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What Do Divorce Experts Say Women Want for Valentines Day?

MORE Beta!

If the social expectations of Valentine’s Day are already stinging your newly-opened eyes, with the idea of blowing your dough on flowers, candy, diamonds and other stylized, symbolic representations of your devotion undermining your efforts of an authentic emotionally-meaningful display, then hold on to your fedoras, Gentlemen: apparently this exercise in blanket gender abasement just isn’t GOOD enough for the feminists of America. At least according to the illustrious left-wing tabloid HuffPo, where the message is loud and clear: this year feminists want their menfolk to be even MORE Beta!

The obsequious posturing, overindulgent gifting and fawning devotion of yesteryear are no longer sufficient for the gals. Apparently, on the one day of the year in which one is supposed to celebrate one’s romantic and sexual union with your mate is just TOO DARN MUCH PRESSURE for the feminists of America.

The gifts, the flowers, the candy, they’re great and all . . . but they aren’t enough. You see, that sets up the idea that the women in question might feel OBLIGATED to have sex with the men in their lives ("husbands"), the ones who just shelled out a car payment on an expression of their affection that can be adequately bragged about at work. And if men are getting anything out of it, then it has to be BAD for women.

In a disgusting orgy of self-gratifying entitlement, the authors of the post (Rabbi Robert B. Barr and Dr. Jill Bley, PhD.) reveal:

As wives everywhere unwrap their gifts, they'll be thinking, "So what's in this for me?" Far from being that romantic holiday as depicted on the cards, Valentine's Day has become another time for men to place more expectations on women.

I’ll just let that lovely tidbit of cognitive dissonance settle on your frontal lobes for a moment. “As they unwrap their gifts” . . . “what’s in this for me?” . . . irony much?

The authors of the post make a compelling argument: men already suck pretty badly. Just ask women. Here are the reasons why women should spitefully reject their husband’s solemn attempts at a socially-appropriate and likely heartfelt display at love and devotion:

[W]omen are working harder than men.

(Men must therefore suck. How dare they, the lazy bastards! Unemployment is NOT an excuse!)

Most are still being paid less for their work outside the home.

(Most avoided lucrative technical career paths that would have led to higher salaries in favor of more “meaningful” work . . . that often means more hours and less pay.)

They are likely to be shouldering more of the burden of household and child rearing responsibilities than men.

(Unlike their unmarried contemporaries, who are doing 100% of the housework without any masculine assistance, the lucky ladies!)

Women in the workplace continue to face sexism, spoken and unspoken.

(Men in the workplace continue to die and get maimed at a far higher rate than women)

They are often exhausted by the expenditure of energy trying to combat the sexism they face without appearing petty or bitchy.

(Men are usually just exhausted from working . . . there’s too much to do to worry about appearing petty and bitchy)

Their work day is almost never over when they arrive back in their homes.

(Whereas men utterly lack post-work activities and job-related homework)

Poor, beleaguered feminist wives! How they suffer!

Seriously, it’s bad enough that they actually deigned to marry a male in the first place, thereby rescuing him from a fate of cheap and easy sex, beer, and action movies. To actually have to work IN ADDITION to running a marriage? That’s a little too much for the poor dears, apparently.

And of course the LAST thing they want to do is be reminded of their distasteful and embarrassing social plight by the possibility of catering to her husband’s beastly lusts.

Adding insult to injury, Valentine's Day becomes an opportunity for men, in the guise of romance, to obligate their wives to sex when what their wives really want is time to relax, sleep, and have their houses cleaned by someone else.

Because Sex is apparently the insult to the injury of Marriage. And understanding that men are incapable of carnal congress with even a modicum of emotional content behind it, Barr and Bley quite rightly identify the entire phenomenon with what it so clearly is: one small step away from socially-mandated justified rape. Because the LAST thing a hard-working wife wants on Valentine’s Day is to get laid. Sex is a chore, to feminists, and the mere fact that we have a holiday devoted to the idea of romantic love and the special bond between a man and a woman is no reason to bow to the iron will of the Patriarchy.

Thought women enjoyed Valentine’s Day, gentlemen? You sadistic bastards. It’s a crushing hell of obligatory sex and feigned affection. Indeed, according to Mssrs. Barr & Bley, the very sight of a red heart can inspire a violent reaction:

For many women Valentine's Day does not bring out romantic feelings, instead, it ignites anger and frustration. Valentine's Day seems to benefit men while requiring women to smile as they accommodate the desires of another man one more time.

Yes, all of those nasty Pandora bracelets, diamond earrings, new cars and 4 star dinners are for OUR benefit, Gentlemen. Just one more way we can guilt our wives onto their backs, making them the unwilling slaves to our salacious for the cost of a mere dozen long-stem red roses and an uncomfortable relationship discussion! Celebrate love? In the feminist universe, love and marriage are polar opposites, a distasteful and necessary evil required for the support of progeny, nothing more. If you needed further proof of the Patriarchy’s evil plan, Barr and Bley can pinpoint the villains:

Women, at home and work, continually face the challenges of men who demand much and don't give enough in return. While it is claimed that it is a holiday for women it doesn't take much to see that it's the men who get what they want, while women are wanting.

Hear that, Gents? You demand too much. And you don't give enough in return, you ungrateful assholes. Your woman doesn’t want romance and love, attention and affection, validation of her femininity and of your attraction to her . . . she wants laundry and a nap.

And anything less than that is proof – PROOF! – that you don’t really love them.

So let’s take a look at the stunning relationship advice these wise folks give in order for you to keep your wife from feeling sexually oppressed, and consider their implications. Barr and Bley think that what your wivesREALLY want is:

Something they want but you don’t know what it is because she’s not going to tell you. (hint: you can’t buy her anything you’d like to see her in, you’d think she’d like, etc. It has to be something she picks out and you just pay for, because that’s what good feminist Beta husbands do).
Forget about sex and ask for a honeydew list.
Clean the house . . . like a chick. Because the way you USUALLY do it (which is just fine for you) sucks, and is proof that you secretly despise her. It isn’t clean until she says it’s “chick clean”.
Do the laundry. Because a box of Tide is a hell of a lot more meaningful than another stupid, expensive Pandora charm no one knows what the hell it means anyway.
Make dinner or “make reservations”. As if you didn't have enough reservations at this point . . .
Do all of her housework for her.
Don’t have sex with her unless she specifically requests it in writing.
If sex is what she wants, don't really bring the penis into it. Toss her a vibrator and then go to sleep.

It’s telling that both Barr and Bley are in various aspects of the Divorce Industry, as this advice could have been written as a public service announcement for the Divorce Lawyers Association. Anyone with any Red Pill understanding will see that the above list of what women “really” want from the men they've sworn to spend their lives with isn’t the solid strength and passionate embrace of the love of their lives in a tempest of Alpha-laden erotic meaning, its:

Beta
Beta
Beta
Beta
Beta
Beta
Beta
and more Beta

Seriously, if that post doesn’t depress the hell out of any married woman who reads it, she has bigger issues in her marriage than Valentine’s Day. Most of the Manosphere despises V-Day as the commercialized Hallmark holiday it is, an opportunity for women to guilt men into socially-braggable expensive displays of their devotion. Really, sex was the only reason we guys ever indulged in the exercise anyway.

The problem with American marriages, according to Barr & Bley, is that the dudes are just too darn Alpha for their poor feminist wives. The answer to a troubled marriage is, according to folks who make their living off of divorce, to add even MORE Beta. Men are STILL too manly, and women are STILL too oppressed. Imagine, all of those poor, college-educated wives out there being in miserable and oppressive marriages, instead of the liberating and fun-filled world of Dating 2.0! The husbands of Americamust be totally evil bastards if the consensus of feminist opinion is that the way to celebrate marriage and love in our society is by doing laundry, not your wife, on Valentines Day.

If the feminists of the world want their fellas to go full-fledged flaccid Beta feminization, as Barr and Bley contend, then it behooves their Blue Pill husbands to indulge them. I’m sure you know of a couple (or are part of a couple) where the hapless AFCturns in a standard-performance every V-Day, and still gets bitched out for how he got it “wrong” by his feminist-leaning wife even if he gets duty sex. Because guys suck. And Valentines’ day isn’t about THEM. Or their nasty penises. True Love? That's for suckers. The hard-working corporate feminist wives are tired of picking up the slack for their lazy hubbies, just to be expected to put out after being showered with gifts and praise.

Of course, if you're a dude, the above-message probably feels like a hot blade being jabbed again and again into your kidney by collective femininity, further proof that women don't understand their own attraction (nor, apparently, do rabbis).

SO . . . here’s what I propose. The Beta Revolt.

If you are a Blue Pill dude who is in an unhappy marriage with a feminist wife (or just know one – and let’s face it, we all know at least one) – then this Feb 14 is your chance. This is your opportunity to suggest that -- perhaps -- her approach to your marriage and relationship has failed to take into account one very important factor: her husband.

While your wife is at work, scrub the house and do laundry. Take a six-pack and make a day of it – and clean the holy fuck out of the place. Like you’re getting ready to show it. Get the laundry folded and put away, everything. If you have a Red Pill pal, ask him to help.

Then do it just like the article says. Order a single cheese pizza, buy a cheap vibrator, some bubble-bath and a single-serving bottle of wine. Hell, throw in a DVDof some lame romcom. No flowers, no candy, no jewelry – make sure youstick to the Barr-Bley Plan.

Then print out the HuffPo article, in its entirety. In color, even. Leave it folded up on the pizza box with the following note:

Happy Valentine’s Day, Honey!

I know how much you admire and like to promote feminist principles, and after I saw this article I realized that I had been unintentionally oppressing you all this time, and I had no idea. I really took it to heart, discussed it with my friends, and came to some realizations about our marriage. So I took the advice in the article, and I think you’ll find that the house is clean enough for your mother to visit. The laundry is done, folded, and put away. I even got some help on the yard.

To continue the festivities, you’ll notice I got you dinner, so you wouldn’t have to cook or clean tonight. There’s a bottle of bubble bath, so you can indulge yourself and rest from your hard and stressful day. I think you’ll like the movie, too, and I you combined it with the bath and the wine, you’ll be nice and relaxed. Plus, if you’re feeling particularly relaxed and want to indulge yourself, I took the liberty of buying you a new toy. Enjoy!

Now, as you look over my humble offering, please note that I didn’t waste money on roses, flowers of any sort, candy, jewelry, or a fancy dinner, all of which might set up the obligation of sex in your mind – and you know that’s the last thing I want to do. This is about you. All the feminist articles I’ve read have said something like this, that this is what you REALLY want for Valentine’s Day, and who am I to question the wisdom of the collective femininity? I want you to truly enjoy yourself without expectation or obligation.

So dig in, have a glass of wine, take a bubble bath, watch a movie, and tear one off, if you’d like. And while you do, remember what a kind, thoughtful considerate husband you have. Delight in the knowledge that you have a truly transcendent feminist marriage, one in which the needs and the responsibilities of the household are equally shared between us, without either party dominating the other. Where issues of sex and affection are secondary to a good working-relationship. Where erotic attention and thoughtful appreciation of our intimate selves rightfully takes a backseat to our common goal of equal dignity and mutual respect.

And while you are thinking about this, eating your pizza, drinking your wine, and watching your movie, I’m going to be at a strip club, Hooters, or area sports bar to celebrate the wonderful independence and strength of our marriage. At exactly 8:30 pm. I’ll be arriving at ___________, staying for half an hour for a drink, and then I’m going to check into a motel, so that you can enjoy your Valentine’s Day evening in peace without me pestering you for sex.

If you decide, however, that you are finding the ideology of feminism somehow lacking when it comes to how we conduct our marriage, and wish to discuss it further, then you know where I’ll be and when and for how long.

But understand that if you show up, you’ll be essentially asking to get boned so hard your ancestors get sore, without apology, without regret, and without too much foreplay. You’ll be admitting that you’d rather be a real woman loved by a real, passionate man the way a real husband loves a real wife than a co-equal partner of a semi-permanent domestic arrangement. And you’ll be admitting that you place more faith, stock, and value in the strength of our marriage than you do in how a couple of “experts” suggest you should feel about it and the important issue of housework that apparently plagues your mind, day and night, instead of having sex with me.

So consider carefully: Delicious, freshly-delivered pizza, a tasty glass of wine, a luxurious bubblebath, an entertaining movie and an early evening to bed with your new plastic pal, or a night of seedy, nasty lovemaking that will challenge your personal boundaries and possibly cause a UTI.

You’re probably wondering why I’m doing this, too. Heck, you might even be worried that this is some kind of mid-life crisis. That's not entirely inaccurate. The fact is, I’m not entirely happy with how things have been going in our marriage, and I figured this would be a novel way to get your attention on the matter.

And while, of course, I'm always open to frank and open discussion, the fact is that the attitudes towards husbands expressed in this article are fairly common from what I understand. I'd sincerely like to know your take on the subject, but of course I completely understand if you do not want to interrupt your rare quality time and would prefer to discuss this at another time.

Either way, I guess I’ll see you in the morning.

Happy Valentines Day!

Love,

Your Average Beta Chump Husband

Then go to a bar. Have a few, but don’t get drunk. Take an hour to drop by a buddy’s house and change into something sharp-looking. Seriously, do your damnedest to make yourself look HOT. Do, indeed, rent a hotel room – you’re going to need it, one way or another. Then go to the designated bar fifteen minutes before the designated time, park yourself on a stool, order a drink, and wait. And turn off your cell phone.

If she shows up looking sweet, feminine, and ready to be your wife on Valentine’s Day, make it worth her while. And shag her rotten.

If she shows up with tears in her eyes, wearing sweatpants and no make-up, begging for you to come home and “talk about this”, then hand her your hotel card, tell her that’s where you’ll talk – naked – give her a kiss on the cheek, and leave.

If she doesn’t show up . . . then you have married a confirmed feminist who is probably on her way to becoming your ex-wife, no matter how thoughtful she told you she thought the pizza was..

Now, I understand that the danger rate is pretty high on this – but if your marriage has been suffering anyway, one more lame-ass Valentine’s Day isn’t going to help matters any. In fact, it’s just going to pit your feeble Betatude against her imagined hyper-Alpha ideal, and your shit is going to look weak in comparison.

But this? This is Alpha. It might sting, but its unmistakable backbone. She might get pissed off, but she won’t be bored. And you’ve got about a 50-50 shot at hotel sex (more, if you aren’t choosy about who it’s with). If your relationship has been going through one unsatisfactory “relationship discussion” after another, and you’re struggling with finding a good Red Pill moment to draw a line in the sand, this might be your day. This might be the way. Because nothing says “your relationship is in trouble” to any woman, feminist or not, than having her co-workers ask “so what did your husband do for you on Valentine’s Day?” with a knowing smile, and having to say “he let me bathe, sleep, and masturbate by myself while he was at a strip bar and then checked into a hotel.”

I mean, “we had surprise hotel sex” sounds a lot better, or at least a lot less dysfunctional. Even to alleged feminists.

Gentlemen, if you're considering taking the Red Pill, make this Valentines Day your day to revolt from Beta Chumpatude and start cultivating the Alpha that she might not even know she wants. Buy yourself (and/or her) a copy of Married Man's Sex Life Primer and start standing up straight when you walk. Study Married Game and then game the hell out of your wife . . . whether she "wants" it or not. Start taking control of your marriage, your relationship, and your sex life . . . before you get stuck doing laundry in a vain attempt to earn her love, respect, and poon. Do it right, and then next year you'll have to think up something crazy to do for Valentine's Day . . . because just regular great sex will be so ordinary that it just won't be as special anymore. That doesn't mean you can get out of doing laundry, though.

Because, as Mrs. Ironwood says, a dude doing laundry is sexiest when the sheets he's washing he messed up honestly.

The Real "Happily Ever After"

It’s rare that I run across anything Red Pill friendly over at HuffPo, but the other day I came across a very telling post from a blogger, Martha Lyles. She is essentially writing a letter to herself, from her modern perspective as a wife and mother and grandmother to the 20 year old woman she was, who was so excited about her Big Party. Ironically, this was in the “Religion” section, not the “Women”, “Weddings” or “Divorce” sections (and note there is no “Men” section...and the Democrats wonder why more men don't vote for them...) It’s entitled “Letter To A Young Bride After 43 Years Of Marriage”, and it’s a wonderful retrospective on her marriage (as opposed to her “wedding”).

I’ll let you read the whole thing – it’s quite poignant – but there is one quote I want to hone in on:

“...The same goes for being a wife. You'll marvel at Dick's unswerving commitment. You'll learn to put him first and -- believe it or not -- you'll delight in doing so. You'll see your role as his helpmate and cheerleader. You'll pack his bags for business trips, tucking love notes under ties. You'll view all the joys in your life as gifts from above, like the six wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked grandkids who clamor for your cookies and your kisses. And you'll sense, time and again, the grace conferred in your wedding Mass sustaining you as husband and wife.”

Religious sentiment aside for a moment, consider the perspective: “You’ll learn to put him first and – believe it or not – you’ll delight in doing so.”

This is not, as you might think, a “see, I toldya so!” about male dominance in a relationship. This is a “see, I toldya so!” about how you don’t get divorced.

It's also a glimpse into the real, Red Pill reality of Happily Ever After (HEA), the romantic nirvana that inspires romance novels, mommy porn, and soap operas.

When you want to study how to do something, the two areas you focus on are “successes” (to establish a base-line metric) and “failures” (to determine how deviations from protocol derail successes). Athol spent a considerable time in marriage forums preparing for his book, and if you have to then you can see how learning from other people's failures can be valuable for avoiding hasty divorce. However, if you want to know how to keep your marriage going, it's a good idea to not just focus on the failures but spend some time looking at successes to inform your marital toolkit.

After all, what is a “successful marriage”? Certainly, one in which you aren’t getting divorced has to be held as a basic standard. That doesn’t mean that your marriage is a success if you aren’t divorced, it just means that it’s “failing”, not “failed”.

When women in their youth begin to form their True Love inspired Happily Ever After fantasy, it rarely includes things like packing suitcases for their husband’s business trips or struggling through childbirth alone while your husband is on deployment. Or the ugly reality that is early childhood development. For many modern young women, the idea of “having kids” is so abstract and glamorized and sanitized for them by our culture that they don't understand the level of involvement necessary to keep them from becoming willfully ignorant drains on society.

To young women today, it's as if children were a status symbol, not a new life, merely an option like a new car with leather interior, and not a life-long personal commitment. They are allured by the feminist ideal of “equality” and "equal opportunity", which means that they see family and children (and eventual divorce and remarriage) as part of the expected checklist -- and their dedication to "equality" means they expect that whatever poor Beta chump they marry will handle all the details. (Or, conversely, that she will marry well enough to have servants to care for them like her favorite celebs.) "Happily Ever After" is a gauzy vague cloud of ill-defined bliss that follows the Honeymoon to them, the natural and inevitable conclusion to "True Love".

But True Love, Red Pill style implies a host of boring, mundane, petty little compromises that do little to empower you as a woman or see you reach “your full potential” in the feminist sense. I recently read another screed at HuffPo (not important enough to hunt down the quote) about how Michelle Obama shouldn’t have said “Being a Mother is my most important job”, because that put too much pressure on everyone to reproduce and emphasize their children over their career elements. She offered instead “Being a Woman is my most important job”, with motherhood and relationships and such secondary to her solipsistic “all about me” perspective. She didn’t even mention a husband, except as an annoyance that got in her way. Motherhood, to feminism, is a bother, a needless distraction away from the self-indulgent achievement-based Matrix climb for fame, cash and prizes.

And the term “wife” is anathema to feminists. When a feminist reflexively uses the term, it’s almost apologetic. “Husband” is often used with a proud sense of ownership, like she just got a great lease on a car, but a feminist woman rarely describes herself as a “wife” unless she’s in trouble. And a feminist has very little, if any, ideological instruction on being a wife save how to end the practice. Feminism celebrates divorce and punishes success when it comes to marriage.

Now, if you’re a long-term carousel rider with a fat trust fund, then sure, a string of wealthy ex-husbands while you assert your feminist privilege doesn’t hurt anyone but those poor chumps. Such childless, often sexless unions in the UMC have been a social bloodsport for decades. But once you start getting kids involved, shit gets real. You aren’t just splitting up the CD collection when you divorce, you’re splitting up a family with people who depend on you, and that’s got jack to do with your self-important career goals. The feminist approach to "family" in general is little better than their approach to "marriage". Gentlemen, you are warned.

But back to the successes. As I was saying, it’s important, if you want to avoid divorce, to study what goes right, as well as what goes wrong. This wonderful article is by a woman with a 43 year track record willing to impart some cosmic wisdom on you, ladies. Listen up. This is what Happily Ever After looks like, not three ex-husbands and a lonely condo full of cats in Miami.

Feminists can often manage to get married . . . they can rarely manage to stay married. And very, very few can be said to be in "happy" marriages (marriages in which both parties can consistently say that they are happy with the way things are going). And part of the reason has nothing to do with ideology -- it's because they don’t know how to be married. In attempting to re-write the social rules of marriage, feminism's built-in escape hatch made the effort to work on a marriage a lot harder than ending it. Feminists can become brides pretty easily, thanks to the power of pussy. They can just as easily become ex-wives, with a stroke of a pen. They rarely become "wives" (under the Rectification of Names). So for all of their vaunted empowerment, it seems that feminism insists that an empowered feminist woman can do ANYTHING . . . except be a good wife.

That, of course, fuels hypergamy and divorce and other crap, but the plain fact is that feminism has rejected the Happily Ever After in favor of the EPL divorce, and now we have a nation of women bellyaching that they STILL aren't happy, despite getting everything their heart desired for 40 years. They want their Happily Ever After, but they aren't willing to do the work required. And Happily Ever After requires a lot of work. Just ask Martha Lyles.

This woman was a wife. She had a husband. She didn’t have a co-equal partner in her relationship, she had a captain of her ship to whom she was loyal and respectful. She did things for him that a feminist considers demeaning: packed his suitcase, quit school, ended her career aspirations for his benefit, raised his children, cooked his meals. She deferred to him in important ways, and often in unimportant ways, not because the custom or religious rite demanded it, but because that’s how successful marriages work.

She doesn't write about the sacrifices her husband may have made -- that's his story, not hers. She doesn't write about how hard it was and how regretful she is of her missed opportunities. She writes of the sacrifices of a woman in her marriage, but she also writes of the rewards. The Happily Ever After. Grandchildren, a big happy family, and a great husband she adores and looks up to. And she doesn’t just mention he’s a “great husband”, she describes an important attribute of his greatness in his devotion and thoroughness in helping her fight cancer. No mere domineering chauvinist is likely to do that. He repaid her sacrifice and devotion with his loyalty and steadfastness, not merely providing practical support during her struggle, but being her unwavering rock to which she clung as she wrestled with her own mortality.

Any of your weak-willed Beta future ex- husbands going to do that, feminists? Good luck.

The important thing to take away from this success story is simple: the author was not merely extolling the virtues of marriage, but she was demonstrating the necessary dedication to fulfilling Happily Ever After.

You don’t ever plan to get cancer in Happily Ever After. But you do get a strong and resilient Prince Charming willing to stand over your wounded body with a sword, keeping the monsters at bay. You don’t imagine that you’ll get piles of diapers and bills and bad report cards and problem children in Happily Ever After. But you do get a strong, disciplined father to keep order and enforce policy among your children until they can do it on their own. You might conceivably envision grandchildren in your Happily Ever After, sitting around rosy-cheeked and respectful of you. But you probably don’t understand how to get to that point – and truly appreciate it – because you have to first raise your own brood to adulthood and steer them toward their own productive relationship before you get rosy-cheeked grandbabies.

For those feminists who feel they can have a “co-equal partnership” with a man, while secretly exerting feminine privilege as a means of manipulating and controlling your husband until you lose all respect and desire for him, you are forever denied this Happily Ever After. Because you refuse to do the work and be a wife to your husband. You get the EPL version, in which you marry a billionaire after spending your ex-husband’s money on eating, praying, and loving. Oh, and good luck with that billionaire – I hear there are simply scads of them around.

(Or was that cats?)

But it's not just a bust for single feminist career gals. It works both ways.

For those men who have eschewed the possibility of marriage in the pursuit of a permanent ticket to the Puerarchy, letting your bad experiences and fear of rejection give you a rationalization why you shouldn’t be required to invest in a 50-50 shot at success, please believe me when I tell you sincerely that I appreciate your willingness to Go Your Own Way. But you, too, are exempt from this Happily Ever After. In truth, you may change your mind at some point, when you are older and your perspectives change. Our sperm is viable into our 70s, and a mid-life family has a lot of advantages. But if you are committed to being uncommitted to a woman, then expect a long, slow decline with fewer friends alive every year, until you are alone, babbling incoherently to robots in some distant future retirement community.

Marriage is by no means for everyone. But it is not, as some would contend, not for anyone. It’s a trade-off, an exchange of commitments and obligations and sacrifices and dedications and courtesies and fears and delights and secrets and trusts and weaknesses and power and – yes – financial considerations and sex, and if you are not prepared to indulge in that kind of personal commitment and dedication (and few 20 year olds of this generation are) then I encourage you to avoid the issue entirely. Believe me, it will take the pressure off to not have to worry about marriage and family.

So put “Happily Ever After” away in your mind not as "mythical" but merely as forever out of reach. Substitute some government-subsidized retirement plan at a tropical resort where you’ll expire on the golf course or in your sleep . . . alone. Imagine a world in which you are by yourself at age 50 and the doctor mentions cancer and you realize that since your sister died you have no one in the world to call and talk to about it. That’s the "swinging single" alternative to Happily Ever After. When you’re writing up your last will and testament, and you realize that everything you own and collected and cared for will go to your niece in nephew who live in another state and who might pass you in the grocery store without recognizing you, that’s what you get when you’ve lost Happily Ever After. The real Happily Ever After.

Because Happily Ever After doesn’t mean a blissful paradise of champagne and strawberries and anniversary dinners in four-star restaurants. It doesn’t mean kinky hotel sex and romantic walks on the beach as a matter of course. There are few diamonds in for-real HEA. You want the truth? Happily Ever After can be brutal, as anyone’s life can be brutal. But Happily Ever After softens the brutality with a thick protective layer of humanity, wherein the love you pledged at the altar has grown between the two of you and expanded and transformed until it supports a web of such love that echoes across generations.

When you’re surrounded by your wife and your children and their spouses, all deeply concerned about your well-being and quality of life when your body betrays you, that’s Happily Ever After.

When your sons, grown men all, and your grandsons drop everything in their busy lives to rush to your bedside and then spring into action to build a wheelchair ramp you didn’t think you’d need, that’s Happily Ever After.

When your daughter-in-law enlists the aid of experts and researches the furthest reaches of medical science on your behalf, motivated by love and pure, unadulterated respect for the only father she has left, that’s Happily Ever After.

When an entire community floods your house with calls assuring their support, based on their deep respect for who you are and what you’ve done to touch their lives, that’s Happily Ever After.

When your wife holds your hand and cries so you won’t have to when you tell the doctor to go ahead and take the leg, that’s Happily Ever After.

This month, Papa Ironwood got an up close and personal look at the stark nature of Happily Ever After . . . and compared to the alternative, he considers himself a very blessed man. I think it made the decades of sacrifice and effort and toil to keep his marriage and his family a going concern worthwhile. Whether or not you agree with him, well, let's just say that he's got the benefit of experience to support his position.

But then, he's always been wiser than the rest of us. He wanted Happily Ever After . . . so he built it for his wife and kids, one hug, one kiss, one drop of sweat and one tear at a time.

There comes a point in every man’s relationship with his woman where the comfortable familiarity you feel waking up next to the same face every day slowly but inevitably becomes a kind of ennui that can lead to all sorts of snappish behavior. That seems counterintuitive: you’d think that the more time you spend with your lovely lady, the more time you would want to spend with her. But somewhere along the way things just get . . . routine. And if you don’t take care, you can find this familiarity breeding contempt or worse, a plethora of Shit Tests.

I’ve been over this particular bump in the relationship road more than once, but it took years for me to realize its origin and nature before I could formulate an effective treatment. My first few years with Mrs. Ironwood were the usual hazy cloud of love, infatuation, and novelty sex, so I was appropriately distracted from the issue of relationship complacency. But about Year Three, after most of a long hot summer cohabitating, going to summer classes, and working food service jobs, we started getting into a long, petty, nasty little rut where we’d seek to out-submit each other for the Blue Pill prize of boredom.

Things got hairy enough to consider relationship counseling – but we were young and broke and uninsured, so we settled for argument and introspection instead. Cheaper. Finally, the proto-Mrs. Ironwood cornered me after a particularly viscious and pointless spat, ostensibly to continue it, when she abruptly changed tactics and actually asked me what was wrong. I thought for the barest of seconds.

“I need to miss you more, I guess,” was all I could sheepishly say.

That took Mrs. I by surprise, but she took it at face value, too. Within a few days I had found myself signed on to a road trip with a bunch of dudes to another state for the purpose of manly indulgence in masculine things like hitting people with sticks, drinking homebrewed mead and swearing forsoothly. It wasn’t more than a long weekend, but when I returned I attacked the future Mrs. Ironwood with renewed vigor and lustfulness. Indeed, I just needed to miss her more. And vice versa.

There’s an old bluegrass tune I enjoy called “How Can I Miss You If You Won’t Go Away?” and I like it because it is instructive. As much as we love the dear object of affection, the woman who birthed your children and pledged her undying love to you before the gods and her kin, the woman who would happily take a bullet or cut a bitch on your behalf, that woman whose very name makes your heart beat faster is also the one who can drive you fucking batshit insane if you don’t get out of her sphere of influence and remember where your testicles are every now and then.

As we've lost our grasp on traditional masculinity, thanks to the overthrow of the Patriarchy, we've also lost some of the noble traditions that kept our revered paternal ancestors from murdering or otherwise ending their relationships with our revered maternal ancestors. It is a lost truth that every adult man needs to renew the well of his masculinity in the company of other men, preferably in the completion of some quest, contest, or great feat of arms or skill. In other words, Grandad knew that sometimes the best way to deal with Grandma was to get the hell out of Dodge for a few days, kick back with the guys, and bask in the utter lack of feminine presence.

That didn’t mean (necessarily) that Grandad was getting some homoerotic action on the DL on his hunting trips, it just meant that a straight testosterone injection in the form of male fellowship in the completion of a common goal is oft the best treatment for your wife’s face becoming too familiar to you.

In ancient times, it was chthonic monsters or evil witches or tyrannical kings that needed slaying. In the Middle Ages, dragons, grails, crusades and general errantry were preferred. In our grandsires’ day it was Theodore Roosevelt-style hunting and fishing trips in the rugged wilderness that haunted the masculine imagination. But in our present day and age, this important masculine ritual is typically fulfilled via the expedient of the great American masculine tradition:

The Road Trip.

That’s right. Pile in the car with two or more male buddies (strangers can work . . . if you dare . . .), fill up the tank, load up on beef jerky and diet soda, and drive to some destination of note for a trip of no less than four days’ duration. Yes, four days – any less time and you won’t be gone long enough for her to miss you. And that’s part of the point, for her to live a couple of days without you up her butt and to the left.

You see, it’s very easy, especially in a cohabitation or marriage situation, for you and your woman to take each other for granted when it comes to a lot of the daily chores and minutia of living. Often it’s a matter of the female becoming dependent on the male for certain chores, and a few days of her being forced to be self-reliant and miss you is a good way to remind her just how valuable you are in her life. And a few nights with no one snoring next to her is sure to inspire some anxious thoughts. Inevitably, those late night what-would-I-do-without-him? internal monologues are great ways to make her think dreadfully without you actually having to employ Dread.

Think about it: women have a deep-seated need to communicate, and they thrive on being able to give regular updates about their FSMto you on a daily basis. Being deprived of that is kind of like suddenly being deprived of the freedom to masturbate, for a dude. You start to get backed up. When you keep her from being able to give you updated reports, it makes her reflect more powerfully on your role in her life.

(Or your absence provides a perfect opportunity for her to cheat on you . . . as well as a perfect opportunity for your recently-hired private investigator to follow her around and catch her cheating on you, if you’re at that stage of the relationship.)

But the real point of the Road Trip isn’t about your relationship with her, although that is the beneficiary. No, the point is about your relationship with yourself, and your own sense of masculinity.

As has been said here and elsewhere often before, Girls Become Women Naturally, Boys Must Be Made Into Men By Other Men, reflecting the importance of male mentorship in the maturing process that turns an adolescent male into a functioning adult Man. Women enjoy a biological edge to their maturity, and apart from the occasional hint about how to get blood stains out of an all-white sofa, a woman’s body largely takes care of providing her with what she needs to become a full-fledged, reproducible adult.

For dudes, however, that process is far from automatic, and usually a culture has developed an entire suite of rituals and customs to usher the boys of the tribe into manhood. But what is rarely discussed is the importance of being able to regularly renew that sense of primal masculinity, either through challenge and introspection or through competition and camaraderie with your fellow men. Men, as a rule, borrow each others’ masculine power the way women borrow each others’ purses. If we don’t have a chance to wallow in testosterone with our buds every now and again, we get wimpy and start watching Dancing With The Stars even when our wives aren't around.

There are many essential elements to a ball-busting cross country hellride: a working vehicle (recommended) at least two fellow men around your own age, a pocket full of gas money, and a destination. Discussion of all pertinent Manosphere topics are fair game, with no lasting blame or recrimination being levied for voicing unusual ideas (unless it’s just too good to pass up, like the way Dennis has a thing for girls with little boobs), and with the tacit understanding that No One Talks About Fight Club. What happens in the car, in other words, stays in the car.

The discretion involved in an all-male roadtrip is one of the foundations of the Bro Code. If Steve talks about how he felt up his cousin once, then it stays there – you don’t want your buddies’ deepest, darkest secrets to become fodder for the FSM -- that's the clinical definition of "the wrong hands". No one likes a gossipy dude, and betraying male trust at that level is hard to forgive and forget.

This includes any lengthy discussion about sex, women, sex with women, women with whom we’d like to have sex, and sex with that one chick that one time. It also covers any women you see, meet, or flirt with. All such discussions are protected.

Alcohol is often involved in these endeavors, as are drugs of various sorts. See: The Hangover. Your Masculine Cone of Silence extends to this area. NOTE: You should without fail do your best to AVOID INCARCERATION when it comes to a Road Trip, as this just eats into Fun Time, and has a tendency to turn Beer Money into Bail Money, and that’s just not very much fun. (Bright side: you might get the opportunity to live out that homoerotic“gang raped in prison” fantasy on your bucket list).

But even the talking and drinking aren’t the important parts of this Alpha Move. The important parts revolve around how you, yourself, reclaim your masculinity. That starts with distancing yourself from your relationship. This is hard, particularly if your friends all refer to you and your wife by a collective name. But if you cannot establish and protect your own individual identity from your wife if you don’t go out and be your own man for a change. And if you don’t remind yourself how to be your own man . . . you won’t be.

The temptation to invite your honey along on your adventure is great, but you should resist. Sure, having theoretical access to your favorite ladyparts is a great idea, but the whole point of this endeavor is to give yourself some perspective and an unmitigated dip in the testosterone tank. Hell, don't even call her more than once a day, and don't text, either, if you can possibly help it. It’s not just whether or not you can manage to feed, bathe, and clothe yourself properly without her assistance, it’s about how you carry yourself around strangers, how you behave when you meet new women, how you act when no one around you knows jack shit about you but what you tell them.

It’s an opportunity for soul-stretching adventure, for testing yourself and your limitations, for redefining who you are and what that means. It’s about how you have to sometimes rely on unreliable people to finish what you started, and how to go about doing that. It’s putting yourself in a controlled crisis situation and watching yourself react and perform. It's a reminder of those tests-of-manhood you endured in your youth . . . and why they were so important then. Surprise surprise, they're still pretty important.

I’m not saying you have to go running with the bulls, diving the rift, or run some crazy cross-country rally race – but a road trip with a bunch of dudes is a unique and vital way of feeding the masculine soul, and one that is incredibly fulfilling, even when the trip just sucks.

And of course, when you do return, don’t screw around with any “So how was your trip, honey?” bullshit.

You walk in the door, you start taking off your clothes and bellowing for your woman. If she isn’t utterly happy to see you, and eagerly looking forward to the trip to Pound Town you’re about to give her . . . well, maybe she needs a couple more days to miss you more.

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.

Dude . . . Got A Minute?

Dude.

Can I call you dude? Do we have a 'dude relationship'? You know, that kind of dude-at-the-next-urinal relationship where I can tell you something, one dude to another, without the bullshit? Will you trust me -- just for the next couple of paragraphs -- to give you the straight shit? I don't know you, you don't know me, we're just a couple of dudes, both doing our thing, and I have no vested interest in your relationship.

I'm just a dude. Like you. So, if you have a few minutes, let me lay some cosmic wisdom on you. But let me distract you with an image of a tastefully sexy girl doing something refreshingly domestic to maintain your attention, first.

Did that help you focus? I thought it might. After all, we're both dudes.

If you are reading this, it is because your wife, girlfriend, best friend, brother-in-law, sister, or someone else close to you, who both cares for you and who has a good working knowledge of your relationship (and who may have used a dummy e-mail address), thinks that it would benefit you to read this particular blog post on this particular blog. Why? It could be any number of reasons, but let's assume that a good friend who doesn't want to be gauche enough to say it to your face thinks you and your relationship would benefit from the following piece of advice:

You're doing it wrong.

That is, the relationship/marriage you are in, which at casual inspection seems "perfectly fine", is suffering, and someone you know can see that. That may come as a shock to you, or it may not. Why is it suffering? More than likely,the root of the problem is the fact that you aren't being All That You Can Be in the whole manhood department.

Whoa! Don't freak out -- this is (probably) not a prelude to divorce or a relationship ultimatum. This is a gentle reminder, a casual hint, a wink-wink-nudge-nudge dude, you need to pay attention to this! sort of thing. The relationship that you think is so stable and mutually beneficial and strong? Someone thinks that it could be better. Someone thinks that you would benefit from learning something important about your relationship that, perhaps, you just weren't aware of.

You're doing it wrong -- but it's really not your fault. I mean, how could it be? People have been telling you how you're supposed to be doing it for years -- but they were wrong, and so now you're doing it wrong.

You see, when you got into your relationship with your current woman, she was HOT for you. I mean, when she thought about you, her stomach flip-flopped, her eyes got all dreamy, her ladyparts got all dewy, and there was nothing -- nothing --that she thought about more than you.

But . . . well, it's been awhile, and while you're still a perfectly good dude -- don't get me wrong, in places you probably border on greatness -- there's this one area where you're just not quite getting the job done.

It's actually not one certain thing -- it's a bunch of related things, but they all come down to you needing to step-up, "man up", grow a pair, and quit acting like such a pussy when it comes to your woman.

Seriously -- it pains me to say it, but that's the fact, Jack. You wouldn't be reading this otherwise. When your woman does something, wants something, says something . . . you fold like a cheap card table and do your damnedest to make it happen, no matter how difficult or unreasonable. You're whipped. Maybe not even in an obvious way, but it's there. Everyone knows who's in charge of your household, your relationship. Even your woman -- and it's killing her.

No, really. Every time she gives you an unreasonable ultimatum and you don't call her on it, her love for you dies a little. Every time you kiss her ass so that she'll like you, despite what she says, the opposite is true. Believe it or not, she likes it when you show some backbone. In fact, that makes her panties wet -- and when was THAT ever a bad thing?

The truth is, YOU used to make her panties wet, just by being you. And that was great -- really. The infatuation, the courtship, the maelstrom of feelings that compelled you to go after this particular girl, she felt it too. It wasn't fake. It wasn't your imagination. You had a real connection, some chemistry. You were a manly man, and she found great value in that.

Only now . . . not so much.

Oh, sure, she still likes you. She even loves you. But is she breathlessly checking her phone every five minutes to see if you've texted? Is she still making mistakes at work because she's thinking about you? Of course not. You're past that point now, aren't you? You're in the comfortable part of the relationship, when you can both just "be", without pretense or illusion or obfuscation. She can "get to know the real you" and appreciate and love you just for being you. And she is. Only . . .

. . . well, you know that infatuation stage? It's amazing, isn't it? You've probably been coasting along on the strength of that for years -- if you're married, certainly since your wedding day, haven't you? And that's cool -- you aren't a kid anymore.

But now you have to keep in mind that the woman who made you giddy with desire the moment someone mentioned her name is also remembering those times fondly, and she's wondering where the fuck they went? I mean, things have been fine, sure . . . but things have been "fine". Maybe even a little friction, a fight, a "discussion", something . . . but the fact is, "fine" isn't what she signed up for. She signed up for "amazing", and she's dealing with "fine", but the first time she see's "amazing", you have to wonder . . . is she going to be happy enough with "fine" to not even consider pursuing "amazing"? How about the second time? The third?

Dude, not trying to scare you here, just trying to give you a clue. Your woman, whether she knows it or not, whether she's the one who sent you here or not, your woman wants you to step up and take charge. She wants you to lead her. She wants to be in awe of your masculinity. She wants to gush to her girlfriends -- not about the manly way you take out the trash or pick up her dry-cleaning, but how you dazzle her on a daily basis with your wit and charm. She wants to feel the chemistry that attracted her to you in the first place. But she can't say that. It sucks, but the fact is, if she has to ask you to take charge, then you aren't really "taking charge".

She can't give you permission to take the lead. You have to just take it, on your own initiative, or it doesn't count. Forget for a moment whether or not she's going to get pissed off, because if you do it right, she just might be a little pissed off at first -- and that's not a bad thing. You have to understand that, that's essential: you may have to piss her off a little to keep her engaged in the relationship. Why? Because, to paraphrase Feris Bueller, "you just can't respect a man who kisses your ass all the time".

And you're getting dangerously close, Dude, or you wouldn't be reading this.

Let's pause for a moment, look at another sexy, tastefully erotic picture of a pretty girl, and marshal our resources before we move on.

See how well that calms your mind and improves your focus? Now back to the message.

It's not a lost cause -- there's still some time to turn things around before someone does or says something stupid and things get fucked up. Nobody wants that. All you need it step up your game a bit, take command, and start remembering who the fuck you were before you started being blinded by her puss--- ah, her femininity.

That's key: finding the masculine Dude in your soul. The Dude who once looked across the room, sized her up, and said, "yeah, that's worth hitting", and you went for it. That's the dude she wants to see. The dude who struts, who thinks he's hot shit. The dude you were before you met her.

So show a little backbone in the future. If you aren't having sex with her at least once every five days or so (that's six times a month, for you liberal arts majors) then she's probably not really intrigued with you the way that's ideal. If you aren't kissing her at least once or twice a day -- not a bullshit peck on the cheek, but a sudden, come-from-behind, press her against the wall, and plant a good ten-second smooch with tongue and dry humping and hard nipples, then you're doing it wrong. If you aren't the dude all of her girlfriends want to sleep with in a moment of drunken weakness, then you're doing it wrong. If you walk across the room naked, fresh from the shower and Mr. Happy bouncing around in front of her and she doesn't at least look up and bite her lip . . . you're doing it wrong.

Look, I know it's not all you. You got complacent, she got complacent. You both relaxed into a mutual comfort zone while you enjoyed the emerging fruits of your relationship, and . . . stuff just sort of slipped away. On your side, you probably aren't getting laid as much as you like, and when you do get laid it's nothing to blog anonymously about. Hell, you might be whacking off more now than when you met her. She's just not responding to you the way she used to, but you've just . . . accepted that.

And that sucks. Because both of you want essentially the same thing, you just don't know how to go about it. You've been told for your entire life about how you need to respect women, listen to women, treat women as equals. And that's great, as far as it goes, but when it comes to your relationship, believe it or not, your woman doesn't want you to treat her as an equal when it comes to certain aspects of your relationship. She wants you to be strong, firm, and decisive. She wants you to know what you want, and go after it -- even if she doesn't approve. She wants you to be the dude every chick in the room wants to bang, but the one she's lucky enough to be going home with.

That's a tall order, I know. I mean, how do you go from "I respect you too much to do that" to "Hell, yeah, I want a blowjob baby!" without sounding like a complete idiot? The fact is, it isn't easy -- at first. But either is realizing that your woman's panties don't get wet because of your decent job and neatly-trimmed yard, your willingness to watch chick flicks or buy tampons for her. All the things you've been doing for her so she'll like you enough to fuck you, those are BETA skills, and while they're important for a long term relationship . . . well, Betas don't get much play. Nice guys don't get wildly fucked by passionate women.

This looks like another good spot for a Pretty Girl break. Just bear with me . . . we're almost done.

Now that's how they did it in Grandad's day!

And that's something to consider, as well: your grandfather likely had an entirely different take on how to manage his relationship than you do -- and while the rules of the game have changed dramatically since then, the players -- men and women -- still desire the same basic things. Your grandad knew how to handle himself around women back then, and it wasn't by kissing their asses. You don't have to completely dick out -- don't get me wrong. But here are a few things that your granddad probably would tell you that you need to change, and right now:

Don't apologize unless you are genuinely at fault, or there is a dead animal involved. Seriously, if she has a bad day at work, don't say "I'm sorry you had a bad day". Say "that really sucks, baby. Why don't you tell me the high points, and then we can take steps to help you forget about it?"

When she makes an inherently unreasonable request -- say, calling you from across the house to hand her a pair of scissors that's less than four feet away -- then refuse to do it on general principal. I mean, if you don't value your time enough to get upset when she pulls some unreasonably flaky shit like that, then what's stopping her from doing that all the time. . . and loving you a little less for how willing you are to kiss her ass? You have to respect yourself before she can respect you, and if you're kissing her ass all the time in the remote hope for pussy, then that demonstrates a lack of self-respect.

Sure, every woman wants a devoted man in her life, but they don't want to be in a relationship with a pussy. Being devoted means that you bring her flowers unexpectedly, you check her oil without being asked, and you'd rather take her out on Saturday night than any other girl in town . . . not that you wait on her hand-and-foot and make her every desire manifest.

Seriously, Dude, even if you've invested heavily in the "equality" meme, then recognize that you two can't even be equals if you're deferring to her constantly. Tell her NO when she makes an unreasonable suggestion. No elaboration, no "I'm sorry, Honey, but . . . ", just tell her "no, that doesn't work for me." Put yourself back into the equation of your own relationship. She's not going to give you permission to disagree with her -- that defeats the purpose.

Here's something you need to try out: be decisive. You know what kills your chances of nookie probably more than anything else? The words, "I don't know, Honey, whatever you want to do is fine." That's it. Sure, you're trying to be deferent and considerate, putting her needs, wants and desires before yours, out of your deep and abiding respect for the dignity of her womanhood blah, blah, blah, but the simple fact of the matter is that she wants you to take a fucking stand and tell her where you want to go -- no equivocation, no second-guessing, no picking what you think she wants. Just. Pick. A. Fucking. Restaurant. Seriously.

And don't just hesitantly pick it -- when she asks you "so where do you want to eat tonight?" you tell her "I want Golden Corral tonight. I'll meet you there at 7:30. Order me a Coke if you get there first." Done and done. Don't worry about picking the "wrong" choice -- be a man and take the risk. In fact, when it comes to your relationship it's far, far more important to be certain than it is to be right. Really. Trust me on this. Take a stand and stick by it.

What if she doesn't like it? Tell her, "well, can you make a compelling argument for that decision?" and then shut up and let her talk. Give her an opportunity to persuade you, instead of direct you. Put the issue in doubt, and if she feels strongly enough about it, she'll speak up. She's not your mother, and she hates feeling like your mother. She really wants you to be the Man, in that rugged, traditional, rugged and determined sort of way, despite what you may have heard her say to the contrary. She wants you to be a Rock Solid Authority -- but open to her suggestions. Hell, if you really do have no opinion on the matter, pick something at random and defend it dickishly until she does persuade you. Make her work for it a little. Don't over-do it, but nothing says "dry panties" like "I dunno, whatever you want is fine, I guess."

And that brings us to the subject of the sex . . . yes, you like that part! I bet that got your attention! Sex was like, one of the best things about your woman, back when you met her, remember? You LOVED the sex. So does she, at least theoretically. But can you honestly say that your sex life now is as hot as it was when you first met?

How about another girly pic while you're considering that question:

I mean, just between us dudes . . . when was the last time you really rang her bell? Is there a certain complacency, a certain habitual nature of how you two knock boots? Ten minutes of foreplay, three positions, twelve and a half minutes, she cums twice, you do your thing, God that was great, snore . . .

Sound familiar? Sound depressing?

Or does it actually sound a lot better than things actually are?

Let me tell you about something my father told me about: the Penny Jar.

When a young man marries a woman, for the first year of their marriage he should quietly put a penny in a jar on his dresser for every time he and his new bride make love. Then, after their first anniversary, he should start taking a penny out of the jar every time they have sex.

If you have a typical Blue Pill marriage . . . the jar never gets emptied.

("Blue Pill"? That's a Manosphere expression that means "the idealistic and mistaken way you think things work; illusion", like in the Matrix (the good one). "Red Pill" means "the pragmatic way things actually work." We use this term usually in connection with relationships and over-all male-female gender relations. And if someone sent you a link to this blog post, then someone thinks you have a typical Blue Pill marriage. Your Penny Jar, in other words, will never get emptied.)

Why? It's pretty simple, actually -- all that bold shit you did to attract your woman and persuade her to get humpity with her in the first place? That went away once you and she started being "serious". It's not entirely her fault -- the fact is, you wanted to "make her happy" and so you started doing whatever you thought she wanted you do so she would still hump you silly. Only . . . well, all that nice stuff you did to make her feel comfortable and happy also made her . . . well, kinda bored.

God, she'd never say anything -- maybe send her dude a link via anonymous email account, at the most -- but she'd never want to hurt his feelings by telling him that he's not, y'know, the Man. That would be awful -- even she knows that! And maybe she's dropped a few hints you haven't picked up on, but the end result is the same . . . Dude, you really need to step it up.

And that goes for the bedroom, too. Quit being so . . . gentle. I mean, she's already decided to screw you -- you don't have to worry about her scampering off (unless you try to surprise her with something . . . y'know, too kinky without prior notice). So if she's there, she's ready, she's naked, as soon as you think it's right you get on top of her and you go CONAN on her ass. Do her like it's the night before your four-year prison sentence begins. Do her like they're revoking your cock for thirty days. Do her like you fucking mean it . . . because if you don't, then she thinks you don't. And that's never a good thing.

Another babe, while you think about that:

Sweet, huh? But not very "respectful". But then, the idea that women value respect over admiration and desire is a relatively new phenomenon, and despite some claims to the contrary, there are plenty of women who want less respect and more passionate desire in their lives. Even if that means accepting the fact that you are the Man, and forgetting all about equality for a while.

Consider, Dude: what's the most popular book on Amazon.com? It's not "How to gently make love to your lady wife", it's 50 Shades of Grey -- and if you haven't been paying attention, this little trilogy of mommy porn books isn't filled with tender moments and hand-holding . . . it's filled with raw, poorly-written, highly unlikely emotionally charged Bondage & Discipline and Sado-masochistic sex between a dark and handsome billionaire (of course) and his sweetly submissive -- I mean, pathologically submissive -- beautiful college student chew toy. The "tender moments" usually involve neckties and spanking. There is a lot of really raunchy, poorly-written sex. Believe me, I write erotica, and the sales of this book are not based on its literary merit.

But this thing is selling like batteries at a convent -- so the idea that your woman wants gentle, mutually-pleasurable, overly-consensual sex all the time is crap. If current marketing trends are any indication (and when are they not?) then there is a deep, often-hidden vein of submission within the soul of the American woman that is screaming to get out. There is a part of her that wants to feel owned, possessed, commanded -- and if you aren't the commander, someone else eventually will be. Pay attention to what she does, not what she says, and you'll start tuning into just how much she wants you to -- occasionally -- just throw her on the bed and rip her clothes off. Heck, get some neckties from Goodwill and go all-out. The point is, she's fucking bored with the way you're doing it, and if she doesn't get interested soon, there's no telling

Of course there's a lot more to it than that. If light bondage and a few extra grunts were enough to fix the problem, then it would be easy. But it's not. What you need to do is TAKE CONTROL of your life, and your relationship, before you find it out of control. You can't do that with a few casual tricks. It takes dedication, willpower, courage and devotion to the idea that you -- yes, you, Dude! -- are a masculine prize worthy of contention, a champion striding the earth, the Captain of your own destiny . . . and she is with you because of that, not because of how sharp the lawn looks this week.

Time for another picture. Focus:

So wake up, Dude. Someone is trying to tell you something. You're doing it wrong, and now is the time to correct your course, before you steer into the iceberg. You need to seriously look at your relationship and decide whether or not you are an "equal partner" in all things, or if you are the Man who takes charge, gets things done, and appeals to his woman on the basis of his masculinity, not his income potential. Don't be the dude who finds himself listening to his wife tell him "You know, this just isn't working out. I'm just not happy" a few years down the road.

Oh, sure, that would never happen to you and your devoted woman . . . but I could list a hundred guys off the top of my head who thought the same thing, and ended up single because of it.

There are resources out there to help you -- a collection of blogs and discussion groups known as the Manosphere, filled with your fellow dudes trying to work this shit out just like you are. There are tons of places where you can learn how to manage your woman and your relationship in a way that will benefit you both in the long run. You can learn how to handle her emotional outbursts, interpret what she's saying, and learn how to appeal to her sexually without resorting to expensive gifts or whining. You should, of course, take much of what you find in the Manosphere with a grain of salt, because all of these dudes have slightly different issues than you do, so their solutions might work for them but not for you. But on the other hand, there are lots of dudes who have tons of insight on how the female mind works. Really works, that is, not how they want us to think it works. That's one of the points of the Manosphere, to help you learn how to deal with the woman in your life without considering the benefits of the monastic life. We're here to help.

But even if you don't want to jump into the deep end of the Manosphere yet, you need to realize that someone thought you were doing it wrong, and needed a "word to the wise". So consider it given. You might not get another. Believe it or not, this isn't a slam -- there are plenty of dudes in your boat. And there's still hope, and room to fix it. Just don't ignore it.

One last picture, to kind of clean up:

I'm glad we could have this little talk, Dude. I hope you took it how it was intended. We need to watch each other's backs, after all . . . because it's not like our woman will do that for us.

Don't forget to flush.

signed,

Ian Ironwood,

A FELLOW DUDE

mostly about quilts