I met your wife at a nightclub, a year before you tied the knot. She looked good to me, and I knew from the way she moved on the dance floor that she had been passed around. Picking her up was effortless. We had plans to stop by a late-night coffee shop, but instead, we went straight to my house.
“Take off your shoes,” I barked, the minute we got in the door. It’s not that I’m an Arab, and I’m not Japanese, either. It’s a little trick I learned. It gets a ho’ ready to take off the rest of her clothes, and she gets wet from having a man give her orders. From the moment she stepped over my threshold, your wife enjoyed being my slut.
I didn’t even let her into my bedroom. The message was subtle, subliminal: The bed is for a girlfriend — you’re a skank-ho prostitute… You’ll get fucked in the living room.
One wall in my top-floor pad is glass, with a spectacular view. I fucked her with the lights on. She got excited knowing that the people far below us could look up and see her, on all fours, taking my cock in her cunt. Later I moved her to the deck. She got fucked from behind as she leaned over, looking at the cars and pedestrians eighty feet down.
Your wife may have been invited back a time or two, but she never got to sleep in my bed or take a shit in my master bathroom. She didn’t get any homemade meals or hand-pressed coffee. She got to kneel down and throat my cock on a rolled-out futon. She got fucked in her cunt and asshole, multiple times, and then at some point, I got bored of her, and she got kindly kicked out into the street.
Your wife had a fair bit of pain in her crotch as she sat down at desk the next day, and your wife may have called or texted me a few times.
Hey! What’s up?
How have you been?
I may have invited her back over a couple of times; but, I never played the chump.
She didn’t tell you about me when you met her, did she? I didn’t think so.
I bet you think that her little romp with me was anomalous. In fact, it was a lifestyle. There are hundreds of men who treated your wife in exactly the way I did. I’m just the one swingin’ dick that is telling it to you straight.
You wined and dined her. You bought her flowers. You opened the car door for her entry and exit. You were the perfect gentleman.
Sex was on her terms, and she kept you hanging for weeks before you got limited access to the playground I ran through. You were a tender lover. You understood when she told you “I don’t like oral or anal, and I don’t do doggy style…” You bought her roses the next day. You did her laundry. You let her shit in your master bathroom. You bought her a ring. You pledged your life, your love, all the produce of your masculine brain and brawn to this ho’ that I had earlier used and tossed in the gutter.
Did she thank you for your kindness and generosity? She did not. She treated you like a simp. She found me on facebook, only a few weeks after the wedding, and offered up her snatch. Don’t worry, I refused; but I doubt all the rest of the playaz she contacted that week were as judicious.
Now you’re sick of being married to a trifling ho’, who is fucking two or three men on the side, even as you work holiday weekends in order to keep her in spending cash.
Eventually, you went to marital and family therapists online. It was a short trip away from the dark end of the internet, where you found Roissy, and Roosh, and Rollo, and Dalrock, and Cane Caldo, and all of them told you that she’s an “alpha widow.”
The game gurus are selling you on the idea that I am inherently better than you, that I have more money, that I have a longer and thicker penis, and that I have “game.” They are also playing on your insecurities with the idea that your wife remains in thrall to me — all after I treated her far worse than I would have treated an animal — and that she endlessly dreams about me, misses me, and wishes she could get all her holes fucked out just one more time.
The reality is that your wife never thought about me. While I was fucking her she likely wasn’t thinking about me. When she texted me, her thoughts were limited to wondering if she could make me into her own personal piece-of-furniture. When I didn’t play along, she texted Joe, Brad, Chad, DeVonte, and then you, in that order. She stopped at you because you played along — but only temporarily. She’s still texting and meeting and fucking men.
I am not an “alpha” by any stretch of the imagination. Your wife is not in love with Boxer, and she was never in love with an idealized image of Boxer. She has never been in love with you, even after you’ve given her your wealth, your family name, and an aura of social respectability. She’s a skank-ho bitch, who has never had an authentic love for anyone but her narcissistic self.
Maybe you’ve bought a bunch of entertaining (but useless) books about how to run game. Maybe you’ve paid thousands of dollars for coaching and seminars and meet-greet-and-retreat conventions. No doubt, your pathetic leader or “guru” has sold you on the idea that you can make your wife fall in love with you if only you act in a certain way. Maybe you came to my blog because you were looking for tips on how to get your wife interested in you, in the way you thought she was interested in me. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but this is how it is.
You gave your wife everything, and she didn’t appreciate it. If you’re smart, you will now cut your losses. This is especially important if you don’t (yet) have children she can hold hostage. Take advantage of those nice feminist divorce laws. It’s too late for you to do what I did, and toss her out into the street after fucking, but you can still pay the bitch off and be done with her.