Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Red Pill Anniversary, Phase I: Art

Trying to keep these short.

Tomorrow is the 21st anniversary of Mrs. Ironwood and I meeting.  The ironies of the match were many: we grew up within miles of each other, I knew her brother from failing Spanish 2 with him (twice) as well as Scouts, and due to a unique quirk in the social-space-time continuum, she had actually seen naked baby pictures of me before ever laying eyes on me.

But the reason I'm particularly proud of 21, as opposed to 20, is that our 21st anniversary represents the fact that we have concluded twenty solid years together. Petty distinction, perhaps, but from this point forward she will have spent more of her life with me than without me, and I think that's worthy of note and celebration.

So how do you do a good Wolf Alpha/Red Pill Anniversary?  There's an art to it.   I mean, I could just shell out some cash for jewelry she'll never wear, couldn't I?

I'm an Ironwood.  I'm better than that.

Well, first you start a few months in advance.  You make it multi-faceted, and attempt to encompass as many of the points of your union as you can.  You include the element of surprise and sentimentality, and you spend a whole, whole lot of time, energy and effort to carry it off -- especially while you're recovering from an as-yet-diagnosed-but-undoubtedly-disturbing illness.

Let's start with the art.

Not everyone is naturally talented at art -- but everyone has some talent in some type of artistic media, whether they recognize it or not.  Hell, everyone can fingerpaint.  But if you do have a moderate talent at something like drawing or painting or sculpting --perhaps something you've dabbled in, but never pursued seriously.  Consider indulging your creative side and allowing your admittedly unpracticed hands manifest your feelings for your wife in your preferred media.  And the element of surprise means that if it really, really sucks, candy and jewelry is always on the table.

In my case, the first part of my anniversary gift seems rather mundane: I'm getting a print we've had hanging in our bedroom forever framed.  I've often advocated for including some tasteful erotic artwork in your bedroom to help encourage a bountiful humpage, and a few years ago I got her a print of Gustav Klimt's The Kiss for her for another anniversary (I forget which one).  I chose the print for three reasons: first, it is tastefully erotic yet something I don't have to over-explain to my children; second, it's a beautiful artistic expression of the essential emotional resonance, the passionate culmination of pursuit and preparation for seduction; and three, the beautiful yellow color kinda almost matches a yellow antique loveseat we have in our bedroom that is too valuable and useful for storage, yet which goes with NOT ANOTHER GOD DAMN THING in the bedroom.

Hence, the painting.  She loved it, we hung it on the wall unframed until it got dusty and we moved some stuff around, and for the last few months it's been languishing behind the computer desk, unseen and unappreciated.  So I dug it out and took it to my buddy Lance to be framed.

Simple.  Elegant. Meaningful.  Cheap.  A pleasant surprise that adds to the feel of our mutual playground and business office.  She'll feel bad, because she probably got me a card and something silly, and here I did all this meaningful-yet-erotic-yet-romantic-and-braggable stuff.  Indeed, thanks to her schedule, it's 50/50 that she'll even forget our anniversary, unless Google Calendar comes to her rescue.  That might inspire some truly incredible contrition sex, and we all know just how much fun that can be!

A mere mortal would be content to sit back and bask in the glow of his accomplishment.  A unique, thoughtful, and practical gift laden with romantic meaning is pretty hard to beat.  And there will be dinner -- I'll cover that later -- and other typical anniversary fare.

But that's far from all I have planned.   I'm just getting started.  Over the course of the next week, there will be more surprises.  More wonders.  More excitement.  (and hopefully no more Urgent Care visits).  And when it's all said and done, if I've done my job right, then my wife will be preternaturally devoted to me and convinced that I am the Best Husband Ever, in the cosmic sense.  And once again I will have raised the bar on everyone else.

All part of my evil plan, Mwahahahahahaha.

UPDATE:  This is how the frame turned out . . .

That's high-quality moulding, and two different mattes, UV glass, paper backing and a museum-quality hanger on the back.  The frame is easily worth 100 times the value of the print.  It's probably the nicest thing in my bedroom now.  Mrs. Ironwood loved it, but reminded me that it was SHE who originally purchased the print -- when I insisted that she choose some tasteful erotic art for our bedroom because (and I shit you not) for a while she had two baby pictures of herself hanging over our bed, and nothing is a boner-killer like cute baby pictures.  

Friday, July 27, 2012

On The Rectification of Names

Yesterday's post (gosh, I'm actually doing two a week?  I must be feeling better . . .) raised some interesting comments, and led me to consider the Rectification of Names in relation to marital relationships.

Most of you have never heard the term -- it's a translation from the Chinese, and expounds one of the many fascinating aspects of Chinese legal customs and philosophies that underlie East Asian culture to this day.  It arises from the days of the well-run Chinese empires, Iron Age agricultural cultures with populations so vast that the Chinese had to develop one of the most sophisticated bureaucracies the world has ever known to administer it effectively.  One of the guiding principals of this bureaucracy -- "The Mandarinate" -- was the Rectification of Names.  Simply put, the agents of the Empire had the power to examine a problem situation in a province and "fix" it by recognizing who was actually doing the work and ensuring that they had the proper title and resources.  That is, if the CEO was skating by on the back of his hard-working assistant, then that assistant would be promoted to CEO.

In other words, you get the job that fits the title.  And you get the title that fits the job.  It's a Red Pill kind of principal, acknowledging the reality of the situation and ordering your response to the world accordingly, instead of honoring an occasionally useful fiction that's often inefficient, and will often lead to trouble.

I bring all this up because yesterday's post clarified a few things in my mind about most marital relationships.

As I said yesterday, you start out as boyfriend/girlfriend, with the heat of infatuation and attraction hormones and naked lust and adventurous sex and such.  That's the good stuff, the stuff everyone enjoys.  But there are certain basic levels of expectation about the Boyfriend/Girlfriend relationship.

You have sex with your Girlfriend, and she has sex with you, because you like each other, find each other hot, and want to indulge your sense of erotic adventure with each other more than anyone else in the world.  You claim your Girlfriend with the same primal imperative as 100,000 years of your tribal forebears did.  By fucking her passionately you are making with her a primal pact with your loins that you will treat her nicely, bring her presents, and protect her from evil.  You chose her, you impressed her, she honestly thinks you're a great guy -- great enough to do that thing she does that you really like with you and not anyone else.  That's what makes her your Girlfriend.  That's the job description.

And your Girlfriend has a sense of devotion to her Boyfriend because of all the women in the world, he chose her, he likes her, and he treats her with special consideration.  Oh, and he pounds her rotten, y'know, that way that makes her walk funny and giggle unexpectedly to her girlfriends, sisters, and occasionally to her mother.  She expects that he will protect her, and claim her as his alone, and that you'll hang out (possibly in public) where you can display your couplehood to your Matrix and possibly dance.  Your Boyfriend has to dance with you.  It's part of the job description.

Then there is the Engagement . . . official or unofficial, when you start cohabitating or planning a long-term relationship, perhaps with a commitment symbolized with a ring or a leased apartment or even a shared mortgage.  But once you are living together, regardless of the official status of the relationship, there is a new level of expectation for both sides.

You still have sex together, of course, but now you have responsibilities as a Fiance.  Beyond being a studmuffin in the sack and treating her special, you now have financial, household, and emotional responsibilities that rise far above the simple Boyfriend stage.  In turn, her responsibilities go up significantly as well, and the grueling task of figuring out who cooks, who does laundry and how, who cleans the toilet, who pays the insurance, and who gets to talk to the creepy landlord about the air conditioning get sorted out.  From a Boyfriend perspective, this sucks -- because your female Fiance has all these preconceived ideas about how you have to fold laundry and put it away before you wear it, and you pretty much have to do what she says because she has the only fully-functional vagina in the relationship.  Thus begins Betacization.

Before you recoil in horror, this is a necessary process.  When men make the transition from the single Puerarchy to taking the step toward full-fledged masculine adulthood, one of the vital lessons necessary to learn is How To Successfully Live With A Woman.  For some of us it takes a few live-in Girlfriends and maybe a failed Fiance or two to master the craft.  Some never master it.  But if you're planning on marrying someone female, or even living with them intimately for a long time, you have to master the beta skills implicit in being a Fiance.  How to put the toilet seat down and why.  Checking the oil in her car because you know that even though she's capable of doing it, she just won't.  Advanced Rodent, Reptile, Insect and Arachnid Removal.  Getting rid of salesmen and Jehovah's Witnesses at the door.  Making sure all the doors and windows are locked at night.

Where Beta starts being bad is when it starts hitting your sex life.  Good nurturing skills and comfort-producing nesting abilities sooth a woman you live with.  It makes your Fiance feel protected and cared for.  It also makes her feel sexually complacent, so that after an initial isn't-it-great-we-can-screw-in-our-own-place period of about ninety days, the novelty wears off and your frequency starts to fall.  You conclude that it's because she's not happy with something, so you bust your ass to make her happy by more nesting and comforting and nurturing and eventually ass-kissing . . . when all she really needs is a good booster shot of Alpha.  As secure as she feels with you as her Fiance, the fact is she needs the primal feeling of Alpha that only her Boyfriend could produce.

This is particularly frustrating for men, because the whole Betacization/Fiancification process is specifically designed to reduce and remove all of those bad-boy, panty-dampening things you did as Boyfriend.  And in the meantime, when you've been busting your ass to make her happy and you feel like you deserve some sexual appreciation for your efforts, she's just not feeling it as much anymore.  Your Fiance might put out, but she won't fuck you like your Girlfriend did.  That sparks confusion and resentment, and is a contributing factor to why many cohabitation relationships last about six months.  That's about as long as you can put up with not having a fully-functional Girlfriend as a dude without the strong desire to dump/cheat on her forming.

So in successful LTRs, the two people successfully integrate the Boyfriend/Girlfriend aspect back into their lives as Fiances.  After that first nasty six month period (and this is in general -- everyone's situation is different) they come to a meeting of the minds in which they learn to balance their new-found responsibilities as Fiances with their vital need to see their Boyfriend/Girlfriend on occasion.

Case in point: A few years before Mrs. Ironwood and I got engaged, when we were just wearily emerging from the worst of this transition, we hit an embarrassing sexual impasse.  We both had desire, we both knew we wanted to have sex, but we were so overburdened by our collective responsibilities as a couple that sex was just too complicated to negotiate.  And the fact that we even had to negotiate it was galling.  Behind the tangle of guilt, blame, recriminations, and accusations (all in reasonable, calm, and civilized tones, thanks to our Rules of Engagement) was the fact that I was angry that my Girlfriend had disappeared, and she was upset that her Boyfriend had taken off somewhere and left her this petty kitchen-obsessed tyrant.

The impasse was broken, of course.  The details are intimate and unimportant, but basically things didn't turn around until I mentally and emotionally abandoned the title of Fiance and just fucked my Girlfriend one day.  It took her by surprise, in light of our past arguments, but she responded by admitting that she had been really missing her Boyfriend for months now, too.  So we kicked the pile of stupid shit aside that had been causing us so much problems, and went out to a bar as Boyfriend and Girlfriend.

Or, in Red Pill terms, I accelerated my Alpha with a dominance display that led to her submissive response, which in turn engaged my desire to protect and defend.  That restored the balance in the relationship by reminding us that the point of it wasn't integrating our separate family Christmas list into one convenient budget-conscious list, it was the fact that I had a primal sexual connection with my Girlfriend that was mutually enjoyable and desired.  I was able to slide right back into a more Beta fiance mode right afterwards, but that experience became the foundation of a number of little rituals over the years.  And yes, we had tender, romantic, do-it-twice-before-brunch-on-Sunday Fiance Sex too, and it was great.  But it wasn't Boyfriend/Girlfriend sex.

Oh, but it doesn't end there.  If the title of Fiance involves learning how to live together, then the big title that comes with matrimony is vastly more sophisticated.  When it comes to obligations and expectations, being Husband and Wife has a list an order of magnitude larger than Boyfriend/Girlfriend.  There are whole new areas of responsibility which must be covered to have a successful marriage: in-laws, money management, homes, children, taxes, social expectation, social obligation, with everyone you know watching you and holding their breath to see if you're going to make it.

Talk about pressure.

A Husband, despite forty years of feminist attempts to erode the position, still comes with plenty of built-in expectation.  Homeowner (or Leaseholder) usually, even still.  Medical Power of Attorney.  Last Will and Testament.  Financial Planning.  Home Insurance.  Life Insurance.  Health Insurance.  Inheritance.  Social Security.  The legal obligations alone should require a three-credit-hour class to cover before they issue you a marriage license.  And within all of that you are still expected to be the primary breadwinner, handle household repairs and maintenance, be responsible for your fleet of vehicles, engage in a lot of childcare and housekeeping activities, hold down a job/career, and make your wife look good in front of her friends.

As a Wife, you are now likely in charge of the social obligations and calendar for you both, interactions with nearly all family members including your in-laws, scheduling, oversight of schools and homework, engage in a lot of childcare and housekeeping activities, oversee the cleanliness of the kitchen/bathroom areas for minimum feminine standards, enforce household rules about laundry and grocery items, manage a household budget with limited resources, deal with issues of credit and finance, provide transportation as needed, and sustain a robust enough social life so that your friends don't think you're being secretly abused or bored to death.

And then there is the sex.  Married sex is a whole different thing than Fiance Sex, and light-years from Boyfriend/Girlfriend sex.  Married people have sex for all sorts of reasons, but blind passion is rarely one of them.  Marriage tacitly obligates you to have sex, after all -- it was once considered a "marital duty" for both parties.  Having sex with your Wife is much different than having sex with your Fiance.  By that time, usually your Betacization has hardened into a thick shell, and often you come to see your thrice-a-month nookie as the best of bad situation, instead of a sexual cry for help.  Married sex is comfort sex, the Mac and Cheese of the sexual world.  It might not be exciting, but it's filling and it can get you by.

Oh, there's lots more to the Husband/Wife thing.  I'm still learning the nuances.

But here's the thing:


That's the point of the Rectification of Names.  When you move in with a dude, you don't stop being his Girlfriend.  When you put a ring on your finger, you don't stop being his Girlfriend.  When you take his last name and become the beneficiary of his life insurance policy, you don't stop being his Girlfriend.

Because when you stop being his Girlfriend . . . he's going to look around to find another Girlfriend.  Oh, he probably won't replace his Fiance or his Wife, but if he can't get the jolt of manly testosterone he gets from his Girlfriend from you, he'll resort to porn, to pouting, to argument, and to thoughts of infidelity.

Seriously, next time you and your wife have a social obligation where you don't know many people and it won't affect your careers, try taking off your rings for the evening and introducing her to everyone as your Girlfriend.  (You can admit you married her, if pressed).  See how people treat you differently, and how you treat each other differently after awhile.  When you're out with your Girlfriend, and not your Wife or Fiance, suddenly you look at the world differently.  Where a Husband would steadfastly refuse to acknowledge the glances from the hot blonde across the bar out of respect for his Wife, a Boyfriend can slide her a wicked grin while placing a territorial arm around his Girlfriend (and then try to whisper encouragement to go have sex in the bathroom).

When you have Date Night, decide in advance if you're having Married Date Night or Boyfriend/Girlfriend Date Night.  It will make a difference in your attitude and your experience. (Fiance Date Night is pretty much pizza and beer and a movie at home).  And don't forget to spend at least part of your week being a good Boyfriend/Girlfriend.

For example, a good Boyfriend:
Buys you chocolate just because he saw some and thought you'd like it.
Takes you to a rock concert and encourages you to take off your bra in the car
Tells you how sexy you look dancing at a rock concert without a bra
Escorts you to the bathroom and watches the door to fend off predators and watch your purse.
Grabs you after you get out of the bathroom and insists on making out in the back of the restaurant.
Buys you a strawberry daquari without asking you if you wanted one, because he knows you like them but you feel too guilty to order it on your own because of the sugar.
Calls you sexually suggestive nicknames in public
Brags about what a tiger in the sack he's dating to total strangers
Doesn't take three steps with you without putting his arm protectively around you or holding your hand.
Insists he's only with you for the hot sex.
Offers to go fuck up your boss at work if he keeps giving you a hard time.
Fully expects that you'll fuck him rotten once he kisses that spot between your ear and shoulder right there.
Doesn't give a shit about what your sister said about him.
Unapologetically grabs your ass when no one is looking.
Unapologetically tries to cop a feel when no one is looking.
Asks you if you're having a good time . . . and cares whether or not you're having a good time.
Will get into a fight in a bar over you, if given the chance.
Turns down some skank hitting on him with a chuckle and a "Sorry, honey, I brought my own -- and I took the upgrade!"
Doesn't hit on other girls.
Spends half an hour with his arms wrapped around you on the couch just because he wants to hold you.
Skips out early on work or some social obligation to steal an hour alone with you.
Tells you how beautiful you are and then teases you when you blush.

If you aren't acting like a good Boyfriend . . . by the power of the Rectification of Names, you aren't her Boyfriend.  Boyfriends are primarily Alpha.  They act from primal lusts that spring not from their attraction to your career prospects, but by how your ass makes that lovely figure 8 when you bounce away.  When she proposes moving in with you or otherwise "taking it to the next level", she doesn't realize that she's asking you to kill half of what she's attracted to in you any more than she does -- she just wants that Boyfriend who makes her panties wet and who she brags about to her girlfriends to to be around all the time.  Best of intentions.  

And after all, from her perspective, you just need a little fine-tuning . . .

Conversely, a good Girlfriend:

Doesn't bitch at her Boyfriend in public, and never runs you down.
Is willing to slap the bitch in the bathroom who tried to make a move on her Boyfriend.
Kisses you passionately just because you bought her some dumb chocolate.
Considers taking her bra off in the car at the concert just because you asked her to and her mother would have a heart attack.
Willingly and passionately makes out with you in the back of the restaurant, including letting you get away with copping a feel until that damn kid came out of the bathroom and busted you.
Blushes when you uses a sexually suggestive nickname in public.
Casually comments to total strangers what a big dick you have and what a powerful lover you are.
Doesn't talk about boring shit when you'd rather be making out.
Offers to tear the eyes out of your ex if she gives you a shout-out on Facebook ever again.
Snuggles up to you gratefully when you put a protective arm around her.
Fucks you rotten when you've kissed that special spot . . . and had a strawberry daquari or two.
Insists she's only in it for the hot sex.
Loves the fact that you don't give a shit about what her bitch of a sister thinks.
Grabs your dick discreetly under the table and rubs it just enough to make you skip dessert.
Thanks you for what a good time she's having.
Tries not to get her Boyfriend into bar fights he can't win.
Doesn't hit on other guys.
Keeps the bar skanks at bay from her man by hanging on you like a name tag in public.
Snuggles up into your armpit and allows her body to melt into yours for half an hour, just because being close to you feels that good.
Drops whatever the fuck it is she's doing when she finds out her Boyfriend skipped out on work or a social obligation for the express purpose of seeing her . . . and expresses her appreciation accordingly.
Has the grace to thank you for telling her she's beautiful.

If you aren't acting like a good Girlfriend, then by the Rectification of Names, you aren't his Girlfriend.  Girlfriends are primarily Alpha -- that is, they use their sexuality to engage and entertain their men, not their nurturing skills or ability to earn.  They act from primal lust that springs from the dual fonts of primal sexual desire and deep evolutionarily-controlled body agenda.  Sex -- and lusty, hot, recreational sex -- is part of the equation.  Sex without preconditions, negotiations, expectations, political ramifications, regret, worry, or anxiety.  You fuck him because he's YOURS, and he turns you on, and he's your Boyfriend.  You fuck him REALLY REALLY WELL because there is a sea of horny bitches out there who want a Boyfriend more than the breath of life itself . . . and what you're reluctant to do, they're all-too-eager.

All of that Boyfriend/Girlfriend stuff needs to be the well-established bedrock upon which the rest of your relationship is built.  If you're prowling the Manosphere looking for help, then it's quite possible you've forgotten how to be a good Boyfriend/Girlfriend.  Plenty of couples I know have, giving up their favorite parts of their relationship in an effort to grow up and mature into happily married people.  But you don't get happily married people unless you have the Boyfriend/Girlfriend skills down.  If you can't acknowledge and celebrate the fact that your Wife has been your Girlfriend a lot longer than she's been your Wife, you have issues.  If you can't look at your husband and see him as your Boyfriend, with all the High School silliness it implies, then you have issues.

Because if you stop being his Girlfriend when you become his Wife, then essentially your husband has promised to live with his ex-Girlfriend for the rest of his life.  And you don't want to be his Ex-Girlfriend, do you?  Not any more than you want to live with your ex-Boyfriend for the rest of your life. That just sounds hellish.

So if you're having marital issues, go back to the fundamentals: figure out how to be Boyfriend/Girlfriend again.  After all, that's a lot of what the MAP is, and a lot of what Athol recommends for increasing Alpha.  But keeping your BF/GF status in mind can help bring some wonderful clarity to your relationship, if nothing else.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Girl Game: The GFE

It's not often that I write about "girl Game", and it doesn't come up a lot in marriage blogs.  But every now and then I'll explain something in private to one of my readers and it occurs to me that perhaps others might like the same cosmic wisdom about their relationships.

So prepare for me to lay some Cosmic Wisdom on you, Ladies:

I know a few whores.  Not a lot, but a few -- there were four brothels represented at last year's AVN show, and the ladies like to talk shop as much as any professional woman.  Mrs. Ironwood found them fascinating (she trusts me, but not so much that she's going to let me go to a porn convention in Vegas without her.  Thank Aphrodite!)  In any case, these aren't just Professional women, they're professional Women.  They have sex for a living.  Often with other women's husbands.

Now, I've never patronized a prostitute myself, but I have a lot of respect for those who treat it as a vocation, not a mere meal ticket.  (If you haven't seen Firefly, and understood what a Companion is, then you might not understand the distinction.)  But the bread-and-butter for these ladies of the evening is the GFE: The Girl Friend Experience.

When a dude gets caught going to a whore, it's usually for the GFE, at least at first.  Most wives could care less just why he was paying for sex, or what kind of sex, or anything else but the name of a good divorce attorney.  That's quite understandable -- and often those questions do come to mind, months afterwards, as both parties are trying to pick up the shards of their lives and figure out where they went wrong.  For the dudes who turned to a pro, it's often the GFE that lures them in.  And it would be instructive for some wives to understand just what the GFE is, and why it has such a potent attraction.  And, perhaps, how you can put that into context of your own sex life.

The Girl Friend Experience is just that: where a man pays a prostitute to act and behave the same way a new girlfriend does in the early-and-horny stage of infatuation.  After the financial arrangement has been satisfied, then for the duration of the appointment the professional showers the client with physical affection -- hugging, kissing, holding hands, praising him, asking him about himself, and acting utterly fascinated by everything that falls out of their client's mouths -- no matter how banal.  She is not just selling her body, here, she's selling her sexual interest in him.

The core of the GFE is the sex act, of course -- but often this is limited to a long blowjob or even a lengthy handjob.  Sometimes there's penetrative sex later in an appointment, but the highlight of the experience is the way the woman leads her temporary boyfriend over to the couch, undresses him, and then crawls between his legs for an extended period of pure and unadulterated penis worship.

Now, this is the part that freaks some wives out: why would a dude pay up to $300 for a handjob, something he could ostensibly do himself, or even get at home?  Or shit, even a blowjob?  For $300 a woman would expect a full day at the spa, lunch AND sex, not an intense 90 minute session in a sleazy hotel room.

What they don't understand is that the draw is not the orgasm . . . it's the acceptance and emotional affirmation provided on the way to the orgasm.

A good GFE is't just a blowjob, it's all the bells and whistles leading up to it.  It's about the attention.  The attitude. The admiration.  The interest.  The respect.  And the desire to want to please you.  All of those things are part-and-parcel of the infatuation stage of a relationship as it culminates with sex.  It shocks these poor wives to learn that their husbands were paying good money for stuff they didn't really mind doing at home -- and they can't understand why.

So why does a man crave this bit of intimacy -- even with a stranger -- so badly he will sometimes risk everything to enjoy it?  You can blame pure lust, but that misses the mark.  What the client is seeking here is acceptance.  The fact that a woman is willing to tend to his sexual needs in a way that flatters his masculinity and sense of self so much that many men experience an unadulterated surge of Alpha testosterone.  It's no secret why "sudden renewed interest in sex" is often listed as a sign your husband might be having an affair: a good GFE is like Popeye eating a can of spinach.  You feel like someone really thinks you're worth a damn, even if you had to pay her to think it.  And if that gives a dude enough juice to go home and royally take his wife to Pound Town, then if nothing else you can ascertain that something important happened during his GFE, something sexually and psychologically empowering.

I'm not arguing for married men to seek out whores to fulfill their sense of masculinity.  Quite the contrary.  I'm trying to explain to wives just why a man might consider doing such a thing when he has a loving, sexually permissive wife at home.  And how wives might use the GFE as part of their own sexual repertoire.

First, consider your husband's position:

Once upon a time, he met a really cute girl (you), who for whatever reason laughed at his jokes and made eyes at him and then unexpectedly did that thing in that place and it blew his freaking mind enough so he didn't hesitate to call you.  After that, he was in a dopamine-soaked haze, dripping with testosterone and starlight whenever the image of your face came to mind.  You might remember it differently, but likely he thought the first sex (or maybe the third -- sometimes it takes a few to find the memorable one) you had together was AMAZING, so amazing he started considering what it would be like to spend the rest of his life with that naughty vixen.

Sure, he was in the throes of infatuation -- likely you were too.  But while you were picking out names for your future children, he was picking out colors for future slutty underwear and crazy places you could get away with "doing it".  Even if he was thinking about you as his future wife, that was only after a long and torrid period as his hot, sexy, adventurous girlfriend.  The kind of girl that inspires a dude to get in fights with bikers or take cross-country to see the world or consider shaving his pubes.  At the basis of that attitude was sex -- a very specific kind of sex -- the kind of sex that changes a man's life.  Sex with you. 

His girlfriend.

Fast forward, ten years, post-wedding: your husband now has a Wife.  He's married.  And even if he's relatively happily married, a part of him will always long for and lust for his hot, sexy girlfriend.

From a female perspective it's easy to see why being a man's wife means so much more than being a mere girlfriend.  Being a Wife is a lifelong (hopefully) commitment.  Being a Wife means more than being a girlfriend -- would your girlfriend know your Social Security number?  Your issues with your mother?  How you can't handle spicy foods?  Of course not -- she just thought you were a bad boy with a big dick who knew how to use it, and that was sufficient.  From a female perspective, being a Wife is a huge, huge responsibility, with sex being just one of many important facets to cover.

Sure, it might not be as frequent as it was -- but hell, you aren't 19 anymore, are you?  (Either is he).  And how could it be that frequent with all you have to do?  Especially with jobs and kids?  It's amazing you're in the mood at all, and then the stars have to line up for it to happen.  And when it does happen, it's good, solid responsible married-people sex, two positions max, no oral, see you in a fortnight.  The kind Husbands and Wives have.  Sure, it's nice when it happens, but the way he mopes around about it, and then gets frustrated, well, you're his Wife, not his damn sex slave.  He can just wait.  What kind of woman does he think you are, anyway?

(His girlfriend.)

You see, your husband never stopped thinking about you as his girlfriend, first and foremost.  Long after trading in your engagement ring for a wedding band, he still thought about you as "my girlfriend I'm going to marry" in his subconscious.  Even after he walked down the aisle and had hot crazy monkey sex on his honeymoon, he was seeing it as the culmination of the Girl Friend Experience, not its death throes.

And that's what a lot of wives don't understand.  Your husband does want to have sex, and he does want to have sex with you, and yes, he wants it to be an intimate, deep, emotional, soul-fulfilling experience.  Sometimes.  That's the kind of sex that keeps your marriage stable, reminds you of why you put up with each others' shit, and makes you appreciate the wonders of marital sex.

But then there's the deep, burning desire within the heart of every man to have the GFE . . . often an experience that wives feel they have grown beyond with maturity and matrimony.  He knows how you feel about him, after all -- you married him, didn't you?  You still fuck him, don't you?  What's the problem?  Why can't he be satisfied with what you have to offer?

Because you're offering him the opportunity to make love with his Wife.  And sometimes a dude just needs his girlfriend to tell him how wonderful he is, suck his dick, and then leave him alone for a while. It's amazing what a panacea that is to the vast majority of men.  The GFE is powerful magic.  It sustains us, recharges, us, makes us feel loved and appreciated the way nothing else can.  They want it from you, of course -- you're (still) their girlfriend, after all.

But more than likely, that's just not a priority.  Why suck or stroke when you can just go the whole way?

Because it's not just about the sex.  It's about the affirmation and desire for him.  It's about someone admiring him, admiring his penis with oohs! and ahhhs! and telling him how big it is and other lies.  They want someone to spend some quality time with it, not rush through it while you think about the PTA canned food drive and how you're going to fire that asshole at work -- we can feel that shit running through your heads when you do that, sometimes.  For the real GFE, the look of utter devotion and intense joy you display about being fortunate enough to be the lucky girl who gets to play with his cock is like running on premium fuel.  Regular single working-class dudes will save for months for one night of pure GFE bliss.  Men crave it so much that they're willing to pay a stranger for it.

Here's the thing about bringing the GFE into your marriage.  He can't ask for it, any more than you can ask for a dozen red roses or jewelry, or it doesn't count.  The Marital GFE has to be given out of pure grace, because you, his girlfriend see that he, your boyfriend, is in need and you want to do something for him out of the goodness of his heart.  And while making a super-duper pancake breakfast might seem compassionate enough . . . nothing beats the GFE.

Second, it has to be a surprise.  You must initiate it, and figure out when the best time to pounce is.  Yes, that requires recourse to calendars and schedules and such.  But you can't mutually plan a GFE, nor may he initiate it.  It's up to you.  If he knows its coming, it's just more marital sex, no mater how inspired.

Third, you have to make an attempt to be alluring.  That can be anything from $300 lingerie to that halter top you know he likes to that hooker costume from halloween to being buck naked and quivering in passion.  Hair and make-up, natch.  Making the effort shows you're serious, and that you take him seriously.

Fourth, you can't talk about yourself.  At all.  No talk about work, kids, school, friends, family, symptoms, your problems, your hectic schedule, your impossible workload -- once you commit to a GFE, it's all about how much you think of him.  It's not about you (even though it's entirely about you).  Talk about him -- how sexy he is, how much you admire and respect a man that _________ (and make sure he does _______ or it will get weird).  And touch him.  Undress him, caressing every part that gets uncovered.  Play with his non-penile erogenous zones.  Kiss him.  Lots.  But don't talk to him like a wife, treat him like a hot new boyfriend you really want to impress.

Fifth, since you, the woman, took the initiative, you, the woman, are in control.  The passive nature of the GFE for the man is part of the allure of the experience.  The feeling of power, joy, and confidence a man feel with some dainty digits wrapped around your dick is exquisite, but so is just sitting there and allowing an expert to perform.her best effort to bring you pleasure.  It's up to you to decide how long, how hard, how deep, and when it's time to finish him off and how.  Let him have that moment of sublime passivity before you bring him back to reality.

Sixth, try altering your appearance a bit if you feel he might react funny to his wife making affirmations of his studliness like a teenage girl who just thinks he's dreamy.  Consider a wig of a highly contrasting color, for example, a departure in your choice of wardrobe, even re-arrange the furniture in the living room to provide an air of novelty.  Lingerie is highly recommended, anything from Demure Little Angel to Biker Slut In Heat.  A little dirty talk, an alias (I like the "Evil Twin" move), or a long, nasty story while you work his crank is ideal.  You want to engage his sexual imagination, not merely make him cum.

Seventh, make sure you tell him over and hover how hot he makes you.  Yeah, we know it sounds kind of lame.  Do it anyway.  It helps.  We tell you those pants don't make you look fat, don't we?  Turnabout.

Eighth: when the inevitable explosion comes, don't grimace, make a face, or otherwise express anything but the utmost joy of providing relief for your special dude.  It sucks to have a good GFE experience ruined when the women jumps up screaming "OH, GROSS!" like an ex of mine did (may she suffer an eternal yeast infection).  Even if you don't swallow, at least act happy while it spurts everywhere.  It cleans up pretty easy, y'know.  Then kiss him and tell him how much you love him and appreciate him, and how happy you were to do that for him.

Nine: Go away.

That sounds harsh, but like the esteemed Charlie Sheen between bouts of pornstars and Winning!, "You don't pay hookers for sex.  You pay hookers to go away after sex."  As turned on as the GFE might make you (and it just might), part of its allure is the utter lack of expectation in the aftermath of the scene.  You made him cum spectacularly, and now you have to run a few errands or take a shower or something.  DO NOT use his condition of spiritual repose as an opportunity to ask about the direction of the relationship, how good you were (he came, didn't he?) or whether or not this means that you can go shopping this weekend with your mother.  Just . . . go away.  Not for a long while, but for long enough for your dude to appreciate your gift in solitude.

Now, once you return from your errands or whatever, you very well may find your dude an affectionate and devoted dynamo able and willing to do whatever you need him to.  The GFE has the spiritual equivalent of a 4ct. diamond ring he bought you "just because I love you".  It earns you serious Girlfriend Points, as well as serious Wife Points.

Because that's the goal: to get your Husband to treat you as his girlfriend temporarily, and then segue back into "normal" routines.  The GFE is a fantasy, after all -- those whores are so much better at being "good girlfriends" than you ever were, because that's their job.  They don't feel as awkward as you as you're telling him how big he is (or probably giggle as much), they have mad skills that come only from long practice on a variety of dicks, and most of them are pretty damn hot, objectively speaking.

But only you can add the emotional component that blows the back of his skull off.  You don't want to live between his knees every night (damn it), but when your dude is looking down at you looking up adoringly at him, it's a hell of a way to change his perspective.

So consider it.  Surprise your dude with a custom-fitted GFE some night, particularly if he's been bugging you about sex but you haven't felt "comfortable" enough for whatever reason.  Rock his world like you're 19, then scamper off and let him do what he does . . . and you will have made him among the happiest of men.  Without recourse to prostitutes.

I mean, what husband is going to spend $300 he doesn't have to on a handjob in a hotel room when he has a hot, horny girlfriend at home (who looks just like his wife)?  You have to have Charlie-Sheen level money to afford the high end.  And I know plenty of wives who would just as soon whack off hubby at home for half that much.

Y'know.  Just to make it interesting.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

"When, in the opinion of the Chief Medical Officer the Captain is unfit for duty . . . "

Another short post.

For those who have asked, Papa Ironwood came through his surgeries without incident, and is now recuperating at a rehabilitation facility, in good spirits with an excellent prognosis.

Myself, on the other hand . . .

About two weeks ago I contracted a health issue -- unusual for me.  I tend to be as healthy as a 44 year old smoker can be.  The Ironwood constitution is legendary.  I rarely get sick -- that is, I rarely got sick.  It's not (I believe) serious, but it did leave me as weak as a kitten from vomiting and dehydration, with potentially dangerous spikes in blood pressure.  There were Urgent Care visits.  And Emergency Room visits.  And one hospital admission.  I missed over a week of work (hence the no updates) because I could barely focus enough to see the computer.  I'm feeling a lot better, but yeah, it was like that.

There's a lot I could (and likely will) blog about from my experiences, but I'll begin with this.  The venerable Athol Kay at MMSL, frequently uses the apt reference of "Captain/First Officer" from naval parlance (OK, he stole it from Star Trek) as an analogy to describe a good Red Pill marriage.  I've taken it to heart, because it works and because I'm a world-class nerd.  I'm the Captain, in my household, and Mrs. Ironwood is the First Officer.

But that's not all she is, of course.  Apart from being half of our household income, devoted mother, etc. she also wears other hats.  We both do.  She's Chief Science Officer, for one.  She actually has a degree in science, so she beats me out on a technicality.  When the kids bring in some unknown bug or animal for identification, she gets to lead them through the exercise.  I wear the Chief Technology Officer hat, as well as the Chief Engineer, Chief of General Services, Chief of Security and Chief Transport Officer.  But among the most important hats Mrs. Ironwood wears is Chief Medical Officer.

Again, the science degree, plus a fifteen-year career in the sciences and medical fields.  Plus the work-history -- she worked in a morgue before CSI was cool.  She's written a textbook on medical terminology.  Groups of doctors pay to have her come talk to them, and they listen.  She knows a fair amount of medicine herself, and has developed both excellent clinical and laboratory skills.  More importantly, she knows the labyrinthine universe of the American Health Care system, from insurance to managed care to how to get an emergency room to see you when there's an eight hour wait (hint: you call every other ER in the region and find one less-booked).  If the kids have a boo-boo, if there are rashes of unknown origin, if there are fungal infections or minor lacerations or a question about oncology or home health care services or how much ibuprofen you can give an infant, Mrs. Ironwood either knows it, or will know it within a matter of moments.

As mentioned in my previous post, she was the go-to girl for oversight of my father's care.  And she spoke at length with my mother about the tumors they found in her eye this week.  Yes, it's been like that.  She's the Chief Medical Officer, and when someone is sick, she's there like a voluptuous Beverly Crusher with a sweet Southern accent and devastating social skills.  Thanks to the panoply of phones, tablets, and laptops, she even has her own freakin' medical tricorder.

Among her functions as CMO is the usually minor one of overseeing the Captain's health.  In this I defer to her judgement the way I would to any trusted medical professional.  That is, I rarely try to argue with her when she has a strongly-held opinion about my health, because she's been right far more than she's been wrong.  Even when I think I'm right, if it's a medical call, she's the CMO.  It's her call.

So when she looked at me with a certain look of concern on her face -- that look -- and said, "Ian, you're done.  We're going to the ER," I not only deferred to her judgement, after six hours of putting on a brave face and trying not to alarm the children (who were still shaken up by Papa Ironwood's surgeries) while horrible things were happening to my innards, I was effectively being told:

"In the opinion of the Chief Medical officer the Captain is no longer fit for duty, and stands relieved of command."

And I was relieved.  Every responsibility I had was suddenly removed from me, and I could focus on being wretched.  Dinner? Covered.  Groceries?  Covered.  Childcare?  Covered.  Transportation?  Covered.  Call work?  Done.  IM updates to concerned relatives and close friends?  Done.  Work deadlines?  Dealt with.  Until further notice, I was relieved of every duty of husband and father, save being a patient.  Mrs. I, already in the middle of six kinds of hell at work, managed to put her entire career and worklife on hold for over a week, deadlines exploding all around her, while she focused her absolute attention on my care and that of the rest of the crew.

Oh, things went to hell eight different ways, and it will take weeks for us both to recover.  I'm still running at 50% at tops.  This is the first substantial moment I've taken at the computer.  But since that moment where Mrs. I stepped up, took me off-line, and took Command, I haven't had to worry about anything.  The house and the job and the other ill folks in the Ironwood clan (two of us spent last Friday the 13th in the hospital, not that I'm superstitious) are fine.  Things are turning around and looking up.

But for all of those guys who can't see the upside to marriage?  When it works -- and works well -- then the shift of responsibilities and authority and dominance that happen over the normal course of your marriage can make the difference between lonesome suffering in the bowels of the medical system and having the comfort and security of someone willing to stand over you with a spear and growl while the sabertooths circle your helpless body.  And part of that was respecting her opinion of when I was ready for medical attention, regardless of how stoic I felt about it.

And when that decision was made, it was my duty as Captain to accept the decision without argument, hand over the command codes, and limp off to sick bay, trusting that your First Officer has everything perfectly under control without you.

That's a difficult skill to master.  But you'll fell a lot better, once you manage it.

(Don't tell Mrs. I that the water got cut off because the bill was due on the 13th.  I cut it back on.  It's really not that big a deal, but she'd feel bad about it . . .)