Somewhere over the rainbow, a starry-eyed romantic writes…
My purpose for dating was for us to get to know each other, seek an emotional connection, build on that connection, leading to love, and finally marriage. Sex being only part of marriage, and not the most important part.
This sort of sentiment, plucked out of a 19th century novel, would be cute if it weren’t so dangerous. It’s also a mystery to behold a man, who has been exposed to 30 years of pop culture, which tells him in every song, theatrical performance, and Hollywood crap film, what the score is, yet he stubbornly continues in his delusions.
Let’s get this out of the way. Dating is not about meeting a nice girl for a soda after the dance. Dating is about having sex.
Before the date is the meeting. You meet women every day, in nearly every scenario. I have only a couple of rules restricting the domain of all the women I meet to women who I can have sex with. I don’t date (i.e. have sex with) anyone I work with. I teach, so I don’t have sex with other teachers at my institution, and I don’t have sex with any of my students. I also don’t have sex with chicks who are obviously married. Of course, I’ve probably had lots of sex with married chicks, but if I did, the ho’s hid their status well enough to fool me.
That’s it. Every woman I meet, in every other context, is fair game.
When I was younger, I used to go out clubbing to pick up women, but I always noted that there were gifts that just dropped into my lap in other contexts. At some point, without consciously planning it, I just started maximizing the productivity of these chance encounters. I’m at the point now that I often go months without going out to find cunt. I also don’t have active profiles on the dating sites.
I’ve had sex with women I met in the aisle at the grocery store. I’ve had sex with women I met in the laundromat (a surprisingly productive place to find sex partners, weirdly enough.) I’ve had sex with women I met in the waiting room at the dentist’s office.
You meet women every day, same as me. If a woman is talking to you, she’s likely down to fuck you.
We go through life interacting with people. Endless opportunities open up, even for dorky introverts like me. People are so shitty, these days, that just being a decent person is enough to make many women interested in you. About ten percent of the dates I go on are initiated by the woman, who invites me out. I instinctively respond with “are you buying?” If she balks or even hesitates, I know she’s fucking with me, and the date would have gone nowhere. Take such propositions as the jokes that they are. If she responds in the affirmative, you’re basically guaranteed sex if you want it.
The other ninety percent of dates I go on are dates that I initiate.
There is a certain look that women get in their faces when they want to fuck me. It’s very difficult to properly communicate exactly what this entails. I can only say that it’s nothing like any look that your mother ever gave you. Their eyes squint slightly as they smile, and these ho’s almost have a predatory look in their eyes. This look means they are down for whatever — including a quickie in the nearest public toilet. Making this face means you’re basically guaranteed sex if you want it.
If it’s convenient, and your standards are low enough, you can usually get sex in the nearest public toilet with such women. These ho’s are scandalous.
Repeat the mantra: dating is about sex. The only reason you are taking a woman out is to see if she qualifies to host your cock in one of her holes. That’s it.
About half the time I invite a ho’ to “meet for coffee”. The date proceeds exactly as I described, with no deviation. I bring stuff to read and work on, and show up at the coffee shop a half hour before the date is scheduled to begin.
Exactly three minutes after the specified time, if the ho’ isn’t there, I leave. This is not infrequent. I ignore the excuses these bitches send me via voicemail and text message. If a ho’ wanted to meet me, she would have been punctual.
When she does show up, I already have my coffee, and I’m working. I let her compete with my laptop for my attention. This gives the ho’ the illusion that I’m someone important (ho’s like to think they can land someone who has other interests) and inspires her to work a bit for my affection.
The other half of the time, I invite the ho’ to eat. I only do this when I would have gone out to eat on my own, anyway. I never invite a ho’ for anything fancier than a 20 dollar plate at a mom and pop restaurant, and I make the destination clear up front.
Now that this is out of the way, you have your date at your table, and you should be in the proper frame of mind to screen for nutcases. I can’t tell you what your own “fitness tests” should consist of, but I can share some of mine.
- Get her talking about her family. If she talks shit about her mother or father, or is overly disrespectful to anyone else, I eject.
- I eject if the ho’ is rude or condescending to the wait staff.
- I eject if the ho’ is loud, curses in public, or is just overly coarse.
Your shit-tests will be based on your own whims and hangups, and they won’t necessarily intersect with mine. If you have screened your date well, you probably won’t have to eject before sex. Even so, it does happen.
I recently had a wall-hitting attorney across the table from me (i.e. someone who makes money stealing from better people). She made a big production of sneering at the waitress. It was amazing to see a human parasite look down her nose at a much hotter woman, who is working a productive job.
I pointed as much out to the ho’, before I beat feet out of Applebees and left her to pay her own bill. I tipped the waitress twenty dollars on the way out the door, and asked her to say good-bye to the ho’ for me. The look on her face was priceless.
I consider it a structural advantage to invite wimminz to my house. Again, this is my preference, which may or may not coincide with anyone else’s. When I’m at my house, I know where everything is. It also leaves no ambiguity in the ho’s mind as to what the next step is. If she comes to my house, she’s getting fucked, and if she doesn’t like that, then she can get the hell out.
I have a futon that I fuck women on. I roll it out on my living room floor. It does a number on bitches to tell them that my bedroom is off-limits.
The bedroom is for girlfriends, you’re just a common slut.
It also keeps the bitch from nesting, with the idea that she’s going to be spending the night snoring in my ear. I like to sleep alone.
That’s all, folks
In conclusion, I’d advise ignoring both incels and tradcons who bemoan the state of the sexual marketplace. It’s strange to note that the whiners on sites like Dalrock are functionally identical to the ones on Omega Virgin Revolt. All of them are wrong. Sex is easy to get. I’m a broke-ass schoolteacher with a pinky sized penis, and I seem to be able to win at this game on a consistent basis. You can too, once you know the rules.