The Price Of Admission

It’s Friday night and I’m sitting with the windows open, listening to the thunder and the rain as it falls. I’m letting the evening air circulate in my stuffy house, cooling everything down. As I’m writing this, I’m thinking of a few things.

I’m thinking about tonight’s Red Evening with Jack Napier. I have no idea what the topic will be. Not that we ever really have one. That’s what’s fun about doing the show with Jack. We don’t usually have an “agenda.” It’s more, “how was your week?” and then we just roll from there. I’m a little sad though. I’m sad because I don’t think Jack and I can be friends anymore. When you say that Lord of the Rings is better than Star Wars, dude…I just can’t even. The real shocker was seeing Vince from Masculine Geek pandering to Jack and siding with him. Vince, I thought we were Brothers, man. I’m finding out who my real friends are apparently.

I’m also texting with my Bosnian girl as I write this. She’s been burning the midnight oil recently with her work projects. She’s an architect and a damn good one from what I understand. She really enjoys her job.

My teacher/belly dancer is going camping this weekend. As far as I know, she’s up on the mountain as I type this. I hope she’s enjoying herself and having fun and I hope that she takes care of herself and is safe. I guess I’ll find out what adventures she had on Monday evening when she gets back into town.

I’m going to Wendover with my “Girl Who Likes Pain” on Saturday afternoon. I’ll be with her until sometime Sunday. She booked a room at the Rainbow Casino that has a private jacuzzi in the room itself. She’s bringing all sorts of “toys” with her. I’m pretty sure that drinking, steak, and debauchery are on the menu. She’s crazy about me.

That’s not a brag or a boast, it’s just a statement. She’s crazy about me. She’s not the first woman to basically obsess over me, and for all I know, she won’t be the last. My ex-wife obsessed over me. Teriyaki, at least in the beginning of our time together, obsessed over me. My Costa Rican girl from a couple of years ago, obsessed over me, and there was an Indian girl from India that I knew back in the early 90’s that obsessed over me for several years. She was a great “friend with benefits.” And there was the psychopath who was 5’11, had short brown hair, glasses, and farted in the restaurant, loudly, multiple times mind you, while we were on our date. She obsessed over me and became a full blown stalker for a brief period of time after I called it off. But that’s a tale for another time.

Why am I bringing this up?

It’s the price of admission when you date a lot. It’s the price you pay when you get to know women and their nature. Again, it’s not a boast. In some ways it can be a “curse” of sorts. You spend enough time getting to know women and you learn what AWALT (All Women Are Like That) really means. Of course each woman is unique and brings her own unique life experiences and thoughts to the table. Every woman is different. And yet, all women are like that. You learn that they are all neurotic to some degree, and I mean all of them. You learn that even the most secure woman is insecure, way beyond your average guy. You learn that when you don’t give a fuck, they do. You learn that they will bend over backwards to please you, if you just let them. And you’ll learn that they’ll leave if and when they get bored.

Can men obsess over women? Of course they can. It’s what we call Oneitis. I’ve obsessed over three women to one degree or another over the entirety of my life. My first Oneitis was when I was 18 and she was 16. She was my first real relationship and she was the one who took my virginity. That relationship lasted about a year and a half.

My second Oneitis was when I was 23 and the woman was 27. I met her on the job. She had Michelle Pfeiffer eyes and long, almost to the middle of her waist, blonde hair. She was my first blonde. She was also the first woman to ever give me head and make me come from giving me head. No woman had been able to do that before her.

My last Oneitis was my girlfriend from after my divorce. She was the one that was 20 years younger than me. I loved her harder than any woman before or since her. She truly fired all of my “switches.” No woman is perfect, and God knows, I’m no saint or perfect either, but this woman was about as close to perfect, at least for me, as you could get.

Before I met her, I was “spinning plates” and she was one of them. We did the monogamy thing for a couple of years and I even moved her in. Things were great until they weren’t. And that’s how life goes. That’s how relationships can go. I’ve met plenty of women since the end of 2018, slept with many of them too. And all women are like that.

Maybe I’m a bit jaded at this point. I’m not cynical by any means and I do enjoy the company of women. I’ve just seen the patterns, I’ve seen the trends. They happen like clockwork almost. It doesn’t matter their background, their age, their life experiences. Some obsess, some don’t. All of them want to know “where is this going?” eventually.

I’ve done enough dating to realize that I don’t have any “obsession” left in me anymore. Maybe there is a limit to how many times a man can obsess and get hung up on a woman and then he realizes that, “Oh! They’re all like that.” Maybe it’s also that you can only have your heart broken so many times before you just don’t have that in you anymore. I still feel “pain” and disappointment when a relationship ends, it’s just not devastating anymore. Why is that? For me, it’s because there is always another woman.

There’s a young guy talking to me via my DM’s on Twitter. He’s 21 and he’s dating a woman who is 31. She is his first when it comes to losing his virginity. He’s got Oneitis for her. He’s afraid of losing her. In a way, he’s obsessed with her. I feel for him, I really do. I remember what it was like when I was 21 and young and inexperienced with women and the world. I don’t want to sound cold and compassionless to him, but I do want to tell him, “Dude, your fear of losing her is what is going to drive her away.”

“If you are afraid that she is going to break up with you, break up with her first. It sounds crazy and counterintuitive, but seriously, break up with her first.”

“The best way to get over a woman is to get under another one, and keep getting under new and different one’s until that Oneitis is gone. Get enough experience to realize that women really all are like that. Pay the price of admission. It sounds bad, but it really isn’t. Each woman you meet and have some sort of relationship with will teach you about her, about you, and about women in general. You’ll realize eventually that they all are really like that and when you are up inside them, they all pretty much feel the same. Realize that there is always another woman. It’s like getting off of a bus. You get off one and 20 minutes later, another one shows up and you get on and go on an adventure until you decide to get off or the driver boots your ass off for whatever reason. So you get off and wait around for about 20 minutes or so, and another one shows up. And that’s life pretty much.”

Pay the price of admission and you learn that there’s no real reason or way that you can take any one woman too seriously. Because they are all like that.

Pay the price of admission. It may make you somewhat jaded and it could even make you somewhat cynical, but honestly it’s worth the price.

Why Not All Of Them?

Why not all of them?

Back in early 2015, when I decided to divorce my now ex-wife, I remember my Mother and I were going to go and have lunch or something. I remember sitting in her car with her and she asked me what was going on. She could see that I had something on my mind. That’s when I told her that I was getting divorced.

She told me she was sorry to hear that and then I told her it was me that wanted the divorce. She asked me why I wanted out. There were multiple reasons that I wanted out, some of them I could name, some of them I couldn’t at the time. I just knew that I wanted out.

One of the biggest reasons that I wanted out though was, I didn’t want to have sex with my wife anymore. We hadn’t had sex for months by this time, and I was perfectly fine if we never had sex again. The thought of touching her and having sex with her actually repulsed me.

But I wanted to have sex, just not with her.

I told my Mother this. Her answer was interesting to me, to say the least.

“Oh honey! You’re too young to stop having sex! You need to find someone that’s compatible with you and keep doing that.”

That wasn’t the interesting part so much, it was what she said next:

“Your Father and I haven’t had sex in over seven years.”

Seven years. No sex.

I can’t even imagine. My brain refuses to go there. Even now, over six years later, I still can’t fathom that.

I knew that I wanted to keep having sex, I just didn’t want to have sex with my ex-wife. Masturbation wasn’t going to cut it and I knew that I would eventually go out and find something extramarital given enough time. That wasn’t the only reason that I got divorced, but it was a big reason.

I found this out after the divorce when I hit the ground running and started dating again. I thought my sex drive had “dried up.” That it was something that happened when you got older. I was wrong. My sex drive didn’t “dry up,” it was just dormant. The first time with a new woman, an enthusiastic woman, was like when I was 18 all over again. I could go for hours. I wanted it daily, constantly. I could drive nails through solid oak with my dick because that was how hard I would get. And nothing has changed in the last six years.

Why am I writing about this? Why am I writing about it now?

Here’s why:

That’s a screenshot from a conversation with my teacher/belly dancer girl. I went out with her on Friday night and ending up spending the night at her house. We ate great food, got drunk, made out, had sex multiple times, and finally passed out around 5:30 Saturday morning. By that time I had been up for over 24 hours. Fuck it, I’ll get plenty of sleep when I’m dead.

Side note: One of the funny things about my teacher/belly dancer, she’s big on preventing STD’s and pregnancy. So every time before we have sex, she brings up not wanting an STD or getting pregnant because she’s already had all of the kids that she wants to have and she doesn’t want any more. So she’ll ask me if I have condoms with me, which I do. We always start off with me wearing a condom, but by the end I’m going at her raw and she’s the one wanting me to come inside of her. Every single time. The only thought that I have about it, that I’m never going to voice to her is, “Why the charade? Why beat around the bush? Every time we fuck we end up going at it raw and I come inside of you, so why the pretense and why the show? Why not just accept that you like unprotected sex and I’ll not bother with the song and dance of condoms?” But to each their own. If that satisfies her hamster, I’ll play the part.

I know now that I’ll never remarry. I don’t need or want the State getting into my personal affairs. That’s not to say that I won’t have some form of long term relationships or even monogamy at some point. I might do both of those. But for now? No.

I like sex. I like sex a lot. I like sex with different women. It’s me chasing the dragon. I know this. I’m good with it. It’s who I am. We all die alone. But we don’t have to live alone unless we choose to. I’ll keep my place and you keep yours. We’ll have slumber parties. I’ll come to you or you’ll come to me, it really makes no difference. And in the morning, or later that evening? One of us will be going home. That’s my foreseeable future with no end date in sight.

One of the “benefits” for my women when I date multiple women? I don’t get complacent or lazy. I bring my “A Game” to every encounter. They get the “best of me” every time. And that’s not just sexual. That’s attention. That’s affection. That’s planning and paying attention to detail. It’s all of it. And then I go home or they go home and the next woman shows up and the process repeats itself.

The thing that can wake me up in a cold sweat from a deep sleep is the idea that I’m with somebody who either doesn’t want to fuck me, or I don’t want to fuck them anymore. That’s what can keep me up at night. That’s my “existential dread.” That’s my version of “living a life of quiet desperation.” I want to fuck and keep on fucking until I can’t anymore, and for me that means variety. That’s what keeps me young, that’s what keeps me hard. And do you know what the most absolute beautiful thing about it is?

There’s always another woman.

As a parting note, I’m sure there are plenty of people who will want to argue with me about all of these things. They will bring up all sorts of “can’ts” and limitations and delusions and whatever it may be. I have only a few things to say to them.

It’s my life.

Argue for your limitations and sure enough, they’re yours.

Go away.

“Lowered Expectations”

He’s Not Wrong

It’s funny to me, I was thinking about what Rian Stone tweeted just a few days ago. I had just finished seeing one woman and was getting home, when another woman texted me. My hands have been full lately. I’m definitely enjoying my moments with these women for as long as they last, which could be another 5 minutes, 5 hours, 5 weeks, 5 months, or 5 years. I don’t think or plan ahead that far, I just live as much as possible in the moment.

Men who fuck the least have the highest standards.” – Rian Stone

And that seems to be the case. None of the women that I have met recently, or in the recent past, or in the distant past for that matter, would qualify as “high value, high quality women.” Not a single one. Not my ex-wife, not my ex-girlfriend of 4 years, not the girl that I had sex with for the first time, not Kitten, not Teriyaki. None of them.

Why is that? Is it because I “can’t do better?” Is it because I “go for low hanging fruit?” Is it because I’m not “a real man?”


It’s because they are all just women. Their shit stinks just like mine does. Just like yours does. They have their foibles and faults just like you do. They have their doubts, their fears, and their insecurities, just like you do. Nobody is perfect, not even you.

The more I see and hear guys talk about their standards, and how high they are, the more I realize and say to myself, “Oh. He doesn’t fuck.” The more reasons, standards, and qualifications you have, the less your dick is getting sucked and getting wet. And why would I want to listen to you? All you are going to do is to teach me how NOT to get laid. I can’t learn anything of value from you, you are just wasting my time.

As of me writing this, I went to a concert with my Bosnian girl and her friends. She bought my ticket, invited me out, and we danced on the grass, under the stars with some truly amazing music setting the mood. She introduced me to her circle of friends. One of the guys offered me beer and a truly magnificent cigar. We talked about music and the band. He told me of his concern for his ailing 85 year old father. I can relate. While my father isn’t 85 and ailing, he’s no spring chicken either. I know I have less time with him than I would like.

You know what we didn’t talk about?

We didn’t talk about lifting weights. We didn’t talk about what makes “a real man.” We didn’t talk about the vaccine. We didn’t talk about politics or religion, or “saving the west.” We didn’t talk about being “alpha males and being the prize.” We didn’t talk about “thots” and OnlyFans.

We watched our women dance with each other and we watched them laugh and sing. We watched the band play, and if you turned your head and looked away, or if you closed your eyes, the lead singer became Freddie Mercury. That’s how much he sounded like him.

We smoked our cigars and drank our beer and we enjoyed the music while dancing with our women. That’s what we did. We lived in and enjoyed the moment.

As a side note: A dancing, laughing woman is a horny woman.

But keep your “standards” fellas. Clearly a dancing, laughing, horny woman is way beneath you.

Keep holding out. Keep bearing the torch. Keep knighting for the west. Keep sending all of those women to me.

Today is going to be a busy day. I’ve got a show to do, a house to clean, alcohol to buy, and later in the evening I’m having a teacher that also happens to be a belly dancer come over. She’s put together a custom costume that she’s dying to show me and I want to see it. I want her to dance for me. I want to dance with her. I want to see those curves revealed. Clearly she’s not a “high value” woman. Clearly. She’s just the person who is molding your children’s minds while they are in school and you are putting your nose to the grindstone and when you’re done “hustling” for the day and getting on Twitter to talk about your standards, she’s belly dancing and drinking with me, and telling me what she taught your children today.

But keep your “standards” fellas. Somebody has got to do it, might as well be you.

In all sincerity though, thank you “high standard” guys. While you moan about lockdowns, masks, the vax, degeneracy, and the lack of morals and standards in women, I’ve been having a stellar summer. So thanks!