The United States Of Broken Women

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.

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