“Called Off My Wedding” & Other Turn Tail Signs of the American Male
November 23, 2019
I was hanging around a girl I liked when she said she needed to go shopping. She wanted to go to Target. Which is exactly what I had in mind.
I took a bike down from the display rack when we got there, bounced it a couple times to check the pressure. It was too small, but it would suit. I sat on it and stared at her, wheeled towards her a few feet. She was at a display rack trying to shop but distracted watching me. She looked at me crazy, told me to put it back.
I didn’t respond, just slowly began wheeling towards her. She stopped what she was doing and stared, confused.
I stood up and began pedaling faster, my eyes boring into hers which got wider the closer I got. Her whole body froze in a contorted figure of feminine fear. I got closer to her then stopped and leaned over the handlebars, poised in those frozen calculating seconds before the final lunge and stared at her..
As if to say, “Do you want to play a game?”
She stood transfixed, staring at me wildly, then screamed, giggled, and ran away.
I took my time pursuing her through the store. The environment was full of traps, and places she liked to graze. Even with the danger that mercilessly stalked her, I knew she’d still stop to look at makeup.
Sometimes it took longer to find her again, but I stayed on the trail. Methodical and deliberate, even though most of the time she got away.
Grids to help me find find find
Lanes to line my cage cage cage
Where my pretty bird lives lives lives
But in the end it was her own nature that gave her away. She was halfway down the aisle and perched over a display of bath scents peering at a label and didn’t see me when I came around the corner. I stayed silent, quietly crept up on her as slow as possible, till I slowed too much and had to jerk sideways to stay up. The wheel squeaked.
Her head instantly came up and snapped around in my direction then froze. Like a little deer in the forest. The look on her face didn’t make it clear which was worse; how close I’d gotten this time, or that at long last it was her own feminine needs that had betrayed her.
I turned the bike and swooped towards her. She squealed and ran away around the corner, but I was close this time. I followed her into the next aisle hot on her trail. Then let her gain some distance to feel safe then quickly sped up again to close the gap.
This could be it.
Except my burst of speed had proved to her that her resistance was futile and this had drained her of her will to keep running. She stopped dead center in the middle of the aisle with a plaintive little cry, her legs teetered then began to collapse. She sank in on herself like a little girl puddle, arms clasped around herself, one across her heart the other between her legs. Delicately guarding herself in her final tragic moments.
Or about to give it all up.
But she was in the danger zone, right in the way of my full oncoming force. I crushed the front brakes and slammed the bike to a halt. Except I kept going, up and over the handlebars. And she was right in front of me practically underneath me, I was going to land on her with my full body weight if I kept going. Which would be a catastrophe I would not allow. I threw both legs at the handlebars to slow my weight. My right knee bucked and grinded against the center stay, but I kept going. I slammed both my shins on the handlebars, grating them against it to create leverage. I managed a slow roll forward.
Reports of pain filtered up from the lower extremities but were ignored. Hunting pretty prey could be dangerous, but it had to be protected. Pain was a prerequisite, a final polish. Never something to be pawned off.
I came down around and slightly on top of her while simultaneously landing on and kicking the bike away behind me. A subtle crash landing, but she was unscathed. Free from damage, and now captured. I pulled her in against me as she writhed in my arms, needing the warmth my body gave her to calm the chills that had suddenly taken over her body.
I took my captured prize in the shower. Her body convulsed tenderly against the constraints that held her, locked in my embrace, awaiting to fulfill a purpose for which she was divinely fitted. Rescued and perfectly preserved, and now bound to a special fate. She struggled, but not really. She was tasted, but slow. Because she wasn’t going anywhere.
She may have evidenced little marks on her body. Bite marks to be exact. Signs of a tussle, an intimate encounter. But only an echo of that which I bore. Love and war were never an easy parlay. The world was a harsh place. But nothing hurt my pretty bird.
I gripped her luscious body securely then pulled her back, her body offered warm tantalizing resistance and she shuddered as she felt herself began to give. Then with a final exquisite thrust her body surrendered and she slid backwards. Her sacrifice complete, I held her roughly yet tenderly, caressing her, as if to tell her that she was safe, that there were no more monsters. Except for the one now deep inside her, plunging into the depths of her soul, like karma, over and over again.
I promised a girl I knew I’d take her on a special late night suburban black ops mission. A lil duty after dark kind of deal. The sort of rascallion adventure a pretty girl with a sheltered upbringing had never experienced.
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I’d found out she’d never tp’d anybody’s house which was a shame we would surely rectify.
We plotted our midnight mayhem meticulously, which meant scooping her up beforehand to go shopping for supplies. I let her pick the neighborhood because I didn’t really give a shit. Even though with as much tp as we’d bought it looked like we were about to take a big one.
She picked a sweet looking house with nice trees, a big porch, everything nice and tidy. I figured the people that lived there were probably just regular hardworking Americans going about their business nothing amiss in their lives of domestic tranquility and bliss. So clearly there was a limit to the “festivities” I’d allow myself. Fire and explosives. Out. Eggs. These people had done nothing wrong. Out
I got to work with the toilet paper, bombing their trees with rolls of it, giving their yard the shittiest Christmas tree look I could manage, littering their lawn like a homeless encampment. I look over and she’s painstakingly laying out complicated flowery displays of napkins and toiletries on their porch railings.
I stared, dumbfounded. Apparently we weren’t the shitstorm or the cleanup crew. We were the decorators. Well she’d certainly brought her cutesy tame homemaker methodology with her. But I for one would complete the mission. We were dogging this place, no one was “coming to dinner” afterwards, dammit.
I teased her and told her she was missing the point, to take a look at my awful garnishing of their otherwise beautiful home. I stuffed their mailbox with a few unraveled rolls, landed several on their roof, long papery wisps hanging off the trellis. I stuffed their drain pipes, outside crevices, garage door vents. I look over to see delicate little snowflake designs taking shape across their porch. Wow. Any witnesses afterwards would clearly see a split personality at work. That would be the most disturbing part. Maybe. Aside from the cleanup.
At about the 8 minute mark I started feeling a little antsy. I always know when to roll out, it’s instinctual. Kind of like doing your business and knowing beforehand you have enough tp and time to get the job done. But fast enough to not get caught with your pants down. I told her it was time to move out. But she wanted to stay and decorate more. This was getting ridiculous! She apparently thought she wasn’t doing anything illicit, which, maybe she wasn’t. Lol. But I sure was, and I wasn’t gonna get caught and put a girl in jeopardy too. I gave her two minutes more then we hightailed it.
I took her home and laid on her couch with her to watch a movie. She wiggled closer to me with my arms around her, facing me as she scooted her body in flush against me. She laid there and shivered silkily, like she luxuriated in the experience of feeling secure in my arms. Then she pressed her lips to mine and began softly undulating them, delicately and sensually, in and out, full little palpitations, trembling in my arms while her lips blossomed against mine.
The Last Moonwalk
A girl I was seeing told me she wanted to break into Michael Jackson’s cemetery and visit his grave. Not something I’d ever care to do on my own, but girls are adventurous and I was game.
The gate was black wrought iron and seemed to stretch on forever. The cemetery was massive, home to over 100,000 graves. I took a picture of her smiling sitting on top of the cemetery rampart before I helped her down. Later she’d tell her friends how sweet and caring I’d been. Like a guardian to escort her over the barrier into the realm where the living and the dead communed. She was thrilled.
We got inside after sunset, as darkness fell across the land, and the shadows of colossal stone crypts sprang to life, monuments to the afterlife, and the rotting corpse’s shells inside.
We wandered around for what seemed forever, searching for Michael’s grave. Time seemed to work differently here, maybe because for everyone who resided here, it had frozen.
We never found Michael Jackson’s grave, apparently it lies hidden still. But we saw many sights, and terrors in the night. The statues seemed like gargoyles under the moonlight, like evil things lurking in the dark. But it was just their imagination, as I was the beast about to strike.
We found a statue we liked, an ode to “Beautiful Death”, and I bade her to her knees. Like a creature crawling in search of lust, with a soul for getting down, she bowed and faced the hound of hell, the horror looked her right between the eyes. But she had a plan, one that almost stopped my heart, and it was her mouth that devoured the beast instead.
The Deplorable State of the American Male
I recently read a rather pathetic forum thread from one of Roosh’s followers. You can read it here:
Apparently this “man” couldn’t handle his fiance’s new group of middle-aged female friends and called off his own wedding. So they break up and she moves out, and he’s only now so despondent he’s packing up his things and just leaving everything. To include his well-paying job, the house he spent time renovating with his fiance’s family, and the life he’d created with his wife-to-be.
So she’s GONE and he finally gets the balls to take action and do something drastic like LEAVE? Jesus. He doesn’t love you anymore, pussy. You lose that which is most precious to you, only then to find your courage? Weaklings. You do the job of the “globalists” for them.
Did we forget to show you how to hold onto your women? Whoops. Did you forget there was something around the vagina? Yes. You must be an “Operator”. Because otherwise someone will take your place. And it won’t be who you want, huh?
Some of us are called to war. To fight the battle of the age. Principalities of darkness fall. But for what? And for who? You can’t even compete with a bunch of middle-aged women to hold onto your own.
Who are we defending? A bunch of baby birds too afraid to leave the nest and fly? A bunch of mewling baby kittens? You are not that fucking cute. You want to become part of China’s “organ donor” program? They’d like you for that. I bet you could manage that, it takes about the same level of effort. You just lay there like a pussy and take it.
Video games do not replace a life of purpose. They do not feed your drives and needs for accomplishment. Engineering software is building “castles in the sky”, it is fake ass bullshit designed to distract you while your country, your land, your money, your women, are stolen away from you.
If you will not fight for your women you do not deserve them. This has always been the case, it has always been the law of the land. How dare you think otherwise. What kind of a weak fairy tale do you think you live in?
Go hunt, prowl, mine, discover. Do the things you do. BETTER
Is your grip so weak? Is your dick so feeble? You are godless, you are spineless, you are cowards. You can’t even compete with a bunch of middle-aged women to hold onto your otherwise perfect wife and soon-to-be mother. You soggy weak-willed fuckbag.
Your game is weak. And to hear you describe it, it got worse. You got worse. You called it becoming “more conservative”, but really you just sank into the quagmire of passiveness and mediocrity. And expected her to entertain herself? Because as you say, you didn’t give a shit about her career, her desires, the things she wanted. What a faggot.
Here is the bottom line.
Your product is not good enough.
It never was. That is the main lesson of feminism. Do not take it any other way. Do not give up and just throw in the towel without even getting in the ring and fighting.
You need to do better. All the time. Till your best day becomes your worst. Do that a couple times. Just to be safe
Here’s another solid take on romance. Thank you, Russia.
how to be an alpha male