nutjob. I never heard anything about this after-the-fact, so I assume it was just another lie.
One of the people who I ended up telling all this nonsense to was Harvey. He had the predictable response.
Nigga I told you that bitch was crazy! Didn’t I tell you? Next time use your brain!
Yeah.
I left Los Angeles less than a year after seeing Michelle for the final time. I was, and am, glad to have escaped that maelstrom unscathed. It could have been much, much worse.
I wouldn’t have considered myself a PUA. Being faithful had never been a problem for me, having the same girlfriend from my senior year in high school until my senior year in college. During the five years between that ex and meeting my wife, I was athletic and good looking. I never set out to pick up women, I just accepted a few offers that I didn’t know the background on.
A woman, we’ll call her Sheri, came on to me at a fourth of July house party when I was I 22 or 23. She was visiting from out of town. During the fireworks, when everyone else was outside, Sheri, who was visiting from out of town, followed me when I sent inside to get a beer and kissed me. She pulled me to another room, and after making out a couple minutes, she kissed down my body, undid my pants, and blew me. Later, she came back to my apartment and we had sex.
A few months later, I met a women named Melissa at a dance club. She was in town for work and out with coworkers, and we started off dancing after her coworkers left. She asked for me email for when she was in town again. Claimed she was divorced, been a while, horny, etc. We had sex several times over the coming months, when she was in town for work. EVERY time she saw me she blew me. She’d blow me, I’d return the favor, we’d have sex, then we’d do it again in the morning in her hotel before leaving for work.
An email from Melissa’s husband is how I found out she was still married. After I confronted her about it, she admitted one of her coworkers who i previously slept with complimented my foreplay skills, so she initiated the dancing with me and went from there. Turns out, her dad is a minister, her husband is a bit older and very successful, so she had put on this good church girl image. That’s how I know she did things for me she didn’t do for her husband. To be blunt, she was incredibly good at giving blow jobs, so I was not the first guy she cheated with after over 10 years of marriage.
A few months later, a friend told me Sheri got divorced. I asked when she got married, and her friend said “she was married when you nailed her.” This was just a case of “girls talk.” She also told me Sheri wasn’t one to put out in her marriage. I found out about Sheri’s marriage last, but I slept with her first.
At 22-24, I was too naive and inexperienced to see the signs. Both were from out of town (didn’t risk running in to me with their husbands). No phone numbers exchanged, or suggestions to spend time together outside of bed. Neither showed interest beyond sex, which is unusual since single women typically use sex to pursue relationships or entice men to spend money on them. The fact that I just had to show up and do nothing but have sex meant they were getting money/support/etc. from elswhere.
In any case, I hope this helps. I have never intentionally been with a married woman, and I’ve never cheated on a girlfriend or my wife. 20 years ago, I just had the horniness of an in-shape 22 year old, and was naive enough to think attractive women 10 years older really did want sex and nothing more. So, I wouldn’t call myself a player. I never really had any game, in fact my loyalty was often a turnoff to women sexually once they got to know me.
It was over 20 years ago and I’m a better man now. These are just lessons learned. I will admit, I cannot know for sure what they did or did not do for their husbands, but I do believe based on what I learned after the fact that they were more generous to me than with these men they had married. Especially in the case of the one maintaining the good “church girl” image.
Like I said, I am not proud of this, which is why I appreciate the personal anonymity. It is important for others to be told what red flags I was oblivious to. The lies we are taught about women’s sexuality are very destructive.
best interests of the children…
