Photos of Couples In Love

Did you notice a pattern in professional photos that show a man and woman in love? See if you know what I’m talking about in this example:

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That’s a fine couple, may they make many huWhyte Babiez together. I believe the woman in that photo is Vivii Suominen, European pageant runner-up from Finland.

Question: What could have made that photo more true to romantic love?

Answer: Natural sexual polarity.

Explanation: She could have been directed by the photographer to look up adoringly at her man while he — calm and cocksure — looks at us through the camera’s eye.

Reverse-polarity is the norm in contemporary depictions of sexual intimacy. It’s an observation I made a while ago and to test it, I web-searched variations on relevant key words “couples photo,” “man woman love,” “woman adores man,” and similar. What did I find?

  • The woman triumphantly eye-fucking the camera (isn’t she supposed to be doing that to him?), the man lost in her labyrinths such as in this blood-curdling shot:

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Squaaaaawk! cries the bird of prey. Or like in this distressing pic:

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Other combinations included:

  • Both looking into the distance
  • Both looking at each other

But I did not find one single professional photo that showed a man looking at the camera, with her adoringly gazing up at him.

Do we live in a loveless time, or is it just the art directors?

As goes the eternal truth, the next generation can set things right.

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Tinder Strategy For Women

I will tell you a secret in a little bit.

But first, look at the woman in this picture. She has pretty eyes. She gets the high-value man:

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She will find:

  • An attractive man in her life
  • A family and children of her own
  • Happiness

She is smart. Do you want to pop pills like the older girls do?

She offers something that attractive men desire.

Here is the secret.

You always find what you look for.

To All The Girls I’ve Loved Before

I’m a face-man. Then, its on to appraising her everything else. #whitegirlsaremagic — celebrate their rich diversity right here:

Gilded Siren. Designer stilettos. Elbow bumped; red wine trickles down her naked forearm.

Goofy Girl. Trips over her own feet running up to me. Wants to titter but snorts instead.

The Feline. Always so serious! but make her laugh and she can’t keep her hands to herself.

The Keeper. Her touch is light even when nobody is looking. Don’t spoil her.

Wounded Hollow. What’s so great about darkness anyway? A ballad is all that’s left.

Artsy Chick. Dainty shoulders under an unfashionable t-shirt. Lost and looking.

Earnest Naïf. Watery eyes, pale cheeks. “Men listen because they want to fuck you, dear.”

Dark Lady. Smart and brittle. In passing, our gazes hold longer than is allowed.

Ebullient Flirt. Giggles like an explosion at a chimes factory. A rump made for spanking.

***

John Berryman (born John Allyn Smith, Jr.) is on the outside, looking in:

Filling her compact & delicious body
with chicken páprika, she glanced at me
twice.
Fainting with interest, I hungered back
and only the fact of her husband & four other people
kept me from springing on her

or falling at her little feet and crying
‘You are the hottest one for years of night
Henry’s dazed eyes
have enjoyed, Brilliance.’ I advanced upon
(despairing) my spumoni.—Sir Bones: is stuffed,
de world, wif feeding girls.

—Black hair, complexion Latin, jewelled eyes
downcast . . . The slob beside her feasts . . . What wonders is
she sitting on, over there?
The restaurant buzzes. She might as well be on Mars.
Where did it all go wrong? There ought to be a law against Henry.
—Mr. Bones: there is.

“Dream Song 4” (1959)

***

Czesław Miłosz also learns that some things cannot be possessed:

I looked at that face, dumbfounded. The lights of métro stations flew by; I didn’t notice them. What can be done, if our sight lacks absolute power to devour objects ecstatically, in an instant, leaving nothing more than the void of an ideal form, a sign like a hieroglyph simplified from the drawing of an animal or bird? A slightly snub nose, a high brow with sleekly brushed-back hair, the line of the chin – but why isn’t the power of sight absolute? – and in a whiteness tinged with pink two sculpted holes, containing a dark, lustrous lava. To absorb that face but to have it simultaneously against the background of all spring boughs, walls, waves, in its weeping, its laughter, moving it back fifteen years, or ahead thirty. To have. It is not even a desire. Like a butterfly, a fish, the stem of a plant, only more mysterious. And so it befell me that after so many attempts at naming the world, I am able only to repeat, harping on one string, the highest, the unique avowal beyond which no power can attain: I am, she is. Shout, blow the trumpets, make thousands-strong marches, leap, rend your clothing, repeating only: is!

She got out at Raspail. I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself; a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.

“Esse” (1954), transl. Czesław Miłosz and Robert Pinsky

***

But other things can be:

You lead me on with those innocent eyes
You know I love the element of surprise
In the garden I was playing the tart
I kissed your lips and broke your heart
You
You were acting like it was the end of the world

U2, “Until The End of the World” (1992)

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The Prisoner’s Dilemma and Game

The most fragile of ecosystems is the courtship matrix of a given society. In a closed system, a culture will have reached its equilibrium among its competing sexual interests, based on which the expectations of behavior among men, as well as between the sexes, are understood. There are no hard feelings when you know the rules of the game, even if those rules rest on the Prisoner’s Dilemma tension between trust and opportunism.

What follows are my evolving thoughts on various things that come up in the study of Game.

There are two stable Prisoner’s Dilemma sexual scenarios — one in which the Alphas (top 10% of men by whatever metric their society sorts those things) and Betas (middle 80% of men) keep a cease-fire agreement with each other — and one in which they don’t. First, the latter:

R-Selection / Matriarchy — the men are in a war of all against all. In its extreme form, this scenario is a sexual market free-for-all in which the comparatively few Alphas elbow out the majority of the men, or Betas, and monopolize the women. Beta males, in turn, either drop out or they resort to raping women. Rape can be literal, or it can be symbolic: leering, catcalling, assault. In doing so, the disenfranchised Betas seek to knock the higher SMV girls off their pedestals because… what have they got to lose?

All matriarchies have one thing in common: over time the women become ugly, inside and out. They become that way in part as a defense against being bombarded by endless unwanted advances. They become corrupted by their adventures with to the most vulgar expressions of masculinity. But the kicker is, part of them also loves all that attention along with the lowered expectations on their behavior, and they become complacent, having lost the incentive to bring anything to the table besides their gash.

In a matriarchy, men display and women choose. But under patriarchy, women aren’t let off the hook: they have to put in a little work and audition before the men too. Which takes us to:

K-Selection / Patriarchy — the men make a deal with each other. This is a win-win scenario in which Betas concede the first-tier women to the Alphas, who in turn leave the second-tier women untouched for the Betas. Under this arrangement’s ideal form, pure monogamy, the Alphas claim the most beautiful women while the Betas hold up their end of the bargain by not bothering the girls who are — remember that phrase? — out of their league. This scenario maximizes the quality and quantity of women for all but the Omega males and foreign interlopers, both of whom the Betas keep an eye on.

(On that last thought, I wonder — is white-knighting also an evolved Beta tribute to the Alpha, a readiness to protect the higher-value women for her present or future Alpha’s sake in exchange for the higher-ranking men leaving plenty of other women alone for the Beta, a kind of lord-vassal reciprocity?)

So under Patriarchy, girls get to relax a little. The bitch-shields are lowered because the first-tier girls aren’t pestered by presumptuous Betas’ clumsy fumbling and the second-tier girls by Alphas’ nakedly mercenary interest in them. And paradoxically, this collective self-restraint does not create a sexless or repressed environment. Quite to the contrary: Betas are charming without being creepy, while the Alphas lay on the charisma without triggering a lower-tier girl’s anti-slut defenses. And the girls can then let down their guard and actually be pleasant to everyone.

How did this dynamic play out before Western women nosedived into the gutter? I think that up to two decades ago, for example, Western Europeans’ relaxed attitude about nudity, or Eastern European girls’ femininity after the Cold War, may well have been the fruits of the successful cooperation between the Alphas and Betas in their respective Prisoner Dilemmas.

As to Game itself — under all of its carpe diem promise, was it nothing but the Betas’ usurpation of the natural order? No. Game is not the breaking of trust, it is Betas’ adaptation to their newly dispossessed state; namely, the loss of their own pool of second-tier women to obesity and to the Alpha cock carousel. If first-tier women are beauties, then second-tier ones are what used to be known as “pretty girl next door,” or normal young women who made up in personality where they lacked in exquisite sexual appeal. Female liberation and the obesity epidemic destroyed those kinds of girls, and with them, the Beta’s obligation to the old agreement.

But White men and women don’t do r-selection well or for too long, therefore sooner or later the angels and devils of our nature will once again come to a settlement.

How to Choose a Wife in a Feminist Society

Why marry? To have children. There is no other reason, but optimally the added value of being married includes doubling the size of your family and expanding your social circle, career-friendly optics, psychological ballast as you age, and sometimes you might even gosh-darned like the chick you know inside-out who’s curled up next to you. But does a marriageable girl even exist in a feminist society? A commenter at Alpha Game says “Yes” and he describes her:

1. She has few (or no “real”) girlfriends.
2. She’s never in the middle of girl-drama.
3. She never induces white-knighting urges.
4. She clearly prefers the company of men-as-friends.
5. She sticks with one romantic interest and doesn’t flirt with other men.
6. (guessing on this one) She desires a traditional life: Lifetime husband, kids, house, white picket fence, dog, etc., and structures her life to that goal.

That is a perceptive list, except for 1 and 4 — those are bright, lurid, pulsating warning beacons. A woman with no female friends becomes that way because she repels people who aren’t interested in her pussy; i.e., other women. She also actively avoids friendship with women because unlike fawning male “friends,” fellow-femmes demand a modicum of pleasant personality and semblance of a giving character in a girlfriend.

OK, sometimes you can find an unconventional, in many such cases a highly intelligent woman, who can’t relate to other women. Still beware — atypical female personality comes with unfeminine deal-breakers. Do you want to be the one running around the house with the vacuum cleaner?

The reader at Alpha Game continues:

It helps if she was an ugly duckling (or geographically isolated from the social milieu, e.g. with a chronic illness) during her post-adolescent years (13-17), thus avoiding the mind-warping influence of being orbited by a retinue of young men.

“Ugly ducking” should mean that she was a late-bloomer, not literally ugly. Avoid ugly and obese women, and not just for the tautological reasons. (One would think I needn’t tell men to avoid unattractive women, and yet the couples I see because of so much thirst that’s out there…). Go for the girl who is over your attractiveness threshold but with the best character possible.

The face mirrors the character. A frumpy physiognomy is shaped by a frumpy attitude toward life. As cruel as it may sound, stay clear of women with chronic illness, unless you want an expensive and very limiting life with her, along with bad genes to pass to your children. Same with obese women — she’s fat because she is a slob with poor self-control. Young man, a piggy doesn’t deserve and won’t appreciate your love.

A girl like this is “available” for a very brief time before someone locks her down for the long term.

Witness. Something I noticed immediately after my senior year of high school, while I was getting blowjobs from drunk girls at parties, is that the cute wallflower classmate of mine was off marrying the quiet twenty-something dude she took to the prom several months earlier.

She is the unusual: a woman with the capacity to reason, and (generally) zero interest in running (or ruining) other’s lives.

That reader I’m quoting describes a woman without an overflowing abundance of ebullient femaleness. The nice girl is something mature men appreciate in concept, but as downside those girls do not signal sexually and a young man (for whom this post is written) wants a sexpot. He overlooks the potentially ideal wife in favor of the hormonal, gilded fertility-goddess he wants to bang. The thing is, everyone else wants to bang the hottie too. Go for it and wife her up, Mr. Tight Game, but first glance up at the title of this post. Can you handle the liabilities that come with such a babe? Paul McCartney couldn’t even handle a one-legged model.

Is this a post about unicorns? Are the decent wives and mothers “still on the other side of bloody revolution,” as a reader here once asked? A commenter at Alpha Game posted a similar question last year, to which Vox replied that women conform to their peer groups, so in order to find good wife material, look not for a girl that is traditional in an absolute sense (she is rare), but in the relative sense. In other words, go for the most traditional girl relative to her peer group.

My earlier “Marriage Advice to a Millennial” offers an unconventional but effective formula for beating the odds of getting divorced once you are married.

The Wages of Cuckoldry is Scorn

American football star Colin Kaepernick disavowed the U.S. national anthem, and not because of his government’s imperial rapine. Rather, he gave this as his reason:

I am not going to stand up to show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color.

Did Kaepernick’s adoptive parents echo King Lear’s plaint about a thankless child and a serpent’s tooth? Black-fathered bastards or adoptees raised by Whites often embrace their missing father’s African identity. This is understandable given human nature, but what interests me is the spiteful contempt they almost invariably show for their European cuck and wet-nurse benefactors.

It’s been an ugly story, even before the flag flap. Kaepernick’s biological father, true to script, dindu nuffin. His White biological mother, who gave him up for adoption in infancy, attempted to contact her son after he had already become a millionaire and her parents, in turn, hasten to add that they supported their daughter in her obscene pregnancy. Her second son is White; the poor child was delivered from a telegony-stained womb. Kaepernick’s adoptive parents are humiliated and not just by the anthem controversy. This photo is from three years ago and the eyes tell all:

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Image credit: (c)fox40.com

Colin Kaepernick is nature’s instrument of cruel but fair justice. The serpent’s tooth is for the best, a reassertion of the one-drop-rule absent its codification into law. Something always arrests Europe’s tropical drift. As Czesław Miłosz wrote in his poem about rebellion:

And what I have met with in life was the just punishment
Which reaches, sooner of later, the breaker of a taboo.

 

The Mudshark: A Comedy Or A Tragedy?

A young brunette and a dark-skinned man are strolling about downtown on a nice evening, looking idly into the storefront windows they walk past. It’s not what you think. I was meeting up for drinks with a group of coworkers and as it happened, most of us were running late except the above-mentioned brunette and the Black coworker of mine, who were not a couple. To kill time while waiting for the rest of the group, they walked around for a bit. Later, she described to me the shock of noticing people’s reactions to the sight of them as a presumed couple. She said that she’s never experienced that before: every person she passed either gave her dagger-looks or froze her out. “How can somebody choose to live that way?” she asked.

On a crowded subway train, a petite White woman stood with her stroller turned away from me. I gave her a sympathetic smile as she jostled her way through the crowd to get off the train at her station. She caught that and responded glowingly. Then she turned the stroller, revealing a biracial child that obviously had a Black father, and — this was purely a reflex on my part — my friendly expression changed to a cold mask. She caught that too, and it showed in her eyes.

How about an East Asian perspective on mixing? Stationed as a U.S. soldier in Korea, I was out with a local girl one afternoon. We were cutting through apartment blocks and came upon a group of young boys who shouted something at us in Hangul. Her face turned deep red, she squeezed my hand and prompted me to walk quickly. Once clear, I asked her what they said. She replied “they called me a terrible name, I don’t want to tell you.” Two years later, now out of the Army and back in the United States, I was having lunch with another Korean girl. She mentioned that she had two Amerasian classmates in Seoul and told me that the half-White girl was very nice. She then scrunched her face into a portrait of disgust and added “the Black one was so ugly. Everybody hated her.”

Folks, I didn’t create the world, I just describe it. For pretty lies, you’re free to look at Old Navy ads. For ugly lies, turn on your television. And as for comedy, there is this story in the Observer, titled “The Tiresome Question I’m Often Asked About My Brown Kids: Where Are They From?” that transcends the sordid to reach for high farce:

I’m a white mother of six children, five of whom are children of color, and four of whom came home to our family through foster-adoption.

So… one out of six ain’t bad? Not exactly:

[M]y first child, Rory, who is my biological son. His father is Jamaican, and Rory, now 18, alternates between referring to himself as biracial or Black.

Sometimes you just have to laugh. The linked article is unadulterated comedy pinned on hackneyed bitching about normal questions that normal people ask her about her abnormal household.

But that spectacular story aside, what about the common and depressingly banal instances of mudsharking — does one laugh or weep at one woman’s self-removal from the common gene-pool? I guess it depends on whether you think that her straying was predisposed or an accident. Or to expand on that question, is exogamy effectively nature culling a defective female in a mocking form of subtractive eugenics? That is the case if you accept a deterministic explanation that ‘sharks are genetically predisposed to becoming morbidly generous and disloyal. In that scenario, female exogamy is a boiling-off dynamic similar to Amish youths who leave their communities for modern life.

Or is the eugenic explanation false because women are malleable, or like leaves in the wind that follow the strongest current? That would make miscegenation a tragic loss to all of us, no different, from the Darwinian perspective, than an ordinary teenage girl’s death in a traffic accident.

More succinctly then, is it fate or chance? I will leave that question to the reader, but first ask him to acknowledge a common overcorrection of sex-realism, the tendency to discharge women of their agency. When it comes to sex, from selecting the shade of lipstick to making herself vulnerable to rape, nothing a woman does is “by accident.” Rather, her choices, big and small, follow a ruthlessly Machiavellian, internally consistent logic that guides her toward the optimization of her reproductive outcomes. In a healthy girl living in a healthy society, that internal guide can lead her toward life’s end-game of triumphant grandmotherhood. In other cases, her inner guide will be a false song, as with women who delay pair-bonding and motherhood. Or its program will be hijacked,  as with girls who deform themselves in body and soul.

Mudsharks follow that hijacked behavioral template. Some are extreme submissives thrilled by being degraded. And what’s more degrading that the steps that lead her toward lumbering through Walmart with fatherless, identityless children?  Others are acting out the female equivalent of omega-rage, lashing out at their world in the most devastating way they can, exacting revenge on their fathers or former White boyfriends by staining their own branch to spite the tree. And yet others merely have exotic tastes and as with the author in that Observer article, they want the world to know it.

So is the crossing of racial lines always pathological? My answer would be that miscegenation is a breaking of a taboo. Sometimes nothing bad happens. Sometimes love has strange whims and two good people find each other across cultures. In fair-weather times, a touch of spirit for vive la difference can even turn up a genial “superman.”

But these are not fair times and fortunes are no longer in a forgiving mood. A big part of our former dispensation was society’s acceptance of the collective costs of individual discretion and indiscretion. Yet tolerance has its limits and human nature, with its aversion to cuckoldry and habitat corruption, asserts itself when pushed by circumstances such as the current demographic climate Whites are finding themselves in, facing an engineered future of being minorities in our own countries. Such a worst-case-scenario is frightening to a sane person. And that is why the future is identitarian, which means that you have to know who you are.

***

Wisdom is a product of patriarchy. Old women transmit their fathers‘ lessons to their granddaughters. The man is a tree, with women as vines wrapped around him, assuming his shape. Where there is nothing upright, the vine creeps along the ground. Woman — like any human being — has agency but she needs a man’s guidance to balance her sometimes conflicting instincts, and without that guidance she flails. This is why as men, we are responsible for directing women toward decisions that do not destroy their lives and snuff out our common future in the literal crib.

Because if we don’t, we are enabling their behavior, letting them forget that a woman’s burden — normally a happy one — is to draw support from the same men whose child she bears. Fucks and bucks from the same men, which is why when they go Black, a natural process kicks in wherein men drive their unfaithful women to exile — literally or into internal exile, starting with hardened eyes on a crowded train.

It can be difficult, such as when you are a father faced with the choice of either the humiliation of being a race-cuckold or the pain of disowning your daughter. Gentlemen, don’t fool yourselves — there is no third way. That’s why to avoid the dilemma, if you have a daughter, raise her right and give her all your love and protection as she’s growing up. And at the right age, let her know that there are things you will not accept. Then if she turns her back on you, you are free to cut her off with a clean conscience. A commenter at Chateau Heartiste offered the words for a hypothetical conversation with one’s mature daughter before it’s too late:

if you betray your people by sharing your love with outsiders, they will reject you. the outsiders will also reject you, because you’re not one of them. you will be totally alone. nobody will want you. ever.

you will have no safety. no protection. no friends. no love.

And maybe tell her that yes, you get it, Black people have become America’s national mascot and you concede that it’s now bad form to criticize them. But then add: “silly girl, it’s Black women who are supposed to have babies with them.”