Why I Love Mrs. Ironwood

Just a short post today (and the peasants rejoiced . . . )

Mrs. Ironwood just returned from four days of being feted by the pharmaceutical industry, your Viagra dollars at work.  Four days of high-pressure conferences and exhausting, freewheeling discussions, high-powered business meetings and deep academic discussions about bioethics followed by night after night of receptions and cocktail parties.  She got back, exhausted and sleep-deprived, just yesterday.  At noon.  All she could think about was going to sleep.  She actually got a bit of a nap when my phone rings.  Papa Ironwood has been admitted to the hospital for some tests.  Nothing serious -- my dad is partially paralyzed, and they found a blockage in his leg, fairly routine surgery.  Since we have one of the most advanced medical facilities on the planet in our neighborhood (Middle-eastern potentates use it) I wasn't too concerned.  I let her sleep.

As if by magic, she sensed something was stirring in the Force.  She rose, and spent the next several hours on the phone speaking to doctors and reviewing his medical records.  She got up this morning and went to her own scheduled appointment and then headed right for Papa's room, where she's still working to ensure his proper care and treatment.

This isn't her father, mind you.  This is her Father-In-Law.

When you get married, it's a mistake to think you're marrying each other.  The fact is, you're marrying a family, and you don't get to control that family even a little bit.  Most people recoil from that idea, and spend the rest of their marriage trying to pry their mate from the clutches of their baggage-laden family in a misguided attempt to establish "independence".  Mrs. Ironwood and I embraced the idea.  When I married her, I got a new sister and mother in the deal, as well as some nieces, nephews, and assorted cousins.  When there's an issue in her side of the family, I don't hesitate to get involved.  Ditto for mine and her.  I could have fought with my mother-in-law constantly over the years, but that would have been unfair for everyone.  Mrs. I could have legitimately fought with certain elements (and they know who they are) of the Ironwood clan, but she didn't.  She accepted them as her family, good, bad, ugly and indifferent. Warts and all.

This is particularly poignant for me today, as it has just been announced across the Manosphere that a beloved commentor on HUS and other blogs, Thomas Munson, has passed away after a battle with cancer. Munson's wit and wisdom were legendary.  Susan at HUS is compiling a .pdf of his best quotes.  He was the Voice of Mature Authority for many of us, a surviving remnant of the Patriarchy fighting a guerilla war against the tides of feminism and Puerarchy.  We didn't always agree, but I always prized his wisdom.

The reason Munson's death makes me love Mrs. I even more is because Munson pointed out on a blog once (I think it was TPM) that a hot sexy babe is great for righteous sex . . . but she isn't likely to drive your ass to your oncology appointment four times a week.  Munson and his wife were prima facea evidence that men and women could work in an effective, fairly traditional partnership to the mutual benefit and enrichment of both parties, without anyone feeling oppressed or unequal or other bullshit like that.  He was a silverback Wolf Alpha who knew his place in the universe with the kind of utter certainty that breeds supreme confidence.  And his public duel with cancer was both inspiring and heartbreaking.

So if you're a single dude, and you meet a chick with big boobs who you just know will be the perfect mother of your children once she gives up her flirty ways and declares her undying devotion to you, consider asking her if she'd be up for carting your dad to the hospital, if she was to become your bride.  That might be the most instructive answer you get from her all evening.

Or if you're in a marriage that is in trouble, and you have doubts whether or not you can find happiness in this person's life and vice versa, consider how short your time here is, and how the very fact that you found each other at all is amazing in this world.  Think about driving her to the oncologist four times a week, every week, knowing that the inevitable conclusion to such a task is her death.  Unless things are really, really bad, that should offer you some useful perspective.

And if you're in a good, solid, dependable marriage . . . go hug your wife for no reason at all, and kiss her thoroughly and often.  It might not be glamorous or romantic or sophisticated, but if you actually have someone who will watch your back and devote her time to ensuring your comfort, health and safety, recognize what an utterly-lucky son-of-a-bitch you are.

And tonight, raise a glass to Munson in appreciation of his masculine wisdom and wit.  May his ancestors receive him in honor.

Forming A Proper Response To Hearing "Man Up!" From Your Wife

Once again, Athol at MMSL has made an intriguing post that inspired a response that grew to post-length itself.  So once again I'm using it for my own blog, because it's so damn pertinent.

The focus of the post was the insidious admonition to "Man Up" that we've been hearing steadily for two decades, and how it's often used as a shaming technique to get men to do stuff that is not necessarily in their best interests.

This is a bigger deal than most men realize.

One of the hardest things about taking the Red Pill is accepting responsibility for your own actions as a man and the head of your household (even if you are the only member of that household). It’s easy to be a Blue Pill dude and defer responsibility to other people — your wife, the government, someone else — but when you take the Red Pill and make that commitment to yourself that you will deal with the universe the way it is, and not the way it’s idealized to be, then things get complicated. And hard.

Athol’s absolutely right: when someone is telling you to “Man Up”, they’re invoking shame and using your own masculinity against you. 

Now, if that comes from a man then it can be seen 
as an invitation to remember your masculine power, qwitchyerbitchen, and do the job at hand. When men tell other men to “Man Up” (usually) they are trying to improve the condition of the other man. In the Male Social Matrix men are generally encouraged to help each other like that as part of the process of turning a Guy in to a Man . . . or simply providing moral support for a difficult issue. While the emphasis in the MSM is overtly on competition between men, a long list of masculine codes, from basic sportsmanship to battlefield chivalry, are designed to mitigate that competitive nature by tacitly providing assistance to less-able men.

While men are highly competitive, they also (as a class) tend to be dedicated to using their success and position to elevate other men even if it means that they are sacrificing a little competitive edge to do it.  Because while winning is vitally important to men, winning unfairly cheapens the effort.  And if your competitors are not at their best, then your best doesn't mean much.  An Olympic sprinter at a Middle School track meet isn't going to find much meaningful competition.  Any "wins" he makes there are going to be suspect -- not because he cheated, but because of the mediocre nature of competition.

Since men thrive on competition as the cornerstone of the Male Social Matrix, then the only way that the most successful competitors are going to experience real satisfaction with their success is to ensure that the competition is as challenging as possible.  When an Olympian goes to the games, the focus is not on "I'm going to win a Gold!" it's "I'm going to face the best athletes on the planet and I'm going to be shown -- in front of the entire world -- how I stack up."  So the impetus in the MSM is to improve your competition as much as you can without making them better than you.  It's the old "I taught him everything he knows . . . but I didn't teach him everything I know!" saw from the older, more experienced man referring to a competitive protege.

When a man tells another man to “Man Up” he’s offering both support and criticism, acknowledging the difficulties of the issue but also declaring his belief that the other man has within him the capability and testicular fortitude to get the job done despite his own fears and insecurities about the issue. Since all men have fears and insecurities, a quiet, private discussion about them with another dude who acknowledges those fears and insecurities but also expresses his belief in your ability to deal with them is a gift from another man.

And that's how most men take that kind of admonishment . . . from other men.  As constructive criticism and just enough shame implicit to be motivating.  The few times when another man has told me to "Man Up", "Sack Up", or "Cowboy Up", it has been a straight-up reminder that I'm a dude, I've got big hairy balls, and the way to properly approach a problem or challenge is not from a place of fear and insecurity, but from a place of confident determination, and I've been (in retrospect) grateful to the men who said it to me.

But when it comes from a woman, it’s the nastiest sort of insult. On par with the “C-word”.

When a woman says “Man Up”, she’s not offering constructive criticism wrapped in a masculine-flavored coating of support. She’s calling into question his masculinity and his ability to get the job done, and expressing her doubts about her dude in the most insidious of ways. 

Don't believe that ladies?  Think that telling your man to "Man Up" is no big deal?  Let me explain it to you like this: it’s the moral equivalent of presenting yourself to your husband before an important formal occasion after three hours prep on hair, make-up and wardrobe only to have him wrinkle up his forehead and say “You mean you’re going to wear that? In public?” Devastating.

In that situation, the asshole-in-question is undermining not just your confidence, but your ability to properly interpret and react to a complex social situation, which is the cornerstone of the Female Social Matrix.  In a very real way he's attacking your femininity, not through an overt assault on your sexuality or appearance or the other stuff that feminists get torqued up about, but by questioning your ability to navigate the FSM.

So when you ladies tell your man to "Man Up" in just about any situation, you are taking a well-aimed kick at his unprotected testicles.  And since it's coming from you, who knows him better than just about anyone, it's orders of magnitude worse than had it come from a stranger.

The Red Pill doesn’t banish fears and insecurities — if anything, once you know all of the things that can go wrong with your life, your wife, and your relationships, it can make you a little paranoid. But what the Red Pill can do for you is give you the space to acknowledge your own fears and insecurities and handle them. The Red Pill doesn’t say you have to be an indestructible, invulnerable, and emotionally-distant man in order to thrive. But it does give you just enough security and belief in yourself to push back when you get the shit-testing “Man UP!” from a woman.

So how does a Red Pill man, especially one working the MAP hardcore, respond to such a shrewish and inconsiderate request?

First, consider the context of the situation.  Carefully evaluate the objective challenges you face.  If it's a work issue, for example, and you understand how precarious your company is positioned in these uncertain economic times, then responding to your wife's request that you "Man Up" and demand a raise from your boss when the company is contemplating lay-offs demonstrates her lack of knowledge of the situation and suggests an appropriate, quietly-delivered response:

"Have you noticed it's not your name on my paycheck?  This job is my responsibility to navigate, and if I don't think this is an opportune time to push back, then you're just going to have to fucking trust me that I know what the hell it is I'm doing.  Because as delicate as things are, having someone who doesn't know what the hell she's talking about offering me bad advice about how to run my career isn't going to be doing me any favors."

And yes, use profanity.  Don't use insulting language or name-calling . . . but there is a time and place to display your command of invective to your woman, and this qualifies.

Or, if it's a tangled social situation -- for instance, stumbling across evidence that a male friend of yours is cheating on his spouse -- then an admonishment to "Man Up" from your woman is actually a nasty way for her to try to shame and manipulate you into feminine-behavior under the auspices that it's the "right" thing to do.  That is, when your wife wants you to "Man Up" and rat on your friend to his wife, what she's really trying to do is drag you into the uncleansed bowels of the Female Social Matrix and use you as her surrogate bitch.

Women often feel that they are the keepers of moral and ethical behavior in our society, which is Hamstereese for selectively using morality to increase their position in the FSM (or, conversely, to tear down another woman's).  Part of this can be blamed on the relative powerlessness women enjoyed in the pre-industrial era, when their only legitimate way of using power was through their men.  But now they can't use that excuse -- trying to drag a man into the FSM for your own purposes by shaming his sense of masculinity is nothing more than blatant manipulation.

So how do you respond to her "Man Up!" in this case?

"You know, it's been said that learning to mind your own business is 80% of all human wisdom.  This is a volatile situation that has the possibility of messing up a lot of people's lives,  and since it concerns something that's clearly none of our fucking business, then I'm going to 'Man Up' and exercise my masculine prerogative for wisdom by keeping my mouth shut and strongly encouraging my gossipy wife to do the same.  The fact is, we don't know all the facts.  We don't know what kind of private intimate relationship those two have, no matter how close we might be to them.  And stirring a turd of this size is just going to cover everyone in shit so . . . if you think me unmanly because I'm unwilling to destroy someone else marriage willy-nilly, then buy me a tutu and call me Fifi, Babe, because clearly I'm not man enough to do it."

Presented in a growling, obviously-judgmental tone of voice, this should shut down all future discussion on the topic, unless she's Batshit Crazy or, conversely, so tied into the FSM that your wishes on the matter do not matter to her.  Which implies you have much, much bigger problems on your hand that idle gossip.


Of course, the hardest time to hear "Man Up" from your woman is when it involves your own family.  Especially your relationship with your mother.  A wife/girlfriend and her mother-in-law is always a rough relationship, no matter how cordial it might seem.  In a very real way your woman and your mom are fighting for control over you, and both of them can use the "Man Up" as a shaming technique in their FSM power struggle.  This is particularly hard to take, and it can put you in a particularly bad spot.


When your wife tells you to "Man Up" when it comes to your mother or father, then once again objectively evaluate the context of the situation.  Usually that kind of fight comes when your parents are trying to get you to do something that your woman sees as a threat to your relationship or her power.  And while the last thing you want is your mother dominating your relationship, it's just as bad to have your wife dominate your relationship with your mother.  Hearing your mother tell you to "Man Up" in regards to your wife is just as bad, and calls for the same level of response.


In a Blue Pill marriage what usually happens is that the Beta in question gets in the middle and tries to act as an obsequious intermediary, inserting himself into the feminine power struggle in a particularly masochistic and unhelpful way.  The result is often increasing frustration on the part of both your mother and your woman, purposeful misunderstandings and overly diplomatic language, with no real resolution in sight.  The Beta just wants everyone to get along, and he will bust his ass in a fevered sweat trying to appease both wife and mother.

This rarely, if ever, works to his advantage and ultimately sets him up for innumerable future problems stemming from his lack of backbone.  By the time "Man Up!" is heard from either party, Mr. Blue Pill has usually already traded the last shreds of his testicles for magic beans or somesuch, and the impact of the command is lessened simply because Mr. Blue Pill has long given up on his own masculinity in an attempt at negotiating domestic harmony.  Ten years later he's often divorced and bitter because both his wife and his mother lost respect for his lack of Alpha.  (Yes, your Mom is a woman, too, and responds to your Alpha just like any other woman.  Don't get all Oedipus-creepy about this, though.  Your mother's perspective on your masculinity is only sexual in the most obtuse sort of way.  She's looking for validation that she produced a strong male worthy of providing her descendants).

So how does the Red Pill man respond to his wife and/or mother telling him to "Man Up!" in regards to the other party?  Simple.  He drags both of them into the same room and he makes them be silent for ten minutes while he chews both of them out for their juvenile and disrespectful behavior.

And that's the general key to all such "Man Up!" commands.  If you have a hard time evaluating a complex situation enough to give a cogent and eloquent response, then a prompt and direct expression of your own sense of masculinity, delivered forcefully and meaningfully, should be sufficient to a) get her off your back and b) do so in such a way that's pure Alpha, and not Beta (which is what she's accusing you of) in the slightest.

Here's a few practice lines:

WOMAN: ". . . and I don't know why you let this happen all the time.  God, sometimes I just wish you would Man Up and just handle it!"

MAN: 

Gentle response:  "Honey, I can appreciate what your saying, and I understand your position.  However, if you call my masculinity into question even once more during this conversation, it will be over, we'll be having another, altogether different discussion, and there will be unpleasant consequences and repercussions.  Is that understood?"

Moderate response (Set Sarcasm controls to "disintegrate"):  "Gosh, thank you ever so much for your opinion of my masculinity.  I'm terribly sorry you see it as so deficient, but since you don't happen to own a pair of fucking testicles and I do, I think I'm going to have to be the judge of that.  Just because I'm not doing what you want me to doesn't mean I'm unmanly, it means I'm a man with my own fucking brain, which also means I don't take poorly-contrived, selfishly-motivated juvenile crap like 'man up' lightly, even from a woman who is supposed to me on MY fucking team.  Now maybe you should disappear for a little while, because if you were trying to piss me off and get me angry, you succeeded . . . and right now it would be in the best interests of our relationship if I wasn't being reminded of that."

 Severe Response (USE WITH CAUTION): Unzip pants, drop them to your knees.  Grasp and brandish your genitalia in a crude and threatening way.  Approach your wife, never taking your eyes off of her.  Get well within her comfort zone of "personal space" until you can feel her exhaled breath on your face.  Your intensity and determination in this case is key.  She should be shocked, nervous, and maybe even a little frightened.

 Say, very quietly with just a hint of menace in your voice, "If you need a reminder of my masculinity, that can be arranged.  But until your balls are bigger than mine, then I'd count it as a personal favor if you would shut the fuck up about my masculinity, lest I take it as an invitation to prove it to you.  Because that's perhaps the most insulting and disrespectful thing you've ever said to me.  Really, that's the kind of shit I'd expect to hear out of a brainless teenager's mouth, not a grown and allegedly mature woman.  So don't even speak, don't say a fucking word to me right now, because I'm teetering on the edge of a serious and very masculine blow-up and I'm really exerting a lot of effort to avoid that.  If you were a man who said that to me like that, we'd already be fighting.  Since you're not, I'd strongly recommend you retreat from my presence and reconsider your advice.  Then after I've calmed down, if you still think my actions aren't 'manly' enough for your tastes, then we can arrange for that demonstration.  Now I'm going to put my large, hairy nutsack away, and I'm going to walk away, and I don't want to hear another fucking word from you until you're ready to sincerely apologize to me for your profound rudeness."  

Turn, walk away, and carefully replace genitalia in pants without accidentally zipping up your scrotum. (Writhing on the ground clutching your crotch in pain after that particular speech is going to seriously kill your credibility.)

All three of the above responses should be sufficient, but the over-all rule-of-thumb about this is that when a woman challenges your masculinity with "Man Up", you respond with unabashed, balls-in-your-face unmitigated and unwatered ALPHA.  That's the essential nature of this shit-test, and the only appropriate and beneficial response is a strong Alpha Move.

It's like when your kid criticizes you about something in a particularly rude way.  Regardless of whether he's right or wrong, the disrespect and the rudeness become the issue, and that has to be handled first, and quickly, before the merits of the criticism are addressed.  When your woman tells you to "Man Up", it doesn't matter what the issue is -- the first order of business for a Red Pill man is to correct the bad behavior and let her know, in no uncertain terms, that her "suggestion" has now taken center stage, regardless of how serious the other issue might be.  


When you allowed her into your boat and under your command, then it was with the tacit understanding that she would be supportive of you and respectful of your masculinity -- as respectful as you are to her femininity.  Telling you to "Man Up" isn't good First Officer advice, it's tantamount to mutiny, and it should be treated as such.  An attack on your masculinity like "Man Up" is a direct violation of the Rules of Engagement as a kidney punch, and should be treated accordingly.

Whatever you do, don't let the remark pass un-noted.  Indeed, the proper response is good ol' fashioned masculine righteous anger -- you might be making the wrong decision or taking the wrong attitude for the situation, but the simple fact of the matter is that it's YOUR FUCKING JOB to make decisions, and you and you alone are the proper judge of your own sense of masculinity.  Your woman gave you the endorsement and validation of her perspective on your masculinity when she got onto your boat.  There should be no questioning that in your marriage until she gets off your boat -- voluntarily or not.  Basically, if you're the kind of man who will put up with that kind of shit from her, then you deserve the consequences of that.

I'm lucky: Mrs. Ironwood has used that particular tactic less than a handful of times, and all within the first few years of our relationship.  Once she realized that I'm open to plenty of constructive criticism, but my sense of masculinity was off the table and not up for her review, she backed off the tactic as unproductive.  And since one of the last times she pulled it landed her in marital counseling for a couple of uncomfortable weeks, she grew to understand that this is a generally unproductive tactic to take.

Convince your woman that it's unproductive in the most forceful of terms, and she'll back off the "Man Up" shaming language, too.    But it's your responsibility as a Red Pill husband to enforce that rule.  It sucks, it might get you into an even bigger fight, but if you don't win this one then winning all the others isn't going to make a damn bit of difference.

The Curse of the Mommy Bob

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My Favorite MILF

I feel guilty about writing a real post right now because one of my agents called, one of my novels is getting some Hollywood attention, and he wants me to re-write the whole 300,000 word monstrosity in a week.  So I really should be doing that right now, but I'm procrastinating.  Author's prerogative.

So I was over at MMSL this morning, pretty much like every other morning, and Athol had posted a beautiful and insightful (if stark and dreary, for some) summation about Relative Sex Rank and True (or what I call Objective) Sex Rank, and rightly pointed out that no matter how hot a 40 year old woman is, she isn't going to have the pure animal sexuality and higher Sex Rank that a 20 year old woman does no matter how much she tries.

But he also pointed out that the flip side of this (using his beautiful bride as an example) is that a 40 year old woman has other assets at her disposal, like a more secure and experienced sexuality.  She can, in other words, become a MILF.  Some ladies who are at that stage of life felt disheartened , so I wrote a long comment about this, and someone asked me to slap it on my blog, so in the interests of procrastination . . .

Athol’s dead right about this . . . and about his MILFy conclusion.

That’s part of marriage that many young men don’t understand. How can you stay with a woman long-term if her actual rank is destined to depreciate over time while yours is inclined to appreciate? If women are fungible, then isn’t serial monogamy with a steadily increasing age difference between you and each successive new wife a better deal for dudes?

It’s a trade-off — and in my opinion, with proper bride selection, it’s a trade-off that ultimately rewards a man (or at least the right kind of man) for him making the investment in marriage. Because while the pay-off isn’t yet-another hot 25 year old in your bed every couple of years, it can be in the form of a 40 year old who can remind you of her 25 year old self while maintaining the erotic self-confidence and sexual experience only a lifetime of intimacy can produce. The MILF, in other words.

I don’t think people understand how important, culturally speaking, the idea of the MILF is to us. It’s the first time a generally positive term for a sexually-active woman of any age has been used in our language. Before MILF, the only socially-acceptable term was “wife”, and that came loaded with a lot of agricultural-age baggage that really doesn’t apply to a post-industrial marriage. In other words, while “wife” implied a sexual component, it was but a part of a far wider-ranging role.

MILF on the other hand is purely sexual, and almost always used in a positive way. Calling a woman a MILF is a compliment, not a curse. “Cougar” has some predatory connotations implied.  But MILF is almost wholesome, yet undeniably sexual -- it's got FUCK right there at the end of the acronym.

Some women shy away from the term because of that.  But they should be eagerly embracing it.  For those who believe that men are universally hung up on 24 year old big-boobed blondes, it might surprise you to find out that MILF porn accounts for a disproportionately large percentage of over-all porn sales. There are plenty of solid psychological reasons for this, but among the most obvious is the fact that older women — MILFs — enjoy a far deeper sexual confidence than a woman fifteen or twenty years younger. The veneer of innocence a young woman projects is gone, replaced with a thick layer of I-have-a-vagina-and-I-know-how-to-use-it confidence that is inherently arousing to men.

Don’t believe me? Consider that among the most important elements to a man who is watching porn isn’t the relative beauty of the female performers — it’s how convincingly they can portray their pure enjoyment of the act.  As I've said before many times, there's an old pornosphere saying, that "it's easier to take a girl who knows how to fuck and make her pretty than it is to teach a pretty girl how to fuck."  That positive enjoyment of the sexual experience is compellingly alluring to most men.  Younger women are often preoccupied by how they look and how they are being perceived, what the experience means and what the social fallout from her liaison will be when they have sex with a man. Older women, especially older, married women, have often transcended that preoccupation, especially if they have been intimate with the same partner for years and years.

A lot of guys wonder how I can stare at drop-dead gorgeous women having outrageous sex all day and still go home to a wife who isn’t just as beautiful. The fact is, my exposure to so many beautiful (and not-so-beautiful) women has actually convinced me more than anything else that a deep knowledge of one woman is far more erotically fulfilling — to me at least — than the shallow acquaintance with a multitude of female bodies. For one thing, beauty is no guarantee of erotic talent (and yes, some people are more naturally talented at sex than others, just as some are better athletes or better musicians). But no matter how much native talent a young woman has, sex is also a skill that must be learned over time and properly practiced to be mastered. The “trade-off” for youth and beauty is experience, skill, and self-confidence that leads to greater passion and higher-quality sex (in aggregate — all the bad married sex even great couples have is part of the process).

I frequently tell Mrs. Ironwood (and hell, pretty much anyone who cares) that she is my favorite MILF, and I can say that with utter sincerity. Even if I dropped her tomorrow for a skinny 25 year old nymphomaniac, it would take another 20 years to tune my new wife to the same level as Mrs. Ironwood is now, and I know that.  It takes that long to develop the kind of familiarity, intimacy and confidence in a relationship to get to the really good stuff.  To put it in Manosphere terms, Mrs. Ironwood’s Relative Sex Rank to me is far higher than her True (or Objective) Sex Rank based on that long familiarity complimented by a willingness to experiment that keeps our intimate life from becoming routine or boring. That’s why she’s my favorite MILF, and always will be. She’s a sexually-active wife in a functioning heterosexual dyad, and that should be celebrated in a positive manner.

Besides, it’s a lot easier than culturally-reclaiming the term “slut”.

And that's why you shouldn't be overly discouraged if you're staring 40 in the face and wondering how soon your husband is going to start considering trading you in for a newer model.  You might not be a 9 anymore, objectively, but factor in the experience and confidence you’ve gained as you’ve lost objective capital, and that can significantly raise your SUBjective score vis a vis your man.  Also remember that your husband's perception of your Subjective Sex Rank is not based purely on your raw attractiveness, but your willingness to explore, experiment, and most importantly be available.  Your boobs might not defy gravity anymore, but then again a 20 year old isn't going to feel comfortable with . . . well, probably that thing you know he likes A WHOLE LOT, because of that one time when you did it that certain way.  Hell, you can probably just mention the occasion to him and he'll get an erection.

In other words,
A young husband brags about how pretty his wife is. 
An OMG brags about how his wife will still do him in the parking lot.

The plain fact of the matter is, beauty isn’t just in the eye of the beholder, in women it is also augmented by the positive attention they receive, knowing that they are being beheld. That is, a 40 year old 7 who knows her husband thinks she’s hot because he's shagging her four times a week like clockwork is going to naturally act more sexually self-confident — “hotter” — than her objective criteria are going to suggest. A single 40 year old 7 is at the mercy of the attention she receives in the SMP to validate her beauty, and that can be a brutal endeavor. As a result, she isn’t going to be as confident or secure in her sexuality, and that’s going to depress her SMV.  Score one for the married MILFs.

As disheartening as Athol’s summation may sound to some of the 39ish wives who are starting to worry as their men do the MAP, the fact that you have a dude who is “stuck with this old hag” and doesn’t seem to mind should raise your spirits. Yes, he’s still going to be aroused by the sight and presence of nubile females . . . if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have hit on you in the first place, now would he?

But the fact that he’s encouraging you to re-invest in the erotic relationship instead of wandering after the first unoccupied vagina should bring you a tremendous amount of security. Dudes who go that route don’t often encourage their wives to stay in shape simply so they can rationalize their infidelities away. If he still wants you at slightly-before-40, then odds are he’s already hooked on your Subjective Sex Rank and is invested for the long term.  And your most successful strategy to keep your marriage on track is do your damnedest to become his favorite MILF.

What a lot of wives don't appreciate is just how freaking lazy most men are.  By and large we'd much rather stick with a known variable than try to break in a completely new woman.  Oh, we love to look, fantasize, etc., but where the rubber meets the road, just from a practical prospective new women are expensive, time-consuming, and notoriously unpredictable.  Given our druthers, most OMGs would much rather fuck their wives more often than go to all the trouble of cultivating a mistress or a future second wife.  Making that an easier option could be a good strategy for your long-term happiness.

Because in the sexually-simplistic mind of most dudes, the best pussy he ever had was the last one he had, and the best one he'll ever have will be the next one.  If both of those are yours, then you probably don't have much to worry about.  That might mean you have to turn up the freaky a little every now and then, but you'd be amazed at how powerful that is.

So next time you see his head turned by a perky rack, don't get pissed, moody, or depressed:

Do him in the parking lot. 
He’ll forget all about the perky titties.
And you'll be his favorite MILF.

And  that’s this week’s lesson from Uncle Ian’s Porn Corner . . .

MY SEVEN

I got nominated for this 7 Questions thing from several bloggers, and so I feel obligated to answer.  I'll wait to pass it on to 7 other bloggers simply because I haven't figured out which 7 (and which ones have already been invited).  But here is my response:

7 Questions:

1.) What is your favorite song?

That’s a hard one.

2.) What is your favourite dessert?

The next one.

3.) What do you do when you're upset?

I brood.  Dear gods, I brood.  If I’m upset, really upset, my eyebrows lock into Brooding Position, and remain there.  I withdraw into the sanctity of my metaphorical Man Cave, and depending on the nature and origin of what has upset me, I have occasionally had recourse to drink, which helps with the brooding if done in moderation.  After I work up a good brood, I usually turn that into some productive problem-solving strategy, but by that time I’ve freaked out my whole family with the intensity of my brooding.

4.) Which is your favourite pet?

Cats.  Ironic, I know.  But my family has had cats my entire life.  My house is not truly a home without a cat.  Our current resident feline is named Lucifer, and is at the top of his game as a Rodent Control Technician.  But I’ve always had cats, and always will.

5.) White bread or whole meal?

Whole wheat.  For the fiber.  And if I have a preference, Pumpernickel.

6.) What's your biggest fear?

Not being able to avoid tragedy.  And knowing that it is an inevitable part of the human condition which can only be mitigated, never cured.

7.) What's your attitude most of the time?

The only person whose judgment of my actions is meaningful to me is, ultimately, me.  The standards and expectations of the rest of the world are nearly insignificant compared to my standards and expectations of myself.  While that can easily lead to a crippling self-criticism and a defeatist attitude, I take great care to appreciate my successes and learn from my failures, determined to live up to my own expectations.  Mrs. Ironwood is invaluable in this – she helps keep me honest and acts as a coach/fan club more than a critic, but it is ultimately my opinion, and mine alone, that has to guide my actions. 

7 Fun Facts About Me:

1.) I work in porn.  And I love it. 

2.) I have over five different pseudonyms as a writer, plus my real name, and four of them have developed fan bases independent of each other.  As a writer, that’s highly gratifying.  One of these has recently caught the attention of a major Hollywood producer (no lie) which is why my postings have been slow lately.  I’m re-writing the manuscript that will, hopefully, make me embarrassingly rich.  If not, it’s still gratifying.  The English language is my bitch.

3.) I’m probably the most progressive voice, politically speaking, in the Manosphere and that’s . . . okay.  I support a woman’s right to choose, access to birth control, benevolent and well-executed social programs, reasonable taxation, investment in alternative energy, housing, and education, civil rights, equal rights, gay rights (especially marriage rights) and most of the rest of the liberal/progressive Humanistic platform.  Except for Marxism and Feminism, both of which I find amusingly naïve and mildly repugnant for their intellectual dishonesty and their ends-justify-the-means execution of their ideologies.  If you don’t think I can be a progressive without supporting feminism, then please explain to my conservative colleagues how I can be conservative and still support birth control, abortion rights, and civil rights.  I’ll just watch.  It should be entertaining.

4.)  I’m a Neo-Pagan.  That’s right, I’m an accused misogynist who worships the Great Goddess and the Old Gods of my ancestors, and have been for over 25 years.  I’m an initiated Wiccan, High Priest and Druid.  A tree-honoring, ancestor-worshiping, bonfire-dancing idolater.  My taking the Red Pill has in no way lessened my devotion to the Goddess . . . indeed, the Red Pill has become the source of a breathtakingly insightful perspective on the theology of a feminine divinity.  I know that makes me seem like a godless idolater to many of my Christian readers, but that’s . . . okay.  Just take my words with a secular grain of salt, appreciate them for how they are useful to you, and try to forget about the fact that, according to your sect, I’m going to burn in hell for all of eternity.  Seriously, don’t sweat it – that’s where all my friends will be, too.

5.)  I have an outstanding relationship with my father, which helps fuel my determination to help re-valorize masculinity under our own terms.  And no, he and my mom have been married for almost fifty years, now, so he didn’t suffer through a bitter divorce or an unhappy marriage.  Papa Ironwood is the wisest man I know, and if I end up half as wise as he is, I’ll count myself utterly fortunate.

6.) The only sport I’m devoted to is Figure Skating.  It’s a long story, and has nothing to do with my masculinity and everything to do with my grandmother.  But the upside is that Mrs. Ironwood has not lost me to a ball game or sporting event of any sort – NOT ONCE – in 20 years.  And you thought my cooking was my only asset . . .

7.)  As a few of you know, and many have urged me, I'm quietly writing a book on the Manosphere and how it is revalorizing masculinity in the post-feminist era.  I've gotten a lot of help from some powerful Manosphere bloggers, and I've made some significant progress.  However, I'm always looking for additional material, so if the Manosphere has made a big difference in your life, then I encourage you to write me at ian.ironwood (at) gmail.com and put "TESTIMONIAL" in the subject line.  Doing so will automatically grant me the rights to use your words in the book, but I'm more than happy to credit you anonymously if you'd prefer.

Now all we need is some Red Pill merchandising . . . 

Alpha Move: Break the Television and Play a Game

It sounds like a no-brainer (doesn't a lot of Red Pill advice?), but the fact is that if you and your wife are having a hard time "connecting", that part of the problem is probably that you aren't playing with her enough.

Human beings need play the way they need sleep, food, sex and shelter.  That is, you can go awhile without it, if you have to, but the lack of it is eventually telling on your system.  Our brains require recreation from time to time in the form of carefree, apparently pointless enjoyment in a structured activity.  We know this instinctively as children, but as we go through the rigors of puberty and the maturing process, we abandon the concept of "play" as childish.  We instead begin to cling to the concept of "relaxation", and too often conflate the two when they are two very different things.

It's no accident that part of the Paleo diet that is growing in popularity is the idea that adults should do one hour of physical play a day.  The idea is not just to exercise our bodies, but to put the mind at ease with physical recreation.  It's a serious stress-reducer.

Some adults feel like they can substitute golf or working out or Zumba or basketball or other "grown up"
activities for real play, but for far too many these recreations end up being sources of stress themselves. I've seen men get more worked up over their golf game than missing a promotion opportunity.  When your "play" starts being more aggravation than it's relieving, then you aren't really playing anymore.

But one other important aspect of play is its social function.  When we play, we like to play with others, and we end up socially and emotionally bonding the other people we play with.  We play cards with our friends, or videogames, or go bowling, or play Dungeons & Dragons, or any number of things with our buds.  We can enjoy the thrill of competition in a controlled, ultimately meaningless setting in a way that replenishes our emotional deficits and encourages us to feel more kindly to our fellow man.  We like to play games, give it our all, and then enjoy the camaraderie that results afterwards.

So . . . when was the last time you played a game with your wife?

Seriously, even those adults who are committed to playing are often reluctant to engage their spouses, for fear of initiating a conflict unnecessarily.  But what these folks are missing is that through the interaction of play, we engage parts of our spouse's intellect and emotions that we're often ignorant of experiencing.  Let me give you an example.

Mrs. Ironwood, as you all know, is a brilliant workoholic who is doing her damnedest to make the World A Better Place.  That means she puts in a lot of hours and gets home late sometimes.  And a full day of emotional investment in your job (while thinking about all of the domestic issues you're letting slide) followed by a brief but intense family experience when you get home (while you're thinking about all of the crap at work you're letting slide) often leave you emotionally drained at the end of the day.  Needless to say, this is not conducive to nookie.

Mrs. Ironwood's chosen post-work de-stresser is television.  She needs her "brain candy" fix to help get her mind off of work and into a neutral enough place just to sleep, much less have sex.  I'm sure many of you can relate.  And it does help -- to a point.  A half-hour of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert is usually enough, or reruns of Big Bang Theory, or maybe even (in the right season) a new episode of Bones or Castle or The Mentalist . . . and she falls right asleep afterward.

Of course that often leaves me at odds, having anticipated nookie all day.  I'm not a dick about it usually -- if Mrs. Ironwood is wiped out from her day, I can certainly understand and let her rest.  But when those sorts of days start piling up in great consecutive heaps, that becomes a problem.

So a few years ago we got into this rut where she would come home from work, tell me about her day, eat dinner with the kids and engage with them until bedtime, then a combo of working on her laptop in bed and zoning out until she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer, then pass out, rinse and repeat.  Needless to say, after a while the rut seriously cut into my savoir faire, and I began to resent the television.  Oh, I resented her work, too, but the TV was what was sapping her of any emotional energy to engage.  No matter what I did to try to distract her she clung to her comfort-zone of routine.  Six weeks, seven weeks, the ennui and lack of attention was starting to bug me.  And then it started to get me frustrated.  When I caught myself starting to get bitchy about it, I realized I had to break the cycle.

So I broke the TV.

Not really -- I merely removed the HDMI cable connecting it to the cable box.  But the TV in our bedroom was, for all practical purposes, off-line.  When she got home that evening and hit the remote control and saw the big blue screen, she freaked out.  She called me in, asked if I had paid the cable bill (yes), and then begged me to figure out what was wrong.

I appeared to give the television a close examination, scratched my beard thoughtfully (hey, that's what it's for), and made a couple of thinking noises.

"Yeah, it looks like the HDMI cable is missing.  The cable box can't send a signal to the TV set."  Since Mrs. I's technical expertise is more electron-microscope-related, she was utterly at my technical mercy.

"Well, how the hell did that happen?  Where is it?" she demanded, testily.

"Oh, I took it," I assured her.

She looked confused.  She always looks cute when she's confused.  It doesn't happen often.

"Why?  Was there something wrong with it?"

"Yes, actually," I assured her.  "It was sucking my wife's brain out of her head and depriving my penis of comfort and joy.  So I removed it temporarily to let the condition ease."

"That's not funny, Ian!" she yelled, irritatedly.  Okay, maybe not 'yelled', but her nostrils were flaring.  Also cute.

"It's not," I agreed.  "It's tragic.  I realized that I was paying the cable company to keep me from having sex, and it was starting to piss me off.  I thought I'd try this little experiment before I had it disconnected."

Now that was going to far, and I could see by the dangerous glint in her eyes that I was on thin ice with this little trick. Now, while this was technically before my Red Pill days, I was already starting to figure some things out.  Like if you take a stand with your wife, you'd better not back down before she understands your point.

"Damn it, Ian, fix it right now!"

"No.  I've hidden the cord.  It's part of my evil plan.  But I will give you a chance to get it back . . ."

She groaned.  "What, after we have sex?"  I could tell she wasn't in the mood for that, not right then.

"No," I said with great patience and as much condesension as I could muster, "you'll get the cable back when you beat me at Scrabble."  For dramatic effect, I threw the Scrabble game in the middle of the bed.  We'd gotten it at Christmas from one of our friends, but hadn't even taken it out of the box.

She eyed the box suspiciously.  "Scrabble?  Really?"

I shrugged.  "If you don't think you can hang I can give you a two-letter handicap," I offered, graciously.

She snorted derisively.  "In your dreams, Liberal Arts boy.  But fuck that: fix my TV!"  Despite her desperation, I could tell she was already wavering.

"No.  Besides, it's my TV, remember?"  Of course she remembers -- I bought it without consulting her with some freelance money she didn't know about and it sparked a three-day fight.  "Tell you what, if you want some time to think it over, I'll--"

"Just get the board out," she growled.  "I'm so going to kick your ass and then you're never going to pull this kind of shit again."

"You can dream," I said, graciously, as I pulled out the pristine little bag full of letters and offered her first selection.

She began the game in a surly mood, but after I put on some music, made sure the kids were asleep, and fetched us both some cocktails, we had an enormously good time.  I won, keeping the cord for another night, but Mrs. Ironwood freely admitted that she had a really, really good time losing at Scrabble.

(Before you conclude that she threw the game to protect my delicate male ego, be assured that Scrabble is one area where both of our egos are sufficiently engaged so that we play with the fervor of gladiators at bloodsport.  I'm a professional writer and a word nerd, she's written books on medical terminology and was president of Latin Honor Society in high school.  When we play Scrabble, it's to the death.)

What started as a temporary snit soon evolved into a semi-regular routine-breaking game that provided both of us with a mental and emotional respite from the rest of our lives.  We could be competitive at Scrabble without fear of alienating each other.  We could talk about our day, work out some relationship issues, gossip about our friends, have a couple of cocktails, and indulge our brains in a complex, detail-oriented task that didn't have a damned thing to do with our real lives.  It was breathtakingly refreshing.

Husbands and wives just don't play together as much as they should.  In working separate jobs, playing tag-team to get the kids where they need to go, dealing with the inevitable drama of work, friends and family, plus the constant pressure of dealing with each other so intimately that it starts hurting your relationship with over-familiarity and under-appreciation, we lose the simple and precious experience of interacting about something trivial and enjoyable.  If all of your conversations with your spouse revolve around problems, your mind is going to naturally going to start associating your spouse with problems, not enjoyable interactions.

It's not about who wins -- the last thing you should do is get hyper-competitive and domineering about it.  Choose a game you both like, that doesn't favor either of you overmuch, and that you don't mind losing.  In fact, it's good for a man to loose a game every now and again.  Demonstrating to your wife that you're gracious in defeat is a serious DHV.  There are plenty of classic games like Yahtzee! and Monopoly and plain ol' Gin Rummy you can do with her and have an enormously good time.

Hell, even a game of chess can hold promise.