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Showing posts with label alpha game. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alpha game. Show all posts

The Three Alphas


Over the holidays the Red Pill came up more than once, in a lot of different contexts.  One intriguing discussion revolved around my definition of a “Wolf Alpha”.

For those of you just joining us, my own variation on Vox Day’s brilliant Socio-Sexual Hierarchy involves dividing clear masculine “Alphas” into different sub-categories, based upon their focus.  Each one is clearly an “Alpha Male”, but they present differently, have different values and concerns, and they express their Alpha nature very differently.

The one commonly known in the PUA community is the “Bull Alpha”.  This is the traditional playboy, the over-sexed harem-developing dude who can commit to a hairstyle more easily than committing to a woman.  Often driven professionally, successful, and extremely self-confident, the Bull Alpha might love women, plural, but settling on one woman is against his nature.

The Bull Alpha is the natural PUA.  He's got Game as an innate talent.  Pussy is a sport for him, perhaps a passion, but he's into variety, not consistency.


Then there are the Bear Alphas.  I won’t get into them much here, considering the discussion I make of them in the book (still waiting on word).  Basically, Bear Alphas are the kind of men who other men admire and who are often so committed to an ideal that their family, wife, and personal lives are secondary to that ideal or passion.  Sometimes Bear Alphas are, indeed, openly gay, but more often they are studiously non-sexual, seeing any devotion of energy to such things as detracting from their commitment.   But Bear Alphas are their own unique kind of Alpha Male.



But then there are the Wolf Alphas.  Wolf Alphas, unlike Bull Alphas, are more interested in finding an excellent wife and devoting themselves utterly to their family.  Wolves are highly social creatures, just like humans, and the social hierarchy of the pack is an important survival function for the species.  A Wolf Alpha is a man who has essentially made the survival and prosperity of his family, and the members thereof, his personal responsibility. 

Bull Alphas make their personal vision or ego their personal responsibility, and see the fulfillment of that vision as proof of their success.  That success is validated by the mad poon they can pull as their confidence and success makes them irresistible to a lot of women.

Bear Alphas have made the ideals and vision of the non-familial group their personal responsibility, and see the continued prosperity and success of that group as a reflection of their personal success.  Their success is validated through social respect and the praise and acknowledgement of their professional peers. 

Wolf Alphas have made their family their focus.  Their dedication and devotion is to their personal social and genetic clan, in which they assume a leadership role.  This often means gently dominating the family to ensure proper security, health, and guidance for everyone, as well as undertaking to provide as many resources as possible for the family.  A Wolf Alpha’s dedication to his family (including his wife) is not a betrayal of his Alpha status – it’s an expression of it. 

Bull Alphas make great lovers and poor husbands.  Bear Alphas make (often) mediocre and awkward lovers and distant if competent husbands.  Wolf Alphas make good lovers and great husbands, if they have done a proper job of wife selection (and most Wolf Alphas make a point of that).


Why is this important?  Because in chasing down Alpha, women often catch a whiff and don’t recognize the specific aroma.  A woman can find a Bull Alpha ridiculously sexy and entertaining, but trying to build a life with him is going to be a full-time job, as you fight off both predatory women and his own urge to stray.  A woman can invest great hope in a relationship with a Bear Alpha, because of his great passion for a cause or an ideal – particularly if she shares that ideal or holds that cause dear. 

But a woman who marries a Bear Alpha is in for a long and frustrating relationship . . . and more than one Bear Alpha has been secretly bisexual, as his charisma and passion attract same-sex attention.  Marrying a Bear Alpha might give a woman great social prestige, but its unlikely for her to find the relationship deeply fulfilling unless she, too, places the common ideal above the needs of her relationship and family.

Wolf Alphas are different – they are actively seeking to breed with a long-term, committed partner.  And they frequently masquerade as high Betas or even Gammas, as they seek out that perfect Mrs. Wolf to build a family with.  They may even masquerade as a Bull Alpha or (more rarely) a Bear Alpha in their quest, in order to ferret out a prospective wife’s character and values.

Wolf Alphas have very high standards, but they are also ridiculously loyal and protective once they have committed.  Their success is based almost entirely on their functioning family, and they will make nearly any sacrifice to that end – including forgoing promotions and employment opportunities a Bull Alpha would find irresistible, and a Bear Alpha would feel duty-bound to accept.  A Wolf Alpha’s success is proven in raising his children to maturity and preparing them for adult life, with the active participation of an equally-passionate mate. 

How do you spot young Wolf Alphas on the hunt?  They’ll often hang back and observe before plunging into a social situation.  They work well in groups, and will sometimes have 2-3 other dudes around them for cover, protection, and support.  They will frequently feign goofiness or make outrageous statements on early acquaintance in order to gauge a woman’s reaction.  When discussing the future, they almost always have a plan, even if they are willing to change it to suit their circumstances.  They often know what they want to do when they grow up, and they have no qualms about stating their desire for children and a wife – ONE wife.

That doesn’t mean that it’s easy to get them to commit – indeed, one of the telling differences between a hard Beta and a stealthy Wolf Alpha is how easy it is to get the former to commit, and how difficult it is to win that prize from the latter.  A Wolf might screw you rotten and make you make the pig noise, but he isn’t going to introduce you to Mom or agree to go to your sister’s wedding until you prove yourself worthy.

Wolf Alphas have very little tolerance for infidelity.  Or any kind of disloyalty, but infidelity is particularly insidious to the Wolf Alpha.  It’s not just a crime against the relationship, it’s a crime against the mutual dedication to the family that a Wolf Alpha expects – and demands – in his life.  If a male Wolf Alpha does have an affair, he is often deeply wracked with guilt about it and considers it a catastrophic mistake. 


When folks in the Manosphere are throwing around the Alpha term, sometimes it’s helpful to stop and give some thought to the variations.  Just as there are different kinds of “Beta” (High Beta, Low Beta, Gamma, Delta, etc.) dudes, the different kinds of Alpha men who have mastered the art of manliness enough to impose their will upon the world are variations on the same robust theme.  

Go Where The Fish Are

I'm not much of a fisherman, unfortunately.  That's not because I'm not interested, but because I'm impatient.


My grandfather tried in vain to instill a sense of patience sufficient to allow five whole minutes to pass in silence while we fished from his boat.  An enthusiastic if unremarkable angler, my grandfather was one of those guys for whom a bad day drowning worms beat a good day doing just about anything else.  It was the process, not the fish, that he enjoyed.  But as a kid I just couldn't hold still for very long, so he figured out early on that in order to engage my interest enough to permit him to enjoy himself, I had to get a fish every now and then.  So when we'd go for more than five minutes without a nibble, he'd sigh, start the engine, and move to another part of the lake.

Eventually I asked him why we kept going further into the wilderness  and why we changed spots so quickly.   He looked at me sagely.

"Ian, if you don't have the time to be patient, sometimes it's just easier to go where the fish are."



 My grandfather's advice came back to me when I was sitting at a penny-slot machine, waiting for Mrs. Ironwood to get out of her conference.  I was at the Rio in Las Vegas, which is a pretty impressive (if in need of renovations) casino resort complex.  For one thing, it has Penn & Teller, two of the funniest magicians in the world.  It also has the World Series of Poker every year, and hot-and-cold-running Texas Hold'em tournaments four times a day.

But it also has Chippendales.  And it's one of the cheapest shows in the joint.

Chippendales are, of course, the internationally renown group of male burlesque strippers.  They were Magic Mike before there was a Magic Mike.  Featuring a constantly-rotating cast of buff young men, the Chippendales are perhaps the most socially-acceptable all-male hetero revue a woman could attend.  The fellas strut and dance, work the ladies up into a frenzy, and then pose for pictures afterward while the ladies are basking int he afterglow.

Only, the ladies don't actually have an afterglow.  Indeed, the ladies-only show has a tendency to keep them in a frenzy.  With that much raw testosterone and musculature flexing in their faces -- not to mention the large, economy-sized slabs of penis these fellas carry just a scrap of nylon from the noses of said ladies -- you can just imagine what kind of raw Alpha inspiration they've been exposed to.  By the time they get to pictures, some of these women (who apparently haven't been touched by a man in a long, long time) are near to quivering with anticipation.

If there was ever a place where the fish were, so to speak, this is it.

Seriously, for my single male readers who are trying to round out their idea of Game over here in the married parts of the 'sphere, remember that if you're fishing scant waters you'll likely go home with an empty basket -- whether your fishing catch-and-release or you plan to eat it.

I talk to plenty of single dudes who are eager for Game advice, and then get bitter when the same crappy bars and book clubs are introducing them to the same small pool of pussy.  Pussy often requiring far more Game than it's worth.  But hanging outside of the Chippendales show and watching everyone from a nineteen-year-old bridesmaid to a sixty-nine year old spinster leave slug trails across the casino after that show suggests that finding a large pool of pre-seduced women is like my grandfather and I stumbling across a school of starving fish.

Remember, fellas: women have responsive desire, which means that they don't get hot without a reason, usually.  Women are also more-likely to seek out such stimulating entertainment as the pecs and abs of the Chippendales when they are close to ovulation -- prime sexy time -- and when they go in groups, the FSM mandates that they take a sluttier approach than, perhaps, they are used to.  Throw them into a vat of Primal Alpha, pheromones, cheap drinks and What Happens In Vegas, and the result is -- excuse the expression -- like shooting fish in a barrel.

As I've mentioned in the past, it doesn't really matter who is the perpetrator of the Alpha is -- if a woman witnesses an Alpha performance of any kind, it's going to start the tap running.  You can take advantage of it or not, but once it's running, it's pretty damn hard to shut off.  Put a horny chick in a room full of other horny chicks and stick the biggest dick they've ever seen three inches from her nose, and that's enough to make a nun gush.

Nor were the ladies in attendance uniformly old spinsters with cobwebs in their coochies: thanks to Vegas being a popular spot for bachelorette parties, and Chippendales being a mandatory stop on that circuit.  There were plenty of young, hot, and single babes panting and flushing after the show.  A blind homeless dude could have gotten laid with those odds.

Chippendales isn't the only venue you can take advantage of.  Women find themselves aroused after any number of exciting and sexually-stimulating displays.  I've had good reports following football games, NASCAR events, Ultimate Fighting Championship, and other brute displays of naked competition.  Rock concerts, as I've mentioned in the past, are particularly noteworthy for turning up the seat-heat in a woman.  The vibrations, the crowd, and the in-your-face sexuality of most male rock stars is more than enough to make her want to fuck someone . . . and that might as well be you.

Professional sports is another great place to find pre-horny women.  Everything from roller derby to professional football can give women the visceral excitement they need to keep the panties moist.  Witnessing a naked display of aggression and competition is hot-making for most women.

Another serious vein of wet panties is -- I shit you not -- the firing range.  An older friend of mine goes every Sunday morning, and after wasting $50 of 9mm ammunition he takes a break and susses out the possibilities.  Especially for the mid-30s crowd, Sundays seem to be a popular time for women to shoot, and he makes plenty of pick-ups there.  He's often said that the bigger the gun a woman fires, the easier time she'll be to get in bed.

Yet another good external cue is motorcycles or horses.  Many women still have a latent sexual association with horses left over from their little-girl My Little Pony phase.  Seeing a powerful animal, so graceful and beautiful, as well as the smell of horse, straw, and manure that accompanies them, is often enough to get a woman hyped up.  And my brother Lester once had a girlfriend with a motorcycle fetish -- not uncommon.  If they were driving down the road and a sport-bike whizzed by, her panties got wet just at the sound of the muffler.  If they got passed by a convoy of motorcycles, she would make him pull over and give him head.

Some dudes might feel threatened by the idea of their woman getting hot and bothered because of some 25 year old muscle-bound stud.  She should be getting hot and bothered over you, after all.  But the plain Red Pill fact is that women like to look at hunky guys gyrating their junk and sweating all over the place, yet the vast majority would never dream of hooking up with the dude in whose g-string they just stuffed $25 in ones.  Nor is it likely that the dancers are popping wood over the generally-rotund audience -- word on the street that many, if not most, of the dancers are Lambdas.  (Hell, if I looked like that, I'd probably be gay, too.  Women just don't know how to appreciate that much gym time on a man.  Gay dudes, on the other hand, can look at a guy that women find orgasm-inducing and wrinkle up their nose about how 'fat' he is.)

Romance novels are another horny-making device.  If your woman likes them, don't try to interfere . . . but pay close attention to her visible responses while she's reading, and if she starts to squirm and press her thighs together while she's reading, it's time to pounce.  And ten minutes with Christian Grey and his sex toy collection can work decidedly in your favor.  Indeed, if you see a woman reading 50 Shades of Grey openly, then consider her pre-primed and potentially even consciously looking for dick.

It's important, of course, to not come to rely on this kind of stimulation, should you be married or in a LTR.  Couples who regularly have to find their erotic inspiration outside of the bedroom are on the path to divorce, more often than not.  Going to Chippendales in Vegas and getting keyd up is one thing . . . stalking the local college ROTC so that she can find a good place to park while the young shirtless men can jog by five times a week is quite another.

In extreme cases it can lead to the cuckolding lifestyle, with the wife entering a Bull Alpha's harem while the mild-mannered Beta looks on, films his woman's antics with the "real man", and hopes like hell she'll still want to throw him a pity fuck afterward.  It's as bad --actually, probably a lot worse -- than being "addicted to porn" and requiring to view it before you can fuck your wife.  If she can only find satisfaction in the arms of a Bull, then your relationship has some issues.


Of course, if she's just lusting over a 25 year old muscular gigolo who's getting paid for the service, you don't have too much to worry about in terms of cheating.  You may, however, get the message that she'd like more Alpha in her diet if she's eager for such entertainments.  You may also want to come up with your own little dance routine, complete with props and banana hammock, with the caveat that it must be delivered with utter confidence or you'll probably just look fruity.

But if you're single, horny, and looking for an easy strike, go where the fish are.  If you're enterprising enough you'll ferret out where all the bachelorette parties go, what clubs have a ladies' night, etc.  Find the places where the horny women hang out, and maximize your potential for the evening.  If nothing else, it allows you to practice Game on a receptive audience, and gives you lots of experience in approach and confidence.

As far as my own Chippendales experience, you'll be interested to know that Mrs. Ironwood skipped it -- not because she doesn't enjoy rock-hard chiseled abs (they're a welcome change of pace, I imagine), but because she didn't want to get three-drinks-minimum drunk and horn-out in front of professional colleagues, nor did she want to witness her (mostly single and perpetually aroused) colleagues freak out over the idea of fresh cock.  It's not that she gets offended but . . . well, there are just some things you can't un-see.


So I entertained her myself, after the conference and dinner, back in our suite.  I won't mention the props or costumes, and I damn sure wasn't as hot as a Chippendale dancer, but the fact she got to do me without putting a wad of ones in my thong first -- and didn't have to worry about catching anything or getting rejected -- was worth it.  And I didn't even have to finish my routine -- I'm not the only one who gets a little impatient.

Sure, I felt objectified, cheap, and a little used afterward . . . but isn't that what Las Vegas is for?

Good luck fishing, fellas!













Alpha Move: Be Hungry Like The Wolf

I apologize in advance for all of the errors I'm going to make in this post -- I got three hours of sleep last night between landing at the airport from a long weekend in Las Vegas and getting up this morning to get the kids off to school.  And yes, I may very well be suffering through the tail end of a hangover.  It's certainly within the realm of possibility.

A long weekend in Las Vegas has the potential to be life-changing if you do it right, and while that sort of thing didn't happen this weekend, I did make several very intriguing field observations about Game in the wild, untamed, anything-goes erotic landscape of Las Vegas.  I like Las Vegas, if you can't tell.  It's like Disney for adults.  While they used to call it Sin City, I prefer the more accurate term the "City of Id".  If you've got a sexual itch to scratch, Las Vegas is like a premier buffet.  

But before I expound about my Single Game in Vegas observations, I want to cover the Married Game advantages to a weekend away in this most decadent of environments.  Some couples fear the idea of Vegas, too insecure in their relationship to be tempted by the fleshpots of Nevada.  Me, I just needed a vacation, and Mrs. Ironwood had a conference there, so we killed two birds and while she was being all noble and saving the world I was getting wasted around the clock and spending my kids' inheritance on penny slots and fruity rum drinks.

This was my third trip to the burgh, and after Mrs. I's conference was over and I was able to sober up enough to go and be social with her, we decided to blow off the closing  session for something a little more . . . intimate.  

"Intimate" in this case meant dirty dancing with my wife in front of a crowd of drunken strangers.

Look, everyone wants a hot sex weekend in Vegas, and as you get older your expectations for such events go up even as they become more infrequent.  And there was plenty of sex -- but that wasn't the draw for either of us.  We already have plenty of sex, thanks to the Red Pill.  But what is often missing from the lives of middle-aged married couples is that sense of excitement and intensity that may have faded over the years as you get used to each others' personal sexual idiosyncrasies.  The stuff that turns into hypergamy and/or infidelity if you aren't careful.  There is real danger in relationship ennui, and as Athol points out in yesterday's insightful post, you just can't count on a regular Date Night to keep things spicy and interesting.

But a drunken weekend in Vegas ...

We hit the buffet at Harrah's and pigged out, which did both of our stomachs good.  We were actually planning on heading over to the Erotic Museum, which I've planned on attending each of the three times I've been in Vegas and never quite making, and this time was no different.  We were even headed to the taxi stand to splurge on a cab there when we walked passed the open-air Carnaval bar at Harrah's and decided to stop inside for a smoke and get our bearings. We ended up staying there for over six hours.

The reason was the band.  Now, you can find every kind of entertainment known to man in Las Vegas, from transvestite lounge acts to comedy to acrobatics to a donkey show, if you know where to look.  The entertainment options are truly limitless.  But the mid-Sunday-afternoon band at the bar, an 80s tribute band called the Nancy Rayguns was free, enthusiastic, and actually quite good.  Throw in some drink specials, a flair bartender named Flippy, and a crowd of middle-aged Gen Xers who actually remember the songs that the band played, and you have one hell of a pink-and-teal acid-washed party.

But I had the nascent beginnings of a plan.  The point of this exercise wasn't merely to be entertained: it was to pay some very public attention to my wife in a way she would be reluctant to see if we weren't in the land of the 24 hour hooker, surrounded by a sea of Asian tourists and drunken old farts. The point was to show her that I'm still hungry.  Like the wolf.

I think that's a trap too many Blue Pill dudes fall into: once they are safely in a relationship, they forget the need to publicly express their desire for their woman.  Mrs. Ironwood and I went into that bar as a middle-aged husband and wife, and while that didn't change ostensibly, in actuality it was far more like a boyfriend taking out his girlfriend to a show than a husband and wife enjoying a quiet afternoon of entertainment.

Simply put, the moment I heard the first rockabilly strains of "Goody Two-Shoes", it was like it was 1987 all over again.  Sure, there was an element of nostalgia for my lost youth -- but it was far more a reminder of how far I've come in my life.  In 1987 I was overweight, underconfident, and mired in Blue Pill ideology that saw me get my heart handed to me by a series of women.  Hearing that band brought me back to my youth, sure.  Only this time I knew what the hell I was doing when it came to girls.  And I had conveniently packed my own.

So it was SHOWTIME for Ian.

Back when all of these songs came out, I had been stunted by insecurity and brow-beaten by the Blue Pill: it made me either a sullen wallflower or an over-the-top spaz when it came to girls.  It was the Age of AIDS and date rape seminars, the height of the cultural purge of masculinity the feminists waged throughout the Age of Teal.  I had been awkward, ugly, low-value, and sullenly embittered by the unfairness of it all and the hopelessness going forward.  You know, Teen Stuff.

Now . . . . not so much.  It took that nostalgic, painful flash of teenage angst associated with that music to make me appreciate just how far I have come.  The dude I was would never have dared to nuzzle a chick's neck in a public place without three pieces of signed and notarized documentation stating in advance that said neck-nuzzling was an acceptable and mutually consensual act agreed upon before hand that in no way obligated either party to any further activity not covered herein.

But now, I brazenly nibbled and more or less felt her up in an affectionate-and-socially-acceptable way in front of a crowd of drunken strangers.  I knew now what all of her Indicators of Interest were, and how I could arouse them through a combination of brazen cockiness and bold Alpha displays, especially in the social context of fellow adults engaged in similar pursuits.

I knew that the ragged strains of Joan Jett and the smooth crooning of Boy George, not to mention the naked , raw sexuality of Oates (sorry, Hall not so much) triggered a similar sexual nostalgia for her, taking her back to when sex revolved around cute boys and marrying someone rich and famous, not the titanic interpersonal struggle it evolved into as we matured.  I knew, without a shred of doubt or a hint of insecurity that I looked good, I was out with my chick, I could exhibit my social prowess through a series of increasingly-humorous and sexy displays, and, with a degree of certainty usually reserved for a cash transaction, that Ian would be getting lucky in Vegas that night.

The band played "Lets Get Physical" and I cavorted around Mrs. Ironwood's chair like a drunken teen, up to and including borderline obscene pelvic thrusts.  Then we had another drink and the time of our lives.  A drink later, I hit the jackpot.  They played Duran Duran's Hungry Like A Wolf.

Now, while I really didn't know Mrs. Ironwood back in the 1980s, I've picked up enough about her personal history to know which songs and performers elicit specific memories.  And I know for a fact that there has always been a certain damp spot in her panties for Duran Duran.  Something to do with a middle school crush, perhaps, I'm not sure of the details but based on memorabilia and previous response, Duran Duran -- Simon Le Bon, Nick Rhodes, John Taylor, Andy Taylor and Roger Taylor -- just does something to Mrs. I.  Live Duran Duran, after three rounds of fruity rum drinks and a free pour-in-your-mouth shot courtesy of Flippy the flair bartender, and I could only imagine what was going on in her libido.  And I knew just how to turn it up.

All the way to 11.

(It's like everyone else just goes to 10, but ...)

When Hungry Like The Wolf came on, I got up in front of everyone and started dancing with the two drunk chicks who were celebrating their 40th birthday and reliving their own nostalgic moments on the dance floor. Mrs. Ironwood giggled girlishly as I paid them some nasty (but tasteful) attention, and got some solid preselection points in return.  Then I went back to the table, grabbed her by the hand, and led her out on the dance floor.

Now, Mrs. I, as a rule, doesn't dance.  She's still recovering from breaking her heel and other foot injuries, so the entire trip revolved on her walking as little as possible.  But three drinks drunk, with her husband boyfriend insisting that he wanted her -- her and only her -- so much, so publicly, that he was willing to risk looking utterly ridiculous in an effort to impress her with his manly strutting.  But I owed it to her.

 No one puts Baby in a corner. 

So strut I did.  I pulled every 80s dance move but the Robot (even I have some pride) my tired old body could manage.  I put on my my my my my boogie shoes.  There was moonwalking involved.  There was more funky pelvic thrusting . . . and drop-to-your-knees grinding in a most indecent fashion, my face making scenic detours through her cleavage on both legs of the round trip.  There was gyrating and spins.  There was Footloose-style white people dancing.  I even attempted a half-split that didn't end too badly.

 I dragged Mrs. I out of her safe chair near the stage and into and out of my contortions on the dance floor, never loosing eye-contact, never letting my full intention waver from her and her alone.  There was macho struttery and arrogant posturing.  There was lurid movements and gratuitous crotch-grabbing.  I was on like Donkey Kong, putting it out there, working hard for the money.

And Mrs. Ironwood ate it up like Pop-Rocks.

That's when I went to 11.  I popped my collar.  Like The Outsiders. For real. And I meant it.

You could almost hear the gush, and not just from her.  The horny birthday girls (with mommy bobs -- sorry ladies, thank you for playing) were visibly envious.  The crowd, already watching my antics, went wild.  The band called it to everyone's attention.  Flippy flipped out.  I'm not great-looking, but comparatively speaking I was on the high side of the Sex Rank at that club, and I knew it.  I was one of only a handful of guys dancing, and by far the most flamboyant and arguably the most enthusiastic.  I worked it.  Dance-wise, I was AMOG.  

Me. Nerd Boy.  Damn.

In 1987 I never would have considered being that, in any venue.  In 1987 every glance at a woman was plagued with Betacized doubt and cowering fear.  Dance in public?  With women?  With a girlfriend?  Not me, man.  I'm not that dude.  I'm the nerd, over in the corner.

Now I'm the nerd at the center of attention.  I'm the nerd boldly going where I never would have dreamt I'd go.  I was a nerd with Game, and that made me mighty.

It also made Mrs. I terribly, terribly enchanted with my display.  For one brief shining moment, the kids, the house, the jobs, the career track, the money issues and all the responsibilities were gone, and it was just me showing my chick how badly I wanted her in front of the whole world, without pause or reservation (or, apparently, any sense of propriety).  Just me demonstrating how badly I wanted to do wicked things to her body and delight her soul.  How I was hungry like the alpha wolf I was.  The Red Pill kicked into Extended Release, and I commenced to do nasty things to her leg while I nibbled on her ear while the crowd cheered us on. We concluded the song with a heartfelt public kiss with tongue and my hand on her ass and everything, and we got a round of drunken applause from the crowd that I'd never have imagined I'd be getting back when leg warmers walked the earth..

Thanks to a timely royalty check, we'd been able to do Vegas without looking at our bank balance for once. Which meant I hemorrhaged money over four days.  I haven't even figured out how extravagant I was yet, because I'm afraid to total up the receipts.

But honestly, I don't care how much it cost, or how much energy I devoted to making the trip happen, dirty dancing with your wife girlfriend in a crowd of drunken strangers and making every woman there envy her your devotion and attention, that, Gentlemen, made it worth every fucking penny.  It was pure, primal Game. It slashed through years of accumulated bullshit and brought us back to the primal boy-meets-girl that got the whole thing started.  It was Game made manifest.

It's all right there in the 16 Commandments, Number 2 (Make Her Jealous), Number 6 (Keep Her Guessing -- no one expects a popped collar . . . until it's too late), Number 9 (Connect With Her Emotions), Number 11 (Be Irrationally Self-Confident -- I told you I went to 11), Number 12 (Maximize Your Strengths - goofiness and gratuitous displays of ego, check!) . . . and especially Number 13.

Ah, Number 13.  Always Err On The Side Of Too Much Boldness, Not Too Little.

Too often we married dudes forget that.  There's a timidity that can arise from long acquaintance, a mix of boredom and familiarity that needs to be regularly washed away like a bad stain on your Members Only jacket.   Blue Pill dudes don't get it at all -- it might as well still be 1987.  But as far as Married Game goes, this is a tricky but essential way of keeping your woman's interest high.  You must be bold.  You must find some way to reach beyond the mundanities of middle-age and grasp the essential testosterone-poisoned, horny-enough-to-screw-a-goat teenage libido and all the reckless abandon it represents . . . without doing something stupid like cheating on her.

You Must Boldly Go, if you want her loins to ache for you.  Show her, in public if need be.  Fuck propriety. Fuck mature wisdom.  Fuck middle age reserve. (And while you're at it, remember Number 14). Show her that you're still the same horny, groping teen you were back in the day.  Show her how she makes you throb, and do it unashamedly, without reservation.  That she's sweeter than wine.  Bust a move on her behalf.  Show her that you have that wolfy hunger that made you do awkwardly stupid things in your adolescence . . . but now you have the wit and wisdom to boldly display every nasty shred of Alpha in your aging body.  Show her that you're the MAN, and that she's damn lucky to have found you, and damn special for being the center of your personal universe.

And if you do it right, you'll never have to worry about Number 16.  Because you've got Game, son.  That's the key.  Game.  Understanding the complex interplay of heterosexual dynamics that leads to high-quality interpersonal and physical encounters with an ever-increasing level of satisfaction, and being able to play those emotional notes like a Moog synthesizer until she's practically begging to do simply nasty things to you once you get back to the hotel room.  Like a virgin . . . only not so much Madonna as whore.

The rest of the evening was eventful, but I'm going to stop the narrative here.  We made it back to the hotel after a few adventures -- Vegas is a hell of a town.  Once we recovered sufficiently, and we were far from prying eyes (they're watching you), I continued a display utilizing good old Number 14.  I don't need to relate the details here, for dramatic reasons.  Use your imagination.

Let's just say . . . I was hungry like the wolf.  And there are other things I've gotten much, much better at since 1987.

More later.  Must sleep soon.

Ian out.


Alpha Move: Midnight Picnic

This was one of my earliest "Alpha Moves", and was born out of poverty and desperation as much as romance and lust.   After so many long, philosophical posts I figured I'd toss y'all a dating bone.

When Mrs. Ironwood and I first started going out, we were the typical poor college students living in a student hovel.  "Going out" meant the Wendy's Hot Bar (Wendy's had a hot bar back then) and drinking an embarrassingly cheap bottle of wine at home.

But after a few months the complacency had begun to set into our relationship, and I saw the need, even then, to inject a healthy dose of lusty romance into it to keep us both interested.  Fancy restaurants or theater being far out of our reach, I instead searched for some way to get her in a sensuous, romantic place for some serious no-one-can-hear-you-scream nookie, with accouterments, for less than fifty bucks.  After doing a little basic research, I figured it out.  In retrospect, it was a good Red Pill date moment, simple and elegant, but instructive.  And it made quite an impression.

I took Mrs. Ironwood on a midnight picnic.


PREPARATION

This took a bit of prep, of course.   I chose a late Spring, early Summer day, after the pollen but before the mosquitoes, and I carefully selected a secluded site.  Luckily we lived on the edge of the rural/urban interface, so finding a place far enough away from people to ensure privacy, yet close enough to keep it from being a chore to get their in the dark, wasn't that much of a problem.  Even then Mrs. Ironwood could trip over her own shadow.

The spot I selected was a long-abandoned horse pasture, still mostly fenced in, well behind the old stable.  It was at the far end of the pasture, which had been long-trodden and overgrown for years, and was now covered with moss.  It was quite meadowy.  Overhanging cedar trees provided both a screen for seclusion and a place to hang stuff -- and hang stuff I did.

This was the Age Before LEDs, so instead I used several hurricane lamps and candles, distributed around the blanket I pre-positioned.  I used the space behind a largish rock for a staging area, dragging a cooler and a boom box there and setting up both.  I borrowed a few wind chimes from my mother's back porch and hid them in the trees for effect.  I set up an unobtrusive cone of incense far back away from our picnic to keep from triggering her asthma.  In the cooler I added a selection of  three types of cheese, crackers, summer sausage, grapes, strawberries and sugar, wine glasses, cutting board, knife, corkscrew (OK, it wasn't screw-cap cheap wine, but close), a citronella candle, and napkins.  The boom-box was set up with a mix tape (!) of George Winston tunes, soft rock, and vocal Celtic music (which I didn't know at the time, but my future wife absolutely loathed).

The blanket was a wide, fluffy one spread out over a tarp.  I brought a few pillows along for comfort, and just in case of rain I pitched my pup-tent discreetly on the other side of the barn.  Then I threw another tarp over the blanket and made sure that the path from the parking area to the pasture was clear of twigs, branches, and garden gnomes.

EXECUTION

That evening, I knew the future Mrs. I was working until at least 9:30 (restaurant job), and since her car was broken down, I picked her up from work.  We had some small talk, smoked a cigarette, and were headed home just like a normal night . . . when I took a strange turn off of the road.

"Uh, where are we going?" she asked, a little nervously.

"This way," I assured her, as we crept down the dirt road.  She bit her lip and then suddenly started looking all over the back seat of my gallant college POS, an AMC Pacer.  The future Mrs. Ironwood had decided to date me, anyway.

"What?  What are you looking for?" I asked, confused.

"An axe, duct tape, chainsaw, garbage bags, that sort of thing," she said, cheerfully as she turned back around.

"Oh, relax," I soothed.  "If I was that kind of dude, I would have done that months ago and moved on already.  Those guys are poseurs.  I'm not that afraid of commitment.  Sorry, but you're in for years of torment ahead of you," I joked.  "Besides, you keep that kind of shit in the trunk."

"You don't have a trunk," she pointed out.  "So where the hell are we going?" she demanded, her nostrils flaring prettily.

"On a date," I said, even more mysteriously.  "Fairy land, maybe.  Relax, enjoy the evening.  It's a full moon," I pointed out.

She grunted an agreement, but still looked worried.  But excited.  I finally stopped the car in the middle of nowhere and then asked her to wait a few moments.  She wasn't thrilled with that, out in the woods, but I told her she could lock the door and leave the lights on until I returned, if that made her feel better, so she agreed.

I ran down to the meadow and took the tarp off the blanket, lit the candles and lamps, and turned the music on softly before returning to the car.  I was only gone maybe two minutes.

"What now?" she asked, through a barely-slitted window.  The door was still locked.

"Now, we go on our date," I said, offering her my hand.  "Trust me."

We were still new in the relationship, so I can understand her hesitation.  But she also knew I had gone to a lot of trouble, and I probably really wasn't a serial killer because those guys are always loner neat-freaks and I was a social slob.  So she got out of the car and reluctantly followed me.

I'd lit the first candle in the path just out of sight of the car, so when we turned the corner she saw it.  Her eyes lit up a little.  Seven more tealight candles later, and she was staring at the picnic I'd laid out, wonder in her eyes.

"You did all this . . . for me?"

"My first date prospect fell through," I joked.  "And I figured you'd be my next easiest choice, emphasis on 'easy'," I quipped.  "Of course I did it for you.  Who else do I want to seduce by moonlight?"

"I'm sure you have a list," she mused, while looking around at all of the candles, augmented by the season's first fireflies.  "Ian, it's beautiful!"

We sat down, ate the picnic, had a lovely evening to soft music and candlelight, and even managed to slow dance a little under the stars and the bright, full moon.  Then we proceeded to the sweaty bits several times before the bugs finally overcame the inherent romance of the moment and forced a late retreat.

It's been nearly 20 years since I did that, but whenever Mrs. Ironwood discusses "the perfect date" with my nieces and daughter, she brings that one up without fail as one of her top five.  I've repeated it several times since -- always an unexpected surprise, always well-planned and executed, with contingencies for everything from wild animals, sudden showers or wandering law enforcement officials well-made.  She says it was one of the most Alpha dates she'd ever been on, since she had no idea it was going to happen and no input into what we did.  As such, it was a very, very interesting, hopelessly romantic surprise that helped cement in her head the idea that she wanted to have my babies.

So consider trying this one out.  It's cheap, it's easy (and we're dudes . . . we LOVE "cheap and easy"), it's impressive, it demonstrates foresight and sensitivity as well as your ability to plan and execute a simple date that doesn't involve tipping or being anywhere at a particular time.  Consider doubling the picnic with a telescope to look at the moon, or schedule it during a meteor shower where you spend the evening making wishes on falling stars.

It doesn't have to be midnight, but the next time you're trapped watching Dancing With The Stars with your wife before she yawns and goes to bed, remember that you could be dancing under the stars -- and getting some nookie au natural -- instead.



Our Masculine Power Part Two: The Power To Destroy And Defend


"The Power To Destroy"

That's what it comes down to.  Besides our capacity for enduring hard labor, the male ability and willingness to risk his life in the conduct of violence has been valued and despised since the Neolithic.  Men break things and hurt people.  Or, at least, Men have the capability and the capacity to break things and hurt people . . . and die in battle.  Men have the power to take up a pointy stick or an AK-47 and violently take another human life.  Our lack of empathy is actually of service to us, here.  And our willingness to hurt other people and take a beating makes us of service to our communities and nations.

The male capacity for violence is oft-criticized and oft-celebrated, but rarely explored beyond it's effects on society.  This particular power is among the oldest and darkest from our primordial past, the visceral fight-or-flight reflex left over from our days as reptiles amplified through the power of our bodies and the leverage of our minds.  If the Masculine Power to Destroy, and all that it entails, had an icon, it would be Conan the Barbarian.


If you aren't familiar with Robert E. Howard's magnificent literary creation, I encourage you to pick up the original stories.  Conan is, essentially, the epitome of every primal, violent, id-laden urge in a man's soul.  His strength -- the hallmark of the Power to Destroy -- and willingness to bust heads and steal stuff from powerful undead sorcerers or busty femme fatale sorceresses in order to fill his need for violence, gold, wine and booty.  Conan is from the mythical "Hyperborean Age", a period over 10,000 ago, that is long before "modern" civilization took root.  Conan is a Barbarian, a tribal warrior taken as a slave in his youth.  Upon his escape he becomes a warrior, thief, soldier-of-fortune, pirate, mercenary, and bandit before eventually becoming a King.  Along the way Howard demonstrates to us perhaps the most macho symbol of ass-kickery since Heracles.

Conan is every you could ask for in a Bull Alpha: he's strong, successful, a good leader, and prone to promiscuity.  In Conan's world, there seem to be only two or three variations of womanhood: The Evil 
Two Of The Three Kinds Of Women Conan Meets:
Sexy Evil Sorceress and Sexy Innocent Slave Girl
Sorceress, uniformly beautiful and seductive and evil -- sometimes he bangs 'em, sometimes he just slays 'em. Then there is the noble-born lady, often a princess, who tries to order Conan around according to their comparative stations.  Conan is the master at "re-framing" during these incidents. He cares not how high born a wench is, etc. etc.  And then there are the wenches, the common busty slavegirls that always seem to keep from getting eaten by monsters during the adventure, only to get hammered in innuendo at the end of the story.  Conan always beds the babe.  That's what, to his id-driven brain, they are there for.    Conan . . . not a feminist.


There is another stereotype figure in the Conan mythos: the Red Sonia-style female warrior.  She's the Alpha Female badass who's beauty inspires her devoted men almost as much as her fighting skill.  There are a couple of babes like this in the Hyperborean mythos, but Sonia is clearly the most popuarl.  In this case Conan does, indeed, lust for the woman, but his respect of her prowess compells him to respect and value  her almost like any other warrior.


But of course then he fucks her anyway.

My point in all of this is that Conan is an icon of masculinity, signifying the same vein of brutal, beautiful muscles and steel that has been with us since the dawn of humanity.  That paradigm pops up in culture after culture, seasoned locally for better palatability.  But there is always a Strong Violent man or god in a pantheon.  Thor.  Gilgamesh.  Heracles.  Ogmios.  Samson.  Big muscles, quick with a sword, hit things hard and fast.  The basic warrior model.  The killer.  The Masculine Power of Destruction.
I bring this up because I like Conan.  I like the fact that men are good at hurting people and destroying stuff.  It's not that I like hurting people and destroying stuff, but it is quite nice to know I could if I needed to.  Conan eats, fights, and fucks, a man of simple needs.  He's a walking phallus, an id-shaped stereotype.  He is just the sort of hypermasculinized no-necked slab of muscle that feminists have consistently rejected as an appropriate model.  Conan insights violence against women, I heard in High School.  Real men are sensitive and use their words, not their hot-forged steel battleaxe.  Real men don't toss a slave girl over a log, hike up her skirts and proceed to business without securing a clear and legally binding consent.
Feminist hate Conan. He represents everything primal and basic about masculinity.  A depth of violence and anger that women can only vaguely understand.  
The Atomic Bomb: Our Bad
In the aftermath of the bloody and slightly-radioactive 20th Century, this particular Masculine Power took a beating.  Sometimes we're just too good.  And in this case the primal nature of the Power to Destroy, when united with a highly civilized brain, became a tool that nearly brought our race to extinction.  That produced a LOT of guilt.
(We're feeling much better, now.)

But during that generation or so of guilt and self-criticism of masculinity after the horrors of the Holocaust and Hiroshima, feminism chimed in, too -- not that it wasn't deserved.  I think the winners of WWII knew full well the potential for devastation they had at their fingertips, and they wisely avoided using it.  But during this period, feminism went beyond attacking the excesses of violence and instead challenged the character of masculinity as well.  Men were violent -- and particularly violent against women, it was argued.  Therefore it wasn't just violence against women, or violence in general, but men as instruments of violence that caused feminism to largely trend towards pacifism.  Considering the anti-war movement that was concurrent with the rise of popular feminism, it isn't hard to see why they conflated.

But it did essentially attempt to shame men away from a vital and important aspect of their masculinity.  They wanted to guilt Conan out of the equation and replace him with Potsie from Happy Days.

The Power to Destroy is, of course, the most feared of our powers, and rightly so.  A propensity for violence can be easily traced to over-all testosterone production in a man.  Considering our teen-age years can pump up to five times the adult level of testosterone into a body less than two thirds as large.  Testosterone makes you want to hit stuff.  It also makes you want to run and lift heavy objects.  Unfortunately, it also impairs your judgement, so that a really high testosterone level is like a big fat Stupid ticket.  Luckily, our over-the-top risky behavior during our teenage years is also a tremendous DHV for potential mates . . . if you survive.

Think of violence and testosterone as Nature's way of sorting out the good genes from the bad ones.

Any small paleolithic society had to deal with predators, of course, critters much bigger than they.  Or just more deadly.  Protecting mates and the young from marauding predators is where this violent instinct comes from.  As communities grew and began to compete over scarce resources, the masculine propensity for violence not only raided, it protected those resources.  And by the Bronze Age, thanks to a generous dose of Ordering, the masculine capacity for violence built empires.

But when you're a young man and pumped full of Stupid Juice, you have a pretty good shot at getting yourself killed before you breed.  So you have to redouble your efforts to make DHVs until you attract the attention of a mate or die trying.  Therefore engaging in risky, dangerous behavior is a great way to show off how adept you are . . . if you survive.  But if you do, then you get Nature's bonus package: an increased reputation and notoriety that could well transform into pussy at some point or another.

Look at it from an Evo Bio perspective:  Say a male mouse has a basic SMV in Mouseland, X.  Getting eaten by a cat is going to give you X-10.  Not getting eaten by a cat, say X+1.  Getting caught by a cat, getting batted around, and then through a combination of guile, luck, and feline arrogance you manage to escape.  Suddenly you are not just a mouse who hasn't gotten eaten by a cat (X+1).  Now Nature looks at you as a mouse who survived a daring and harrowing, life-threatening encounter with a cat (X+15) and lived to mate, which means that your genes are exceptionally good, and many of your children might not be eaten, too.  Risking your life was personally a really stupid choice, but for the species it was just a little harmless competition.

That might not be too reassuring to you, but give it a moment.

Men did not allow their Power to Destroy overwhelm them, after a few unfortunate incidents.  Men recognized that while every village needed its protectors, sometimes those fellow protectors would be the ones raiding your people.  So in just about every major civilization, about 200-500 years after the rise of metal weapons, something else arose, too: the early Codes of Chivalry.


That's been a big topic in the news, lately, thanks to the whole Titanic women-and-children-first debate.  The ironic thing is, those who bemoan a lack of chivalry in our society today have forgotten what the word means.


Here’s a newsflash: Manners, etiquette and chivalry?  Three separate and completely different things.

It irritates me that the three are used so interchangeably in this day and age, and I urge any Red Pill dudes  to be very careful how you use the terms in casual conversation.  This came to light recently when I was scanning through the Manosphere and saw these posts describing feminist nostalgia for pre-feminist traditionalgender roles., over at Dalrock, I think.

What concerned me the most wasn’t the cognitive disconnect shown by the feminist ideologues about common social courtesy as broken down by gender; it was how often the term “chivalry” was tossed around as a synonym for manners or etiquette.  It’s not, though, and by using it such you demean the term and the institution.

So why should you care?  Because Chivalry (capitalized to distinguish it from mere manners) is a warriors code.  Indeed, it is the code which shaped the vision of masculinity for Europe for centuries, until effective smallarms made it archaic.  Archaic or not, Chivalry is still the core of our military system, where terms like Honor and Duty (two hallmarks of the code) still mean something. 

Instead of re-hashing old ground, here’s an excerpt from my 2006 book, The Gentleman’s Guide To Picking Up Women, on the subject:

How We Became Gentlemen

Remember that the term “Gentleman”, upon which we have dumped connotations of effeteness and wussitude in our modern age, originally meant someone from the aristocratic class in Europe – a class that was descended from the men who went out in the middle ages with steel and fire and conquered and defended their lands and spent their lives pursuing violence in work and play.  The whole idea of a “Gentleman” harkens to the Dark Ages, when the power of a mounted knight was so great that any foe he faced on foot would likely get slain, and a cocky knight may well feel that anyone on foot was fair game.
 The social structure of any society cannot take such wanton violence casually and expect to survive and thrive.  Even if our ancestors were brutish thugs, they had to live together in a social system that had to recognize limits on any one thug’s power.  So the Codes of Chivalry were adapted from pre-Christian pagan warrior codes, updated to detail a warrior’s duties and responsibilities as well as privileges in medieval society, and iron-clad thugs became respectable noble Gentlemen of the aristocracy. 
 The Codes protected women, the sick, children, the religious class, and detailed proper behavior towards your inferiors, superiors, and peers.  It codified truthfulness and respect for authority, duty to one’s lord and god, and attention to one’s honor“The word of a Gentleman” became a cast-iron promise.  Honor became the hallmark of the nobility in the Middle Ages, not physical prowess.  It didn’t hurt that it also usually came with lucrative land deals.
 The violent edge may have faded, but it did not disappear.  Long after the longbow eradicated the effectiveness of the mounted knight, the nobles continued to wield swords and kill people (mostly each other) in a very dignified and proper way.  It was a Gentleman’s privilege to defend his honor, and despite all of the social niceties and polite forms of behavior that accumulated around the concept, until the 19th century this attitude persisted: a Gentleman was always willing to defend his honor, or he was little more than a geek in a nice suit.
 As Brad Miner points out in his book, The Compleat Gentleman, a Gentleman is

“not determined by birth or class; [within him] resides a man who is at once a warrior (a readiness to face battle for a just cause), lover (he lets a woman be what she wants to be) and monk (a man possessing true knowledge).” 
  But at the core of it is the big mounted thug on a horse with a sword.
 Chivalry was the code of the mounted cavalry, and its based at its foundation on one warrior’s duty and responsibilities to another on the field of battle.  The politeness and etiquette associated with chivalry is rooted in such basic issues as whether or not it was fair to stab a guy when he fell off his horse and wasn’t looking, or slitting his throat from behind, or waiting until his helmet was askew and then running him through.
 This was a major consideration in the Dark Ages.  For most of the medieval period in Europe, warfare was widespread but small, usually involving small political units ruled by despots warring with each other, not large-scale invasions or clashes between large armies.  A typical medieval war would have involved a few hundred actual warriors, most of them quickly-armed, untrained peasants, led by a tiny few steel-clad cavalry who were all but invincible compared to the peasants.  And since any professional military needs training – and learning to couch a lance in full armor and use it effectively as a tool of war takes a lifetime – the mounted warriors had to practice a lot.
 A lot of this practice looked like any gym on a busy day: running in full armor, calisthenics, weight training, maybe a little Zumba on the Sabbath.  But the more intense training was the melee and the tilting yard, where young squires took up blunted weapons and hacked at each other under the tutelage of older and wiser heads.  This wasn’t limited to pure combat skills: a squire had to master how to take care of and train his mount, care for his armor and weapons, and basically kiss the ass of his knight until he was a knight himself.  But out on the field, if there was no code of conduct concerning how to properly hack at each other without killing each other, well, a lot of promising young squires would get killed long before they were dubbed.
 In point of fact, a lot were.  Military training is dangerous.
 But the Chivalric Code was there to make it less so, and to ensure that even when you drew a sword with murder in your heart against a sworn foe, you were reasonably certain that he wouldn’t stab you in the back when you weren’t looking, and vice versa.  Eventually, with the rise of the infantry in the 14th century, the importance of cavalry died out, and Chivalry became more important for melees and tournaments . . . but it never stopped regulating the affairs of combatants on the field.
 Or, as Wikipedia points out, “Regardless of the diverse written definitions of chivalry, the medieval knightly class was adept at the art of war, trained in fighting in armor, with horses, lances, swords and shields. Knights were taught to excel in the arms, to show courage, to be gallant and loyal and to swear off cowardice and baseness.” (Emphasis mine)

So . . . at the root of Chivalry is the capacity to beat the living shit out of someone.

That’s important.  Don’t forget it.  It will come up later.

Let’s take a look at some of the original elements of the early Code of Chivalry, from the Song of Roland, one of the medieval epics that helped cement the code into the popular consciousness and culture of Europe:

The Knights Code of Chivalry and the vows of Knighthood

The Knights Code of Chivalry described in the Song of Roland and an excellent representation of the Knights Codes of Chivalry are as follows:

§         To fear God and maintain His Church

(A relatively late addition, due to the desire of the medieval Church to control the military.)

§         To serve the liege lord in valour and faith

(Your liege lord was your legal superior, and the one who handed out goodies.  He was your war leader, your judge in disputes with your peers and your advocate in disputes with your superiors; the basic feudal institution was a grant of land from the lord to hold in his name, and a sword to defend him when he needed warriors.  Being brave and honest with your liege lord was, therefore, a knightly virtue, not a capitulation to betahood.)

§         To protect the weak and defenseless

(Ah, this is one of the segues from chivalry to manners and etiquette.  Originally this was used as a nod towards fairness – a guy with a sword, armor and a horse can go around and do pretty much whatever he wants to the peasants until another guy with a sword, armor and horse comes along and stops him.  Indeed, it was a cornerstone of warfare, savaging the peasants of your neighbor’s manor to deprive him of the manpower and resources needed to keep his fief running.  By mutually agreeing through the code not to mess up the unarmed peasantry, or kill off the weak and sick, the medieval knight protected not just his own lands from the deprivations of foreign nobility, but they ensured that they would be treated with due deference by the “weak and defenceless” wherever he went.)



§         To give succour to widows and orphans

(The Middle Ages produced regular bumper-crops of both.  Between plague, poor healthcare choices, and the very real possibility of dying in war or in famine or both, leaving behind a wife and six kids was fairly typical.  In an agricultural-based society where men had a monopoly on land ownership, therefore, once your husband died you were screwed – sometimes literally.  Similarly, in a society where privileges and rights were determined by ancestry, being an orphan could really suck – sometimes literally.  The Chivalric ideal of giving succor to widows and orphans as an expression of Compassion and Grace helped maintain the cultural illusion of some sort of safety-net for such unfortunates.  Note that most feminist theoreticians consider such compassion to be properly a function of the state, not of individual preference.  Or they maintain that such expressions should be compulsory as a matter of social justice, and have little to do with gender (although its rare you hear them rail at women for their lack of compassion).  Which means that they are missing the point.)

§         To refrain from the wanton giving of offence

(This could better be translated to “Don’t be a douchebag”.  If you’re a big, dangerous guy in armor with a three-foot long sword you’ve spent a lifetime learning how to use effectively, the “wanton giving of offence” could mean a serious fight, and serious fights have unfortunate consequences.  Besides, no one likes a douchebag)

§         To live by honour and for glory

(Ah, now we’re hitting the parts of the Code that the feminists really don’t like. Hono(u)r and Glory.  I think the best explanation of Honor I ever heard came from Liam Neeson in the movie Rob Roy: 

“Honor is the gift you pay yourself for doing what is right.”  

Not what is “good” or what is “socially just” or what is “culturally expected” or what is “mandated by society”, but what is right.  That implies a judgment call on the part of the gentleman seeking to live by Honor, and the fact is that one gentleman’s judgment about honor might conflict with another’s, and that causes conflict. A knight who was honorably serving his lord by evicting a peasant widow and her six kids might run afoul of a knight errant who felt compelled by the Code to protect them and give them succor, which is honorable in itself.  If that meant that the two might fight – risking both of their lives on the outcome – then that was mutually understood as being the Honorable thing to do under the circumstances.  Both are right, even if one might come across as “evil” in some moral estimations, and the other would come across as “stupid” in others.) 


The point I’m trying to make here is that the Code of Chivalry not only mandates some individual value judgments on the part of its adherents, it also implies a respect for the value judgments of others, even when you disagree with them.  It’s an intangible motivator and one that is not open to debate by disinterested parties.  Honor is a very personal thing, regardless of your culture, and under the Code of Chivalry it was an intensely personal thing, something you would risk your life over. 

And then there is Glory.  Feminists hate that one, too.  Seeking Glory is un-egalitarian, unfair, and elitist, according to most male-bashers.  Glory is the acclaim you get for doing something well, for achievement – a traditionally male balewick.  Female societies emphasize the importance of group consensus and accord, not individual success.  Remember, a highly successful woman is a target and a threat in the Female Social Matrix.  A woman who distinguishes herself makes all the other women look bad, and upsets their delicate social balance.

In male society, on the other hand, success is highly regarded and rewarded with status and treasure.  Successful men are attractive.  Wildly successful men are irresistible.  Men who achieve and then have the temerity to enjoy the results of that success, including the acclaim, respect and admiration of their peers, are indulging in Glory, and are commonly seen as elitist by feminists (unless they are championing a feminist cause).  To feminists, Glory is to be despised, because if you do great things the last thing you should do is want to get the credit for it... if you’re a man. 

But how man men have been talked out of achievement by women who have scorned the pursuit of Glory, even as they demand security and success?  How many men have grown up feeling ashamed of their own achievements because they’ve been taught that pursuing Glory is wrong?  Glory and Honor go hand-in-hand in the Code. 

§         To despise pecuniary reward

(This might be a strong statement, because in point-of-fact the medieval knights were all about reward.  The thing was, they saw the best reward as land, daughters of powerful nobles, and as rights and privileges not enjoyed by the peasantry.  Money?  Most medieval knights couldn’t count to twenty without taking off their shoes.  Doing anything for real clinking money instead of waiting to be rewarded by your lord for your service was considered “common” for a reason.   As a knight your honor is unstainable, and taking coin from someone to do violence on their behalf removes your ability to decide whether they needed killing in the first place.  Killing on behalf of your lord was different, however, as the moral issue was kicked up the aristocratic stairs and being faithful to your lord – a chivalric virtue – was its own reward, bringing you honor, if not glory and land.  This statute was designed to keep a highly trained and effective warrior from becoming a base mercenary, although it had only limited effectiveness.
But it did emphasize that the motivation of the knight is Grace, not obligation.  Money changing hands implies an obligation.)

§         To fight for the welfare of all

(This was a tricky one, and open to interpretation when the question of just which of the “all” got the most “welfare” when your sword came into play.   But as a good rule of thumb it worked: when the French were invaded by the English in the early days of the 100 Year War, this tenant of the code allowed the French nobility to eschew their petty wars for a couple of years to drive back the English dogs as a united force (before settling down to treat with them as feudal neighbors, entitled to the same respect and honor that the French nobility were accorded).  If nothing else, this prohibited those who practiced the code from committing acts of banditry or cowardice, and emphasized public service in the form of defense.  At its best, this element of the code inspired many a knight to a glorious death in the service of a higher purpose.)

§         To obey those placed in authority

(A knight obeyed his lord.  Obey – a very strong word, and one you don’t hear very often these days.  Obedience was another cornerstone of feudal society, and practically it means that there’s always a bigger fish out there in a pond.  If your lord decides that some other baron in his lands is a better leader than you, then he’ll make him general and you must listen to him, if you are to maintain your honor.  And this tenant of the code makes following even incompetent orders an honorable pursuit, shielding a knight from disgrace for failure due to poor leadership.  Beyond that, it valorizes an important element of Chivalry, Service, in a very specific way.  There was no shame or dishonor in service in the Middle Ages – on the contrary, even senior nobles counted it as a great honor to be chosen to wait upon their superiors, and honorable service often brought great rewards.)

§         To guard the honour of fellow knights

(Here’s another tenant of Chivalry that isn’t often talked about.  And it’s despised by feminists, because they see it as the genesis of the “Old Boy's Club” they’ve been fighting against since their inception.  These noble warriors of high social status and great wealth did, indeed, choose to back each other up, to protect each other’s reputations, to not deceive each other, and yes, to offer each other special considerations.  When you are counting on the knight next door to watch your flank in battle, pissing him off by treating his honor callously is not a good idea.  So guarding your fellow knight’s honor as you would your own, that became a powerful bonding force between men.)

§         To eschew unfairness, meanness and deceit.

(If it’s a bad idea to cheat or lie to your fellow knights, it’s probably a bad idea for you to do it to the peasants, too, at least when anyone important is looking.  But this was another practical consideration, for these men weren’t just military, they were also the secular rulers of their lands, empowered to sit in judgment over all in their domains.  A knight who developed a reputation for meanness and deceit during his rise might be respected as a wiley warrior, but it's unlikely many men would want to become his vassals if they knew they couldn’t count on his loyalty and fairness.  Whereas knights who cultivated a reputation for fairness and just dealings, like the famous Sir William Marshal, became widely respected, if not renowned.)

§         To keep faith

(Of course during the Middle Ages the emphasis here was on religious faith, but it also played up the role of trustworthiness in a noble warrior.  Keeping faith was a matter of living up to promises made, despite the circumstances.  It was also to remind the knight to stay true to his ideals, loyal to his church and lord, and represent himself as one who keeps his promises.)

§         At all times to speak the truth

(This is also a no-brainer.  A warrior who lies or is deceitful to his friends can’t be relied upon in combat.  Of course, it’s a lot easier to lie when everyone expects everything you say to be truthful, so you can assume that there was a lot of equivocation about this one. )

§         To persevere to the end in any enterprise begun

(Another important matter for the military.  A well-trained warrior who quits on the mission before it is done is useless.  Finishing what you start is a powerful masculine trait that was enshrined in the code because it attracts like-minded go-getters and impresses the girls.  It also gets impossible things done.  That kind of tenacity and devotion were hallmarks of chivalry.)

§         To respect the honour of women

(This is different than respecting women, just for being women.  To respect a woman’s honor in the Middle Ages was not just a prohibition against rape, molestation and abuse of the female peasantry by the powerful nobility (which it was, kinda), it was to respect the role of women in medieval life as mothers, wives, and nuns.  That included respecting her reputation enough not to get rumors started about her after you shagged her rotton while her husband was away on Crusade.  Note this is different than being a directive to protect every little piece of silk and fluff that doesn’t have the brains to come in out of the rain.  It is an admonition to respect the idea of the honorable woman.)

§         Never to refuse a challenge from an equal

(This goes without saying.  And you probably wouldn’t refuse a challenge from a better, either.)

§         Never to turn the back upon a foe

(Running away isn’t chivalrous.  Standing to fight until the last possible breath is.  Even when you know you’re going to die, you’re going to lose, and the battle is pointless.  There is honor in this.)

So to sum up, you can look at the essentials of chivalry as: 

Be a Heroic Badass,
Don’t be a Selfish Douche.  

That’s the elegant beauty of true Chivalry, the amazing contrast that exists in someone who has trained to purposefully kill other people for a living yet chooses not to use that power lightly or thoughtlessly in ways that piss people off and lower property values.

But it doesn’t quite stop there.  Because the fact is it wasn’t required for a heavy cavalryman in the middle ages to be a knight, or even live up to chivalric ideals. You could be a badass and a douche and do quite well for yourself: hot and cold running peasant girls, an up-scale castle, a regular paying gig oppressing the peasants, the sweet life.  

You didn’t have to do any of that chivalrous stuff.  It was, in other words, not an obligation.

And that’s the thing: chivalry can’t be compelled because it can’t be compelled.  If someone is forced to give up their seat on a bus to a pregnant woman, for instance, he isn’t being chivalrous he’s being compliant, if the act was done as a social obligation.  Am I advocating not giving up the seat?  Of course not.  And it could even be considered a chivalrous act.  But it’s better understood as good manners, not chivalry.

Chivalry comes from Grace.  Not in the religious sense, exactly, but the fact is that true Chivalry can only come about because the man in question has decided, for no other reason than he wants to do it and has the Power to do it, to exercise his Power To Destroy (and Defend) on behalf of another.  Chivalry must spring from Grace or it isn’t Chivalry, just like true Charity can’t be compelled, or it’s not Charity but taxation.  Chivalrous behavior cannot be expected from men, it can only be given, freely and without equivication.  Indeed, to impose a social expectation of Chivalry on a man these days and hold him to it would be disappointing to everyone involved. 

Chivalry isn’t politeness or manners or etiquette, although a chivalrous gentleman is almost always well-versed in all three.  Chivalry isn’t generosity, although most chivalrous gentlemen are generous to a fault.  And while Chivalry no longer implies that you have to be willing to strap on armor, climb on a horse, and collide with unfriendly strangers who are trying to kill you, there can be no doubt that you can’t be a Betazoid and still be chivalrous.  

As Dalrock haspointed out in his stunning series of posts on the subject, Chivalry must come freely from a place of strength, not weakness.  It’s not about your ability as a killer, it is about your ability to be strong in the face of adversity and your willingness to act in a time of need.  While both of those things are terribly useful to a warrior in battle, they also apply to most situations in your life.

We have grown up with a sense of shame about our capacity to be violent.  But instead of ignoring it as the curse of masculinity, properly understood the Power to Destroy and Defend is perhaps the greatest single power we have.  As 9-11 taught us, we are never too advanced as a civilization to outgrow the need to respond to violence with more violence.  It sucks, but that's part of the price for being human, for being a man.  When the zombies are coming, I'm sure you feminists will be more than happy to accept our big, muscular, violence-prone protection.

And if means a couple of grateful slave girls afterwards, bonus.


When it comes to manifesting the Power to Destroy and Defend in your own life, most of you have already taken the first step by regular exercise or rough play to build muscles, coordination, reflexes, etc.  This is where the world of Sports came from, the desire to train and test ourselves before battle.  If you are self-aware enough about your own capacity for violence you may have taken a martial art or firearms.  But the idea that we are all just a calamity away to being reduced to uncivilized violent thugs preying on our fellow human beings should at least make you consider your own inner-Conan, and how you may best cultivate him without letting him rule your life.  That primal buzz is necessary, don't get me wrong, but you really don't want to do that at your sister's wedding or the kid's Christmas pageant.

So go out there, Gentlemen, and learn to be a Bad Ass.

But don't be a douchebag.


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