Femininity is a quality that pleases men. Therefore from the chart we can deduce that educated women decrease a man’s happiness. A good test to see if a girl is over-educated is to add the word “sexy” before her job title. If the resulting phrase ignites arousing images in your head, then she’ll most likely have what it takes to satisfy you.

Boner Inducing
Sexy waitress
Sexy bartender
Sexy teacher
Sexy librarian
Sexy flight attendant
Sexy PR rep
Sexy actress

On the other hand…

Boner Softening
Sexy IT specialist
Sexy business manager
Sexy tort attorney
Sexy civil engineer
Sexy anesthesiologist
Sexy research associate
Sexy financial analyst

Anything beyond a bachelors at a public university is a near guarantee she’ll possess a large basket of masculine traits that will prevent boners. Unless you’re a latent homosexual, you won’t get many benefits from a relationship with a woman on the right side of the chart.

If you’re a white guy just starting out in the game, you may have witnessed black guys talking to girls of different races with the appearance of making easy progress. Perhaps you wonder if it’s just easier to get laid if you’re black, something I’ve thought of myself before getting into the game.

From what I’ve observed in the field over the past ten years, it’s actually harder for a black guy to get with a non-black woman. Many people underestimate that a majority of women are totally closed off to the idea of dating a black man or any other man outside her race for whatever reason. They may have dated a black man once in the past, but don’t have the open mentality that is needed for a newcomer to properly seduce her. On the other hand, the girls who do like black guys will be much more passionate about trying to get with them than a girl who likes white or Latino guys.

Let’s say I go out with a black guy to a random club in Argentina. I estimate that ten out of the fifty girls there will be be somewhat open to dating me. I’ll have to work to get them, and my results will vary, but I have a shot with these ten girls. Only two or three out of the fifty girls will be open to dating my black friend, but those few will be much more vigorous in letting that interest be known. They will look at him more and maybe even approach him outright, where I’d have to do my own approaches. Even though he has significantly less options, his chance of closing that night will be higher than mine.

Black guys have a more limited selection in potential partners that are outside their race, but they have it easier with a girl who is already predisposed to liking black guys. If you compare a white guy and black guy with equal game and looks, the white guy will slightly edge him out on quality, and the black guy on quantity. To me that comes out as a wash. While I often see hate on black guys for going after heavy set girls, any truth to that can be attributed to their personal preferences of desiring thickness, not an innate inability to scoring higher quality.

Unless you’re talking about special situations like a blonde haired guy in Brazil, white and black guys have no significant game advantage over each other.

Here’s an email I received recently…

So, I’ve been unemployed for quite some time, and as a result my confidence and self-esteem has dropped to an all-time low. I stopped hitting on girls, because I feared a lack of employment would sink every and all interaction. I had it in my head that a girl would never get with a guy who was a jobless bum.

But after reading this post and reading through Bang as a refresher, I was finally able to recoup some of my lost courage and started talking to girls again. But with a few of the girls I’ve been approaching and talking to, I’ve been hit with the dreaded, “So, what do you do?” question. I do the indirect thing and it has worked, but the girls usually know I’m just having fun, and some of them will persist with the question in a smiling, nagging way. Now, if I was shooting for the one night stand, I’d probably never reveal what my job status is, but my game is nowhere near that tight yet, so I usually have to do the 1-3 dates thing.

I have a date set up this Tuesday with one of those girls who persisted in knowing what I do. I’m pretty sure the question will be brought up again sometime during our time together, so I’m trying to figure what I should say. Should I continue to never reveal my unemployment until she just gives up and moves on? Or should i just come out and tell her, “I’m unemployed,” in a stern, direct manner?

When you’re gaming at night, it doesn’t matter if you’re the president of a Fortune 500 company or a model photographer, but you should always be playfully indirect when asked about your job, at about the point where she thinks you’re trying to hide something. The reason is because being evasive and shady builds attraction, while answering honestly and directly decreases attraction. Only after you’ve pulled her chain for a while can you reveal the truth in a way that doesn’t try to impress her.

For example, if you’re a computer programmer, don’t say you’re a “Senior project manager for a defense contractor” unless you want to instantly dry up the pussy. Your first answer should be a made-up profession, like organic farmer or seal hunter, then only afterwards when she insists on knowing the truth can you say something self-depreciative like computer drone, cubicle slave, or office monkey, things you can use for just about every profession. Understand that girls get hit with dozens of fancy job titles every week, and the only way to stand out and show you don’t give a fuck about her is to make yourself appear like a loser. It’s ironic but perfectly contrary, and easy to implement into your game starting right now.

(It’s a little different during day pickups, where you don’t want to discourage a sober girl by being overly aloof. If your conversation is serious and barely playful, give a serious answer.)

If you’re unemployed, think for a second about what other unemployed guys say to girls. I’ll go ahead and tell you—they say “I’m between jobs” or “I’m consulting” or they lie outright and say they’re employed. Wrong, wrong, and wrong. Instead you will look her in the eyes and say “I don’t have a job right now.” Then silence. Don’t qualify it and don’t apologize for it. Let it sink in for a few seconds and then change the subject by asking her, “So what do you do?”

The other irony of game is that the unemployed guy will bang the girl faster than the employed guy. When you don’t hit any of her provider buttons, there is no point for her in waiting to bang you since it’s not like you’re going to take her out to dinner (or anywhere else for that matter). As long as she is attracted to you, your chance of a one-night stand is high. Plus your blunt and self-deprecation made her horny, since no other guy has gone out of his way to not impress her, forcing her to subconsciously conclude that you are indeed a high-value male. But if you go on and on about your important job, raising the prospect that she may get some freebies out of you, she will not give you the one-night stand and you’ll be the chump working for the pussy when I fucked it without any effort.

Bottom line is I stay with my dad while in the States because it doesn’t affect my sex life. If anything, I see a positive effect. When a girl finds out I’m a bum that gives her absolute zero hope of a future or anything for free, she opens her legs in four hours or less. Why should she wait? She’s attracted to me and knows she’s not going to get any additional benefits as time goes on. I become an impulse “purchase” like a candy bar in the grocery checkout line.

The only problem with living at my dad’s is the logistical hurdle of being in the suburbs, which is located 30 minutes driving from the nightlife zone. If I lived next door to my dad’s in my own townhouse, I would not get laid any more than I have during my previous stays there. While living a bit far out from the action has cost me notches, living with my dad never has.

It still boggles my mind how girls simply don’t care what a man’s situation is as long as she’s attracted to him. A lot of haters want to say something like, “Oh well, you only bang the trashy or low-quality girls.” My friends VK and Rookie are witness to some of the gems that got fucked on the floor mattress of my basement room, which you can personally tour in this video. They range in age from 21-32, of differing races, socioeconomic backgrounds, and even nationality. The epitome of dad’s basement game was when a wealthy girl drove me home in her BMW X5 and then loved the floor mattress so much that she wouldn’t stop bugging me afterwards with a barrage of text messages. In that case I was the one who had to cut things off. To build off of Roissy’s saying, 5 minutes of basement-dwelling alpha is worth more than 5 years of beta.

The only time living with your dad may matter is if the girl wants to get married in the next two years, but if that’s the case I guarantee you she is well past her prime and worn hard from a lot of previous alpha fucking. In other words, I wouldn’t even drag those girls back to my dad’s house in the first place. All that really matters with your home is its proximity to the pickup venues. I will be the first to admit that having a place within walking distance of my favorite bar would increase my notch count, but as long as you have an enclosed private space, you’re solidly in the game. As my many car bangs can tell you, even a mattress is superflouous.

Therefore I’m not surprised by a recent article in Slate magazine called Sex Is Cheap: Why young men have the upper hand in bed, even when they’re failing in life. An important quote…

And yet while young men’s failures in life are not penalizing them in the bedroom, their sexual success may, ironically, be hindering their drive to achieve in life. Don’t forget your Freud: Civilization is built on blocked, redirected, and channeled sexual impulse, because men will work for sex. Today’s young men, however, seldom have to. As the authors of last year’s book Sex at Dawn: The Prehistoric Origins of Modern Sexuality put it, “Societies in which women have lots of autonomy and authority tend to be decidedly male-friendly, relaxed, tolerant, and plenty sexy.” They’re right. But then try getting men to do anything.

Does it make sense to you why I don’t pony up $1,200 a month for my own studio while in DC? Because I don’t need to. Incredibly, I’m not punished for being a 30-something male “loser” with no stable job, no future prospects, and no proper bed frame. But I have game, and today that’s all you need to get more sex than you can handle. Thank you feminism, for helping create a society where I get more pussy than most of my peers, even though 50 years ago the only sex I’d get is from prostitutes. No other period in human history has been more sexually tilted towards men than the time we live in now. As long as feminists remain deluded in thinking they have the sexual power, this magnificent orgy of casual sex will continue unabated.

Is Kanye West a closet men’s rights activist? His song “All Of The Lights” comes pretty close to summing up the entire movement. Here’s the song:

Allow me to translate Kanye’s two verses for the white guys who wear khakis.

Something wrong
I hold my head
MJ gone…our nigga dead!
I slapped my girl, she called the feds
I did that time and spent that bread
I’m heading home, I’m almost there
I’m on my way, heading up the stairs
To my surprise, a nigga replacing me
I had to take him to that ghetto university

“I was in a horrible place when Michael Jackson died, which contributed to me slapping the mother of my child. Instead of understanding my emotional state, she called the police, and I was convicted in a court of law. I served time in prison. I was excited to be released so that I could reunite with my family. Unfortunately, another man was in my house. I got so angry that I beat his ass up.”

Restraining order
Can’t see my daughter
Her mother, brother, grandmother hate me in that order
Public visitation
We met at Borders
Told her she take me back
I’ll be more supportive
I made mistakes
I bump my head
Courts suck me dry
I spent that bread
She need a daddy
Baby please, can’t let her grow up in that ghetto university

“The authorities were called again, and a restraining order was filed. In addition to my girlfriend’s entire family hating me, particularly her mother, I could only see my daughter in public locations such as the Borders bookstore. I promised my girlfriend that I’d tame my anger, that I made mistakes and was punished for them by the government (due to the incareration, my finances were completely wiped out). I pledged to remain commited to raising our daughter, because I knew that without a father she would wind up on drugs or pregnant.”

Men’s rights guys can adopt this as their anthem (I’m not being sarcastic). In the meantime, I recommend The Spearhead if you want to stay current on how pussified Western culture is becoming.

Next thing I want to share is an excerpt from a book I just read called Man Is Wolf To Man, a memoir about time spent in a Russian Gulag during Stalin’s rule. If you understand women, and see them as how they should be seen, the following should not shock you…

She used to be my wife. She was also the first person to denounce me when I was arrested. In front of the staff of the Institute of Endocrinology, she got up and said that she had sensed for a long time that I had been involved in counterrevolutionary activity, and she called for my expulsion from the [Communist] Party and the institute. She used to be my assistant. I had helped her with her doctorate—I wrote it for her. I promoted her. We’d been married for seven years. Everyone in my family liked her except for my mother, who said before we married, “Don’t cuddle a snake to your chest.” To this day I haven’t gotten over the shock.

We confided in each other about everything. She was my refuge from the terror of arrests that surrounded us. I don’t understand how from one day to the next, a person whom you thought—whom you knew loved you more than anything else could turn against you just to preserve her position and good standing in the Party. I never sensed a false note in our relationship. She was so warm and loving.

The investigator showed me the written statement in which she denounced me and asked for a divorce. I didn’t want to live after that. It hurt me more than the nightlife interrogations and beatings.

In Stalinist Russia it was common to falsely denounce others as a way to minimize the chance you’ll be denounced yourself. It was also used to show support to the party (setting yourself up for promotion) or to simply take over someone’s bigger apartment. The man above was sent to the Gulag for a ten year term.

I’m sure men who have been through a divorce are least surprised by the excerpt. Thankfully most women are not capable of such an act, but don’t underestimate their ability to destroy everything they come into contact with.

A common charge leveled against me by women is “You hate women.” It’s a mind-boggling accusation if you consider I’ve spent more mental energy at “figuring” women out than 99% of men on the planet. If you also account for the amount of time I’ve spent writing out my thoughts and analysis about them, it gets upped to 99.9%. I’m not going to be cheesy and say I love women and how they’re all beautiful creatures, but my entire life would be a fraud if I really hated women. I would be a goddamn fool to dedicate a good portion of my free time to them if I genuinely hated their guts.

Think back to all the women you’ve ever dated in your life. How many of them would you consider “special?” It’s probably in the single digits. Now how many of them were just alright or slightly memorable? Finally, how many were forgettable enough that you wouldn’t care if you ever saw them again? It’s safe to say that most women you meet won’t make a positive impact to your life, and only a select few have brought you sustained happiness. Some women you’ve loved, and some you’ve hated, but you unless you’re desperate you approach each woman with a little skepticism, wondering if she can please you with the qualities you desire. Having a default opinion that all women are wonderful snowflakes makes it likely that won’t you even get to experience them in bed. It’s not a matter of hating anyone, but having a high opinion of yourself and knowing that you deserve a woman equal to or greater than your own value.

The truth is that when a woman reads my blog, she becomes exposed to some uncomfortable truths. Chances are I’ve perfectly described her own flaws. She now has two options: accept my criticisms and make an honest effort to improve herself, or block out what she just read by saying “He hates women.” The latter makes it’s easy for her brain to discount everything I’ve written and continue on her current trajectory. It’s a form of self-denial.

I do something similar after I read the opinion of a girl about dating, when I snoop around to see if I can find photos of her. If she’s pretty, then I may consider the points she raised, but if she’s not someone that I would bang, I safely disregard everything she said since following her ideas would push me farther away from getting the attractive women that I desire. Another example: if a pretty girl in a bar compliments my shirt, I know I’m on the right track, but if an ogre does the same, I disregard it completely. I prepare to burn the shirt if another ogre hits me with a similar compliment.

American feminists who accuse me of hating women think that I’m bitter because I can’t fuck a feminist, but the reality is that the easiest girl for me to fuck are feminists. And when I mean easiest, I mean easiest in the world. They’re so easy that I suspect European men prowl through international airports in their cities looking to “assist” fresh female American arrivals, knowing it’s just common sense that a woman who doesn’t believe in a “slut” concept will fuck anything for the most arbitrary of reasons, like a “sexy” foreign accent or so-so skill at playing Wonderwall on guitar. Ultimately, I believe feminist hate against me stems from all the guys they’ve fucked who have never called them back, who made them feel anything but “empowered” and “independent.” I’m their punching bag to make them fell less like a… slut.

Humans need a way to filter information, and one way we do that is to trash everything that comes from someone we don’t already agree with. Feminists do this to me by saying “Roosh hates women.” You better believe that no feminist wakes up and says, “Today I will change my mind or my lifestyle if someone challenges my beliefs.” So they have quick retorts that keep them in their fantasy bubble, easy rationalizations for their lonely existence. I’m getting older so my beliefs are getting entrenched, but I will change my mind if new evidence suggests I hold an incorrect viewpoint. That’s because I’m a man, and most men are capable of doing that. I’ve never seen a woman change her mind in the face of contrary evidence. Not once in my entire life. She either throws a temper tantrum, starts with the name-calling, or pretends she never held the incorrect viewpoint in the first place.

A more amusing hater comment I come across is, “He hates strong woman.” I’ve always thought “strong woman” was an oxymoron—it would be like a beta male going around saying, “Forget her, she can’t handle a weak man.” When someone says “strong woman,” this is the image that comes to my mind:

• burly build, definitely not svelte
• short finger nails, short hair
• overly opinionated
• thinks she understands how the world works
• self-absorbed
• too much focus on building her intelligence instead of her attractiveness

Why would any man on this planet want a strong woman? Shit, I’ll accept that charge without debate—I do hate strong women, because it would be like dating a she-to-he transsexual. It’s actually a good screening question you should ask the next girl you meet: “Do you consider yourself a strong woman?” Unless she hesitates, run for the hills.

Some women I hate, some women I care for, but most I hold in neutral regard. Unless a girl can come close to matching qualities of someone special I’ve dated in the past, I’m not going to worship her. And the reason I don’t worship women is because I actually like sex and want to continue having it. Instead I will treat her like the filthy dick hole she really is. Who knows—if American women rewarded men who worshipped them, the rules of the game would change and maybe my first book would be called Compliment & Cuddle instead of Bang, but they don’t. In the end this is just another case where if you listen to what a woman says about how men should act, your existence would be completely void of sex. I feel that if I’m not getting accused by women for hating them, I’m probably doing something seriously wrong.

Doing the opposite of what every other guy does could be all you need to build attraction with women, even if it doesn’t necessary hit her genetic buttons of wanting an alpha. In other words, if every guy on the block is an alpha, and you show up with a couple beta flourishes, it may work better than the default alpha game that she’s used to (and perhaps bored with).

Of course we don’t live in an alpha society, so contrary game in the United States is actually the correct alpha game you’re supposed to run. Here are some specific examples where doing the opposite of every other beta helps you get more sex.

1. Every guy used to call girls. Contrary game a few years ago would’ve been texting instead of calling, displaying a level of aloofness that would’ve likely been rewarded. Perhaps in ten years when every guy is texting, some type of calling game may see a bump in results.

2. Every guy texts a girl the same night upon meeting to say, “It was nice meeting you.” Contrary game dictates you wait at least two days before making first contact, avoiding Monday since that’s when a girl’s phone is blowing up from all the guys she met over the weekend.

3. Every guy is eager to add girls to Facebook. Contrary game is saying you don’t have Facebook, even if you do.

4. Every guy takes girls out to dinner for a first date. Contrary game is taking her to a basic bar and feeding her cheap rail liquor or American beer.

5. Every guy wears either a striped or plaid shirt. His chest is shorn. Contrary game would be to wear just about anything else, maybe even a blouse, and announce your bountiful chest hair to the world. In fact, chest hair crawling up to the neck sees tremendous results for yours truly. (Speaking of style, note that hipsters are simply running contrary game to mainstream America. But as they become mainstream themselves, what will the contrarian look be then?)

6. Every guy asks for a number. Contrary game is refusing to ask, or asking for the date and letting her work on contact logistics.

7. Every guy hypes up his job. Even if his job is boring, he’ll try to give it a cute title so the girl doesn’t think he’s a cubicle monkey. Contrary game is refusing to say what you do in a serious way, even if you really have an interesting job. When every guy is going out of their way to impress a girl, trying to present yourself as a bum makes the pussy wetter.

8. Every guy tries to come up with interesting things to say on the date. Contrary game is not saying anything and blankly staring off into space, kind of like Jerry in the Seinfeld episode “The Visa.”

If you don’t know what “every other guy” is doing, then it will not be possible for you to run contrary game. Luckily for me, I’m plugged into the hivemind of Western game culture, but since you’re not me what you can do is simply ask the girls you take out on dates. Here are two questions that will most likely lead to interesting conversations:

(1) “How do you usually meet guys? Flag football? Ultimate frisbee?” I love asking this question for research purposes and I’m surprised when girls say “I don’t know.” Then I ask, “Well if you are feeling lonely and need the intimacy of a strong man, what do you do? Where do you go?” And these girls then have to think about it! With all that high-octane relationship advice available in Cosmo, most girls have absolutely no plan for meeting guys. They don’t even have a go-to spot where the chances of meeting a guy is higher, and honestly believe they shouldn’t have to lift a finger to meet someone. Now if you ask a Brazilian girl these questions, she’ll say, “I wear my short skirt and smile at cute guys.” Common sense, you’d think, but obviously it’s not for American girls. The culture has trained them that meeting someone is completely out of their control, and they should just focus on work instead so they can get a 4% raise this year instead of last year’s 3%, which barely kept pace with inflation.

(2) “What kind of dates do you go on? I was thinking of taking you to this burger joint I know of. They have this thing called the dollar menu. You can get anything you want—all on me.” You already know the answer to this question: dinner dates. Boring and expensive dinner dates. Once in a while she tells me about some SWPL activity like hiking, but understand that 99% of guys over the age of 25 take girls to restaurants. Do you know how lubricated the pussy will get if you take her to a dive bar that smells like vomit? How dare you do that, you alpha stud!

Now let’s say you’re a Russian in Russia. You know the game is super-alpha there, but how about if you tone down the alphaness in a couple areas and run some contrary game to what the Russian men are doing. You’ll be so novel from your game alone that I’m confident you’ll see better close-rate percentages.

If you don’t know any alphas to model your game after, then just study the betas (they’re in plentiful supply), and then do the opposite. That alone will get you halfway there.

This is my last post for 2010.

While I don’t thing it’s hard for a book to change your life, enhancing it in some way, I do think it’s rare for one to completely alter your future and put you on a different path than you had intended. This latter type of book ultimately causes you to take a risk that increases the likelihood of an earlier death. Books that have done it for me include Surely You’re Joking Mr. Feynmann, Walden, and A Death In Brazil. They instilled enough curiosity and provided enough motivation to quit my job and hit the road for South America. My book A Dead Bat In Paraguay has also done this for a handful of guys, too, sending them to third world swamps of disease that are less safe than their pleasant suburban cubicle. Malaria, anyone? It’s possible that some men may have their life expectancies shortened thanks to me. Cool.

It looks like I may have to add a new book to my list: The Exile: Sex, Drugs, And Libel In The New Russia.

I have a close Russian friend who would tell me stories about the motherland, but besides mentioning the occasional vacation to Moscow, he hasn’t ever given much detail about what goes on inside the country. I was always curious yet never motivated to visit. Then I read The Exile.

The book is centered around Mark Ames, a self-described loser from California who goes to Moscow to get away from America. He’s soon joined by Matt Taibbi, who you may know from his recent articles in The Rolling Stone. For nearly a decade they go on to publish the most controversial newspaper that post-Communist Russia has ever seen.

The story begins with Mark Ames and his 9-month ordeal with butt scabies in the “European Care House,” where he mooched off his foreign girlfriend and her mom. Afterwards, he leveraged his stepfather’s death from a brain tumor to land a shitty job in Moscow, eventually winding up as a personal assistant for a smelly Pakistani mogul. After a gig with an English rag called Living Here, he started up his own paper called The Exile with the help of a shady Russian investor.

Drug use is featured very prominently in the book (the launch of The Exile involved bountiful supplies of methamphetamine to meet deadlines). The authors prefer heroin, speed, and cocaine to alcohol or marijuana, and even go so far as to detail sociological reasons why speed was more likely to take off in Estonia than Russia, for example. In fact, most of the newspaper was written under some type of substance (the graphic designer drank one beer for all 24 pages of the publication, passing out at his desk upon completion). I’m not big into drugs, but some passages made me want to score some smack and inject it directly into my veins for the hell of it.

The expatriate mentality is a tough thing to explain easily. Any affluent or even middle-class American who renounces the good life of sushi delivery and 50-channel cable television to relocate permanently to some third-world hole usually has to be motivated by a highly destructive personality defect. Either that, or something about home creates psychological demons that in turn create the urge for radical escape.

While Ames was working as a slave for the Pakistani, Taibbi played professional basketball in Mongolia. He returned to the States for surgery and then jetted off to Moscow to work as a writer. Ames steals him from Living Here and the synergy that results takes us on a wild ride through Moscow’s corrupt government, the two-faced expat community, and the techno club scene full of teenage girls who were eager to copulate with Americans. Of course I couldn’t get enough talk about Russian girls, with my favorite part of the book being when they describe ladies night at the Duck Bar. It was dubbed “rape camp” by the expats, a place where “you got laid even if you didn’t want to.” Rivers of puke, massive brawls, police raids, and sex on tables were the norm. “The Duck changed people,” they said.

Included are dozens of full-length Exile articles to give perspective on the stories, which are just as fun to read as the main text. This is one of those books you didn’t want to end, so I made sure to read all the articles to prolong the pleasure.

Of course Russia is better off now, but I decided that I must (eventually) visit a country where “even the policewomen are hot.” Fuck places like Prague, a safe destination with cheesy, Western-owned businesses that’ll remind me of Buenos Aires (Ames describes how Czech women are far inferior to Russian women, anyway). To top it all off, Ames hates American women. In the chapter titled “The White God Factor,” he shreds them so bad I don’t advise any American girl to read the book unless they want to be put on suicide watch. Quotes like this only put a smile on my face:

All American women, and practically all the European women, are socially and sexually devasted by Russia. They’re at a massive disadvantage for the first time in their lives. They didn’t expect it at all. None of us did. We all came here expecting to skim the top, showing the poor savages how to work, eat, dress… But things started to happen to us. We—the expat men and women—veered off in wildly different directions, on to nonintersection planes.

…

Expat women like my old girlfriend get hit with a double-whammy of shit luck in Moscow: First, they’re physically outclassed by the Russian girls; and secondly, the Russian men are slouched, pasty, unkempt, and, in most Western women’s eyes, the ugliest men in Europe. And yet… even the Russian men don’t want expat women. Which leaves—exactly no one wanting expat women. That’s right: no one.

Just a couple weeks ago I was at a coffee shop when a tall Russian woman walked in. She was just barely cute, and could stand to lose a couple pounds, but she had on a sexy red dress and four inch high heels. Her makeup and hair were immaculately done, and it was only two in the afternoon. Even though there were hotter American girls in the coffee shop along with her, she made them invisible and almost worthless. She was the only girl that entire day that I’d work for in order to lay, and it was no surprise that the American man who came out to meet her (internet date, I suppose) couldn’t contain his excitement. He wore a cheesy grin as if to say, “I don’t believe my luck!” Hell, I felt lucky just to witness her, like a zoologist catching two endangered animals mating in the wild without having to use binoculars.

American women have been raised to believe that traditional qualities of femininity—appearing as though you are trying to please the man by caking on makeup, wearing tight short skirts that show off your legs, speaking in a high voice, giggling, and deferring to his desires—as well as characteristics usually used to describe sluts—high heels, heavy perfume, sleeping with a man on the first night without demanding he use a condom—are not only atavistic and repugnant but, ultimately, unsuccessful tactics in the competition for Mr. Right.

Ames and Taibbi paint a portrait of Russia being the last known wild west, where death or dismemberment is a real concern. I know things have changed since the book was published in 2000, but as long as I avoid uber-rich Moscow, I think I can capture some of what they experienced over a decade ago. The fact that they make a place like Brazil seem like Disneyland on family fun day means I have no choice but to visit, sooner than later. I highly recommend The Exile, one of those rare books that makes me want to be a part of the story. After you read the book, check out theVanity Fair exposé that acts as the epilogue.

Not until I was back in the U.S. for five months did I go on a date with an American girl I hadn’t already slept with. My game up to that point was only one-night stands and late-night meetups, and while it was serving me well, I was essentially porking the same girl over and over again.

This new girl I took out was a little different—classy and elegant with superb body posture developed from years playing the piano. I initially approached her at a coffee shop and we connected on various levels: we both have traveled extensively, we both speak Spanish, and we both hate D.C. The first date would be judged as a success by most people, with kissing at around the two-hour mark and enough gas left in the tank to keep it going for far longer.

I have a bad habit when I kiss a new girl without sleeping with her (i.e. when there is still sexual tension). For the first night I think about her. I imagine how the relationship would pan out along with all the nice little moments we’ll have, until I snap out of it the next day. But with this girl, my brain wouldn’t go along with my cheesy routine. I struggled to conjure up any sort of future scene between me and her even though we matched quite well on paper. I started to think of the reason why.

If I showed up looking nice on a date with a Brazilian girl, she’d compliment my appearance. An American girl would ask if I was a “hipster,” or make some otherwise neutral comment similar to one a random elderly lady might give in a grocery store line. Do I need a girl to make a positive comment about my appearance? No.

If I was having a great time with a Colombian girl, she’d touch my thigh and say she was having a… great time. When an American is having a great time, she’ll tell a convoluted story about how her friend is dating some guy she met on the internet. It’s my responsibility to flesh out some underlying metaphor that is supposed to represent her feelings for me. Do I need a girl to make a statement telling me she’s enjoying my company? No.

If a Puerto Rican girl likes me, she’d invite me to her home to bake a dish from her country that she suspects I might like. An American girl will offer me her Chipotle leftovers or make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, untoasted. Do I need a girl to cook delicious food for me? No. I don’t need a girl to do anything but spread her legs, but these optional things hit the provider buttons of my brain, telling me that I can put more effort and investment into the girl. They tell me to take a short break from the game and enjoy at least a little bit of time with this new person.

Two days after the date with the American girl, I was out, prowling harder than ever. While she kissed me with enthusiasm and let me begin to make explorations of her petite body, the interaction had the same staleness I’ve become numb to. There was nothing about it that instilled any type of hope or feeling that my happiness would increase if I spent more time with her. The best analogy I can give you is that we were colleagues trying to hide an affair from everyone in the office. It didn’t matter that we were in the dark corner of the bar or isolated in a car, but it’s as if people she knew were watching and judging her, and she was not allowed to say pleasant things or initiate a touch that could be considered “strong interest.” And forget about displays of natural human vulnerability—that’s simply not allowed.

Maybe we were starring in a reality show and she wanted to solidify a hard-as-balls reputation so that she would get a future book deal with an idea she had been tinkering with for the past couple of years: “How To Be A Cutthroat Independent Woman In A Cutthroat World. Did I Mention Cutthroat? Cutthroat!” There wasn’t a scrap of feeling or emotion, and any opening up on my part by making positive but non-needy comments about our interaction would be severely punished with her not returning my texts or calls. Opening up to a Colombian, Brazilian, or Puerto Rican girl would be rewarded with reciprocation and a further deepening of the relationship.

The connection I get from one month with a Brazilian girl is the same connection I can get from spending one year with an American. The former starts calling me “baby” by the second date, something I started to do but actively repress for American girls. I’m two different men—one cold and unaffectionate to get some cheap fucks that tide me over until I’m rewarded for being a passionate, confident man to a grounded woman who knows how to be happy in a relationship.

I’ve dated too many American girls like the one I’m describing to you, so many “coworkers” who wanted to stay professional. (The only time that mask comes off is when I penetrate her—then she adopts a completely different persona that is best described as porn satire.) One reason I have tolerated this behavior recently is I was only interacting with them for a short time until getting to sex. And most of that time was under the influence. Prolonging the process with long-form dating reminded me of how challenging it is to accept this masculinity and lack of warmth, especially when you’ve discovered that it’s not real, that women are really not like this. Believe me when I say I’m not angry, bitter, or sad—I’m only disappointed that the women of my birth country have been destroyed through the work of intellectual man-haters. Or is it the fault of suits in power who go along with the anti-man nonsense to lock up the female vote? All I know is that winning the lottery is only marginally harder than finding a woman who can serve her man like in the not-so-distant past.

Read this profile and tell me if it was written by a man or woman:

I’m an ironically-self-proclaimed “bright young thing” in Washington DC, by way of the midwest. I currently work as a researcher/analyst/Intelligence and Reconaissance Ninja for a social media PR agency, where I anxiously await the DotCom Bust 2.0. I also frequently find myself on the fringes of the DC libertarian movement, having begun my life here as an intern for the free-market think tank mafia. My favorite pastimes include brunch, blogging, sharpening my wit, terrifying people with my charm, self-parody, and digesting the absurdities of the world around me. And in case you were curious, I’m much sweeter in real life.

If you told me this was written by a man, I’d raised my left eyebrow (the only one I can raise independently) at the “much sweeter in real life” statement, but I wouldn’t be particularly shocked. It has the hallmark style of a guy trying to be witty and smart to impress whomever might read it—with the intention of sparking interest in a girl who desires someone with a stable job. Well it’s in fact written by a woman, a term I have no choice but to use loosely these days. After taking several hours and a dozen drafts to get it just right, I guarantee you “she” congratulated herself for coming up with such a powerful! and impactful! description of who she is. While I have no doubt that sexless dweebs who didn’t notice her misspelling of reconnaissance are lining up to shower her with attention, her profile is what I think about when I want to get rid of a persistent boner, or when I want to last longer in the sack while I’m fucking a girl.

I won’t neglect to mention the flip side of the detached, professional woman because I just met her a couple weeks ago—a young lipstick feminist educated in an expensive university. She was sexy but had the bad habit of biting my lip, and not the sensual nibble that increases pleasure, but a sting that caused me to instinctively pull my head back. “Don’t bite my lip like that,” I said the first time it happened. “Oh come on,” she replied. It was my fault I didn’t enjoy the bite, even though it felt like the prick of a novacain needle before getting a cavity filled. She did it again. I’m serious don’t bite my lip. She was insulted. How dare I question her chomps of passion!

She calmed down for a couple hours, but then it came again much harder than before. You might as well have taken a binder clip meant for a stack of papers and put it on my lip to pinch off a piece of flesh. I flipped out and the interaction terminated. I’m certain she went home to complain about me to her friends: “What a loser I met tonight! When am I going to find a real man who can handle this jelly!”

During the five days it took for the little scab to slough off my lip, I wondered where I could score some of the testosterone she must be injecting so I, too, can adopt a take-no-prisoners attitude that she was taught will get her what she wants out of life. In reality the testosterone is not injected directly into her skin—it’s absorbed by her brain through the culture, which is rewarding young girls when they display go-getting aggressiveness that men used to possess. At the same time it punishes the easy-going, compliant qualities that are necessary to maintain fulfilling relationships and sane households. Even basic human traits like charm and flirtatiousness are like abstract paintings in America, nebulous constructs that no one wants to figure out or work on.

I thought back to the Colombian girl who was too meloso (affectionate) after just a couple weeks of dating. Not used to this behavior, I sternly told her to tone it down. I still remember her response—it was the same as a newborn kitten adjusting to earthly light: scared and confused. What a heartless monster she must’ve saw me as! Thing is I was a monster. They say acceptance is the first step, and with each foreign woman I date, I come closer to being a man that I would’ve never been had I not peeked around the corner into the “bad” neighborhood that all the cool kids seem to be sneaking out of.

Grab a random man off an American street. Take away the penis, broad shoulders, and body hair. Add breasts, a crotch hole stingy with its lubrication, and a tendency for inane chatter that is insignificant to all forms of life two minutes after it’s uttered. You have an American woman. I’m not attempting to be funny: I sincerely cannot feel the difference between the men and women of this country once you take away the clothing and hair. Men look and act like fags while women act like men of yesterday, all to make a lot of money in an office park that contains a Starbucks. If you draw a venn diagram of both genders the circles might as well completely overlap. My expectations with women here are so low that going out with one is like spending time with my 7-year-old brother: as long as she doesn’t piss her pants and embarrass me in public, the date was a great success.

The man who doesn’t mind American women is cold and disconnected himself, hopelessly confused about his masculinity and his place in the world. I’d be an easy cheap shot for me to say “they deserve each other,” but the truth is no one else wants them. If a Brazilian man couldn’t fuck an American girl, he wouldn’t spend a minute with her on a beach in Rio while educating her about his culture. If a Russian girl couldn’t get a greencard from an American man, she’d rather put up with the alcoholic trolls dying off like flies in her own country than swallow her pride and post a dating profile on the internet.

An American man mating with his own kind reminds of when I saw two stray dogs having sex on a South American beach. The male had a little bicycle tire stuck around his neck which was attached to a long rope that trailed behind him (put there by some teenager I imagine), while the female was a nasty little thing infested with boils that finally let the male mount her next to a heap of trash. Locals and tourists were laughing at the scene, rushing to grab their cameras to take pictures. The dogs finished their business oblivious to the mocking.

One day later and the tire and rope was still attached to the male. I’m certain he died with it. The American man is not as helpless—he is free to remove the tire and rope, but decades of brainwashing have led him to believe that a fucking tire around his neck is the way things should be and that there is no alternative. Like the feral dog, he will fade into oblivion unaware that people are laughing at him when he copulates with the man-beast he calls a woman, or worse, a wife.

While traveling I rather say I’m a dirty Muslim Turk than an American. Seeing drunk douche bag Australians pull over my American counterparts is all the proof I need that the people from my country turn off others. Our culture of money and flash is universally admired, but the ignorant, fat, and lost populace that make up 99% of this country is wholly revolting to those who accept what it means to be human. The less American women I date and the more steps I take back from what it means to be American, the more I feel like a real person.