Tall Woman And A Short Man. A Field Report.

I have written about some of my “field reports” in the past. And here’s another.

Both of those, you could consider a “win” for me. Now I want to tell you the tragedy of:

Tall Woman and A Short Man.

I was doing my thing yet again with Online Dating. I matched up with a woman, whom I will call, California Girl. Now California Girl is blonde. I like blondes. She likes to ride motorcycles, specifically as a passenger (riding bitch) versus being the actually “rider” or driver. I like chicks who like to “ride bitch.” And hey, not for nothing, (to quote Vince from Masculine Geek) she’s cute. I would definitely bang. Besides the pictures which showed me that she was fuckable, I went through her profile and that’s how I found out about her passion for riding bitch and a bunch of other stuff that is irrelevant to today’s post.

She lives within about a 15 mile radius from me which is good. I’m lazy and I don’t want to drive from hell to breakfast to get laid or have any sort of relationship. She’s definitely of the age of consent, so I don’t need to worry about going to jail, and honestly I don’t remember if she has kids or not, and that’s an irrelevant point too. I did notice that she is also 5 foot 8 inches in height. Which is about how tall my ex-wife was. No matter to me, I don’t care.

So we get to texting and talking and here’s the important screen shots:

Oh noes! She doesn’t go for shorter dudes! What to do?

What to do indeed? What do you guys think I said to her? Did I just leave her “on read?” Did I block her? Did I call her a stupid bitch and say something like she was a “height enabler” or some other equally stupid shit?

No, I didn’t do any of those things. I treated her like a human being.

To which she came back with this:

And like that, it was over. No harm, no foul, no big deal.

Everybody has their “thing.” California Girl’s “thing” happened to be height. She wants a man taller than her. Nothing wrong with that. I personally prefer women shorter than me, but it’s not a deal breaker for me.

I could have let this bother me, but I didn’t. Here’s why:

At the time of writing those texts to California Girl and also at the time that I’m writing this “field report” I’m currently seeing two other women. My belly dancer and Red and Black. Both of them are taller than me. About 5’7 each. And I would climb both of them all day long and twice on Sunday. Neither one of them care that I’m shorter than them. It’s not an issue for me, and it’s not an issue for them.

Your height, or lack of it, or whatever other insecurity you have, is your issue. And when you make something an issue, it will become an issue for her.

This “rejection” is fairly common to me. If it’s not my height, it’s my age. If it’s not my age, it’s that I’m bald. If it’s not my baldness, it’s something else. The point is, I get rejected all the fucking time. It’s par for the course.

I got blown out the other day because I mentioned something along the lines of “swatting her on the ass.” Apparently that went over like a fart in church. Apparently she wasn’t ready for me to start talking about smacking her on the ass. Oh well, her loss. My ass swatting skills can only be rivaled by Vince and maybe BullRush. Rejection comes with the territory.

I don’t want to leave you on a “downer,” so here’s a little fun one that may or may not go anywhere:

I’m going to call this woman, “Meow meow.” The reason for this is because I was scrolling through the dating app, saw her pics, thought she was cute, saw that she was at least of the age of consent, saw that she lived within my driving radius, and her profile headline said something along the lines of, “Nobody Reads These, Do They?” And then when I went into her profile, one of the last things she said was, “Come on meow.” That’s how I got “Meow meow” for her.

I sent her a random message that said, “Nah, nobody reads these things. Meow.” And let it go. Maybe she would respond, most likely not. Either way, I didn’t care.

Oh! What is this? A bite? And so I responded back to her as you can see.

And here is where it gets really interesting:

So for the guys who say they fuck, but don’t actually fuck, and worry about “Do you give your number to her? Or do you ask for her number?” How about you be interesting enough that she gives you her number unsolicited?

So now I have begun texting “Meow meow,” and we’ll see what happens. Perhaps I’ll be writing another field report about how it went nowhere. Then again, I may be writing about Miss Meow Meow as another woman in the rotation.

Like I firmly believe for myself:

If I can get her off the couch, out the door, and in front of me, her ass is mine.

If You Wax Poetic…

The other day, Rian Stone was taking some random asshole on the internet to task. Rian was mentioning hypergamy in a brief tweet and along comes this guy who writes a novella as a response to Rian’s original tweet: “until they find someone else. Jk. Where I part ways with the big guys is on the topic of monogamy. Most say it isn’t natural. Our society makes alternatives possible because of modern medicine & we are dysfunctional as a result.” yadda yadda yadda. Notice the “theoretical and abstract” in this response. Pay attention to it. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it, and you’ll see it everywhere.

Rian then quoted the guy and said, “This is the nonsense that fills your thoughts when you let people who don’t fuck talk to you about fucking.”

To which the guy continued to reply with: “Ouchhh. Let me refine my overall point: monogamy (TM) is not necessarily natural and everybody desires it; however, our current sexual norms are only possible because of modern medicine and contraceptives.” More theoretical and abstracts.

I then replied to the guy who wrote the novella with:

Hypergamy in four words: Don’t care, got laid. Which is actually from Rian himself. Yes, hypergamy is a thing. It is real, it exists. I don’t care. I got laid. Hypergamy has existed ever since humankind has existed, it is nothing new. It has always been there. And yet people have been and are still fucking. You can get hung up on hypergamy, what it is, what it means, and you can write a novel about it on twitter.

Or you can not care about it and go out and get laid. The choice is yours.

When you see “theoreticals and abstracts,” know this:

The guy who is talking in theoreticals and abstracts isn’t fucking.

Another tweet I made right after replying to Rian’s tweet was:

Shit tests in 4 words: Don’t care, got laid.

If you are worrying about shit tests from women, you ain’t fucking. In fact, you’re not going to make it. You’re just stepping on your own dick and worrying about shit, yet again, that doesn’t matter. All women shit test. It’s what they do and they usually aren’t aware that they are doing it. Have you ever had a guy “bust your balls?” That’s all that a shit test is. Except it’s coming from a woman.

I’ve had almost all of the men that I have met “bust my balls” in one way or another. How do I handle it? Same way I handle shit tests from women. I either ignore it altogether or agree and amplify. I don’t let it get to me. When you let a guy who is “busting your balls” get to you, you are showing him that you have “thin skin.” And he’ll tease you mercilessly. He’ll probably lose a little, or a lot, of respect for you too. Same thing with women and their shit tests.

Are you really going to be so anal and autistic as to worry about something that a woman said to you as to wonder if she is shit testing you or not? Really? You get to burn then. Stop worrying about what she is saying to you. Just enjoy the interaction and treat her like a human being. Or you can treat her as something other than human, like a set of obstacles to overcome. All I have to say to that is, to each their own. Also, how’s that working out for you, bud? But hey, don’t lean in, you’ll be fine. Make sure your green line is pointing exactly due north and make sure that you know that if she’s folding her arms, she’s definitely banging the waiter at the restaurant that you saw of her in the picture that is going around on the internet. Or better yet, just buy a Lambo. That’ll fix your autism and get you the girls. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Oh wait, you’re not 6 feet tall… Bummer dude.

You can fill your head with all sorts of bullshit and nonsense. Things that don’t fucking matter, really. Or you can go out and meet women and see them as human beings. You can analyze everything they say and do and run back to your bro’s on the internet and ask them a million questions and get a million different answers, and of course, all of those answers are right and correct. Or you can just enjoy her and your conversation with her. Do you actually see her as a woman? A human being? Or is she just another statistic on your “quest for masculinity?”

Are you going to let hypergamy, shit tests, the “evil’s of a high notch count,” and green lines be “a thing?” Or are you going to let it go, stop giving a fuck, and just enjoy her and yourself while you are at it?

Christmas, New Year’s, And The Manic Star

I’m sitting here, writing this on the Monday after Christmas. New Year’s is a few days away, and the coffee is strong and hot at the moment. Why do I bring up coffee? Because I’m normally drinking beer when I write these posts. I’m wondering if my “work” will be “better” when I’m more sober or when I’m more drunk. I guess time will tell.

On Christmas Eve, I went to a Christmas party with my Dad and his girlfriend. My women were either out of town, or they were doing their own stuff with their families. The people at the party were closer to my age than my father’s age. In fact, out of about 30 or so people, there were only 4 people that were “Boomers.” The rest were either Gen X and a very small smattering of Zoomers. There might have been 2 or 3 Millennials in the crowd as well, but you get the idea.

I ended up tweeting in buzzed, real time about this party. My father, me, and one other guy were the only one’s there that were height/weight proportionate, as in, not fat. There was not one single woman there that wasn’t overweight to one degree or another. Not one. The majority of these women also henpecked and ridiculed their men. It made me a little sick to my stomach to watch it go down and to watch these guys just…take it. I’ve realized I have a hard line in the sand when it comes to this one. If a woman that is with me has an issue with me, I’m more than willing to hear her out and discuss it, if necessary. In private.

If the woman is new to me, she gets one pass on this one. I’ll tell her to her face, calmly, quietly, to not do that again. There are no second passes for this one. She does it a second time, I walk. I can tolerate all sorts of shit, but not this one. It’s open disrespect and I won’t have it. Whether I met her yesterday or I have been with her for years, the end result will be the same. And you know what? I’ve actually had to have the conversation with a couple of women in the past. In one case, I walked and it was done. In the other cases, they never belittled or talked down about me again. The majority of the women that have been with me, I have never had to have this conversation because they “looked up to me” and saw me as what I was: Their Man. And a human being.

I still am blown away by what I saw that night. I can’t fathom it other than something that somebody said when I was on Red Evening with Jack Napier: “Do you think that the guy’s think that they could do better?” It was a brilliant question and it had never occurred to me. I know I can always do better, so why would I stand for that behavior? I wouldn’t. But these guys… I’m not them, and I can’t read their minds, and I had literally met most of them that night, but I would wager a year’s salary that they don’t believe that they could do better than the wives they had. You get the relationships you deserve.

If that is the actual, “normal” state of “affairs,” I’ll stay single, thanks. And yet that’s not what I see in my own world. My women adore me, cherish me, and are literally crazy about me. And that’s normal for me.

A brief conversation between me and my father:

Dad: Did you get your girls a gift for Christmas?

Me: Yes, it’s the gift of me.

Dad: What are you going to do if they want to return it?

Me: Find another woman. (Shrug)

Dad: O.o

We are not the same.

Speaking of crazy, Red and Black may actually be fucking crazy for real. Not in the “all women have anxiety and are neurotic” levels of crazy, but like literally “on the spectrum” crazy. She may in fact have Multiple Personality Disorder. I’m no psychologist, but some of her behaviors point in that direction. I’m not getting “stabby stalker” vibes from her, at least not yet, so I’ll carry on as usual with her. Besides, crazy chicks can be major fun. Let’s just say that when she has an orgasm, she goes somewhere else and becomes someone else. It’s trippy. It only lasts for a few moments, maybe a minute or two at most, but man, it’s something else. What does that say about me though? Because, man, I kind of dig it.

Like I’ve said many times in the past, I’m not your guru and I sure as hell ain’t your role model.

New Year’s is going to be fun. I’ve got New Year’s Eve off and I’ll be spending most of that day and New Year’s Day with my belly dancer. It will be fun to ring in the new year with her. She’s also opted in on my birthday which is a week later. We will be going back to Wendover for more food and debauchery. When I say “opted in,” what I mean is that my days available to do stuff are pretty limited. Between “dating” itself, work, my shows, and my own personal time, I don’t have a lot of spare time, so it’s first come, first serve with me. My belly dancer grabbed both this upcoming weekend and next weekend for herself. She’s greedy like that. And I’m okay with that. I enjoy my time with her and she knows that if I think she’s taking up too much of my time, I’ll say something and let her know as much.

One thing that my experiences with women and relationships has taught me is nuance. What I mean in this case is that there are a plethora of women out there that I would be more than happy to fuck, but very few that I would commit to. Mostly due to trial and error, I’ve come to some conclusions about the women that I would consider committing to.

The first thing is that she is height/weight proportionate. It’s a no-brainer really, but at the same time, it’s me thinking aloud and giving you something to chew on. I prefer thinner to thicker, but at the same time, it brings me to the second thing:

She has a pleasant personality. She’s kind and easy to get along with. She’s laid back. Think “low maintenance.” If she is pleasant, that gives her some leeway as to her height/weight proportions. I don’t mind a woman with a little bit of fluff on her if she is pleasant. By no means am I expecting perfection, because I am not perfect either. There are limits to how far the weight and pleasant personality go, but there is “wiggle room” in there if she’s pleasant.

Now here’s where the nuance comes in:

I’ve been with enough women over the years to realize that not every woman is “in her body.” In fact, many are in their heads and it’s like pulling teeth to get them into their bodies. “In her body” is my way of saying that she’s comfortable in her own skin, likes sex, has a healthy view of sexuality, and is open to having sex on a regular basis as well as trying new and different things when it comes to sex. The only other term I have heard that seems to fit my description here is that she is “earthy.” She may not be able to stop the hamster wheel from spinning, but she can grease it to make it stop squeaking so much, and she can slow it down on her own.

So height/weight proportionate, pleasant personality, and “in her body” are the things that I look for when it comes to possible commitment on a long term basis. Or any real commitment other than the moment I guess. Nowhere do I worry about cooking, cleaning, being a “quality woman,” being a “good mother,” being traditional, how many tattoos she has, what color her hair is, or what her relationship to her father is.

My belly dancer is all of the above. The one that really stands out though is she is “in her body.” Red and Black is 2 out of 3. She’s more in her head than anything and it can be a pain in the ass to get her into her body. I can do it, and I do, but it can also be tiresome. Not that I’m looking to seriously commit any time soon, but if I were to, I would choose my belly dancer just on the criteria that I have mentioned.

Random, whimsical musings in my head.

The point here is you only get to nuance through experience. Sex, from a purely physical standpoint, feels pretty much the same from woman to woman. You only learn that from having sex with a bunch of different women. Or you can take my word for it. The choice is always yours. I’m a big fan of finding out firsthand though. After enough experience with women, and yes, your mileage will vary, you get to that “nuance” that I’m talking about. You’ll find your nuance, whatever it may be. I’m sure that your “list” will be different from mine.