This chapter began with the basic question: why don't women want to have sex for pleasure? Why do they insist that men pay for it, and why do they clamor for "romance"? "Romance", as conceived and practiced by contemporary women, is a sham, a plague which poisons the souls of men. It is a woman's viperous view of "morality", and has shackled the male vitality in heavy chains. Hardly monogamous by nature, a man is nevertheless constrained to dam up his biological birthright of sexual freedom. He is forced to pay for what should be offered and shared openly. His own passions enslave him; as we have seen, a woman's strategy is to use his lust against him, because then he will channel all his resources to her disposal, which is the sole focus of her life. Women are assassins of the male spirit.
Dating is a sick charade of natural mating behavior, a twisted travesty of the laws of nature. It is a plot hatched by unprincipled women to curl their manicured talons around male credit cards, a female con game sanctioned by society. A date is (as usual) an affair entirely controlled by the female, even though she will work very hard to convince men that just the opposite is true. For a social engagement to take place, a man and woman first have to meet, or to be introduced. If she is physically attracted to this man-or even if she's not, if she smells cash-she will almost immediately institute "The Probe". The Probe consists of an innocuous-sounding list of questions, sometimes put bluntly, but more often insinuated into the flow of conversation, which is designed to calculate a man's earning power, the way a salesman qualifies a prospect. Taken at face value, these questions appear quite ordinary, the sort of polite queries one might ask when talking with a stranger. But in the hands of a woman sizing up a man, they take on a sinister significance. "What do you do?", "Where do you live?", "What kind of car do you drive?" all may seem innocent enough inquiries, but a woman interested in a man will work them into the first few minutes of a conversation so that she can determine whether he is worth an investment of her time. These questions all translate into, "How much money do you have?", while the little calculator inside her brain goes clicking away. One wrong answer and she will immediately excuse herself. Variations of The Probe can be subtle: "Where did you go on your last vacation?" would be an example. Concomitant with The Probe is the "tell-him what-he-wants-to-hear" con. Thus if a woman ascertains that her prey is wary of gold diggers, she will say, "I've never cared about money; I don't understand how women can act like that", and the like.
If a man can survive the gauntlet of The Probe, his labors are just beginning. Our culture prescribes that men be the pursuers, which puts them in a weakened position from the start. When a man asks a woman for a date, he is risking soul withering rejection (most women, flushed with sexual power, feel no remorse at shredding the male ego); he must plan the location and activities of the evening or she will brand him as weak or wishy-washy; he is expected to bring offerings as if she were a member of royalty; she waits for him to pick her up like a chauffeur; and there is unspoken pressure that he take her to a "nice" (expensive) place or he will be labeled "cheap" and thus emasculated. While on the date, he is supposed to pander to her every whim and help her on with her coat and hold doors open for her, like a servant. And then he is rewarded with the exquisite pleasure of having to pay for all of this. She, of course, goes out of her way to keep her escort deeply hypnotized, deadening his senses to her treacherous agenda, for it wouldn't serve her purposes at all if he suddenly realized what a sucker she's been making of him. Sexual initiative certainly is humiliating for men, but it is a system designed to serve a woman's best interests. A single, dating woman is the queen of dishonest prostitutes. What arouses her is not an aching hunger for the pleasures of intercourse, but an unquenchable materialistic lust. Sex is not about sensuality, but power. A woman has frightening sexual leverage over a man: he might as well just hand her a club so that she can beat him into the ground. In this unhealthy game of smoke and mirrors, women dictate all the rules. Thus she restricts access to her body until he has made a significant investment in her-the more he spends, the less likely he'll be to walk away. Eternally buttressing her illusions, she will feign disinterest in sex and slap his wrist or invoke "date rape" when he makes a pass at her. She will pretend to flee when he comes on too strong. Dripping with sugary charms, she commands him to dress up the date with flowers and candlelight to mask the dispassionate business deal at its core. This masquerade allows her to envision her sexuality as innocent and pure, her vagina as sexless as a plastic doll's. She can dupe herself that lavish meals and a glittering diamond aren't just bald faced surrogates for cold, hard cash. A woman's version of "romance"
does not draw its power from love, but from rape-the violation of a man's bank account. But the soft light of the restaurant helps to mask the truth: "romance" is a woman trying to convince herself that she's not really a whore.
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