Hello Dear RPers,

I met an attractive woman online on PoF a few months back (a subject I’ll be going into great detail about later on this week), but because she'd become a notorious last-minute flake (the kind of woman that shit tests by cancelling on you 30 minutes prior; you know exactly the type I mean), I gave her a soft next and completely and utterly forgot about her (abundance mentality fellas, it does wonders for your game and your skin tone). Turns out she hadn't forgotten me.

She called me yesterday completely out of the blue, asking what I had planned for today (uh oh, we all know where this is headed). I gave her the specific time and place I planned to be so that if she flaked (as she was proned to), it didn’t affect my schedule. She actually showed up (I know, I was honestly completely stunned too) and she was much hotter than her pictures led on (again stunned, but more physically stunned than metaphorically stunned, and only stunned around my penis. It's an erection joke).

My frame has gotten pretty impenetrable over the past few months (making a killing on dating sites after I got used to the type of approach it takes; again, I’ll go into greater detail on that in another post), so I wasn’t too worried about the shit tests that were coming (after a while, you kinda know what to expect from the first encounter). Oddly enough, her shit tests were slim to none. I could feel something was different about her compared to the previous women I’d dealt with; she rarely spoke, and when she did, she was very calculated in her response. She showed little to no emotion and revealed very little about herself. What she did reveal was purposely vague and open-ended, which I recognized as her trying to gauge where I was at/how I thought based on how I interpreted it. Her frame was solid and she was playing the game well.

Diva (who we’ll call this woman for reasons you’ll learn soon enough) is what I’d describe as a “strong framed woman”or (for the sake of this post’s title) a ”black widow” female. By that I mean she was accustomed to (and thoroughly enjoyed) controlling any relationship she was involved with (sexual, platonic and romantic), she fed off of beta and alpha alike (bend the alpha to provide her sex when it was convenient for her, bend betas like all women bend betas, etc.), held a firm and unwavering frame (I’ve yet to see a woman so difficult to read; she’s even got some men beat), and knew both what she wanted and how she would get it.

I was upfront with what I wanted from Diva (sexual relationship only, not looking for commitment) and Diva replied in turn (wanted a relationship, exclusivity, no fucking other people while we “courted”, no fucking until official). Diva absolutely refused having sex with someone she wasn’t dating and I don’t hang out with girls I haven’t fucked (girls really eat that “brash honesty” shit up). Diva believed sex was this special magical wondrous thing that only people who truly cared deeply about one another could enjoy and that she valued herself too highly to have sex with just anyone. I believe sex is an act two people who’re attracted to each other just do and, just like kissing or holding hands or jogging, sex doesn’t mark against anyone’s “value” by enjoying it.

Part of me really wanted to just drop Diva all together and hit up Plate #3 (whose back in town for summer vacation; I’m sorry Kevin, but I think your GF is cheating on you for some unrelated reason), but the other part welcomed the challenge that was being presented (plus Sunday was a pretty slow day for me and I had some time to kill). We had reached a stalemate; neither of us were willing to divulge too much about ourselves, yet it was very clear by the fact that neither of us had walked away that we were both attracted to each other. I decided to test this to its fullest extent.

I would be as distant and outright blunt as possible and see if it shattered her frame. I silently vowed to not be the first person to leave that table and to see if I could push this "strong-willed black widow” so far that she got up and left.

It became a game of Poker™ between OmLaLa, The Machiavellian Alpha-in-Training and Diva, The Black Widow.

I started by talking about my plates. I told her I was fucking 4 other girls (only 4 are reliable enough to be consider “plates”) She didn’t flinch (damn, thought I’d get her with that one) so I tried to gauge how long it took her to calculate her response. A long damn time. She responded by telling me she also had 2 other guys besides me (probably true, considering how often her phone vibrated in her purse) but that she hadn’t had sex with them yet, given the reasons she’d listed earlier (again, not sure if it was true, but it honestly that didn’t matter to me). That was her counteract.

I told her she would continue to talk to these two men even after we started fucking. She flinched. I’d assume the confidence (balls) she thought it took to predict that fucking was in our near future seemed to mess with her “absolute resolve” (and by absolute resolve I mean her vagina). Chink in the armor. Time to prod.

I told her we were fucking tonight. I stared straight through her and told her she’d be coming to my place tonight, she’d wear lingerie, we’d fuck, then we’d watch Netflix. I expected a rebuttal of shit tests about how “she wasn’t that type of girl” or how she “only had sex with people she dated”. Instead, she asked me when was the last time I’d fucked one of my plates (from damn left field; the balls on this one). I told her two nights ago, outside, on top of my car hood (all true; I was very proud of this one). She paused (a glimmer of intrigue behind tht poker face of hers) then she counterattacked by saying if we were to fuck in a few months (as if I’d wait that long), I’d have to cut off all of my plates because she’s selfish (now this is a shit test I can deal with). I respond with (in my calmest and sternest tone):

“What makes your pussy so special? Why would I give up fucking four women that’ll fuck me whenever I ask just to fuck only you when you’re too afraid to fuck on the first night?”

That did it. Proud women hate being called cowards, hate being compared to other women and most of all hate losing to other women. I’d become a challenge by becoming someone she felt determined to prove herself (sexually) valuable to; to prove that her pussy (as she’d been told by other guys) was worth more than the 4 of my plates combined (ambitious girl, gotta give her credit). Game set.

She started to ramble on and on about all of these kinky, debaucherous things she’d done (I almost felt remorseful for her father as she happily recalled some of these past “events”). I laughed these off as being part of an amateur/rookie-level sex game (amused mastery, fellas). As the lack of my validation began to frustrate her (I was actually impressed and excited to fuck this woman, but I couldn’t let her see that), she asked what crazy sex stuff had I done. I made some fake sigh with a pained expression (as if it was so bad and kinky I just couldn’t put it into words) and told her she’d simply have to find out tonight for herself

She was curious and determined. “Okay.” She stated simply. “I’ll be there tonight at X. I’ll let you know when I’m on the way.” She then stood up, turned way and unflinchingly walked out the door.

That following evening, I’d assumed she bailed and that’d be the last I’d hear from her. But, as sure as sure can be, there she was on the doorstep in her Abercrombie sweats and light pink lingerie. We fucked all last night (I’m seriously half asleep while I’m typing this; worst time to try and quit coffee), and the whole time during she’d ask girly things like, “am I better than your other girls?” or say things like, “I bet Plate #3 doesn’t do this for you (and she was right, Plate #3 never did that for me. Now I know why Kevin seemed so repressed)”. She was fucking me to prove a point to herself and I was just along for the ride. And what a ride it was.

Several hours later, as we were clumsily getting dressed at 3 in the morning, she announced something along the lines of, “I bet that was the best sex you’ve ever had. If you would cut off the other girls, I’ll do that and more for you.” Now, I could’ve just lied and given her some false possibilities where if she did X or Y, I’d consider dropping the plates (just to get a few more sessions out of her), but that all sounded like way too much effort/work for one girl. I told her how I felt:

“Your pussy was alright, but it wasn’t worth giving up the 4 I have in queue. I like chocolate, but I like vanilla and strawberry more.”

As Machiavellian as I am, looking back, that seemed a bit too deep of a stab to make unprovoked after all we’d just done I could’ve said little to nothing about it, but she just kept prodding me for validation on her pussy value and I was exhausted/spent.

She told me to keep my vanilla and strawberry or whatever. Then, in her most calm and unwavering tone, she called me “the coldest man she’d ever met” and said she was terrified by the fact that she liked me because I didn’t care about her at all. She walked out the door on that note.

The worst part about it is that she was right. I’ve become cold and brutal when it comes to the sexual agenda. What I once worked on by reading RP blogs and books has now become a part of my very being. I felt nothing for this woman, no remorse as she left and I wouldn’t care if I never fucked her again. And that’s just who I am now. It’s eerie; I can hear my past self whispering in these types of situations, but it’s like listening to a child comment on what he thinks he knows while looking over the shoulder of a man working. It’s both calming and terrifying, and I know that she felt it.

TL;DR- Tinderina becomes “my type” by rationalizing it as an attempt to prove me wrong.

“...You’re Not My Type”

“An open Facebook page is simply a psychiatric dry erase board that screams, “Look at me. I am insecure. I need your reaction to what I am doing, but you’re not cool enough to be my friend. Therefore, I will just pray you see this because the approval of God is not all I need.” ? Shannon L. Alder

It started with meeting this cute chick from Tinder named Tinderina at a bar.

Tinder chick’re hot, but Tinderina was high-tier. She wore this button-up thing with her tits spilling out. Says she just ‘threw it on’ and didn’t realize. Yeah. Oookay. Tinderina’d drove 45 minutes to see me. Came in with her tits pouring all over the place like a couple of stuck faucets.

Sex was on the table. All over that damn table. Cake.

Well, from the jump all she dishes out is shit test after shit test. Poke after poke. Prod after prod. She just talks and talksand talks… starts to grind on my gears a bit. Better shit to do, you know? I start getting bored, not really getting anywhere.

She stops and asks what’s wrong. Why I’m so quiet. I’mbored. You're boring me.

She says something like “well, I’m soooorry I’m boring you!” She clams up. Fucking finally.

It didn’t last long. “How daaare you! No one’s eeever told me that I was boring!” Well then no one’s been straight with you. Like lettuce'd been stuck in your teeth all day. Maybe you have dishonest friends.

She fucking flips. Blah blah you’re suuuch an asshole. Blahblah you’re sooo mean. Blah blah no guy’s ever treated me this way. A fucking princess, this one.

I check my phone during her lil' temper tantrum. A text from Candy. An invitation to spend the night. Sure thing v. this Tinderina's hissy fit? Easiest decision of my life.

Rock beats scisso–I mean–actions beat words. Head for the door. She stops me.

“And wheeere do you think yooou’re going?” To Candy’s place.

“Whose Caaandy?!” “So you’re leeeaving me?!” You know, with that extra sing-song-y inflection-y shit pissed off girls paste at the end of every sentence. I'd had enough. I tell her:

“You’re not my type.”

...

...

...

Well then.

That shut her up.

She gives me this “did you just cum in my mouth?!” face. Mouth open ‘n shit.

How many hot dogs do you think she could she fit in there? Maybe twelve.

Anyway she’s pissed again.

“Ex’cuuuse me?! I’m eeeveryone’s type! I mean just loook at me!” Stuck up lil' brat. Welp, you’re not mine.

“Are you gaaay or something?!” Grasping at straws much? Candy’s just better.

“Over meee?!” No shit over you. Tell her Candy doesn’t dish out bullshit (Candy totally dishes out bullshit).

She asks if I do this to girls often. I say if they’re not my type yeah.

“…well what is your type?”

I tell her ‘promiscuous girls’. Whatever the fuck that means. I kept it vague on purpose. Let her hamster figure it out.

She goes on and on about how she doesn’t talk about sex with people she just met. It's not lady-like. The fuck ever. I say that’s not my type either. I head for the door again. Stops me again.

“Okay okay just stop leeeaving!” I ask why should I.

It was stupid easy from there. She says let’s go somewhere secluded and “listen to some music”. Fuck does that evenmean? She wants to be my “type” all of a sudden. And what do promiscuous girls do? Why they listen to music in secluded places of course. We leave in my car.

I park in some old parking lot off the freeway. She asks me to play Frank Ocean. I play The Weeknd. Tell her fuck Frank Ocean. “Oh. My. God. You’re suuch a fucking asshole. You know that?” I tell her she’s not the first to say that.

Then we fuck. Which was nice.

Then it was time to go. Got work in the AM. Tell her I have to return some tapes. She didn’t get it. Too young I guess.

LL- The only advantage men hold in relationships or encounters with women is the ability to walk away. While men may not experience the damage done to the female psyche and self-esteem from unexplained and effortless abandonment, do take note that the damage is indeed being caused. An assassin needn’t taste the poison to know it’s potency, nor does the gunman to suffer his own bullet to know it’s power.