Fair Blog

Last night provided much fuel for this guerrilla anthropologist’s pen. Similar cast of characters going to the similar setting: J-Bird and his new roommate Howser. (Sonia, the old roommate, has since been evicted. That’s a whole different story, though.)

I got to J-Bird’s place and heard Howser was depressed about some girl. He showed up shortly thereafter and explained that he had an on-and-off girlfriend who keeps him on ice while she bangs other guys. She reels him back in with proclamations of love. More on that later.

J-Bird and I left for the bar without Howser. It looked as if his money worries and female problems were going to triumph over his aspirations to get drunk. We arrived at the bar at around 11:30pm after exploring our bar and party options.

Quickly, J-Bird recognized two skanky wenches and started talking to one of them. I and the other one stood there uncomfortably awaiting an introduction, a bygone custom in this age of utter oblivion. For our purposes here, their names were EC and EZ.

EC looked like a mosquito, maybe a 6 if you were feeling generous. EZ looked like a 5 who had the million cock stare. J-Bird had some catching up to do with EC, and so I introduced myself to EZ and we began talking.

We started out simply: where we were from. That led to highlighting something we had in common that we could talk about: BDSM. She was into the Los Angeles BDSM scene, and that was a subject I was very familiar with. In another life, I had gone to a few Bondage Balls and had my share of highly deviant sexual activities.

EC reappeared from her conversation with J-Bird. I later found out that EC only fucked black guys and had rejected J-Bird’s advances before; yet, she seemed to go after another white guy who seemed to have more alpha-cred not too long ago. Add her ugly face and flat chest into the mix and you should have EC figured out by now.

EZ, the one I had been talking to about BDSM stuff, seemed to be seeing signals that weren’t there. There was no way I wanted anything to do with her; she was simply a case study who was hoisted on me by circumstance. I was relieved to hear that Howser had called J-Bird saying he was on his way to the bar, a triumph over his pussy-whipped misery.

Howser is a young guy, 21 years old. I seized the opportunity to talk to him when he arrived as he is a man of relatively exceptional personal integrity. I got him to talk about his pussy problem, and it was an easy one: he fell in love with her, and it didn’t take long for her to dump him because she wants to ride the cock carousel while also fucking him when it suits her. He mentioned how it enrages him to know she’s fucking some other guy at a party tonight. I made it simple for him:

***

Fairi: “She wins either way, dude. Your rage is the same thing that’ll make you really fuck her good the next time she wants to, but it’s on her terms. She wins. You shouldn’t let her dominate your psyche so much. Play the field! If she knows you’re fucking other chicks and you’re not just waiting for her pussy, she’ll compete for your attention by fucking your brains out. Flip it on her, dude.”

Howser: “God, it pisses me off so much, but I know you’re right. I hate it, I HATE IT, but I know you’re right.”

F: “It’s really a matter of putting aside all the romantic bullshit we’ve been fed our whole lives and seeing things for what they are. We’re animals. We’re selfish.”

H: “So you’re telling me that all that stuff is just bullshit. It’s… it’s hard to just shut all that off.”

F: “I know, bro, and I was the same way when I was your age. You can either come to terms with it yourself or end up having feral women beat it out of you by the time you’re my age. One way or another, all that romantic lovey dovey crap gets you nothing but hurt. Someday you’ll be 30 and looking back saying, ‘That guy was right,’ and you may have to go through some bad experiences before you accept it.”

H: “Fuck, dude. Somehow, I hate it, but I know you’re right…”

F: “Look at it this way: at 21, you can fuck a hot 22 year old chick. At 31 you can fuck a hot 22 year old chick. At 41 you can fuck a hot 22 year old chick. At 51 you can fuck a hot 22 year old chick. At 61 you can fuck a hot 22 year old chick. At 71, if you’re dick still works and you still have lots of money, you can fuck a hot 22 year old chick. When a woman gets to 30 years old, she's screwed! Don’t get attached! You see, if a girl cheats on a guy he likes her less. If a guy cheats on a girl she likes him more.”

H: “Holy shit, dude.”

F: “The grim reality of women isn’t pretty but it’s reliable. Don’t let this one chick get you all bent out of shape. You ever notice how it’s easier to get pussy if you’re already fucking some chick, at least it’s easier than if you’re not fucking any chicks?”

H: “Yeah.”

F: “That’s it in a nutshell. Go with it, and play them off each other. Don’t let them play you. All that lovey dovey romanticism and monogamy is just bullshit the TV feeds to idiots to keep them working instead of jumping out of windows.”

H: “Fuck, I hate it, but I know you’re right.”

F: “I know it’s not easy to just shut down all that crap, but man, I wish I could go back and say these things to my 21-year old self. Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”

***

Of course, I wasn’t about to try and steer him away from women altogether. Instinctively, when working with blue pillers, it must be known that you can’t reasonably expect any young man to give up his sexual aspirations for a life of celibacy or even prostitute exclusivity.

For me, once I had figured out the parameters of the game and got the basics of female evolutionary psychology to replace my Mickey Mouse love stories, it was a slippery slope to going ghost. I could only hope that the seeds I planted land in fertile soil and will one day blossom, enabling Howser to save himself from a lot of unnecessary suffering.

By this time EC was talking with some other group and EZ went on to flirt with J-Bird. I was glad that she had picked another target, but Howser recognized EZ and warned Josh about her a little too loudly. Apparently, Howser knew EZ from a long time ago, and knew she was the town mattress and that she had a pussy that was more diseased than a hospital’s biohazard dumpster. EZ heard this, but still managed to get J-Bird into the bathroom for some classy fucking... or so he thought. She got him all hot and bothered, and then rejected him after giving him a good tease. She really got her ego biscuits from telling J-Bird she wasn’t fucking him.

Had J-Bird been less of a desperate pussy-addict, he not only would’ve seen that he was about to stick his dick into a dumpy, fat-assed, used up, skanky, disease-ridden gutter slut, but he would’ve also managed to have more fun last night.

While J-Bird was embarrassing himself by hanging all over the fugly EZ and going through the rites of one night stand bar hookups, Howser and I were laughing and talking with all sorts of people. I caught up with a guy who I haven’t seen in ages. I heard stories about being a chef in Afghanistan, how many times this guy avoided being blown up, and how many friends he had that did get blown up. I met a guy in his 60’s from Australia who had Howser and I laughing our asses off at everything he said. Howser and I kept getting free shots from a drunk ass guy who just fell in love with us for no particular reason. I was a all a blur of riotous fun and merry-making, especially when there were no more cunts around to spoil the party.

When the bar had closed and the barflies were outside, Howser and I were having a grand old time, but not J-Bird. The rejection and the drunkenness were spiraling downwards, and when EZ and EC left, it really sunk in for him that he was going home alone. The whole ride back he was upset, pouty, disenchanted. He blamed EC for ruining his chances with EZ, thinking his previous advances towards the mosquito ruined it for him. When he got home he was so angry that he started throwing his furniture around his own living room. His nice leather couch was turned up on its side, and Howser retreated to his room.

Today, after all the dust had settled, J-Bird seems to accept that he dodged a bullet, but he only sees it in terms of ego: fucking her would’ve made him look bad; that’s his story and he’s sticking to it. I was just glad to hear that he didn’t burn his house down or anything. J-Bird has been known to throw some very self-destructive tantrums.

Moral of the Story: don’t drink the koolaid. We’re constantly bombarded with the message that falling in love, getting married, and making babies are real achievements. They’re not. "Love" is a biological surge of neurochemicals based in the physical urge to reproduce. Marriage is only a good deal for women. Cockroaches make babies; it’s not a miracle.

Having sex may be gratifying and it may validate your sense of self, but other things can do that which are far less harmful to your life as a whole. What’s more is that once you stop measuring yourself in sexual terms, your sexual value skyrockets. It’s one of those neat little ironies when it comes to dealing with cunts.

J-Bird tortures himself by thinking that because he is in his early 30’s he should already be married and having kids, and if he doesn’t then that means he’s failing at the game of life. The exact opposite is true.