Three Alpha Moves To Use On Your Wife

I’ve been hit with a bunch more requests for new Alpha Moves since the book came out (thanks for all of you who indulged me), as well as requests for books on Girl Game, Wife Selection, and Reclaiming Masculinity, among other topics.  And I assure you, I’m working furiously on long, thoughtful posts covering all of these topics as well as such diverse subjects as the Boy Scout homosexuality decisions and the pros and cons of secretly tracking your female co-workers’ menstrual cycles in an effort to more skillfully navigate the troubled waters of a high-pressure mixed-gender office (creepy invasion of privacy, or legitimate tool of Office Game?  Comments and suggestions on all of the above are always welcome). 

But since I love low-hanging fruit more than the next sex nerd, I’m going to do three quick-and-dirty Alpha Moves you can choose to incorporate into your own Red Pill regimen, or at least consider.  Besides, I’ll be able to flesh these out more later for the second volume of the Alpha Move series, and I am nothing if not motivated by laziness.

Alpha Move: Carry Her Books

One of the ubiquitous signs of feminine success in the corporate world is the sight of some poor cube slave trudging her way across the parking lot, her spine horribly bent out of shape with an over-full backpack, purse, coat, lunch bag, umbrella, and sundry other items depending upon her profession all dangling from one shoulder.  The book bag/laptop bag has become as much an indicator of station in the post-industrial world as ink-stained fingers were in the industrial.

The stubborn pride on the faces of many of these women as they lug their professional lives around is born of either a plucky determination in the best corporate feminist sense, or out of a genuine dedication to their work and the anticipation of lunch hour.  Either way, whether they carry it on their shoulder or tug it behind them on wheels, it’s difficult to appear gracious and feminine when you have thirty pounds of work materials weighing down one shoulder.

Mrs. Ironwood is not exempt from this situation, thanks to her professional standing.  Of course she came by it honestly, having been a book-lugging nerd since middle school, but as she’s become more experienced (see how I did that, Gentlemen?) she’s learned to appreciate the benefits of an intact spine.  Therefore bearing the burden of her book bag and assorted professional paraphernalia is a dreaded chore in the morning.

Enter her big strong boyfriend.  If she is having a more-difficult-than-usual morning (not unusual at Stately Ironwood Manor) and she has been a particularly good girlfriend lately, I will sometimes grab her books, effortlessly throw them over my shoulder with my own book bag (which is much lighter – porn DVDs weigh less than medical journals and reference manuals and crap) and haul them out to the minivan for her.

It’s not automatic, and it’s not expected.  If I do it unsolicited, she never fails to smile sweetly and thank me, not like we've been together twenty years but like we were in middle school and I was helping her carry her Algebra books to class.  Some might class it as “chivalrous”, and a case could be made for that, but like all chivalry it must come from a place of strength and grace, not expectation and obligation. 

But Mrs. Ironwood doesn’t hesitate, if she feels the need, to invite my chivalry.  If she knows she’s going to have issues, she very politely asks if I would mind helping her with her bag.  Unless she’s been “bad” lately (a very rare occurrence), and as long as she doesn’t presume that my answer will be yes, I have no problem doing it. 

It’s a little thing, but one she appreciates.  She’s also let me know that the sight of me hefting that much luggage on one arm reminds her of my strength and my service to the family, a lovely Alpha-Beta panty dampening combo.  And when I meet her at the car, after I’ve stowed it away, she never fails to cuddle up, kiss me sweetly, and thank me for carrying her books. 

And hell.  It don’t cost nothin’.

Alpha Move: Tuck Her In

In case you missed my first post of the year in which I detailed my Red Pill Observations and Resolutions, one of the things I’ve noted about male-female interactions is the positive Alpha nature of “fathering” your wife in small but symbolically important ways as a means of establishing your dominance and protectiveness over her.  It’s important not to do this in a demeaning or condescending way, but if there’s a woman out there who lacks Daddy issues I’ve yet to meet her.  Psychologically filling in for either her own Daddy or the Daddy of her dreams is an outstanding way to make a good Alpha presentation without recourse to a bar fight.

Mrs. Ironwood clued me into this a few months ago.  As long-timer readers know, I’m a huge advocate of a Red Pill man making the bed every morning as a means of “marking his territory”.  But Mrs. I doesn’t hesitate to mess it up as soon as she gets home.  By the time we’re ready for bed, my well-made bed is long gone.  Ordinarily, I just shrugged it off and got under the covers anyway.  But right before Christmas I got irritated at the mess, and after she crawled into bed, I ripped the sheets and comforter off the bed.

She stared at me, wide-eyed, no doubt curious if a ravishment was immanent.  It’s been known to happen.

 Instead, I grabbed the top sheet and flipped it up and over her, allowing it to settle perfectly on her.  I repeated the process with the comforter, and then crawled under myself a moment later with a sense of satisfaction . . . and to a delightful giggle.

“That was fun!” she said, amused.  “I forgot how much I enjoyed that when I was a kid.”

I didn’t think much of it at the time.  But it quickly became clear that this was important to her, because the next night the covers were messed up again, and she hopped up on the bed and looked at me expectantly.  I almost missed it.  But then I grabbed the sheet and snapped it over her head again.  She looked at me dreamily.  Thrillsville.

“I just feel so . . . protected, safe, warm, loved,” she tried to explain when I inevitably tried to deconstruct the move.  “My daddy did that when I was a kid.  He tucked me in every night he was home.  It was a powerful ritual.  When you do it . . . well, it’s not sick or anything, but it does remind me of my father and how he made me feel when he did it.  But it also reminds me of how tall and strong you are, watching you spread your arms out so wide and handle the sheet so effortlessly.  It’s kinda hot.”

The move has quickly gone from being a stray bit of fathering to being a “thing” of ours, in and of itself.  It’s kind of the second act to making the bed in the first place . . . and if I’m going to stay up while she crashes out, instead of crawling in I sit on the side of the bed and literally tuck the blankets in under her.  And if she’s tucked in thoroughly enough, it’s not like she can really stop me from kissing her pretty much anyway I want, can she?

Alpha Move: Undress Her

Believe it or not, some dudes have a hard time with approach anxiety . . . with their own wives.  If they've been bingeing on Blue Pills for decades, it's easy to see why.  Trying to get busy on a non-Designated Marital Sex Night without filling out all of the Blue Pill paperwork is a bitch.

So when men do start taking the Red Pill, and finally understand that their sex lives are largely in their own hands, they often come up against approach anxiety as one of their first hurdles.  Suddenly going from "May I have some pussy, please?  I've been a good boy!" to "Let's fuck!" can be disconcerting for both parties, and you can't get to the latter without some confidence and preparation.  Indeed, how you initiate often sets the tone for your Alpha/Beta level for the day.  Come off all Beta, and any pussy you get will be purely by accident.  Affect a strong Alpha presentation, though, and pussy becomes manifest.

To make the transition easier, feel free to steal a play from my book.  Before I even took the Red Pill, there was a period just after we got married where Mrs. Ironwood seemed bound and determined to criticize everything.  In retrospect there were good reasons for it, but at the time it just sounded like nagging to me.  That's when I discovered this neat little play.

Mrs. I had just gotten home from work (pre-kids) and was unloading about her day in gross detail.  For some reason that segued into her sister, and from there to her mother, and once that happens criticism is usually close behind.

". . . so Mom thinks it would be great if she came over and helped you with the lawn.  I know you're always reluctant to do it after what happened to your uncle, but we live in a real neighborhood now.  Our neighbors will hate us if . . ."

I was only half listening, of course, but it would be rude to ignore her totally.  Instead I started to amuse myself, because the last thing I wanted to hear was criticism about my housekeeping/yardwork indirectly from my mother-in-law.

So I reached out and unbuttoned her top button.  She didn't even blink, she was so intent on her story.

So I undid the next one.  This time she did blink, but then ignored it and continued on, unphased.

So I undid the third button, revealing her bra, and she couldn't very well ignore that.

"Ian, what--?"

"The leaf blower, I was listening.  Does she think it would be cheap enough?"

"I'd have to ask her, but if you'd just get out there--"

Another button.

"Ian, stop it!"

Early Red Pill moment.  "No."

Exasperated eye roll.  "Why?"

I considered.  "Nagging turns me on.  Go ahead, do it some more.  Tell me about how the gutters really, really need a good cleaning.  Make it sound dirty."  I unbuttoned another one.  Only one left.  The Girls were just about hanging out, now, and she was blushing.  It's always adorable when she blushes.  But she didn't stop me.  She looked amused, annoyed, intrigued, and irritated.

"Is that what it's going to take to get you to listen to me?"

"I've heard every word."  That's when we locked gazes.  "Continue," I urged.

"As I was saying--" she began, annoyed.  That's when I flipped her shirt off of her shoulders.  "Ahem.  Mom said that it's only a year old, and that even she could start it . . ."

While she was speaking, I turned her around and undid her bra.  I didn't take it off just yet, just let it hang there from her shoulders.  Then I reached around and unsnapped her jeans.

"You aren't really paying attention to this, are you?"

"Sure I am, babe.  Mexican drug cartels, the submarine, a platypus, the one-eyed man, I got it.  Continue?"  Both bra straps at the same time.  The pretty black lace contraption fell from her shoulders like ripe fruit.

"IAN!"

"I'm listening!  Come on, nag me some more!  I'm almost there!"

"You are the most infuriating man--"

One tug.  Jeans came off.  I couldn't have written it better.

"You want to finish this conversation later?" she asked, lamely.

"Now you're talking, Sweetie," I smiled.  "The lawn can wait."

Undressing your woman in such a straightforward fashion may not explicitly be considered an "approach" or an "initiation", but if you can't make the leap from here to there you need remedial help.  She might protest -- that's fine.  If she insists, you desist.  It's as simple as that.  But if she stops you, you walk away and leave her as undressed as you got her.  Give her one casual smile as you walk out.  If you've got the balls, pantomime "Call me!" with your hand as you go.

You might not get all the way to the panties, but next time she's going to think twice about the nagging.

Girl Game: Nuke The Site From Orbit

Red Pill Wifey, among others, have mentioned the seasonal epidemic known variously as "The Winter Blues", "The Winter Blahs", "Janufeb", or just "Winter - Post Christmas, Pre-Valentines' Day".  Whatever title you choose to give it, the result is the same: Stress, sickness, lack of money, lack of patience, and blown expectations frequently turn this fallow period into a smorgasbord of marital dysfunction.  A very good friend of mine who is a Private Investigator, and whose bread-and-butter are divorce cases, takes every December off . . . because his phone will be ringing off the hook in January.

This winter period can be hard to weather, especially if you have children and other stresses on top of your marriage.  Intimacy seems fleeting as we try to get back into our non-holiday routines.  It's a new year, new semester, new season . . . and every fracking bill in the universe seems to be due.  Stress, stress, stress, and almost none of it from how to hide the huge stacks of cash you're hoarding.  Pity.

Red Pill Wifey brings a particularly poignant observation to bear: among other evils, the stress of Janufeb can encourage a man to focus on the mission of keeping his personal trains running on time that he often doesn't have much time even for sex.  And when the Red Pill wife who has been getting a steadily-increasing diet of dick and loving it suddenly hits a spot where hubby just isn't initiating, the result can be perplexing, at best.

As she says, "I guess I’m feeling his lack of initiation as a rejection."

That made me think.  For dudes, rejection is rejection, because we rarely expect our wives to initiate sex and as Red Pill men we have come to understand that it is our role to initiate the majority of the time.  But for women, who are largely reactive in a sexual relationship, lack of initiation on their husband's part is often considered a form of rejection.  That's a subtlety that Red Pill dudes need to remember, but often don't.  But try to see it from her point of view.  You not initiating sex with her is like her going out and spending a car payment on her hair and dress . . . and you not noticing.  

It seems hard for a guy to get through his head, that his wife actually wants him to initiate on a regular, if not predictable, basis.  Many times we think you'd rather skip it, considering how hard it can be to persuade you.  But it's a Red Pill fact that women get horny, and when they are deprived of stimulation, sex, and attention they can get downright cranky.  And that's a very, very important factor for a lot of marriages.  

The problem is, especially this time of year, a man feels compelled to apply his nose to the grindstone and redouble his efforts, thanks to post-holiday poverty, guilt, new year's resolutions, and the impending tax deadlines.  With that kind of beginning-of-the-year stress to focus your attention, as much as we'd like to think about sex all the time as per usual, the fact is that the most responsible among us are often the ones most likely to ignore sex . . . and just put off initiating until things are more "convenient".

I'm particularly vulnerable to this, because my birthday is just a few weeks after the holidays.  Usually just before people get paid a paycheck that hasn't already been spent, and long before their tax returns are out. So my birthdays tend to be frugal affairs, usually.  This year was no exception.  And with as much stress (trying to publish 4 books at a time PLUS a day job, daddy duties, and Girl Scout cookies, now) as I'm bearing, as much as I'd love to be taking Mrs. I to Pound Town by the most convenient route, the fact is I just don't have the mental or emotional energy to initiate properly.  

So to work with our circumstances and not against them, Mrs. Ironwood has developed a bit of Girl Game I like to call "Nuking The Site From Orbit", after the famous line from the classic sci-fi horror movie, Aliens ("It's the only way to be sure.").  While a good GFE or other exotic move can put pep into hubby's step, those are targeted, surgical strikes on his libido.  There are times when the carpet-bombing method of sexual satisfaction are actually more helpful.

The process has evolved over the years - the first one was for my 33rd birthday, so she's had some time to refine her technique.  Simply put, on the weekend closest to my birthday, Mrs. I arranges to get the kids out of the house for a weekend, allowing us unlimited and uninhibited use of our home . . . and then she dedicates herself on spending no less than twenty-four hours and no more than forty-eight to getting busy as often as humanly possible.

I mean, you clear your calendar, lock the door, turn off the cellphones and computers, and you just . . . scrump.  And then when you're done, you catch your breath, get a drink, maybe do some stretches . . . and then dive right back in.  Shower as necessary.  Wardrobe changes as desired.  

This year was no exception, and we were actually broker than usual.  A lobster tail special at the grocery store gave us dinner, but I left the entertainment up to her, and I wasn't disappointed.  For my birthday - I'm 45, pretty much "Peak Ian" -- Mrs. Ironwood did her best to exhaust me sexually.  Over and over again.  In every way that she could think of.  Plus some new ones she came up with on the spot.  She went to it with drive and determination, and displayed an eagerness and enthusiasm that bordered on the frightening occasionally.  But hey, I like to live dangerously.

Mind you, this isn't the sort of thing you can do at the drop of a hat.  You need some preparation, planning, and possibly even some training time.  You should have at least three outfits you don't mind slipping into and out of repeatedly, and a variety of non-standard sexual venues is highly recommended: couch, kitchen, deck, garage, living room, bathroom, pantry, doghouse, wherever.  Get plenty of rest and hide snacks and beverages, lube and toys at strategic spots around the house.

It's always been a big hit with me, especially the year she gave me "30 Days of Joy" (In the spirit of Mrs. Yes at I Will Never Say No, we had sex every day for a full month.  It was a sexual adventure that is certainly blogworthy, but deserves its own post).  This year was no exception - indeed, while it was generally no-frills, it was lustfully executed in a thoroughly delightful manner.

It wasn't until I read Red Pill Wifey's post about her big January chill that it suddenly occurred to me just why Mrs. Ironwood's dedication to my birthday shagging always seems so intense.  I realized that our nookie-filled holiday season, culminating with our wedding anniversary, seems to lead to a two-to-three week period of low-sex . . . not because she's not interested, but because we're both too stressed to put the time and energy we usually do into it.  And since I'm the one initiating most of the time, if I slow down it stands to reason that my initiations slow down, too.  And looking back at the records, yeah, that seems to be precisely what happens.  

What's worse is that my attention to my mission -- and away from her -- drives Mrs. Ironwood up the wall with the hornies.  The more aloof I am about sex and our relationship, the more she wants me.  The more I'm focused on something that isn't her vagina, the more she feels compelled to distract me. 

Of course this is the time of year I'm thinking about mortality and legacies and death and life insurance and other depressing shit, so I'm just not initiating spontaneously the way I usually do.

So by the time my birthday rolls around, toward the middle of the month, we've have usually been in a trough.  Because I'm too driven and focused and dedicated to my task to initiate properly, she's too tired, getting out of work while it's dark is always tiring, we're broke, the kids are headed back to school, yadda yadda yadda.  There's always a damn good reason why skipping sex and going straight to bed sounds luxurious, especially on a school night.  When birthday nookie rolls around, Mrs. Ironwood's frustration about the lack of quality humpage is simmering, and heading to a boil.

In retrospect I should have seen it.  January is when she seems to be most experimental with hairstyles and clothing purchases, and in hindsight I can trace that to a sense of insecurity about her appearance brought on by me not humping her leg immediately upon getting home, as per usual.  Her darling little hamster rationalizes my inattentiveness as a disinterest in her, sexually, not as a dedication to a bigger cause.  

She's tried to get my attention in other ways too, I see now.  Conversations about friends (" . . . so do you think she's pretty?"), about our friends' relationships, about the hot dude on Arrow and the mildly disturbing homoerotic discussion about Sam and Dean from Supernatural, all of it utterly escaped my clueless ass . . . until this weekend.

What the Nuke The Site From Orbit move is, for her, is the blanket permission to initiate at will.  With the expectation of righteous birthday sex out there, this sudden erotic blank check felt like a real blank check.  For a change she could quit worrying about whether or not I wanted her, sex, etc. and just do me like she wanted to.  And when she was done, we could do it again a different way, as long as my constitution could stand, and I just had to take it.  It was like a Sadie Hawkins dance for her naughty bits, and I was the only boy in the room.

(As it turns out, I'm still fairly virile.  Let's just say I took seven showers in a twenty-four hour period.  Not bad for an Old Married Guy.)

What I saw as wifely devotion and the desire of a girlfriend to really impress her dude was (in part) actually an erotic shopping spree designed to re-assure her feminine soul that yes, I do indeed plan on spending my declining years shagging her rotten and not chasing 25 year old poon.  See it as Reassurance Sex at a very basic level, something every spouse needs from time to time.  Add in the wonder and excitement she got from feeling compelled to push her erotic envelope in the process, and the result was spectacular.  Downright nuclear.  It was an atomically orgasmic experience for both of us, and was well worth the physical toll and the friction burns.  

Turns out, we might not have the stamina and energy we did in our twenties, but DAMN, are we more creative.  The huge advantage of a long term, monogamous relationship is that familiarity breeds comfort, even if it dulls novelty.  When the goal is freestyle marathon sex, being comfortable enough to do that thing you did once and totally blew her mind without making her freak out is golden.  Knowing that that other thing you did, the one that should never be spoken of again, isn't even on the agenda -- likewise golden.  You know each others' shapes, curves, tickle spots, favorite positions, least favorite positions, lube viscosity, sweet nothings, favorite snacks, smells, strengths, weaknesses, pet peeves, power spots, etc. etc. ad nauseum.  When you've been driving that same stretch for twenty years, you know the way enough to slow down and smell the . . . roses.

And the advantage of Nuking The Site From Orbit is the permission to initiate pretty much any kind of wild or tame sex you ladies would like, with the understanding that you both will keep going until one of you just can't, any more, or the kids come home. It's an endurance contest, toward the end, all pretense of romance and tenderness gone as you push your sexual boundaries.  

So, how do you initiate the Nuclear Option with your aloof and distracted hubby, if you don't have a convenient birthday to exploit?

First, make sure you pick a calendar day that is free from both appointments and expectations.  Maybe even fill the spot by making him promise to do something annoying, that he doesn't really want to do, but feels obligated to do.  Then, when he starts fidgeting as the supposed shopping expedition with your mother and sisters approaches, you pounce.

Second, get his attention.  You can do this by the simple expedient of stripping completely naked, walking into the room, grabbing his hand, and saying "change of plans" before dragging him away.  Or you can be a little more elaborate.  If you want to get creative, you can try to slip in something like this:

"Honey?  You remember our shopping trip/colonoscopy/bridal show/brunch with my aunt we had today?  Would you be terribly upset if it didn't happen?  I know you were so looking forward to it.  Hey, let me make it up to you my sucking you off for the next hour."

Or

"Babe?  I hate to break it to you, but our plans totally washed out.  And since the kids are over at Mom's anyway, how about you and me get naked, split a bottle of wine, and spend the rest of the day pulling stray hairs out of our mouths?"

Or, you can take the direct approach:

"Hon, I lied to you and I feel terrible.  Here I told you that I wanted to do ______, but what I really want to do is spend an entire day having nasty sex with you in ways that are illegal in this state.  That's the goal: as much sex as possible until we can't do it anymore.  Really just clean those pipes out, make each other cum until you're spurting sawdust and I'm walking funny, and don't answer the phone or door unless it's an asteroid strike . . . in progress."

Or, there's the other direct approach:

Sit him down, crawl in his lap, kiss him for thirty seconds straight -- even if he's reluctant at first.  Put his hand on your boob, grab his crotch, then shake your head sadly.

"This thing is just too fucking hard.  I'd better nuke the site from orbit.  It's the only way to be sure."  Smile sweetly.  Start undressing him.  Proceed to your favorite foreplay.

Sure, it's simple, but not only does his consent give you permission to ride him hard and put him up wet, the additional 'compulsory' element of the marathon can be an exciting novelty in and of itself.  Some (hope I emphasized that enough) women feel guilty about their responsive desires, especially the ones who respond powerfully to aggressive behavior or who have strong cultural or religious taboos about such things.  They want to feel "forced" into what they're doing to salve their feminine conscience, but feel horrible about it because they feel it encourages bad male behavior and devalues their own sexuality or something like that.  

Having a set period in which the Rules of the Game are the thing that is "forcing" you into having nasty, kinky sex with her husband allows them to escape both the guilt over their submissive desires and the stigma of being a woman who initiates.  If things get uncomfortable, after all, either party can declare an end to the festivities. Just make certain your dude understands this before you get started.  

But the big winner is Mrs. Ironwood.  She certainly notices when I'm not initiating, even when she's in a trough herself.  It can sometimes be infuriating for a dude to hear "Oh, I'm not interested in sex right now . . . but I'm worried about why you don't want to have sex with me".  It's okay to her feminine sensibilities if she doesn't want sex . . . as long as I want it with her.  It doesn't matter as much whether or not we actually have sex, but it does matter whether or not I want to have sex.  

To have a day where she can dispense with both of our immediate desires and fall back on our customary "institutionalized endurance screwing" for fulfillment might seem impersonal . . . but since it falls fairly close to her ovulation date, her body could care less.  

And you'd be amazed just how quickly your penis responds to a gentle caress and a "Relax!  For the next 24 hours you don't have to worry about anything but chafing and dehydration."

Breaking Beta: Mike Makes A Breakthrough

A friend of mine had a Red Pill breakthrough I’d like to share.

He’s a nice guy, and a Nice Guy, a Beta (actually, more of a Delta or Gamma, but we’ll use the alpha/beta dichotomy in this instance) in his late 30s who has been in and out of relationships his entire life.  He often makes poor choices when it comes to mate selection, and once he’s in a relationship he loses Alpha at a predictable rate . . . with predictable results.

He’s got a sister, whom he’s somewhat close to, and his sister has a friend – let’s call her Candy – who he’s not particularly close to but who has been a part of his life because she’s his sister’s BFF.  As he explained, she’s flaky as hell and irresponsible about just about everything, can’t seem to keep a man or a job (she’s a dog groomer), and spends her life, well, like a 30 something flaky chick usually does.  She hasn’t hit the Wall yet, apparently, but it’s right around the corner, and she’s got no idea.

Anyway, Candy is about a 7 on a good day, a 6 normally, and is headed for Fiveland on the evening bus.  My friend – let’s call him Mike – is comparable, having recently completed a technical degree and started a new job, as well as working out a bit.  Mike was attracted to Candy once, years ago, but her personality and proximity soon made her a woman to tolerate, not to date.  Besides, as his sisters BFF, she was hands-off.

But Mike is a Nice Guy, and over the years he’s been forced to do all sorts of shit for her out of politeness and filial duty to his sister.  At this point, he can’t stand her much at all, but she’s still under the impression that he’s been harboring a secret crush for all these years.

Last month, Candy apparently broke up with her boyfriend – again – lost her job – again – and had to move out of her apartment – again.  Mike lives over an hour away, within driving distance, but his new job makes it hard for him to go visit his sister often.  He thinks it’s a comfortable distance for kin, but apparently not enough to make him Candy-proof.  She called him up one Saturday morning, and he’d just read something I’d written over coffee, and he was feeling . . . rebellious.

The conversation went something like this – the texts are accurate, but I’m paraphrasing and adding my own interpretation of the phone conversation.  But from what Mike said, this is how it went down:

8:00 text from Candy:  need ur help today
8:05 text from Mike: ?
8:11 text from Candy: need to use ur truck. I need to move out today.

Now, Mike had plans that Saturday.  He’d just gotten his first paycheck that didn’t evaporate into bills, he didn’t have a girlfriend, and he was going to go knock out some errands and play disc golf with a couple of buddies and maybe go out to dinner after.  It wasn’t anything formal, but they were plans.

8:13 text from Mike: I have plans sorry
8:15 text from Candy: cancel them I need u!!!!!!!
8:16 text from Mike: to help u move?  WTF?
8:18 text from Candy: YES!!!!!  Need to be out by tonight.  Thank you!
8:19 text from Mike: I didn’t say id do it
8:21 text from Candy: of course you’ll do it
8:22 text from Mike: no.  good luck.


Now, y’all don’t know Mike.  That ‘no’ was right up there with the ‘no’ Caesar screams at a human for the first time in Rise of the Planet Of The Apes (the original version, of course, although they kept it for the modern one).  It was the first sign of defiance toward a woman I think I’ve ever heard him say.  Ordinarily he would have cancelled his plans, raced over to be the hero, gotten two beers and three slices of pizza and paid for a tank of gas for his trouble.

For Mike to say ‘no’ was profound.  He had a moment of clarity, he said.  He realized that she was going to use him for his resources and send him on his way without so much as a peck on the cheek – and for a man about to turn 40, that was suddenly . . . unacceptable to him.

8:25 text from Candy: wht do u mean???
8:26 text from Mike: I am not going to help you today.

(note he spelled it out on purpose to make his point)

8:29 text from Candy: just get over here
8:31 text from Mike: no

Around 8:40 his phone rang.  It was Candy.  He almost let it go to voicemail, but like I said, he was a rebellious Beta, and he was making the most of it.  He wanted to speak to her personally.

“Hello?”

“What the hell is your problem?!?” she asked, angrily.

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you being so stubborn?  I need you!”

“No, you need a moving company.  Or a U-Haul.  But you don’t need me.”

“Mike, you know I can’t afford a U-Haul or a moving company!  I need your truck! That's what friends are for!"

"So when was the last time you helped me out with something?"

There was a long moment of silence.  Then:

"Come on, why are you being like this?”

“Being like what?  I never said I'd help you.  Shit, I didn't even know you were moving.  I have plans.”

“Plans more important than helping me out?”

“They’re plans.  They’re my plans.  Candy . . . look, sorry if it’s a problem for you, but this is my Saturday, and I made plans to do stuff.  This is the first I’ve heard about helping you move, using my truck, or anything.  I don’t want to drop everything and cancel my plans at the drop of a hat.  I don’t want to spend two hours on the road just to help you move.” He was trying to be nice.  Of course, she was extremely understanding.

“I thought you were my friend!”

“Remember just a moment ago, when I asked you what you had ever done for me?  Crickets.  If we had any kind of friendship, you should have been able to think of something.  Shit, why isn’t my sister helping?”

“She is!  She said she’d get you to help!”

“You were misinformed.”

“Mike, you’re being a dick!  Just come help me!  Please?”  (At this point, he said, he was tempted to waver.  He really was.  When a woman says ‘please’ like that, it’s hard for a Beta to say ‘no’.  I’m proud of Mike.  He persevered.)

“Why should I help you, Candy?”

“Because we’re friends!  And friends help each other out!” she pouted.

“So when was the last time you helped me out?” he repeated.

Dead silence.  He let it hang there past the uncomfortable point.  He didn’t budge.  I’m proud.

“I don’t need this shit, Mike.  I don’t know what your problem is, but you’re being a dick and I resent it.”

“So you can’t think of any single thing you’ve done lately – or ever, actually – to help me out.  But you want me to drop everything and help you move again.”

“Well you’ve got the truck!” she said, like it was obvious.

“Yes, I have the truck.  I’m still making payments on it.  Why don’t you have a truck, Candy?”

“You know I can’t afford a car payment on what I make!”

“Sounds like you should have made better career choices.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

He thought for a moment, and then remembered something I’d said in our last pep talk.
“Candy, are you my girlfriend?”

“What?  What do you mean?  No!”

“Exactly.  And either I’m your boyfriend and I help you move, in which case you’re fucking me, or I’m your girlfriend.  And if I’m your girlfriend, then I’m going to weasel out of helping you move just like my sister.”

“What kind of fucked-up talk is that?”

“Look,” he said, only half-serious – he said he was joking.  “The only way I’d come and help you move today is if you paid for gas, paid for lunch, and then fucked me rotten afterwards.  Are you likely to do that?”

“HELL, no!”

“Then good luck in your future endeavors, Candy.  I’m going to grab a shower.”  Click.

I’m so proud!

But it doesn’t end there.  Mike took a shower, got dressed, and was puttering around, watching television when his sister called.

Now, Mike is fairly close to his sister, but they butt heads frequently, just like every pair of siblings.  He figured there would be some blowback.  When he picked up the phone, it was immediate.

“What the hell are you doing, asshole?”

“Hi, Sis!  What’s up!”

“I just got off the phone with Candy.  She said you were a rude asshole to her.”

“I wasn’t.  I just didn’t do what she wanted me to do.”

“I told her you’d help her move!”

“You didn’t ask me.  I have plans.”

“You can reschedule.  Candy needs us.”

“Oh, so you’re over there helping?”

“No, I don’t have a truck,” she explained, patiently.

“My truck is going to be in use today.  Look, the most I’ll do is let you swap cars with me, but I’m not driving all the way over to ______.  You drive over here, pick up the truck, and we can swap back when you’re done.”

“Why are you being such an asshole about this, Mike?  She said you tried to have sex with her!”

“No, I pointed out that we weren’t having sex, she wasn’t really a friend of mine, and that I really didn’t see any reason why I had to help.”

“Because you’re a nice guy!  Come on, everyone knows how nice you are!”

“Not anymore.”

Silence.

“What happened to you?  Is it a girl or something?”

“No.  Maybe it’s just that I’m tired of being used and even loaned out by the women in my life.  What the hell has Candy done for me – not for you, but for me?”

“She’s my best friend!  I’m your sister!”

“So you go help her.  But a man can either be a boyfriend to a woman or a girlfriend.  If I’m her boyfriend, she’s fucking me and I help her move.  If I’m her girlfriend, then I have plans, better things to do, that sort of thing.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!  You’ve known Candy for years!”

“And she’s never done jack for me.  Look, if it was you moving, I’d be there.  But it’s not, it’s her.  I don’t even really like her.  So you deal with it, if you have to.  But don’t promise my help for your friends anymore.  That’s rude and disrespectful.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?  Why are you being this way?”

“I’m tired of being used,” he repeated.  “Hey, if she wants to trade sexual favors for moving help, I’d be open to that.  But I leave here around ten, so if she’s going to act on that, she’d better call soon.”

“You want to screw Candy?” she asked in disbelief.

“I’d consider it in return for services rendered.  Or cash.  But my time and energy are valuable, and you need to start realizing that.”

“Valuable?  What the hell are you doing today that’s so important.”

“I didn’t say it was valuable to you.  But I’m done doing favors for Candy.  And your other friends, too.  I’m either a boyfriend or a girlfriend, and I can only be a boyfriend to one woman at a time.”

“What the fuck happened to you?  You used to be such a nice guy!”

“I woke the fuck up.”  Click.

If you knew Mike, you’d know just how big that was.  It was the first sign of a spine he’d shown in years.  Refusing Candy’s inconsiderate request was pretty big on its own.  Actually hanging up angrily on his big sister was a huge move.  He’s still far from finding his Alpha, but he’s moving in the right direction.  And he wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for the Manosphere.

We’ve all known women like Candy: they’re flaky as hell.  They wait until the last minute, they don’t plan, they don’t follow through, and when things inevitably fall apart they try their best to get other people to clean up their messes.  And during it all not only is this kind of flake not grateful, if things don’t go the way she wants them – even if she’s imposing on the kindness of others – she doesn’t hesitate to throw a hissy cow over it.  She feels entitled to your help because she is just so darn special that she deserves it.

It’s important also to realize the scope of such social entanglements of a particular man.  We talked about this in depth, and Mike realized that he had probably a half-dozen women in this non-sexual “antiharem” that he will run off to the moment they need help, use him, and then send him on his way with little more than “thanks!” and “You’re such a nice guy!”.  I know for a fact all but one of these women has rejected Mike in the past.

There are certain women (and there seem to be a lot of them) who feel compelled to fill the hours of any man they deem “unproductive” by imposing on him for such favors.  Often they will talk a great game about equality and fairness, and then beseech you prettily until you acquiesce to help them with their problems.  Then, if you propose anything more personal, you get a “I just don’t like you in that way” and “I think we should just remain really special friends”.

Which is code for “I don’t want to fuck you”.

So the Betas who find themselves frequently in this embarrassing position need to discover the ability within themselves to stand up and defiantly say ‘no’ to even reasonable requests for a while.  A man doesn’t hesitate to do a friend a favor, but when the “friendship” consists of how much work/time/energy/money a woman can wring out of you, then you’re essentially voluntarily grabbing your ankles and asking for more on every occasion you see them.  “What have you done for me?” is a perfectly acceptable response to the kind of “Can you help me out?” request from one of the Eternally Flaky.

But beyond that, resist allowing your time or energy or money to be determined by the women in your life.  Mike’s sister overstepped her bounds because Mike had been a doormat for so long that she expected him to come running when she called.  Only in this case, she didn’t even call – she just presumed that if Candy would ask Mike, then he would naturally help her out because  he’s such a nice guy, her little brother, and yadda yadda yadda.  I know Mike’s sister vaguely, and she’s a lot more put together than Candy.  But covering that fairly solid core is a thick layer of flaky, and volunteering your little brother for moving duty for a woman who’s not even fucking him or related to him is about the extreme limit of sisterly flakiness.

When called on it, neither woman – the flake, or the vice-flake – would take responsibility for their actions, or even acknowledge the imposition on Mike’s time.  They made his unwillingness to pour his time and energy into a rewardless bottomless pit his problem, as if he had somehow attacked them . . . instead of just saying ‘no’.

He got the blowback, too.  This happened just after Thanksgiving, before the holiday season.  By Christmas time a rumor had spread among his family that he was off his medications or he’d had a crisis or he’d otherwise gone crazy.  But when he showed up for Christmas dinner at his mother’s house – with a date, no less – he looked great.  New job, new place, new clothes, and even a date that didn’t eat with her fingers (I told you he had poor selection criteria . . .)

Mike tells me that his obstinate refusal came up at Christmas dinner, too.  His sister was nasty about it and wouldn’t leave it alone, basically trying to rally her other female relatives (and the men, but mostly the women) into a consensus condemning Mike’s behavior.  It didn’t quite go as planned.

I’m not going to do another cute dialogue here (although I’m sure it would be entertaining) but the long and short of it is that Mike’s mom, while initially siding with his sister, eventually decided that her son was within his rights for refusing to help, even if she’d “brought him up better than that”.  His aunts were ambivalent, but tended to side with his sister.

The men in his family, to a man, thought what Mike did was absolutely fine.  He didn’t even need to apologize.  That sparked a brief argument that led to his elderly widower uncle (didn’t catch the name) loudly proclaiming that “you don’t do crap for a woman anymore unless she’s sucking your dick!” at the Christmas dinner table (Mike’s mom makes some killer egg nog, I know for a fact).

Things calmed down after awhile and everyone got friendly again, but apparently it was pretty tense along the gender line for a while.  Mike didn’t care, and he defended himself so passionately and valiantly that he impressed his date.  Enough to get laid.  Score one for Mike.  And after dinner, his sister sought him out and tried to apologize, sort of.

(She also wanted to see if Mike was serious about fucking Candy, because apparently Candy has always had a crush on Mike – even though she didn’t hesitate to reject him – and his “offer” to swap sex for help moving had intrigued her.  Hmm.  I wonder if him being a dick had anything to do with her new-found respect?  Mike told me that while he was still attracted to Candy, physically, her personality was such a negative that it would likely be a struggle for him to get into it, if it ever was going to happen.  But he’s starting to get it.  He snorted scornfully when I mentioned the possibility and said “Maybe a blowjob.  But after that conversation, I wouldn’t fuck her with a stolen dick”.)

This is what Betas, Gammas, Deltas and Omegas all need to realize: women don’t respect dudes who kiss their ass.  Not enough to fuck them.  To most women (and I do recognize there are exceptions, but women in aggregate) the men in their lives fall into a few distinct categories . . . and the eternally unfuckable-but-still-useful-Beta-dude is one of their favorites.

Why?  Because by making him her bitch when it comes to doing stuff, she’s ‘proving’ that men and women can be ‘just friends’.  She might even be proud enough about it to say it to his face.  And he might be dickless enough to agree that, yes, it was purely the power of her personality and sweetness of character that inspired him to sacrifice his Saturday or shell out some bucks or move heavy objects . . . because he’s such a Nice Guy.  He might even get defensive about it.

But what is actually going on is female exploitation of the good graces of the men in their lives.  For all of their robust talk of equality, even Equity Feminists have this nasty habit of trying to rope the men in their lives who aren’t fucking them or related to them to do their bidding and give up their labor for free.  When the tables are turned and suddenly these dudes need favors, these women seem incredibly unhelpful.

Case in point: Perpetual Beta orbitor (a 6) around a fairly hot-but-shallow co-worker (different division)/acquaintance.  He wanted in her pants super-bad.  He followed her around like a puppy and did all sorts of things for a few weeks until he screwed up the courage to ask her out.  She gave him the ‘we’re just good, very special friends’ speech.  He was crushed, stopped following her around so much, and she didn’t even notice.

Then he has a work function (big holiday party for clients) that he needs to attend, and he needs a dinner date.  It’s expected, and he doesn’t have a girlfriend.  He gets a little desperate.  He eventually thinks of his “good, very special friend”.  He asks her, and even though she isn’t doing anything, she “doesn’t think it would be a good idea”.

He pressed her – he needed this – and she still turns him down, forcing him to go stag to the detriment of his career.  He hadn’t implied anything romantic, nothing sexual, just “will you show up and be female for an evening”, no pressure expressed or implied.  But she turned him down cold because “we don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea”.

That’s code for “I find you utterly unfuckable and only good enough to serve me.”

And that’s what “good, very special friends” means to most women when they say it to a dude: you are my bitch.
The question of whether or not men and women can be friends is an interesting one.  It’s been discussed throughout the Manosphere, and while the extremes both make valid arguments, I tend to fall someplace in the middle.  I do think, under the proper circumstances, men and women can be friends.  But they are the exceptions.  The whole “When Harry Met Sally” discussion on the subject is pretty clear that when men and women try to be friends, sex naturally intrudes no matter what else happens.

What are the exceptions?

Well, if you think you’re a Beta and you’re single, stop doing shit for any woman that isn’t a) directly related to you or b) screwing you without some sort of reciprocal agreement in place.  You may develop one (1) hetero female friend who you are NOT interested in sleeping with, and who is NOT interested in sleeping with you, for the direct purpose of helping get each other laid.  A female wingman can be invaluable, if you know what you’re doing, and you can offer her the same service.  A woman who understands Game is a mighty and dangerous thing . . . but if she’s in your corner, it gives you an edge.

If you are married and you’re a Beta, then start uncoupling the assumption your wife makes that you will do what she wants you to do for her friends without complaint or argument.  You have a filial duty to help your unmarried sister-in-law, your mother, your mother-in-law, and your sister.   If you are feeling especially generous, you can extend an annual favor to be used on behalf of your wife’s BFF as well, as a special favor to her.  MAYBE a female neighbor, if her husband can’t help.  But that’s it.

You will, of course, have to accommodate your wife’s agenda – that’s just part of marriage, and you accept that going in – but the moment she starts volunteering you for stuff without asking your permission, you can have this conversation:

“Honey, can you go help Linda move some stuff around?  She needs you to install a dishwasher.”

“Is she going to have sex with me afterward?”

“WHAT?  NO!”

“Oh.  Then are YOU going to have sex with me afterward?”

“(Insert offended comment along the lines of ‘not if your attitude is like that!’ – but anything other than an enthusiastic and positive response should be responded to thus )”

“Oh.  Then I’m not going to help Linda move some stuff around.”

Expect some blowback or explosion . . . the first time.  Maybe even the second.  But telling your wife you aren’t hers to barter with is worth the grief you’ll get initially.  Eventually she’ll realize that promising your attention, time, energy, or money without consultation or permission is extremely disrespectful to you as a man and her husband, and she needs to change.

Men, married or single, really only have a few classes that they lump the women in their lives into.  Understanding that there are widely varying individual responses to the question, most men tend to divide their female acquaintances into these sorts of groups:

Group A: Women I’m Related To
Group B: Women I’m Fucking
Group C: Women I Want To Fuck But Haven’t Fucked Yet
Group D: Women Who I Don’t Want To Fuck
Group E: Women Who Have Made It Clear I Have No Chance Of Fucking Them.
Group F: Women I Am Institutionally Forbidden From Fucking


The “women I’m just friends with and I’m so totally comfortable with that” group is not represented because it is statistically insignificant.

Feminism argues that men and women can and should be “just friends” without regard to gender or sex.  It is this attitude that has allowed countless feminists to poach other women’s husbands under the guise of “being friends”.  Or exploit the labor and resources of their poor Beta orbiters until they are used up – and with as little reciprocation as possible.  Feminism tries to claim that if we ‘just remove the sexual component’ then male/female friendships would regularly grow and blossom just like male/male and female/female friendships.  But we all know what the practical result is.

The practical result is that for most Red Pill men, women should fall under the following categories:

1) Wife/LT Girlfriend
2) Mother/sister/aunt
3) Lesbian neighbor
4) Wife’s BFF
5) Co-workers and Colleagues

That’s it.

(If you can manage to acquire a lesbian neighbor, I highly recommend it. I have a few, and they have never failed me when I’ve needed a power tool or help on a project.  I’ve been more than happy to reciprocate when my own skillset or specialized tools were required.  The lesbians I know do NOT try to take advantage of me or the other men in the neighborhood.  They always make a polite inquiry, ask my permission, and express their gratitude and their willingness to reciprocate.  And I cannot emphasize enough how much fun it can be talking about the pitfalls of a romantic relationship with a woman with a lesbian.    You think I’m misogynistic?  Some of the lesbians I know make Archie Bunker look like Maud.  Lesbians are in a different class of womanhood altogether.  And your lesbian mileage may vary.  But I digress.)

Any attempt to blur the distinction between the above categories is fraught with peril.  It usually leads to an incremental increase in the requests for your assistance, and it is almost never in your best interest.

So take a page from Mike’s book, Betadudes, and start standing up for yourself.  Your time IS valuable, and it should not be wasted on stuff that isn’t going to help you, unless you’re just insanely altruistic.  Don’t let the women in your life set your agenda – that’s YOUR job.  Until you actually have a ring on your finger and a wife in your bed, your time and energy should be as valuable as any professionals . . . and you shouldn’t let it be  exploited by women who have no respect for you.

Just remember: “You’re Such A Nice Guy” isn’t womanly respect, it’s a condescending pat on the fucking head for a servant who has done as instructed.  And it’s the easiest way to kill any erotic feelings a woman might have for you.  So just stop.  They’ll bitch, sure . . . but wait a month or two.  That’s what Mike did.  After the Candy episode, he saw the other areas in his life where women were setting his agenda and making promises on his behalf.  He put a stop to it, and while plenty of them are mad, a couple of them actually got over it enough to call him and ask him out recently.

I can’t quite call Mike an Alpha now, but he’s left his Delta days behind him.  That’s a sign of hope for the Manosphere as glorious as any rainbow.

"I, for one, will welcome our new Sexbot masters . . . "

Vox Rox, once again, as he hits on a subject I’ve been eager to explore but, alas, I’ve hesitated to, due to the occasional anti-nerd bias that appears from time to time in the Manosphere.  I get enough heat over my hyperbole, and the following is going to seem like crazy sci-fi, not a rational and reasonable prediction of the future.  But since the always-well-respected Vox Day has broached the subject, I can get my nerdy little hands on it without looking like the geeky kid.  Here’s the thing:

The Sexbot threat to feminism is real.

No one wants to admit it, but it’s coming.  Indeed, the only people who recognize it as such are the radical feminists and the radical nerds, and rarely do folks take those groups at face value when they speak.  But they both have it right, sexbots are in our future.  Indeed, they’re closer than you think, and their capacity to seriously screw with the SMP is very, very real.

When you think “sex bot”, you’re probably thinking of the Austin Powers’ version, or perhaps just a solid-core doll with a vibrating twat.  The reality of the situation is this: Japan, the undisputed global leaders in male masturbation technology, are investing literally millions in research into this market.  Why?  Because of the herbivores.

The “herbivores” are the adult males (I hesitate to call them men) in Japanese society who have opted out of the dating-and-mating SMP entirely.  In consideration of the exhausting and complex web of social and financial penalties involved, these men have just . . . given up on women.  When they do look for sexual release they either masturbate or (more rarely) visit a brothel.  They do not, for the most part, mate.

The Herbivores are considered the natural result of post-industrial society, so its within the interests of the Manosphere to pay close attention.  They tend to range from 25-35, and they live simple lives pursuing their hobbies and going to work and . . . that’s it.  You think American women feel entitled?  Japanese “princesses” put them to shame.  Their demands and requirements for a husband are often so grandiose or unrealistic that they have turned-off an entire generation of Japanese men to the very idea of marriage, just at the point where their female contemporaries, themselves working in corporate jobs, are starting to consider it.

"Rebecca" Model, complete cooking/cleaning
/fellatio software standard, $9,999.99 Today Only!

But when your day consists of going to work in a cube farm and playing the corporate warrior competing with women all day, apparently it saps your desire to deal with them all night, too.  Instead, these men have turned their backs on emotionally investing in either.  Sure, it sounds like one of those crazy Japanese social stats,  After all, the problem can’t be that bad, can it?  How many of the young men between 25 and 35 have self-identified as Herbivores, and do not actively plan on marrying?

Over 60%.

Ladies, think about that figure for a moment.  Even if you subtract a generous 5-10% for homosexual men, that still means that only half – at most – of men in Japan’s advanced post-industrial society will be available for marriage.  And despite Japan’s unique forms of feminism, that issue has become a very, very big one for Japanese women.

Enter the Japanese sex companies.  Long an important part of international sex culture, the last few decades have seen rapid advances in masturbation technology, including the disposable Tenga “egg” stroker you can buy in a vending machine for those long lunch hours.  Japanese dudes whack it a lot, and that’s big business.  So Japanese firms are preparing for, and feverishly developing, the Sexbot for sale in the near future.

At this point they’re still pretty crude, so you ladies can relax for half a decade.  But by 2018, and certainly by 2020, we’ll see animatronic Sexbots available for purchase that you will not be able to distinguish from a human being more than ten feet away.

Every aspect of the phenomenon is being developed: realistic-feeling skin, realistic-looking eyes, realistic-sounding voice, realistic weight and mass, realistic movements . . . the Japanese are highly detail-oriented.  When you see what they offer in a high-end sex doll now, just imagine what they can do when it’s actually a robot.  The Japanese LOVE robots.  When they build them, they build them like works of art.

"Linda" Model, used, some aftermarket parts,
5 years old, $4,400.00 OBO

The current state-of-the-art is still primitive, but that’s changing rapidly.  By 2020 your Sexbot will be able to walk, talk, see, hear, suck, fuck, give you an endless handjob, take it up her vibrating butt and do stuff no mortal woman can.  You will be able to order them in any style, from African to Asian to European to Latin and beyond, any height, any weight, and you will be able to personalize them to suit your particular fetish.  Advanced models will have changeable bust sizes and other options.  Hair, eyes, and accent?  Standard options.

And just how much will dudes have to shell out to get a perfectly-programmed girlfriend delivered to their door?

About the price of an economy car.  Estimates indicate that the best consumer price-point for a Sexbot is about US$7,000.00 (2013).  Leases will likely be available.  So will financing.  But for the average dude, shelling out that kind of cash for the perfect sexual companion is a no-brainer.

Imagine a dude getting home from work in his single apartment.  His Sexbot has been pre-programmed to start his dinner and have it ready on demand.  She greets him at the door, asks about his day, gets his dinner, and then spends the rest of the evening satisfying him any way he chooses.  With a sophisticated AI (one of the major focuses of the effort) she will be able to converse with you on nearly any topic or stay blissfully silent.  And you don’t even have to ask about how her day went.

After two years, trade her in for a newer, more advanced model.  Repeat as necessary.

It won’t be perfect . . . but it will be good enough for most men.  Our children’s generation will look forward to a whole lot of men (if Japan is any indication, over half) depending on Sexbots for their erotic entertainment over actual human beings.  Even whores.  Because sexbots are safer than prostitutes by any estimation.

And just how are the feminists greeting this miracle, this great liberation of women from the sexual expectations of evil, lusty ol’ mens?

Following the recent Ontario/Canada Roundtable on Gender Equality, the below provisions have been proposed for the new Human-Robot Personal Relationship Act, the first draft of which is currently being finalized.The provisions are specifically meant to target the concerns that were expressed at the roundtable that sexbots will negatively impact the pursuit for gender equality and may unduly emphasize the objectification of women as sexual objects.The suggested provisions fall into the larger framework of regulating the emerging service robot industry that will be governed by the Human-Robot Personal Relationship Act and under the direction of the Ministry of Robots and Artificial Intelligence, to be established in Ontario and other Canadian provinces and territories at the end of next year.

…The use of sexbots in the privacy of one’s home is prohibited, unless otherwise permitted by the Ministry of Robots and Artificial intelligence or a relevant regulating agency as per the criteria outlined in the Human-Robot Personal Relationship Act.

"Jessica" Model, barely used, got as gift last year;
$6500.00, non neg.

See?  The feminists don’t want . . . competition.

Vox rightly points out the thinly-veiled, incredibly obvious motivation behind this freakish proposed law: feminists are upset because when dudes can buy a girlfriend for less money than an engagement ring, and then have elective temporary vasectomies to cover their bases for the few times they do end up with a real woman, then the future looks an awful lot like a male paradise and a female hell.

What happens when you’re a woman, you want to be a mom, but not only can’t you find a husband . . . you can’t even find decent sperm?  When in order to conceive, you have to convince a dude to commit to providing you with semen, which he can do only AFTER he consciously gets his vasectomy reversed?  No surprise pregnancies, no one-night-stands gone wrong, suddenly the only way a woman can get pregnant is if she can convince a man to commit to her?  If she can even find one who is interested?

Several feminist groups have maintained that “Control over reproduction is a basic need and a basic right for all women.”  That is, the control of who gets to reproduce, according to feminism, belongs exclusively in the hands of one gender, despite all the braying about “equality”.  But what happens when that just won’t be the case?  What happens in our society when a majority of working women can’t find husbands – or even dates, thanks to the Sexbot craze – and end up working and paying taxes to subsidize other women’s childbearing?  What happens when a dude with superior genetics can start a bidding war on his balls?  What happens when a woman has to ask a man – pretty please – can we have a baby?

The Agricultural Age sex-for-security swap is obsolete – I get that.  Women can make their own money and don’t need us for support anymore.  Great.  Knock yourselves out.  Women are in charge of their own bodies and own reproductive health, according to international treaty, and they can have kids anytime they want.  If they convince a dude to donate.  I’m envisioning a pretty lengthy negotiation and paperwork session before he ever gets to the clinic.

"Samantha" Model, replaced CPU and customized
vagina and mouth.  Speaks with Austrailian accent
but has seven alternate themes.  $8,800.00, firm.

And I’m also envisioning a whole lot of dudes suddenly asking, in very loud voice, just why the hell they should consent to grant a woman their sperm without a dramatic re-negotiation of the socio-sexual contract?  That’s going to happen anyway, naturally, just as it did with industrialization, the pill, divorce, computers and porn.  The temporary vasectomy is literally just a few years away.  Throw in Sexbots, and suddenly men have reproductive power the likes of which they’ve never dreamed, even at the height of the Agricultural Age.  They will decide when they conceive as a conscious choice, not as a whim of Nature.  Have a bad date with yet-another desperate woman who only wants you for your sperm?  Kandi the Asian 19year old Sexbot will make it all better.

And that’s why feminists are trying to ban them.  Not because they “objectify” women, but because they make women largely redundant to men.  Suddenly the allure of their genitalia will pale in comparison to the outrageous sexual bombshells rolling off of the Kyoto assembly lines.  Indeed, by all practical measurements, Sexbots will actually cure a plethora of social ills: STDs, AIDS, unwanted pregnancy, sexual frustration, loneliness, heartbreak, child sexual exploitation, and more.  Far from making men objectify women . . . it will merely make them ignore them.  Men with Sexbots won’t treat women poorly, because more likely than not, once they have the “perfect” programmed girlfriend at home, there really won’t be any reason to interact with women unless you’re at work.

Indeed, Sexbots are so clearly a boon to men that feminist cannot let them be developed.  Consider the advantages to dudes: Men get a life free from rejection or judgment, the two biggest issues for male sexual psychology.  They can indulge themselves sexually with a Sexbot for years, if they desire, before they decide whether or not they want children.  Male sperm is viable until you’re around 70 (and while frozen sperm only lasts a few years, properly harvested and frozen spermatophores, the cells that create sperm, can be frozen indefinitely), so there really is no rush on fatherhood until you’re damn good and ready.  If ever.

Just imagine a society where any man can get his ashes hauled at any time, in any way, without having to ask a live woman to participate.  Just imagine a society where women can’t get “accidentally” pregnant anymore.  Not only is the impetus to marry absolutely killed, but even the impetus to mix with the opposite sex.  And that’s what is scaring feminists, not the potential for objectification.

Sexbots are coming, and the above-legislation is doomed, even if it passes, to languish in court.  Why?  Because the use of Sexbots is protected under  a number of United Nations Treaties dealing with Reproductive and Sexual Rights:

The Cairo Programme of Action clearly spells out the concept of reproductive rights in Chapter 7 which states in part that such rights "rest on the recognition of the basic right of all couples and individuals to decide freely and responsibly the number, spacing and timing of their children and to have the information and means to do so, and the right to attain the highest standard of reproductive and sexual health. It also includes the right of all to make decisions concerning reproduction free of discrimination, coercion, and violence as expressed in human rights documents."

"Brenda" Model, Like New, some issues with house
keeping programming.  Low mileage, great starter bot.
$5,550.00

The proposed law, above, would be the state directly impinging on the sexual and reproductive freedom of men.  Because if that law isn’t “discrimination and coercion”, I don’t know what is.  Under UN Treaty, the rights of men and women are essentially interchangeable, so claiming special rights for women (such as the right not to have to compete with an android supermodel who can literally suck the chrome off of a trailer hitch for a husband) is unlikely to withstand legal review.  Further, thanks to NAFTA and other international trade treaties, this law may actually violate Free Trade statutes in addition to other international laws.

Just imagine the result if sex with “realistic” Sexbots is actually made illegal . . . why not just pop an alien head on?  Or a animatronic animal head?  Or just a silvery glass sphere?  That’s the real danger for women when it comes to Sexbots: their ability to be customized in ways no woman would ever consent to.  And just imagine a bunch of feminist attorneys standing up in court trying to distinguish (legally) between a woman’s right to buy a realistic dildo (currently protected under Canada’s generous privacy laws) and a man’s right to buy a realistic pussy . . . that just happens to be attached to a $7000.00 human-shaped carrying case.  Like gun control laws, any regulation that seeks to stop the trade will end up producing variations that allow it to be circumvented.

Can’t have a “realistic” full-body Sexbot?  Then just buy her from the waist down.  And then next year spring for a separate torso and head.  You can use them separately, or together!  Cant’ have a Sexbot that portrays a minor?  Get a really, really small model, and no one knows what happens in your imagination.

Rarely has feminism’s hypocrisy and clear agenda been better on display: women get all the sex toys they want, but when men have the one they want, we can’t be allowed to have it because they don’t like it.  That’s it.  Not that it would “hurt the children”, not that it would “spread disease”, not that it would harm . . . anyone.  Just that it would make them feel bad.  Maybe.  Or at least they think it would, so they want to pre-emptively prohibit the technology that doesn’t even exist yet.

My industry will be fighting this type of law tooth-and-nail, because the profit potential in Sexbots is huge – a hell of a lot better than vibrators.  And feminists will come up with more outrageously blatant rationalizations, sent from on-high by the Great Hamster, to tell us why we can’t have them.  But we all know why.

And it’s coming.

It can’t be stopped.

It can’t be reasoned with.

"Connie" Model, bought for light office duty for three-man office.
Can double as a receptionist or a word processor.  Nine different
Office Fantasy Programs, standard.  We just got a "Alana", and
"Connie" just isn't as satisfying anymore.  $700.00 OBO.

All you can do is accept it.  Because the Japanese are going to build these things, and then the 30 million men in China who have no hope of marriage will buy them like hotcakes, and there’s no way we Americans can let a sweet thing like that slip by us – that would be un-American.

So I, for one, will be welcoming our new Sexbot masters.  It’s going to tighten up the SMP worse than gay liberation did.  And it’s going to make shallow, poor-quality women completely and utterly undatable, and leave them little or no options to reproduce.  And the women who do reproduce will do so only with the permission, consent and acquiescence of men.

One other consequence of the Herbivores that no one is considering?  Think about this: the next generation of Japanese will be the product only of the “Carnivores”, the more manly, aggressive, and sexual men in Japanese society.  The Alphas and High Betas, in other words.  That means that a lot of low-performing mediocrity will be bred out or cultured out.  Which means the 21st century looks pretty good for the Japanese.

Of course, you remember what happened last time things looked good for the Japanese, back in the middle of last century . . .