Another little war story:
Juana is about the most SWPL girl I have ever met, which is ironic because she’s not even “W”. She’s a 3rd-generation Mexican-American from California. But she used to work at the Apple Store, for God’s sake. These days she works in the HR department of a mid-sized bank in NYC. A more vanilla job you would be hard pressed to find. She’s a firm Obama supporter, the kind that’s almost cultish in that creepy way you see in the big coastal cities. (I’m no GWB fan; he was an epic failure and an embarrassing black mark on our glorious record of American kick-assed-ness; but even in the deepest heart of Crawford, Texas, people didn’t treat Bush like the new Christ-child the way hardcore Obama people do with their guy…. I’ve come near punching the mopey-faced, pale, dried-up harridans I see in my neighborhood wearing “Hope” and “Progress” t-shirts (James Bond, my ass), lo these seven fucking months after the election. Give it up, my dearies: it’s over, and your man already won. What the fuck is this, Maoist China? Must we adulate the Dear Leader in clothing form?).
Juana and I used to fuck. She latched onto me at one of my work functions, where I was doing my semi-regular thing of acting as group leader for a public event. She’s got a real Aztec-princess beauty, with a straight nose, brown skin, super-strong leg muscles and long, lustrous, silky black hair. When I looked at her I could imagine the original Native Americans that Cortes must have encountered. Her eyelashes aren’t that long, but they’re so black and thick that she has an almost Cleopatra look in her big, dark eyes. I was immediately drawn to her, and we had a nice little fling during a time when I had to be on the road 2-3 weeks out of the month. She was one of the sassiest bitches I have ever been with, and I found that very attractive. I loved beating down her attempts at shit-testing me. It was almost too easy, they were so transparent. And she would visibly get excited every time I laughed at her. But I was way too busy with work and travel to consider getting serious with anyone.
She knew I was seeing other girls, and one night when I was fresh from a trip to Latin America, outside my apartment she said point-blank that it was either full commitment to her or nothing. The choice was so easy and I said, “Okay, well, nice hanging out with you. Take care.”
A few months later I ran into her. She was looking great, and I re-opened her. Turns out she had, in the interim, gotten back together with her ex-boyfriend of many years. I felt one little piece of regret that I couldnt fuck her little Aztec-princess body again and promptly moved on.
So when she texted me out of the blue several months later, all I could do was chuckle. “Are you at awake?” she texted me.
“Can you meet me at the bar?”
I met her at the bar down the street from my house. I had assumed it meant she was recently broken up and she wanted to hook up. But as soon as I got there she said, “I just needed a man’s advice. I’ve only been talking to my girlfriends about this…”
It was a classic “be my shoulder to cry on” situation. She laid out all her relationship problems. All the stupid SWPL couples-therapy shit she was trying with her boyfriend. I almost stood up right then to leave. But I took a step back mentally and, annoyed though I was, decided to view it as a good moment to observe how girls try to garner emotional ego-boosts without giving anything in return. We had a talk; I tried to be straightforward and honest about the problems she described.
Interestingly, she was upset that her boyfriend (8 years older than her) wouldn’t quit his career to focus on marrying her and being a good daddy to their theoretical child. He had a very impractical, performing-arts style dream/job, and even in his late 30’s was still not really achieving success. The middling success he did have required him to chase petty engagements all over the country, and her objection to their relationship was that he needed to give up the dream and be home for her and their hypothetical baby. I told her, point-blank but kindly, that it was bad to ask a man to give up his dream (however pathetic and unrealistic as this guy’s dream might have been). That if she ever got what she said she “wanted,” a man with no conquering ambition and dreams, that she would be sorely disappointed. I even made a little gesture of a pussy drying up with my closed fists.
I was starting to see her boyfriend as a classic Alpha male who refused to give up his life purpose just to please a woman. She sure seemed to be agonizing over this, and a woman agonizing over a guy is a strong indicator that the man is at least half-alpha. But then she said that she had insisted on couple’s therapy and he had agreed. Zarathustra! I declare this to be so unmanly as to be roundly pathetic. Never, ever agree to the sick modern feminist institution of “couples therapy,” which is just a euphemism for “The woman is always right; the man is a thoroughly evil creation.” Real therapy for a couple is for the man to fuck the woman so hard she has trouble getting out of bed in the morning. It’s cheaper, too.
We talked for a while and she eventually ended up talking about why things didn’t work out between the two of us. It was clear that the fact that I was fucking other women was both (A) the reason she loved me so much, and (B) the reason her SWPL, couples-therapy-addled mind was having trouble processing my very presence. Our heads got closer. She blinked those princess Cleopatra eyes at me, and my hand went to her long, thick, silky black hair.
“You know what I liked best about you? You pulled my hair so hard,” she whispered, blinking her Aztec eyes.
I don’t need more prompting than that, and I started pulling her hair hard, right there in the bar. I kept it up for a while, pulling hard enough to make her moan and then releasing and chatting, only to pull it even harder moments later. This went on for a good twenty minutes.
Finally I got her up and on her bike and told her to ride home. We walked together a hundred yards or so to the point where our paths diverged (her back to her “boy”friend and me back to my pad). She hugged me tightly and whispered, “Pull my hair,” into my ear. I laughed and said, “Don’t tell me what to fucking do,” and then yanked on her hair harder than ever before.
She moaned. I slapped her on the ass and she got on her bike, all wobbly-legged, saying, “We’re just friends.” Classic, bald, female rationalizing of her essentially emotional behavior.
“Yep, just friends,” I said. A week later I got another late night text…
Even the most dedicated “feminist” is a pull-my-hair girl underneath. It’s not even that hard to uncover her inner whore. She just wants an excuse. Make no bones about it: she’ll blame someone else (you, her boyfriend, her therapist, the Republicans). Nothing could ever possibly be the fair result of her own actions. But she’s easier to read than a “Pussy for Dummies” starter book. Just open up to page one and begin…