As some of you already know, after the whole Vegeta (formerly Feng Shui) thing a couple of years ago, I was angry, confused, and looking for answers. So, curious about what really goes on in the minds of men, I wandered into a PUA/relationship advice for men blog ,Roissy in DC, now called Citizen Renegade. I call it “The Abyss”, because the posts and comments tend to be a swirling mass of negativity and pain, but it is a useful mass of swirling negativity and pain. It’s like a black hole in the universe of love and sexuality, but less grating than the female gripe sites. The spirit there is more proactive, and though it attracts its share of whiners, the guys who hang there are mostly legit do-ers.
I find The Obsidian Files to be more proactive and more realistic, so if I was going to tell a guy where to go for support, I’d recommend Obsidian. He’s blunt, but not as rigid, and can relate to a guy who’s struggling. He has a lot of life experience, and has seen things a guy with testicles should probably have seen by a certain age, and tends to pursue a less feminist, more nurturing class of women. Roissy is still working out whatever issues he has with flaming harpies. In my opinion, pursuit of “lawyerbitches” and the like is self inflicted misery which leads one to severe selection bias. Hopefully, his current girlfriend is helping to smooth out those rough edges. Girl must be a saint.
At Citizen Renegade though, I get a perspective that I wouldn’t normally get to see from the inside. People who like you and have an interest in seeing you happy aren’t usually going to tell you the darker bits of the truth. For that, you’ve got to steel yourself, and talk to people who hate you.
Haters may be just as irrational as people who love you, but somewhere in the middle is the balance; the truth. In the past couple of years, I’ve been called every name in the book, but I’ve learned A LOT about men. I already had a reasonable hold of reality, thanks to my Dad, but my Dad loves me. Everything he says to me is designed to help me, and barring a few issues, he doesn’t sugarcoat, but he doesn’t want to undermine my confidence. So it’s tempered somewhat. It’s not dishonest because he really does think I’m beautiful and special. Problem is, random guys I encounter may not think I’m beautiful or special, but may still want to get under my skirt. It’s those guys whose motivation I needed to figure out in order to protect myself.
So, what I needed was an honest assessment of my “worth” in the general sexual market. Roissy’s Dating Market Value Test for Women is a very good one. I scored -4, by the way. To let you know how much of a hit one takes for being fat and older, I retook the test with my features at 20, and scored 32. So I’m positive that there’s no bias against smart or decent women who are even barely reasonably feminine. I wouldn’t know how to rate the test for men.
Once I understood how others generally perceive me, I had to figure out under what contexts someone would find me woodworthy, and why someone who did might mishandle me. The reasons for woodworthiness I gathered ranged from utter desperation for anything with a vagina, to being really drunk and enjoying my personality well enough to commit humanitarian fornication, to being patently rural and having a thing for giant boobs FTW, to fat fetishism. For the rare sort of guy I tend to go for, it’s lack of concern for basic looks and more concern for grooming and hygiene, or I look like them/their mom/their favorite aunt/their first love, or someone very important whose face is burned in their memory; social relevance.
What confounded me until yesterday though, is why someone would mishandle me. I’d assigned that to the wolf chewing off his arm to escape a trap because they think I’m ugly or worthless due to my low general market value.
Confident in my having found the Holy Grail for Fat Chicks, I added Roissyisms to my arsenal of ego destroying missiles to fire back in psychic warfare with former “bitches” daring to attempt to con me back into a largely one sided relationship. Among them were, “You’re only calling me because you’re desperate, and you think I’m stupid,” and my favorite, “I’ve never been desperate/hated myself enough to shag someone I thought was hideous. What’s that like?”
From the responses, it appeared that I was winning their respect and admiration.
Then, as of last night, my Holy Grail shattered when a young lady known as Anoukange said something that slammed the fact into my fat, arrogant face, that I already had it. When you read this, have a look at Anoukange’s site and photos. She’s not a teenager, but most guys think she’s fairly hot. So they’d have no particular reason to go flying out the door immediately, right?
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Cuddling after you’ve just started to sleep together is weird, and I don’t have a cold bone in my body. I just give the guy my bed and take the couch. You can always balance the cuddle instinct by “giving it to her” caveman style and then trying to cuddle after. ….talk about sending the hamster wheel into a tailspin.
Wha???
It did not compute.
As a woman of 40, who has only had a total of 12 years on the “dating market” since 16, half of those as a spiritually but platonically married lady, I have not had vast sexual experience. I had fun in high school…a few freaky incidents under my belt, but that’s a feministically raised youth thing. Once I came into my own at about 17, I understood that casual sex felt like necrophilia for me, so after that it was fiances and the friend zone. My “casual” sex was more like promoting guys who were in what would be most girls’ friend zone, and even then I’d be frustrated if it didn’t develop further.
Though I wouldn’t recommend this policy as a general practice, for a few women, benevolent sluttery is a nice way to avoid the general market “cock carousel” and let the good guys know that there are a few women in the world who really do love decent men more than platonically. Just understand that it’s a thankless “job”. Most guys watch too much television, and think sex with young, hot chicks is normally available to normal guys, and that they were just having a “dry spell”. Hell, some of them even think it’s normal for a hot girl to be low maintenance, and don’t understand that a low maintenance hot girl is a natural beauty with stunning genes, which is rare. It takes them awhile of being out there trying to find another you, before they realize that you’re one in a million.
Story of my life until Shai.
Anyway, due to my apparently rather limited experience, I was convinced that it was highly abnormal and pathological for a guy to just get up and leave after sex. “Casual sex” meant sex with someone you’re not in an explicit relationship with, but in execution, the incident would go something like make out, do the thing, make out and maybe cuddle a bit, bathroom if needed, do it again, into the night, fall asleep exhausted, and the awkward coffee or breakfast. No rushing happened unless sometime during the sex or the sleeping, someone’s mom called thinking their son had disappeared, there was a bad car pileup or something blew up, and he had to go pick up or sew up bodies, or time had really run out.
The coyote chewing off arm thing happened after months or years, and figuratively, not right after. That’s just…crazy. Why would a woman stand for that?
I even had escape strategies for myself to avoid sleeping next to guys I wasn’t in an explicitly defined relationship with. When I would fall asleep, which happened maybe only twice, it was brief and not restful at all. If I didn’t get out of bed in time, I’d be stuck under an arm or a leg, or downright in the clutches, lying there awake. One time I even pretended that there was a Voodoo ritual I had to do after sex.
No really. I’d get up and light a red candle and dance a little.
So after the ensuing conversation, when my illusion of relatively clean karma was crashing around my brain, and I was starting to feel like a complete moron, I grabbed for any reassurance I could get. I asked Shai if it was normal for guys to leave after the sex. He’s like, “Why would a guy stay after the sex?”
So I’m sitting there, mouth agape, freaking out.
Humble pie in my face.
Some vodka, pickles, a series of drunk SMS’s asking for forgiveness, and a deathlike sleep later, I’m okay…humbled, but okay.
I have realized though, that I was indeed a ball cutting, witch of a bitch.
So, I will no longer have the pompous pleasure of referring to any of the sweet men of my past to whom I have grossly misattributed malice, when fear and exasperation were most likely the running sentiment, as “bitches”. They are ex boyfriends. They’re ex boyfriends I probably should have demanded more of as far as manning up and planting their flag or getting lost, but boyfriends is what they behaved like, so that’s what they were.
I understand now that the bitch was me.
