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- the machiavellian times -

articles & exerts by OmLaLa the Machiavellian

"It is better to be audacious than cautious, because fortune is a woman, and if you wish to keep her under it is necessary to beat and ill-use her; and it is seen that she allows herself to be mastered by the adventurous rather than by those who go to work more coldly. She is, therefore, always, woman-like, a lover of young men, because they are less cautious, more violent, and with more audacity command her."
-Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince

Hello and welcome to the machiavellian times. We hope you enjoy your stay.

-the machiavellian news-

"Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you truly are."

-Niccolò Machiavelli, The Art of War



-the machiavellian headlines-

"The reason is that nature has so created men that they are able to desire everything but are not able to attain everything: so that the desire being always greater than the acquisition, there results discontent with the possession and little satisfaction to themselves from it. From this arises the changes in their fortunes; for as men desire, some to have more, some in fear of losing their acquisition, there ensues enmity and war."

-Niccolò Machiavelli, Discourses on Livy


"The Man-Eater"
Published 09/24/15 by OmLaLa [0 Comments]

I lost.

All of the frame-building, lifting, meditation, eating right, IDGAF attitude, objective thinking and Machiavellian thought processes could not have prepared me for the man-eater. Just like a regional chess champ playing the Grand Champion in disguise, I was completely out of my league and due to my own ego and hubris I failed to respond the tell-tale signs of my own impending demise. I had the proverbial rug swept from beneath my feet before I even knew what Game I was playing.

"The Man-Eater"

I don't know what sex appeal is. I don't think you can have sex appeal knowingly. The people who seduce me personally are the people who seem not to know they're seductive, and not to know they have sex appeal. -Omar Sharif

On Monday, I met with a regionally-renowned stripper it’d met on a dating site. We’ll refer to her as ”Delilah the Man-Eater™”.

Although I’d only just begun hanging with Delilah, she and I had gone to the same high school years back. Back then, she was what you’d probably call a PlainJane™. She was easily forgettable, sported an average appearance, wore dull and drab attire; she was that wall-flower that always seemed to blend back into the tapestry. After high school, due to a lack of options and poor grades, she’d gone military. It was there that a handful of drill sargeants and basic training had sculpted her into a masterpiece of a figure from her doughy box-like frumpish frame. Upon returning to civie life, she’d heard about the easy money and fast lifestyle of stripping through an old friend that we’d mutually known (who we’ll introduce later). Before she knew it, she was making thousands a night, flying to Dubai and snorting cocaine off of diamond trays in the passenger’s seat of lime green Lamborghinis.

And Delilah was beautiful. There was no rating scale for her. She’s the type of woman considered betas nonexistent and the alphas as providers-to-be. If there is two things she had in abundance, it was men and money.

While we sat in the bar together playing pool and discussing our pasts, I mentioned how it was odd that I’d never seen her on social media before.

“I don’t really see the point.” she sighed, pulling out her phone. “It’s the same thing every time.”

Delilah then showed me her PoF account. Her messages had reached a whopping 99+ (most of which were unread, of course), her matches were at 99+ and her views were at 99+. All from Monday. Then she let me browse around.

Her inbox was a graveyard of pick-up lines and thirsty attempts from men all over the county (some of which I recognized). In that inbox I saw every corny one-liner, neg attempt, sly compliment, PUA phrase, one-worded approach, desperate self-degrading remark and peacock line I’d had ever heard, seen, or thought to myself. These guys were from different races, appearances and walks-of-line and every one of them was being ignored.

I remember thinking, “Wow, all of these reek of desperation”.Every one of them. Maybe it was the sheer volume. Maybe it was the lack of confidence in their profile pictures. Maybe it was the blatant peacocking or low self-image or over-compensation efforts that oozed from their replies. But in 1-2 messages and one picture, it all communicated… insecurity.

I asked her why out of all of these messages, she’d picked mine out.

“Your message just was so… forceful.” she replied retrospectively. “I thought it was kind of hot. Plus I knew you from before so I thought, ‘what the hell’. And, well, here I am.”

“Come hang out with me Monday.” That was my message. Then I told her where and when. Two messages. That was all it took to out-maneuver my waves of competition.

NOTE: Avoid asking a woman questions as often as possible. Out of Mark Manson’s Models, I believe this is one of the most useful pieces of advice. Instead of asking “what are you doing this weekend?” say “Come out with me this weekend.” Use periods. Be short. Be demanding. Be authoritative. Trust me.

She downed 3 double-shots of Hennessy like spring water then confessed that she was bi. She recently had a threesome with her best friend and her ex-alpha last month and liked it. She told me she was now actively pursuiting women as well.

She then showed me her “other” PoF account.

Same shit, different gender. 99+ all around. What was really interesting about this account however was who was flirting with her. I saw various messages from one of my plates, my friend’s current girlfriend (I laughed openly about this one), a girl in my social circle and a past fling of mine. How peculiar.

She paid for both our drinks (roughly $60, more on this later) and wanted to meet up with a female friend of hers. I obliged. We hoped in my car and sped down the highway.

Minutes before we arrived, she asked me to pull into a gas station. I was running low on gas, so again I obliged. While I pumped, I noticed her pulling out a large amount of money from her purse. A very large amount of money.

“How much cash is that?” I inquire. “Uhh, 9 grand I think. I haven’t counted it in a few days.”

She was casually walking around with $9,000 dollars in cash in her purse. I was stunned.

“What?” she remarked after seeing my expression. “ I made $5300 of this last night off of just one guy. He thought he was going to fuck me. Poor thing.” she cooed, poking her bottom lip out.

She gave me $100 for gas and told me to keep the change.

I went inside to piss and buy a drink. I came back outside to a white Civic parked suspiciously close to my car. A burly gruff-looking guy in a white wife-beater was swearing loudly out his window at Delilah. Delilah through money at him and it scattered throughout the Civic’s interior. I went over to see what the hell was going on.

On my driver’s seat sat a bag of cocaine. A very big bag of cocaine. The most cocaine I’d ever seen. She’d called this poor sap to deliver this large quantity of drugs to her like a pizza delivery boy and was purposefully short-changing him, regardless of the 9K in her purse. The guy have driven 40 minutes to find her.

Now drug-use usually doesn’t bother me, but this was ridiculous. I was livid.

“Well, I knew you wouldn’t take me to him (she was right), so I told him to come to me. I really needed a fix. I’ll give you half.”

I passed.

She then proceeded to cut lines on my iPad and snort in public. I scolded her for being reckless with my iPad.

“I’ll buy you a new one” she half-heartedly sighed. She stuffed $800 in my glove compartment.

’I have no power here.’ I thought to myself. She knows she can do whatever she wants and buy me off and I was willing to let her. I was her prostitute. OmLaLa the sugar baby. No frame or physique in the world could overcome such raw independence.

I was curious. I asked her what she needed me for if she has all this money and influence.

“Dick and company.” She replied simply. “I also know you’re fucking Plate #3. She told me over PoF when I brought you up.”

Dammit, Plate #3 you beautiful bitch. You may have inadvertently gotten me laid.

I told her in that case we should just go back to my/her place and fuck.

“I don’t need dick yet.” she sighed. “I just need company.” She put another $200 in my glove compartment, holding eye contact.

There it was again; my time, attention and validation was being whored out. I was no ordinary prostitute. I was a validation prostitute. And I let it happen. But who could blame me? $1100 for my time seemed well worth it. So I let the cocaine thing slide and we went to meet her friend at a nearby bar. We’ll called her Jezebel.

I remembered Jezebel. She had gone to our high school too. She has since went through a marvelous transformation, similar to Delilah’s.

And Jezebel was beautiful too. On terms of solid attractiveness, I felt outmatched by these two. Jez and Delilah often went ‘strip club hoping’ up and down the coast together and had been tight for years. Jez was upset because her boyfriend had gotten locked up for drug trafficking and she was too broke to bail him out (I believe she had a serious drug addiction, but it was hard to tell).

Delilah whipped out another large sum of money and nonchalantly passed Jez enough for her man’s bail. She also gave Jez two months of her rent.

Delilah then turns to me and passes $100 under the table.

“A man always buys the drinks.” She whispered coyly and winked. I felt dirty.

We bought round after round of shots then we piled into my car and drove out to some large abandoned grocery store parking lot.

I smoked (bad habit, I know) while I drunkenly watched Delilah and Jez do line after line of coke and other drugs while dancing in front of the car’s high beams and listening to Lil Wayne over maxed-out speakers. I was so far out of my zone that I’d become nothing but a passenger on their drug-induced adventure. We all laid on the hood of my car and watched at the stars. We eventually made out for a while before I drunkenly proposed we go back to my place.

“Okay.” Delilah purred. “But no sex and noooo kissing.” Jez giggled.

We got to my place and me and Delilah started kissing. Jez silently backed towards the wall and watched us intently.

Delilah the stopped abruptly and backed towards the wall next to Jez.

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do.” Delilah chirped happily. She hands her phone to Jez.

“Jez is gonna call Kevin to come pick us up.” Jez made a disgusted face at the sound of Kevin’s name, so I’m guessing they weren’t close. “Kevin doesn’t live far from here. You have until Kevin gets here to fuck Jez. And I’m gonna watch.” Jez’s face remains solemn. They’d planned this out from the start.

Jez drunkenly admitted she had a thing for me in high school and wanted to live out some fantasy of hers. I drunkenly obliged.

I start with Jez and the timer begins. Apparently they both also had some partner swap/watching fetish too, because Jez was very “in the moment” and Delilah touched herself vigorously by the door.

As wonderful and passionate as the moment was, within 20 minutes a car pulled up by my apartment, bass shaking the windows. Mid-thrust and with an annoyed moan, Jez jumped off of me (sundress, no underwear), brushed herself off and silently walked out the door. I just sat there, confused.

Delilah hugged me goodbye. “Don’t worry,” she purred. “We’ll do this again sometime.”

She kissed me, groped me and shut the door behind her. And that was it. I sat there, my dick literally in my hands. I wish I had an RP moral or lesson for you all, but even now, 3 days later, I have no idea what exactly happened.

As simple and anticlimactic as that night was, it humbled me. I know what a true “devil’s daughter” is like now. The type of woman that sees men as mere tools, manipulative and analytical by nature. She had tricked me to fuck Jez just like she had tricked her drug dealer, her PoF orbiters, the sap in the strip club; she saw what she wanted from me and got it in a calculated and strategic way.

Maybe Delilah’s a Machiavellian too.

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-about the machiavellian-

I am RP Machiavellianism in its purest form with a touch of Sociopathy and Charm sprinkled in then baked at roughly 450 degrees for 45 minutes. I am OmLala.

The RP Machiavellian dissects the "butterfly" in order to view his world in the purest & most objective fashion possible. But in seeing the world so objectively, you rob it of a beauty only possible through ignorance and subjectivity.

That is Machiavellianism in a nutshell; everyone and everything is a butterfly to either be dissected and studied or benefited from. Most interpersonal relationships with butterflies is through the pursuit of one's own ends. Superficiality is attached to most interpersonal relationships, feigning compassion or remorse, all while displaying a facade where the thoughts and opinions of butterflies matter.

But they don't.

The mindset and perceptions of butterflies can never match that of an individual; what a butterfly fears, holds dear, considers important are petty in the eyes of the individual.


for more insight, Skype with OmLaLa the Machiavellian under username omlala2015.

the machiavellian times © 2015

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"God and nature have thrown all human fortunes into the midst of mankind; and they are thus attainable rather by rapine than by industry, by wicked actions rather than by good. Hence it is that men feed upon each other, and those who cannot defend themselves must be worried."

-Niccolò Machiavelli, The Art of War