Why is fertility lower among high-status women than low-status women? It’s not just a weird unfortunate coincidence. It’s because they’re high status. Female hypergamy means that the number of men a high-status woman regards as worthy of her are smaller. It’s a terrible thing for a woman to be high status. It hurts her reproductive success. And so it hurts the reproductive success of the population of which she’s a member.
Men and women are different in terms of everything, including the effect of their social status on their reproductive success.
Look at human history with Darwinian eyes. (If you’re an evolution denier, look with Chesterton’s Fence eyes.) As far as can be told from history, women are by default lower status than men in all societies that existed up to around 1900. Why? Not because those horrid men forced them all into low-status roles. All? Seriously, all? In every society in the history of the world? Please. Nothing is “all” in the world of social phenomena. No, indubitably there were some societies just like ours in which deluded social innovators allowed and encouraged women to have high social status. Those societies are gone now.
Because those societies in which women had higher or even equal status by default were outbred. They’re not around any more. They didn’t even survive long enough to leave a noticeable presence in the historical record.
Let us pause to refute some feminist idiocy on this topic. God knows they make it easy.
The fuck-witted feminist account of all this is this: “In earlier eras, men were higher status than women because men— those brutes!— kept women down with overwhelming physical force. But now, in our modern society, this is not relevant any more.” Why not? Anyway, notice how stupid this is, if you just think about it instead of mindlessly repeating it: Men kept women down by physical force? Really? No they didn’t. What the hell? I love this notion that the average woman was thirsting to be a sailor on a whaling ship but the men used violence to prevent her from doing so. Or the average woman yearned to be a statistician in the actuarial department of an insurance company but those violent men beat her senseless until she stopped trying it. Fucking LOL. In fact, it is the opposite: In the modern world it takes a constant barrage of one-sided propaganda just to make some women think thy want to do such things.
Also: Were the highest-status men in the last few millennia the ones who were biggest and toughest? Did you get to be Pope or Corporate CEO or College President by beating up other men? Or even credibly threatening to do so? Bitch, please.
Also notice that this whole moronic feminist argument contradicts the other, opposite feminist argument, that women should be in combat positions in the military because they’re just as good in a fight as a man. Well, which is it? Did men use their superiority in physical conflict to keep women down? Or are women just as good in a fight as men?
Feminists. Jesus. Stop trying to make arguments, sugar-tits. You’re just not very good at it. Now quit being such a skirt and get me a beer; I want something to drink while you’re blowing me.
So that “argument” makes no sense. No, the reason we see no historical societies in which women had higher or equal status compared to men, is that they didn’t breed enough to leave a noticeable presence in the historical record. And the reason for that, or a main reason for it, is that female hypergamy means that high female status is highly contra-reproduction. Lethally so.
The only antidote to the contra-natalist tendency of high female status, that has worked empirically, is a set of social conventions and traditions in which (1) husbands automatically have higher status than wives, and (2) fathers can marry off daughters even if the daughter thinks the prospective husband isn’t good enough for her. In that way the deadly poison of female hypergamy is rendered irrelevant. In a society with these two features, even a girl who is born a heir presumptive to the crowns of the Kingdom of England and the Kingdom of Ireland can be induced to squeeze out baby after baby, enough for seven of them to survive to adulthood.
This chick tries to figure out a certain aspect of female sexuality, the attracted-to-irresponsible-cads thing. I quote from her post (editing for brevity) and add a some comments. An interesting aspect of it is that she seems to be honestly trying to figure herself out, but she fails disastrously. It’s amazing how opaque evolution has made women to themselves.
Or maybe she’s just lying. As always on these topics, it’s hard to tell; the distinction between female deception of men, and female self-deception, is fuzzy.
Fuckers Vs. Raisers
One day in a stereotypical medieval town, a bard comes through.
This is a very sexy bard, violet-eyed, good with a lute, and experienced in the ways of women. During his short stay he sleeps with four of the village wenches, and then bounces off to a new village, to seduce more wenches. Years later, a new child with violet eyes is running around. Life goes on.
There are two sexual strategies for men – Fucking and Raising. Fuckers, like our friend the Bard, do the ol’ fuck-and-run. Move frequently, shoot seed everywhere, and hope that this results in violet-eyed toddlers getting raised by other men. Raisers, by contrast, shoot seed into comparatively few women and end up raising the children they produce.
My question then is why are women attracted to Fuckers? Is there any female advantage to this?
Your scenario itself answers this: If you have a caddish violet-eyed son by this man, that son will run around all over the world spraying his, and therefore your, genes around. It’s not a mystery.
Having a child by a Fucker is dangerous – if she doesn’t have a Raiser lined up, then she’s on her own, and historically this is Very Bad News. If she does have a Raiser and he finds out the child isn’t his, again – Very Bad News.
Sure, it has potential downsides, but it also has potential upsides.
So when the Bard fingers his lute, why do all the women around him sigh?
I think their sighs don’t have anything to do with the fact he’s a Fucker – I think it’s because his traits, if they were present in a Raiser, would be ideal. He’s presenting confidence, skill, and high social standing. If a Raiser like that moved into town, all of the women would be trying to wife themselves at him like crazy. The Bard also is a potential Raiser in the women’s eyes, and he probably has to emphasize that idea in order to get her to sleep with him.
Sorry, no. Common experience refutes this idea. Here’s a question for you ladies: What would be your reaction to each of the following statements by the bard? The context is that you’ve been talking to him one-on-one after his performance at the tavern, for about half an hour, and so far you think he’s sooooooo dreamy! Statement #1: “I’m basically looking for a wife. I’m a solid guy, and I want a family.” Statement #2: You ask him if he has a girlfriend, and he gives a knowing smirk and says, “I’m not really the boyfriend type.” The question for you ladies – no lying! – is, Which statement would get your pussy wet? WAIT, STOP! I didn’t ask, Which statement do you think SHOULD get you wet, but Which statement would actually, in reality, get you wet? Never mind; don’t bother answering; every man who studies women objectively already knows the answer.
I have more to say about this at the end of this post.
This is maybe where the trope of “guy tells girl he loves her in order to sleep with her” comes from. [That is in fact the exact opposite of what works in seducing a woman.] Women don’t want to fuck Fuckers [This statement is an outrageous falsehood], but they will fuck Fuckers disguised as Raisers.
Okay I am done writing now but I don’t know how to do a closing paragraph. I don’t really want to learn.
LOL, I like her last two sentences.
Anyway, on Fuckers vs. Raisers, where she says that what a woman really wants is a raiser, and that fuckers only get sex by presenting themselves as raisers: This is blatantly false. I was in five or six bands in high school and college. Yes, this is great for your sex life. But while it’s good for getting laid in any situation, where it works like a nuclear dynamite LSD supernova is when you’re never going to be in that town again, and the girl knows it. It’s a whole ’nother fucking dimension when you’re playing a one-night-only gig. You have to beat the pussy off with a bat in those circumstances.
No girl in those situations was ever under any delusions that I was going to stick around later than the next morning at latest. But they threw themselves at me.
If you haven’t taken the red pill yet, grok that women are sexual creatures. Whenever they act like they’re “offended” that “women are sexualized,” etc., They. Are. Lying. Their. Asses. Off. They are lying. They’re lyyyyyyyyyyyyyyying.
Women in reality are much closer to women in porn than is commonly admitted by women, or understood by men.
As is so frequently the case, this post is a fantastic lesson in female delusionality about themselves. “I don’t want a fucker,” she tells herself. “I want a raiser!” Sure, if she’s had a couple of kids by a thug who jetted and now needs a sucker to help support them. But that’s not what she wants sexually. There’s a reason she had a couple of kids by the fly-by-night thug, and NO it wasn’t that she was deceived into thinking he was a raiser. If that were true she would have had the kids by an actual raiser. Funny how most of the time in those situations, the father is a fucker. So she was deceived, was she? Fuckers are better at presenting themselves as raisers than actual raisers are? LOL, no.
Game constitutes the advent of a New Era. You have to spell New Era with capitals because it is a fundamental change in the nature of society. It is the return after a long hiatus of the age when men understood women just as well as women understood men.
Women have always known that men want young, beautiful pussy.
Now men know that women don’t want nice; they want alpha.
It is natural that women feel threatened by this development. It was an enormous advantage to women when they understood men but men did not understand them. By spreading the lie that women preferred beta behaviors (they expressed it more politely than that), women were able to accomplish two very valuable things for themselves:
(1) They were able to trick the betas into revealing themselves, so the women could avoid them and only have sex with alphas.
(2) They were able to get many things from supplicating betas: Free drinks, free car rides, free help moving furniture, the appalling emotional tampon aspect of their relationships with their beta male “friends,” etc.
So it is understandable that as women see this era slipping away, they will experience the anger and denial that often accompany loss. It is also natural that women will try to fight a holding action by engaging in intellectual counterwarfare to try to confuse the issue: “That only works on a small fraction of women with low self-esteem,” “That only works when women are young; it doesn’t work after college,” etc.
Yes, these reactions are natural, but actually women should be glad for the advent of game.
Because game constitutes the return of the Great Game.
The Great Game was the game of flirting and coyness, subtlety and indirection, pursuing and fleeing, and yes, some deception and lying, that was commonly understood in centuries past.
From now on, ladies, you’ll have worthy opponents in this game.
Finally! Think of it! As the new knowledge spreads, more and more men will actually be adept at the Great Dance. It’s possible that someday soon, the majority of men will know how to play the game! Think of the excitement! Think of the thrill of the chase and the counter-chase! Think of…
For ladies, there will be drama. The worst soap opera won’t hold a candle to your romance and sex life when much of the male sex has absorbed the lessons of game. What happens when most men, or even just a quarter of them, act like aloof, indifferent assholes? Oh my, the drama! Oh my, the heightened heart rate! Oh my, the damp panties! (Heh. Weren’t expecting me to say that last one, were you? You should have expected it: men who know Game know you.)
Remember how it was 15 or even 10 years ago? Men would do crazy things like offering to buy you drinks. Apparently some chicks could actually prompt a man by saying, “Want to buy me a drink?” and some would say, “Sure! What will you have?” (WTF?) If you’ve ever done this, ladies, that wasn’t really the answer you were hoping for, even if you told yourself it was. If men supplicate to you in ways like this (many men still do, even today), really you feel draining boredom and contempt for them.
Game is teaching men not to act like this. As the knowledge spreads, if you act like you expect a man to e.g., buy you a drink, more and more of them will snort and say “As if!” Think of the fun! Worthy opponents. All. Over. The. Place.
There are of course men who can’t or won’t see the truth of all this, for whatever reasons. But they out-select themselves from relevance in the sexual marketplace.
Now I know what you’re thinking: “But I liked the world in which most men could be manipulated with ease.” Yes, you did in a way, but it was your laziness that liked it. Admit it: the feelings of bored contempt you had for most men were not enjoyable. From now on, you’ll be tested, stretched. Too many men will be playing at too high a level for you to be a relationship couch potato. You will have to stretch your abilities and your knowledge of the opposite sex to the utmost in this new world. You think you don’t want such a world—your laziness resists—but really you yearn for it.
Everything we know about you, ladies, makes it obvious that you yearn for it. The general effectiveness of Game… the grouchiness and pissiness of women dealing with betas… their animated happiness when they’re interacting with alphas… the way a girl’s eyes sparkle sometimes when a man negs her.
Once you’re pulled off the couch and forced to test yourself, to get some exercise…
1) Imagine that you’re a very young man, still first year of college or the summer after highschool, and you’re not exactly bad with women, not an incel, not a virgin, but you know nothing of the dark arts, have swallowed the blue pill, so your true potential is held back. An attractive female friend who you had considered out-of-your-league invites you over to her house at night to hang out. You’re thinking “damn, she was into me after all, I’m getting some tonight”. But when you get there, she’s treating you like an asexual platonic friend, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the two of you are all alone in her house. You don’t feel any sexual tension from her end, i.e. she hasn’t shit tested you at all, and there’s no flirting going on, but nonetheless you push the thought of her tight curvy little ass out of your mind and have a fun time hanging out, drinking a little liquor, and watching movies. Later, you realize that the night is winding down without any progress, and if you want to fuck her, you need to do something soon. She’s sitting on the couch next to you, close enough that you smell her intoxicating scent, but not touching you. What do you do?
Some of Maclear’s commenters have misapprehensions about this situation, essentially seeing it as an almost-lost cause that requires some sort of desperate long shot. No, no, no!
One commenter said the correct answer to this (multiple-choice) question is (d), since she’s out of your league.
Answer d is basically Just go for it, which is the correct answer, but this commenter’s reason for it is all wrong: However much sense a girl being “out of your league” might make in some contexts (a complicated topic), it doesn’t make sense when she has invited you over (at night, no less) with just the two of you there.
Another commenter: 1d) Direct action seems the only chance.
The situation is not at all so dire as to be melodramatically talking about “the only chance.”
Another commenter: 1: c, reality is you blew it but it’s worth a try.
No, no, no, no, no! This is very wrong! Pathologically wrong! Forgive me, if you chance to read this, but this view of things suggests you’re not very experienced with women.
The reality, based on experience:
1. When a girl deliberately maneuvers herself into being alone with you, she wants you to make a move.
2. Whatever you did earlier to make her attracted to you was the important part. Her wanting to fool around with you has little or nothing to do with how you make the move. She decided she wanted to screw you in the preceding hours, or weeks, or whatever.
3. Due to point 2, you have way more leeway than you might think in how you make the move, by which I mean the first overt physical move. (When I was single it was almost always going for the first kiss, though maybe single men these days just start by grabbing the girl’s clit, for all I know.) Your timing can be bad, your pass can be clunky, you can even screw up by talking about making a pass at her before you actually do it, and she’ll still enthusiastically go along with your move.
I’ve made all of these mistakes when I was young, and it only sort of mattered once. It was the talking one, where I asked a girl I liked (I was 14) “Can I kiss you?” She said “No.” That was that, but only for the moment: years later I had my cock in her mouth, so it wasn’t a lethal mistake in the long run. When I was in college I made similar mistakes on two separate occasions, and both times I got laid anyway. In both cases the girl had invited herself to my dorm room late at night. One of those times I actually said something like “Did you come here so we could fool around?” Now this is bad, for two reasons: One, it’s clunky and socially graceless; why not just make a move instead of talking about it? Two, being this explicit runs the risk of activating her anti-slut defense. She shrugged off my lack of smoothness and fucked me anyway.
I got laid the other time too, because that’s why each of those chicks had invited herself to my dorm room late at night in the freakin’ first place.
4. One time a girl invited me to her apartment for the weekend. That evening after dinner, before there had been any fooling around, we were lying/sitting on her bed talking when I just randomly, with no particular context, went for the kiss. We started making out. Later, after blowing me, she told me that my timing had surprised her. But that made no difference. Why do you think she’d invited me to her pad in the first place?
5. Some inexperienced men worry about the details of making that first move. People, this is the least important part of it. It’s actually the easiest and most fun part of the Great Dance. It’s almost trivial, really. Generating attraction, before that, is when all the important questions about you are answered in her mind.
Actually, let me qualify the statement “making that first move is actually the easiest and most fun part of the Great Dance.” I remember that it could be somewhat adrenalin-y when I was really young, like 12 or 14, and not very experienced. A young man has to just decide to go for it, just make yourself do it. It’s part of being a man (as opposed to merely a male human).
By the time I was in my twenties, I had a saying that the only thing that made my pulse rate rise from 71 beats per minute to 72 was making a move when I wasn’t sure how the girl would respond. It’s pure fun, once you’re experienced.
Making an overt move also is good even if she’s not actually into you, since games girls play that revolve around their being coy little flirts who aren’t really interested in you can be destroyed by simply going for the first kiss: A girl who’s not attracted to you won’t go let you jam your tongue down her throat. Then you can move on, avoiding a further waste of time.
One more thing: What about if you really thought she was attracted you, and you’re attracted to her, but your move is rejected? IMPORTANT TRUTH: This is not remotely as bad as you think it will be, if it has never happened to you before. Say you go in for the first kiss, she leans back and says, “What are you doing?” or “I just think of you as a friend” or whatever. It’s nothing. You’ll just handle it. You’ll just be like, “Oh, OK. Well, I’m gonna go hang out with my buddies at the bar.” Or whatever.
One of the most liberating things that ever happened to me was the first time I had a move shot down. I was disappointed, but not flustered. I was like, “THAT’s what I was thinking would be a big deal all that time? That’s nothing!” That’s when I started making more passes, and fooling around with more girls, because I realized that having a pass rejected is no big deal at all.
Also: When you look back on it later, you’ll regret the passes you might have made but didn’t, not the passes you made that got shot down.
Though now there’s the Title IX/Affirmative Consent stuff, which makes it harder for men. If you’re a college man in an “affirmative consent” state like California or New York, it may be more complicated for you. Or not. My advice would simply be to vet the girl before you make a move. Remember, the vast majority of women are not psychotic feminists; they’re not looking for an excuse to cry “Rape!” Weed out the crazies before it ever gets to the “making a move” stage.
Having a move rejected is not a big deal. You’ll just handle it. Don’t let that possibility stop you.
In making a move, most of the stuff that matters is in whatever generates attraction before you’re ever in a position (alone with her) to make a move. How you make a move is much less important. Women who want to have sex with you are incredibly forgiving if your pass isn’t perfect.
As I was looking for a cover image for this slab of cheese, I learned that it was a TV show for a couple of years. There’s no accounting for taste. Anyway, the setting is our contemporaneous world but with magic. The “witches” in the title are not metaphorical. The first couple of chapters power-wash the reader’s brain with estrogen forced through a hose at 10 gallons per second. There are three witches, a mother and her two daughters. The sisters are both friends and rivals (female authors love that story element for some reason). There’s a hapless nice guy and a rough-cut Harley-riding Bad Boy(TM).
Of course, Our Heroine has sex with the nice guy and tells the Bad Boy, “I just think of you as a friend.” Ha, no, just seeing if you’re paying attention.
As usual, I’ll edit for length. Also, “Spoiler Warning,” LOL.
The opening to Chapter 1:
Freya Beauchamp swirled the champagne in her glass… This was supposed to be the happiest day of her life—or at the very least, one of the happiest—but all she felt was agitated.
Immediately I guessed that this was her wedding day and that she has just gotten married to a boring nice guy who is going to have something bad happen to him. Well, not far off: Turns out it’s an engagement party, not a wedding, but everything else falls out how you expect… only more so.
She loved Bran. “Bran”? LOL. Poor bastard. She truly did…. There was something about him that felt exactly like home, like sinking into a down comforter into sleep: safe and secure.
There’s then a little interlude about how all the other females in town are forced to come up to her and congratulate her, through gritted teeth, on the engagement. They’re jealous because “Bran” (LOL) is incredibly wealthy. He attends charity regattas on the weekends, wow!
…she accepted the insincere congratulations from another cadre of female well-wishers… All the eligible ladies of North Hampton, who not so long ago had harbored not-so-subtle dreams of becoming Mrs. Gardiner themselves… had all come to the grand, refurbished mansion to pay grudging homage to the woman who had won the prize…
For a sex that’s not supposed to be obsessed with dominance hierarchies, women sure do spend a lot of time fantasizing about having their intrasexual rivals forced to kiss their asses. Read fiction by men, the supposedly competitive sex. You won’t find a tenth as much of this sort of thing. Also, men like to fuck hot pussy; we really don’t care whether other men are envying us. The point is the pussy, not other men’s opinions about the pussy.
We then get that the main character, Freya, was possessed of an effervescent beauty… Small and petite… She’s small AND petite, mind you. This is also funny because we’ve just been treated to a little homily (which I spared you, dear reader) about how modern beauty standards are too focused on “emaciated” women. In the same paragraph, we get that Our Heroine is “small and petite.” Also, she has cheekbones that models would kill for, a tiny little nose, and as for her tits: No one would ever forget her breasts—in fact, they were all the male population looked at when they looked at Freya.
In general the writing qua writing is not great, as you’ve just seen. The author will manage a couple of paragraphs without perpetrating anything stupid or grammatically incorrect, then she’ll say something like “The tennis courts gleamed in the distance…” What? I grew up in a house that was less than 100 yards from a set of tennis courts. They don’t gleam in the distance. Or we get (in the inevitable Prologue) “Perpetually damp, even during its brilliant summers, its denizens were…” LOL, its denizens were perpetually damp? Come to think of it, maybe the female ones are, if the main character’s hormone-revved behavior is typical. But obviously that’s not what the author meant. (Don’t dangle your participle here; there are children about!)
Freya originally meets Bran – shit, I laugh every time I have to write that. BRAN?! Seriously, fucking BRAN?! She’s named after a sex goddess and he’s named after… a cereal product that’s good for your colon! Anyway, she meets Bran (snerk) by tripping into his arms, literally, because she’s so surprised when a load-bearing element of her dress snaps and her unforgettable tits spill out. It’s stated that she never wears bras or underwear (which Bran should have taken as a warning sign, as we will see).
Read this and guess whether she’s ever going to have sex with Bran:
It was Bran’s acute embarrassment that had endeared him to her… But what most people did not know was that he was kind. When Freya met him, she thought he was the kindest man she had ever met. She felt it—kindness seemed to emanate from him. The way he had been so concerned, his embarrassment, his stammer—and when he had recovered enough, he had bought her a drink and never quite left her side all evening, hovering protectively.
An absolute clinic in What Not To Do.
He radiates niceness, he buys her a drink, and he hovers around her the rest of the evening. He’s combining Too Nice and Possessive Creepy Guy. I haven’t read past the first chapter yet, but I foresee him conveniently having a lethal heart attack or something before their wedding day, before the main character has to have sex with him.
Don’t worry, it gets worse!
Bran Gardiner was not at all charming or erudite or witty or worldly. He was awkward and self-conscious. The first night they met, he hadn’t even asked her out because he was simply too modest to think she would be interested in him. Instead he showed up the next night during her shift at the Inn, and the next night, and every night after that, just staring at her with those big brown eyes of his, with a kind of wistful yearning (GOD!) until she had to ask him out.
Gah! The author is stacking the deck here; she’s not even making it plausible that any female in the multiverse could be attracted to this guy. I’m hoping she has a twist queued up, because otherwise this is about as telegraphed as a punch can get. Especially by contrast with Mr. Sexyman:
The problem was Killian Gardiner. Bran’s younger brother, twenty-four years old, and looking at her as if she were on sale to the highest bidder and he was more than willing to pay the price. When they were introduced, he had looked at her with those startling blue-green eyes of his, and she had felt her entire body tingle. The Tingle! Directly from a woman’s word processor! He was, for lack of a better word, beautiful, with long dark lashes (WTF?) framing those piercing eyes, sharp-featured with an aquiline nose and a square jaw. A clean-limbed fighting man of Barsoom, narrow of waist and broad of shoulder, he wielded his sword with—sorry, I just had an Edgar Rice Burroughs flashback from when I was thirteen. He looked like he was always ready to be photographed: Brooding, sucking on a cigarette, like a matinee idol in a French New Wave film. LOL, fucking what? French New Wave… Melissa de la Cruz, you weirdo! Anyway…
Stop looking at him, she told herself. This is insane, just another of your bad ideas. Um, what is? Not that we can’t guess…
Goddamnit, did he have to be so good-looking? She thought she was immune to that kind of thing. Such a cliché: tall, dark, and handsome. Well, at least she includes the Oxford comma, of which I’m a partisan. So this book is not ALL bad. She hated cocky, arrogant boys who thought women lived to service their voracious sexual appetites. She bangs him within a page. As per the Chateau and Rolo Tomassi (Rational Male), women both love and hate male sexual entitlement. Because they both love and hate it, be prepared for a hella shit test, more like several, if you project this attitude in real life. Note I didn’t say “Don’t do this.” I said, “Be prepared for a hella shit test.” He was the worst offender of the type—screeching up in his Harley, and that ridiculous hair of his—that messy, shaggy, bangs-in-your-eyes kind of thing, with that sexy, come-hither smolder.
Let’s get it over with:
She looked up and found him still staring directly at her. He nodded his head, motioning to a nearby door. Truly? Right here? Right now? In the powder room? Was that not just another cliché that went with the motorcycle and the bad-boy attitude? Was she really going to go into the bathroom with another man—her fiancé’s brother, for god’s sake—at her engagement party?
Now I’m thinking this is too reprehensible for the heroine of a novel. Maybe they don’t have sex; maybe she turns into a magic vampire and sucks the life force out of him or something. They don’t actually show them boinking.
LATER: OK, I’ve read, er, skimmed to the end, and here’s the deal: de la Cruz indeed has some mis-direction queued up here. It is, in fact, an estrogen-drenched mechanism for the author-insert character to have her cake and eat it too. That is, to get fucked by the bad boy in the bathroom at her engagement party and still be a demure, virtuous good girl. How? you ask. Does he cast a spell on her to force her to have sex with him against her will? Is the whole scene just an elaborate fantasy, dream, or magical illusion? Nope. Here is the key surprise of the book, revealed in the last couple of chapters:
Our Heroine, Freya, is actually Freya, the Norse goddess of sex, fertility, and all that stuff. “Bran” is actually Loki, the Norse god of mischief, who had put a spell on her to make her think she was in love with him. And Mr. SexyBadBoy is actually another god named Balder who is her One True Love and Destined Husband. So you see, all along she should have been having sex with Mr. Bad Boy – who is in a truer, deeper sense the Good Guy – and she should have been monumentally dissing “Bran,” who is actually a villain who uses the magical equivalent of a date rape drug on her.
Well, it’s interestingly inventive, the mental acrobatics a chick will go through to justify having no-strings-attached sex with a Harley-riding Bad Boy in the bathroom.
By the way, Freya does have sex with “Bran” one time, but since he actually turns out to be Loki, the god of mischief, the point that chicks don’t want nice guys stands.
Page 18: The main character’s sister is melodramatically described as the “ranking archivist” of the library where she works. LOL. I associate this phrase with rather more dramatic situations, like, “We should destroy the alien spacecraft before it comes any closer to Earth!” “No, I’m the ranking officer here and I say hold your fire!” Not so much “Let’s re-shelve these books now.” “No, I’m the ranking archivist here and I say we’ll re-shelve them after lunch break!” The drama of the language should match the drama of the situation, unless the author is deliberately going for humor.
Page 39: “Natasha Mayles was all wrong for Ross. She swanned into the North Inn with her haughty accent and her bored, quasi-European attitude.” “Quasi-European attitude”? Every now and then de la Cruz will write something that makes you go, “What was she even trying to say there?”
Pages 85-6: The librarian chick – the “ranking archivist” – is about to be asked out by this one dude. She thinks about how to let him down gently, until it turns out that he’s actually soliciting her advice about asking some other chick out. At this point she suddenly becomes jealous and interested in the dude. The power of the neg, right from the horse’s mouth.
Chunks of cheese rating: Hmm. This has a few standard female cheese elements, to wit, the “must choose between two men” cliche, the “must have sex with Bad Boy!” thing, and hypergamy, in that the viewpoint character has sex with actual gods.
If the main character fucking her fiancé’s brother at their engagement party actually turned out to be what it seemed at first, that would be eight or nine out of ten chunks of cheese right there. But since, thank goodness, it’s not what it seems, I award six out of ten chunks of cheese to this book.
Watch it up to the 4:00 mark. (After that it’s just a love song/dance, which is fine as far as it goes.)
Whoever wrote this scene knows the concept of amused mastery cold. And the importance of passing shit tests. And negs/being unimpressed, since his changing her hair etc. says, “You need to look more feminine before I’m willing to sex you.” And understands that everyone is happier when natural male-female sexual polarity is respected and honored. Very nicely done; absolutely beautiful.
Danny: Does he make you laugh?
Tess: He doesn’t make me cry, Danny.
Oh, this is just pure pussy bait! (*) When they were together, he made her laugh and he made her cry. So two items here: One is, emotional roller coaster. Chick crack. The other is that he’s an asshole. We don’t know why he made her cry— I’m guessing by cheating on her— but it’s enough that he did. He’s no good! He doesn’t care for her! Her treats her badly! You can just see that one line setting off the Bad Boy Alert for the women in the audience, and having them leaving wet spots on their seats. Very deftly done: Two terse lines of dialogue. That’s all that the chicks in the audience need to get that there’s some sort of soap-opera-y relationship backstory.
* I was going to write “pussy crack,” but that would’ve pulled up the wrong mental image.
(2) Random red pill item: Actor Larry Hagman said he rarely got any female fan mail when he played a nice guy on I Dream of Genie, but got tons when he played the total bastard J.R. on Dallas.
(Those two characters were so different that I never even realized they were the same actor until I read that quote.)
(3) Neal Stephenson’s Quicksilver, a trilogy I strongly recommend if you like Stephenson. It’s the most “Neal Stephenson” of his works that I’ve read, i.e. stylistically dense but always intelligent and funny.
Page 374 et seq.: In 1683 a “vagabond”— that is, a roaming criminal adventurer— named Jack is wandering around in the chaos of the siege of Vienna. In a Turkish officer’s tent he happens upon a young English woman, Eliza; she’d been captured at sea as a child. After some back and forth:
“You talk like a girl who is in need of a spanking.”
“Books of India,” she said coolly, “have entire chapters about that.”
Jack prefers not to get bogged down with companions unless they can help out in a fight, but eventually agrees to let her travel with him. But he warns her:
“If we make it as far as Paris… and if you’ve given me so much as a blink of trouble—one cross look, one wifely crossing of the arms—cutting thespian-like asides, delivered to an imaginary audience—”
“Have you had many women, Jack?”
“—pretending to be shocked by what’s perfectly normal—calculated moods—slowness to get underway—murky complaints about female trouble—”
“Now that you mention it, Jack, this is my time of the month…”
“Not funny at all. Do I look amused?”
Stephenson provides a good list of some standard shit tests here.
And on page 389, on one-itis:
Eliza seemed impressed. Jack was gratified by this—a bad sign. No man was more comprehensively doomed than him whose chief source of gratification was making favorable impressions on some particular woman.
Later in their adventures Jack gets outrageously beta— like, after Eliza harpoons him to a mast (long story) and he is still in luuuuurv with her— so this is definitely not an unqualified endorsement of Stephenson on women. But he does display flashes of insight here and there.
(4) In Bruce Sterling’s Zeitgeist, some conversation among Leggy Starlitz, his daughter Zeta, and Viktor, a minor criminal. Starlitz is a gray-market hustler who’s always working some semi-legal scam. His daughter Zeta, 11, has been raised by her mother and her mother’s lesbian lover until a crisis forces them to hand Zeta over to Starlitz. She’s been with him about a week, as he drags her around on various pieces of semi-underworld business. In Istanbul one of Starlitz’s contacts is a young Russian man named Viktor. The three of them are at a cafe and Viktor steps away for a moment:
“Dad, is Viktor a nice guy?”
“I knew that,” said Zeta triumphantly. “I just knew it. I mean, I get it about Viktor now. Viktor is the guy that Mom One and Mom Two never wanted me to meet. Right?”
“Right… He’s every mother’s nightmare.”
Gah! Bad move, Starlitz! Should have downplayed Viktor’s Bad Boy cred so that your daughter finds him boring. Don’t confirm the “dangerous bad boy” thing, for fuck’s sake! The correct response is something like, “He tries to be a criminal tough guy, but just can’t swing it. He’s always getting beaten up and outwitted by the real criminals.” Something like that.
Zeta put her elbows on the table. “Dad, can I tell you something? Viktor is just the coolest guy, Dad. Viktor Bilibin is just the coolest, dreamiest, gangster guy. He has such amazing eyes. They look like my pet snake’s.” (LOL.)
Starlitz considered this artless confession. At first glance this was a very alarming development, but she wasn’t his own child for nothing. “You don’t need Viktor,” Starlitz informed her…
Viktor rejoins them. He and Starlitz usually speak in Russian, which Zeta doesn’t know, but she has an uncanny ability to suss out the gist of their conversations. Viktor tells Starlitz in Russian,
“Mehmet Ozbey is dead.”
Starlitz laughed. “I saw Ozbey last night.”
Viktor went pale. “I know he’s dead. I had Ozbey hit,” he insisted. “Nobody could have survived that.”
“Dad,” Zeta said thoughfully, “did Viktor kill somebody?”
“He thinks he killed somebody.”
“There’s a big difference.”
Viktor lifted his right hand with two fingers outstretched and his thumb as a revolver hammer. “I killed somebody,” he told her in English, his voice resonant and spooky. “He wanted to kill me, because I know too much. He put me on his hit list. So, I took revenge on him. I had him liquidated. Boom-boom-bang.”
“Wow,” Zeta marveled, eyes like saucers and goose bumps all over her arms. “That’s so corrupt!”
“It was the naked justice of the steets,” Viktor intoned.
“He’s full of it,” Starlitz said.
Much better response.
(5) This wouldn’t normally be categorized as fiction, but I don’t know where else to put it. I’m flipping through this book that my woman has from college: Women Mystics in Medieval Europe, edited by two chicks. I randomly open it to page 77 and start skimming. On page 78 we get this:
Tactile sensations play an important part in Beatrice’s visions: She feels God’s presence passing through her whole body; the Lord pierces her soul with the fire of His love, as with the point of a flamboyant sword, drawing her heart to His. The blood of Christ’s wounds flows into her soul.
As I’ve noted before, women are always being penetrated by men in female-authored material. Interestingly, this happens a lot more than male explorers thrust themselves forcefully into receptive virgin lands or whatever, in material written by men.