Александр Николаевич Волков: Chaikhana with Portrait of Lenin (1928)
People speculate as to my underlying reasons for writing articles on this blog. Popular theories include:
- bitterness, caused by a very small penis,
- too much free time, and no spending money,
- lax personal hygiene, and,
- a limited intellect.
While all those observations are objectively true, they don’t approach my actual motivations for writing. I figured I’d take a few minutes and illustrate the reason for my strange compulsion.
By the spring of 2011, I had already mastered online dating, thanks to AfOR. At that point in my life, I was in a graduate program, while trying to patch things up with my father, a man who had been alienated from me, thanks to my mother and the divorce industry.
I was very, very busy, with important stuff; but, I somehow managed to make time for a lot of procrastination reading, and plenty of fucking strange wimminz, and going to Japan. Looking back, I honestly don’t know how I managed it. I was spinning plates like nobody’s business.
At some point, I met Patricia on one of the dating sites. Patricia was cute, but not beautiful, and alluring, but not sexy. I suppose had more attractive options, and so she sat on the back burner for a while. We texted. We were noncommittal.
A few weeks after we had initially matched online, I was in a coffee house, listening to some stupid slut drone on, and on, and on, when Patricia texted me, all spontaneous and out of the blue. Coffee skank was objectively quite beautiful; but, I had plowed coffee slut in every hole, a number of different times, and my patience had worn out. When Patricia asked what was up, I copped to the fact that I was out with another girl.
“I wish it was me,” she replied.
I instantly asked…
“Want to go to the movies?”
An hour later, I had ghosted on coffee skank, and met Patricia at an old art deco cinema I liked. I believe I told coffee slut I was going to the men’s, and would be right back, and just walked out. It was something like that, because coffee slut blew up my phone for about twenty minutes, before I put her in the block list. It’s interesting to note that while I remember all sorts of details about Patricia, I don’t remember anything about coffee slut… not even her name.
Patricia was waiting for me when I walked into the cinema. She bought us the tickets, and I bought the popcorn. While I was talking to her, I realized that she was deaf. She didn’t wear hearing aids. She read lips so well that I could speak to her and she’d get what I was saying. For about one second, I was a bit put out, but then I saw the bright side. The realization that she had gone to the movies, when she couldn’t hear most of the dialogue, was sorta touching, and sweet, and all that.
We went back to her house that night. We fucked. She was a twenty-two year old virgin. It was a mess. She lied about it beforehand.
I should have known, at that moment, that this was a problem, but I was in love, and that was that. We became exclusive.
Things fall apart. It lasted about four months. It wasn’t entirely Patricia who fucked it up. I got tired of paying for most things, and I got tired of being lied to. If I’m honest, I’ll cop to the fact that I got tired of monogamy. One evening, her hot friend came on to me. Fucking the whore was fun. Before the whore even left my house, I knew what was coming, so I pre-emptively texted Patricia, told her that skank ho had come over, and politely broke up with her.
Her response was priceless. She told me that two weeks prior, she had met a Native American guy on PoF, and fucked the hell out of him.
Was it true? I haven’t any idea. She didn’t seem the type, but then, none of them do, and she certainly lied a lot.
The slutty friend and I remained attached at the genitals for several weeks. We went out as a group, a number of times, and Patricia was part of that group. Patricia was just as sweet to me in public as she ever had been. I have to believe, looking back, that she really didn’t care. Patricia and I remained connected on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, from the moment we had met, until I disabled all of those stupid social media accounts, last year.
Around 2014, Patricia invited me to her wedding. Had I got this from the typical skank-ho ex, I’d have assumed the sender was playing an emotional game with me: trying to make me jealous, or attempting to boast about how I’d missed my chance. I lived out of state at the time, but when the invitation came in the regular mail (and it was an invitation, and not an announcement) I felt like it had been genuinely sent. I sent her 40 dollars and a thank-you note, wishing her well.
In 2015, I was in town, and was invited out with this same social group. Patricia’s husband zeroed in on me, and we made small talk, alone, while his wife was on the dance floor, feeling the beat through her feet, dancing like she was listening, in perfect rhythm.
“How did you meet her?”
“I don’t remember,” I lied. “Probably through her slut friend…”
His face and his demeanor suggested disbelief, but acceptance, and I came away from that encounter feeling a little bit ashamed, and with a good deal of respect for this man, who had married the deaf girl, and loved her enough to go out socializing with one of the men she had banged in her misspent youth.
In early 2017, Patricia sent me a Facebook message. I was going to be passing through the town in which we had once met, and where she lives still. She wanted to see me, when I went through.
“I’ll buy you and your husband dinner,” I told her.
When the appointed day came around, Patricia picked me up, alone, in her new van. Her husband, she explained, was busy. Plausible, I thought, but I doubt it. Anyway, such is the way things go. A number of other manosphere stereotypes were confirmed, during the course of the next ninety minutes, including the propensity of married women to get a butch dyke hairdo, to gain 50 pounds, and to proposition old boyfriends for fucking and sucking. I tried not to embarrass her as I declined her generous offer. She didn’t seem offended, or even affected, by my rejection. I didn’t ghost out on the woman, but I did cut things short, and I got an uber back to my hotel, rather than letting her drive me.
Fast forward to last week. I had to re-activate my Facebook account to get a photograph. Not five minutes after everything came back online, Patricia appeared in my direct messages.
Now, if you want to know why I’m compelled to write this blog, here’s an illustration.
I got incredibly lucky, as a young man, because I managed to keep from getting entangled with a slut just like this. I fucked the bitch, when she was young and cute. Another man — a much better man than I, in every conceivable way — did her the honor of making her his wife. This is his reward.
She says he knows she’s cucking him, and I believe her. Probably, he’s fucking other women too. It’s still a damned shame, and you had better believe that he is the one who will get the bill, the minute their marriage falls apart, and it will. The only possible upside to this mess is that these two don’t have kids. Not yet, anyway.
Ask yourself: Would you rather be in my position, or in his shoes?
This blog is a survival guide, for all the boys who are running around with their own Patricia. If you play your cards right, you’ll keep from getting cucked by one of these bitches.
Patricia is not an anomaly. My grandmother was Patricia. Maybe my grandmother didn’t act on her baser instincts (maybe…); but, if she didn’t, I believe that’s because she didn’t have Facebook and PoF to waste time on, rather than any difference in character.
They’re all Patricia.
If I can convince one young brother of that basic fact, then whatever work I’ve done on this blog will be worth the effort. That’s why I write, and it’s all the motivation I need.
We went back to her house that night. We fucked. She was a twenty-two year old virgin. It was a mess. She lied about it beforehand.
She lied and said she was when he wasn.t OR she lied and said he wasn.t when she was
I.m sorry that happened to you but at least you got a learn from that asshole mistake of marrying her. And damn you must be really young
She acted like she was very sexually experienced before we went to her place. It was a little awkward, and she admitted it afterward.
Women don’t understand men very well, and one common misconception women have is that we will find them more attractive if they are whores. We do find them more attractive to fuck, but we don’t want to marry or commit to a whore.
Of course, men have similar misunderstandings. I’m sure Derek and Earl will appear to talk about how virginity is some sort of reliable indicator of perpetual good behavior. I have hundreds of anecdotes (aside from this one) that refutes this, but it doesn’t stop these pretty lies from taking hold.
I’m not nearly as young now, as I was in 2011. ..
‘I.m sure Derek and Earl will appear to talk about how virginity is some sort of reliable indicator of perpetual good behavior.’
Not perpetual good behavior….it’s an indicator of divorce risk.
It’s not like virginity keeps a woman from doing things like lying…I’ve always known that.
It doesn.t take that much to remain a virgin. I act all high and mighty about it but the truth the matter is my virginity belong to my husband. And as much as I would like to give it to my friend the director, it.s not his belong to my husband. There.s no more morality and keeping your virginity you know you.re the not dealing five dollar bank bank. We.re taking a meal without paying for it.
‘Would you rather be in my position, or in his shoes?’
Neither. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes for the obvious reasons.
But the other one is it seems they like going back after their previous sexual exploits…like some ghost from the past. I think Rollo mentioned he tagged two virgins in his past and they’ve kept messaging him back from time to time. At least in my previous situations…when it’s done, it’s done and I’m in the clear because there’s no bond. No feelers from them when they get tired of their hubby.
I think AfOR once said something like, it’s inside me, it needs to get out, and it needs saying.
I hope you keep doing what you do.
Mommy’s basement, micropeen, unemployment be damned.
Virginity is like the health rating for a restaurant. You know that the restaurant probably isn’t infested with rats or cockroaches and you probably won’t get food poisoning. But it doesn’t mean the food is any good.
It’s honestly hard to say. I would hate myself if I was having sex outside of marriage. I don’t think I could ever do that. But being married? Had things turned out differently, I could have easily married an unfaithful spouse. That said, it’s a false dilemma. I followed my own advice and was married before I had graduated from college. I’ll take happily married any day over the alternatives.
While it seems like we will always disagree, I guess we all have our roles to perform. You will insist that all women are wimminz, despite all evidence to the contrary. I will keep trying to suggest ways for men to find a quality woman since I shouldn’t be the only one in the ‘sphere that is securely married.
I have never said that, and you know it, and I have taken a ton of shit, for years, for being honest about the matter.
https://dalrock.wordpress.com/2014/08/09/what-is-modern-marriage-for/#comment-136656
That whole thread is a good example.
This is a very astute retort. I can’t argue with it. Cheers.
Wrong, Wrong, Wrong. Her being a virgin had nothing to do with it. I get tons of messages like that, and here’s an example…
I fucked this woman in late 2010. She had an incredibly promiscuous past. It doesn’t matter. She is not my facebook friend. She’s also in a so-called “relationship” with a man. Despite this, she hit me up last fall, just to ask where I was, and if I “had a lady in my life…” Now, a feminist would castigate me for reading too much into that, but I knew exactly where it was going.
So many women have done this, over the years, that I’m now convinced that every woman keeps a mental rolodex of past impalements, and thanks to facebook/instagram/etc., all of those women can find their old flings the second their husbands aren’t sufficiently attentive.
Someday, some young brother will wander in here, and I want him to absorb the reality of the situation. There are no guarantees. Virgins do this, and whores do it. If you choose to get married, then the price is constant vigilance.
‘ You will insist that all women are wimminz, despite all evidence to the contrary.’
I’ll defend Boxer here…he has mentioned Mary (the mother of Jesus) as a good role model for women, which I agree with.
The main problem we have today is this underlying assumption that no matter what women do they are always good (and subsequently men are always evil)…that is and always was certainly never the case. From killing their own children, to divorcing their husbands & destroying their families mainly because of boredom, to going from instigator to victim in a split second (lying)…it’s high time we learn how to separate the wheat from the chaff.
True, I do know that. My hyperbole aside, you do come across as overly bitter and you have quite a few seemingly bitter readers. I suppose that is par for the course on the ‘sphere. Thanks for the link.
‘So many women have done this, over the years, that I.m now convinced that every woman keeps a mental rolodex of past impalements’
Yeah I don’t doubt that…that was the bond I was talking about previously. The act bonds two people. Even the heavily promiscuous were virgins at one time.
If she is truly a virgin she won’t have that past lurking around when she gets married and is deflowered by her husband.
Guilty.
I hope I see the day when the so-called “family courts” are abolished, and the mainstream press quits demonizing men and making excuses for women. On that day, this blog will seem quaint and silly, and will no longer serve a purpose. Then I’ll be able to forget the whole thing, and go do something else.
And I’m truly honest here…the number of former flames who have solicited me out of the blue after we were done dating or being in a relationship.
0
They can find me on facebook at any time.
We had no bond.
Great post and brilliant conclusion.
I think the counterpart to it is “They’re all Boxer.” The women who understand this and understand it early in life have a huge advantage navigating the SMP and MMP.
Boxer,
You’ve regaled us with anecdotes from your adventures; you’ve treated us to the detailed exchanges from your breakups and from the wimminz-initiated re-hookups, and I enjoy reading those. But can you let us in on some scripts from the original pickups, the ones where you’ve told us that you meet wimminz in the grocery stores and in the coffee shops and in the library. This is what eludes the brethren, just where to begin.