And, yes, your desire to wish that the girl would provoke you at the right times so you can do such things?
That’s what I do.
It’s not being a bitch, it’s being aware of my partner. Knowing that I’m with a sexually dominant male and working off the information he gives me with his tones and body language, knowing his limits, and pushing all the buttons that would -almost- make him lose it, but never will because I’ll never go that far across his boundaries.
It gives him an excuse, gives him justification, gives him the motivation, the stimulation to do whatever the hell he wants with me.
And, if I’m lucky, it’s rough enough.
In this instance, Miss Poetry is talking about goading her man into smacking her, but it applies more generally than that.
Among the many wonderful qualities of pretty, young women — beauty, liveliness, grace, curiosity, a love of adventure — so much is obviously positive. Then there are other qualities that are often considered negatives, like sassiness, petulance, and a certain pouty recalcitrance. But to me these are just as charming as the twinkling smile when she’s happy. I find petulance just as attractive as grace, so long as the two can hang in some sort of balance (a woman who only pouts and never bubbles over with joy is indeed a bore).
It’s a great fallacy that black is the opposite of white. Black is the complement of white. Contrast is what makes life beautiful. In fact it’s what all of life is composed of. A completely blank surface is not even there until someone makes a mark on it. Human beings, especially Save-the-Earth lefties, have an odd tendency to try and scrub the world clean of contrast and struggle. But contrast and struggle are what give us meaning. The light contains the dark, and the dark contains the light. Life is full of contrast whether you like it or not, so you might as well relax and enjoy it.
Those who want to erase the difference between the sexes are trying to scrub life right out of existence. They will never know true love. And of course, they are always the most miserable people, forever at war with themselves and the very nature of the world.
I love a difficult women because she’s fun. She pulls out my most masculine side, and my manliness in turn brings out her most feminine. The most vivacious, interesting, graceful women are always the same ones who can turn sassy and difficult at a moment’s notice. They’re alive in the way that most civilized, SWPL clones only read about in books (and then, only if they read the classics, since characters in modern novels are usually sad shadows of authentic humanity).
I’m thinking of a particular young girl I know, “Sylvia,” 23 years old, spanish blood and a daddy’s princess at heart. She is the most jealous, pouty creature I know, but might just be one my very favorites. She can laugh open and honestly, with real unadulterated happiness. She can turn tenderhearted at the drop of a hat when she sees a child or small creature in need (and her tenderness has none of the holy posturing that most liberal “concern” for the less fortunate has; only a pure, self-forgetting desire to alleviate the suffering immediately). She is loving and graceful in bed (and wild, and uninhibited).
When she gets difficult, I get mean. Sometimes playfully cruel, sometimes quite harsh. And, though she will pout for a bit, she loves it. Afterwards, always, she clings all the harder for it. That dynamic has been explored again and again on PUA and evo-psych blogs. But I want to point out that the woman is not the only one that loves that dynamic. Men love it, too. And so, in a way, I am grateful to Sylvia when she pisses me off with her childish recalcitrance. She helps set in motion the dynamic that leads us both to more fun, more passion, and epic fuck-fests.
It’s a sad, sad truth that many people who read this will find in my portrait of Sylvia the picture of an airheaded, unfulfilled and unfulfilling girl. Because she’s not a hard-charging, take-no-shit, careerist cunt. Because she doesn’t go around ironically laughing at low-culture people while she munches on her organic free-range acaí berry granola. The poor, lifeless, bitter and grey-minded will accuse her of not standing up for herself. Of being a “doormat.” I assure you nothing could be further from the truth. Sylvia is far more alive than most American women I know, and curious about the world in the way an Ivy degree could never make you. But feminism has so deeply poisoned everything good about women (the grand irony is that it has hurt women most deeply of all, sucked from them the possibility of real, authentic happiness), that when confronted with a real woman, the feminist goes into a defensive crouch. She is like an astroturf salesman trying to convince you that a wild mountain meadow isn’t green enough.
Women out there reading this who have considered acting more girly, give it a shot. Chances are, if you are American, it’s already far too late for you. Any refreshing girliness you try to contrive will be forced and grotesque, like 40 year old women learning to pole dance for their impotent husbands. And probably your beta boyfriend’s attempt to “man up” in response (if he’s not too terrified to try) will be just as sad. But for those of you who haven’t completely quashed and repressed the feminine inside you, nurture it. It’s there to make your man happy, and to make you happy too.