Post: #1

The New York Times insists on putting the Modern Love column front-and-center on social media. All are uniformly cringe-inducing, but this, involving a man's misguided pedestalization of a married slut from his past, is the worst I've seen yet:

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/11/07/style...-clue.html

Quote:We Were in Our 20s and We Didn’t Have a Clue
By Peter Orner
Nov. 7, 2017

Always hard to believe the ways details vanish. Even what John Cheever once called the marvelous skulduggery of illicit love, time chips away and scatters, and what you’d thought would be seared for life? Reach for it, it’s gone.

We were still in our 20s though she was already married, a weird novelty. My first conflict with that specter: husband. Society’s great, dull bulwark. We met at another wedding. She was a friend of the bride’s. I was an old roommate of the groom’s. The husband hadn’t joined her. I’d come alone also. We were both in the wedding party and had been assigned to walk down the aisle, arm in arm. She wore a lemon dress. It was my first time in a tuxedo. We got drunk and happy and a lot drunker and a lot happier.

We ended up, as you do in Chicago in July: in Lake Michigan. I think of the dark water, that glorious floating, her dress like a little parachute blooming. Stumbled back to someone’s room, hers or mine, I wasn’t sure. Woke up to the open blinds, afternoon light. On the floor, the sandy wreckage of our respective uniforms. We’d missed breakfast. We’d missed brunch. We’d missed the bride-family versus groom-family softball game. Another bridesmaid was pounding on the door. Must have been her room. Bridesmaids are indentured servants, serfs. Groomsmen get drunk. Easy to say now that we were in our 20s and didn’t have a clue. Fact is we were already making plans.

“Remain here,” she said.

“I’m rooted to these sheets,” I said. “Where are the sheets?”

I slept. She came back a couple of hours later and fell asleep next to me in her clothes. At some point I woke up and gave an impassioned speech about fate and destiny to the hotel-room ceiling. I toasted Mr. Marriott for bringing us together. She slept through it. She was small and blond and wore big glasses. When she was awake, she laughed a lot. She already had a master’s degree. She spoke Basque to her grandmother. She subscribed to the Utne Reader. What more did I need to know?

She lived in St. Louis. I lived in Boston. She worked for an accounting firm and traveled a lot. Three months later she came to Massachusetts for work. I remember this. Walking very slowly, as slowly as possible, down the corridor toward her hotel room. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled. She must have felt my presence because she opened the door and saw me and laughed and got down on her hands and knees and crawled my way. Had it not been for a startled maid and her big cart of sundries, we’d have torn each other to nothing out there in the corridor.

Things get hazier. The single bed in my dog meat apartment in Allston. Her putting lotion on her feet. A walk in Boston Common. Milkshakes at J.P. Licks? A rented car and a drive down the Cape to a bed-and-breakfast. How easily she laughed. A kindness in her always wet eyes. Tears waiting all the time, though I never saw them drop. Her braininess. The fact that she paid with her corporate credit card because she knew I had no money.

I was working at the Cambridge Y.M.C.A. on Mass Ave, in the after-school program. I played Ping-Pong and yelled at little kids. And I was writing short stories. She read a couple of them and laughed though I can’t imagine I was trying to be funny. My aim was extreme solemnity. I wanted everything, even then, to be a dirge. But everything delighted her. The clam shack by the Bourne Bridge. Boiled clams were hilarious. Drinkable embryos! At one point, I remember, in the Common, I showed her the statue Robert Lowell wrote about in “For the Union Dead.” I said, Come and live with me. I watched myself. I was gallant. I pulled her close with my poor, artistic hands. In the Cheever story, the guy’s a jewel thief who meets a woman on a cruise. So I worked in day care. Did this mean I couldn’t be a hero?

“In Boston?” she said.

“Technically I live in Allston, which is an independent entity, but it’s also part of Boston.”

“So it’s a neighborhood?”

“Yeah, but sort of more. It’s hard to explain. It’s a little like Kosovo.”

“Or Vatican City.”

“Exactly. Allston’s like Vatican City.”

We walked on, hand-in-hand, swinging arms. I wasn’t going to press the issue, what was obvious was obvious. It had everything to do with time. How you didn’t notice it. How you didn’t even need it. Could be 3 in the afternoon, could be midnight. I remember the silence of the drive back from the Cape. I remember the milkshakes. I remember walking backward, again, very slowly, doing a little backward shimmy, down the same hotel corridor as she stood at her door like an actress, wagging at me with her index finger. A beckoning and goodbye at the same time.

Two weeks later she called. Her husband, she said, was on the line as well. They both had something to say. She wanted to make clear that there wasn’t going to be any more to this. That we’d had our time together. She had no regrets. Did I understand? No more phone calls at work, no more letters sent to work. The husband spoke up: “You all right with this?” His voice was pleasant and considerate. “Look, it’s cool. I know she’s awesome.” She laughed a quick laugh, but stopped. She asked if I wanted to say anything. I said I didn’t think I did.

Part of me wants this to be a sad recounting, not a pathetic one, but I see I’m failing. I’m trying to stay close to the facts as best as I can remember them, but as I say, facts disintegrate. For days, weeks, I mourned around the city. I rode the T and read. I went to work. I shouted at kids to line up for snack. “If you guys don’t line up, there will be no snack, period.” At night, in Allston, I considered the nature of self-pity, how it’s not unlike masturbation in the sense of how satisfying it can be in the short term. And the long term is just a linked chain of short term after short term. Then I’d die.

A few years ago I found myself teaching, briefly, in St Louis. This was at Washington University. (It’s neither here nor there, but my mother had long thought that my life would have turned out better if only I’d been accepted to Wash U for college. She was quite proud that at last I’d made it as a visiting professor.) I thought about calling her or sending her a message. All I had to do was reach out to my friends, the ones whose wedding we met at and who were still together, and ask how to get ahold of her. But it felt more like an obligation to a defunct emotion than something I actually wanted to do.

Still, maybe I’d run into her buying groceries at Schnucks or we’d both be pumping gas on the same island. I’d sit across from her at a cafe and listen to her talk. I’m always interested in the way people edit the details of their lives, the way they compress all the years into sentences.

TL;DR: Broke guy banged a drunk married woman at a wedding. One of his most vivid memories is her compliance-testing him. She banged him again when she was visiting his city on business.

She's merely whoring it up for LOLs, but he took it seriously. She got her beta husband - who is apparently used to this - involved with some half-truth to scare him off. The author thinks it was a romance and that he was the hero of her story, unaware that she's still banging non-clingy dudes nationwide.

He still has soul-crushing Oneitis, not fully understanding that he was never important. He knows it's pathetic but feels compelled to seek validation by putting it in one of the world's largest newspapers anyway, along with a footnote about being a disappointment to his mother. It's almost as if he hopes she'll see it.

EDIT: *gameless. Jesus.

Post: #2

That was painful to read.

I actually didn't find the subject that bad. I think a lot of wisdom could be imparted on this forum if some of the older guys wrote "Affairs Gone Wrong" or "What I Missed Out On" stories. I once wrote one a while back, in fact.

But the way this is put together is nearly unreadable. His highfalutin, pseudo-intellectual tone is off-putting and embarrassing. When we write, we all take on a "voice." His voice comes off like that eighth-grade girl we all knew who had to let everyone know she always made the honor roll. Always!

If this article was a car it would be a Prius. If it was a musician it would be Regina Spektor (that's not a compliment).

This is how writing schools teach people to write, unfortunately, which is why people like me (i.e. an Italian from working-class origins) learned to avoid "fine writing." If they needed an example as to why people prefer video games and cable TV to the written word, this is it.

Post: #3

Concise and excellent analysis.

Post: #4

The world of liberal thought, liberal love and liberal writing always amounts to scattered hallucinations that might have been cut from the movie Trainspotting. The life experience of this man as described here is nothing more a disgusting, unreadable, pointless nightmare of a drug addict, reflecting his sad life as a man without control of himself - in other words, a hapless minion of someone else's mind.

Post: #5

10,000th Eel Post coming up, where will it be?

Post: #6

(11-12-2017 09:40 AM)Days of Broken Arrows Wrote:  But the way this is put together is nearly unreadable. His highfalutin, pseudo-intellectual tone is off-putting and embarrassing. When we write, we all take on a "voice." His voice comes off like that eighth-grade girl we all knew who had to let everyone know she always made the honor roll. Always!

You know what's even more gross?

That these people are so pretentious that they think writing about a simp affair with a married woman is something worthy of aproaching with that some "pseudo-intellectual tone" normally reserved for NPR segments about the marxist pomegranite farmers of Botswana.

Post: #7

(11-12-2017 10:52 AM)Easy_C Wrote:  You know what's even more gross?

That these people are so pretentious that they think writing about a simp affair with a married woman is something worthy of aproaching with that some "pseudo-intellectual tone" normally reserved for NPR segments about the marxist pomegranite farmers of Botswana.

To really drive your point home, here's 1,200 words on one time some guy's phone died. This was allowed to take up space in the business section.

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/10/19/busin...phone.html

One of the Facebook comments on the story about the affair was along the lines of "This is five minutes of my life that I'll never get back."

The first reply: "The editors of the New York Times would likely be interested in publishing your story."

Post: #8

[The same story rewritten in a different voice and told from a different perspective.]

Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t Have)?

By Days of Broken Arrows

Details disappear. Feelings remain. The writer John Cheever once said something to the effect of “in the marvelous skulduggery of illicit love, time chips away and scatters.” But since that's pretentious crap and his legacy is that he was mocked on the "Seinfeld” episode “The Cheever Letters,” maybe that’s not a place to start.

The truth is: I once slept with a married woman I'd met at a wedding and then got hung up on her...with disastrous results. It happens. Tell me you never got a crush on someone you shouldn’t have and I’ll tell you that you’re a liar.

Anyway, I don’t remember too many of those “details” that I mentioned earlier. But I do remember that my pulse raced when I first saw Mrs. Married Woman for the first time. We’d both been invited to the same wedding but neither of us came with dates. I bristled in the tuxedo I had to wear. I don’t recall exactly what she had on, but I will never, ever forget getting my first look at the massive amount of cleavage she was showing.

I tried to look without looking like I was looking. It’s a tricky thing to do, but when you’re a guy you get good at this sort of thing. And I was really good at it that night with those massive mammaries in my view the whole time. We were from different cities, different social classes, and maybe different planets for all I knew. But we were both alone, so we stuck to each other like glue, which is what loners do at gatherings where everyone else has a loved one at arm’s reach.

I’ll cut to the chase: We woke up together in the same hotel where we’d met less than ten hours earlier. The sunlight streaming in through the blinds hurt my eyes and she had wrapped herself in a blanket, covering up that killer body of hers. Damn.

We missed breakfast but I didn’t care. My tongue was still sore from what we’d done the night before and I wasn’t about to fry it further with bacon and eggs. A bridesmaid came pounding on the door. Were we in her room? I had no idea, but I do remember us throwing on clothes, laughing, and hightailing it out of there quick-style.

We ended up at White Castle. My choice. She had suggested “brunch” and when I laughed in her face at that highfalutin word, she gave up saying “Fine, you pick then, Mr. Know-It-All,” while dialing someone on her “cellie” as she called it.

Little did I know that in a few weeks, that someone would be humiliating me on the phone. It was her husband. Turns out she was married. I didn’t know at first and then I didn’t care.

She was fun, she was funny. She was just the diversion I needed. A temptress in a D-cup. My life had been going nowhere.

I had a day job at the local Y.M.C.A. dealing with other people's brats. In my spare time, I wrote short stories. Or I tried to, anyway. This point was driven home to me when I gave her some of them and she laughed out loud. I wasn't trying to be funny. Still, she was sexy when she laughed and that reminded me why I was so into her in the first place.

Well, that and her massive...um, assets. Those were hard to ignore. She could get away with a lot by wearing a tight sweater. I tried to get her and those tight sweaters to move to my city, but she looked at me like I was insane said in no uncertain terms that wasn’t happening.

When she split for home, I kept on trying to reach her, oblivious to the actual reality of the situation. So I lived in my own world. Who doesn’t, right? I called. I wrote letters that a really hope she’s since thrown out. She said “no” again and then stopped answering altogether.

But to paraphrase an idiotic feminist meme “Still, I persisted.” That would turn out to be a mistake of soul-crushing proportions.

Two weeks later the call came. It was her! Good news! And her husband was on the line, too! Wait, that’s not good! Why am I using exclamation points?! Embarrassment? Humiliation? Shame? All of the above?! You betcha!

She spoke to me like a teacher would scold a second grader while her husband made “uh-huh” sounds as if he was the school principal. The general feeling from them seemed to be that I was a nice boy but my privileges were now being taken away.

No more calls. No more letters. No more fantasies involving me spraying Reddi-Wip on those gargantuan gazangas of her and slowly licking it off as she moaned my name over and over. OK, she didn’t say that last part. But as she was talking, I felt my, er, dreams deflate and fizzle away, and that was one of them.

It was time to take my ball and go home, in other words. Except I already was home. That was the problem. As I said, I was going nowhere, and it turned out she wasn’t going to be my exit out.

Part of me wants this to be more sad and pathetic than it actually was. I remember moping around for weeks, playing Nick Drake records and thinking about the title of that old Buzzcocks song "Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn't've)," which I'd never actually heard, but read about in old punk rock magazines. I also kept snapping at those annoying Y.M.C.A kids, but they probably deserved it since they would all grow up to be future Millennials.

At night, I wallowed in self-pity and thought about possibly taking up drinking. But I couldn’t stand alcohol so that left Yoo-Hoo and RC Cola as the only things I could afford to imbibe. That depressed me even more: I couldn’t even manage to be a proper drunk. What would Charles Bukowski have said? Probably that I deserved to be reading annoying old John Cheever stories.

The years flew by, and a short time ago she crossed my mind again because I taught a seminar in her city. The circumstances aren’t important. What’s significant is that afterwards I ended up at the bar of one of those chain-restaurant establishments with a bunch of students, all of whom were guys in their twenties.

Talk turned to women -- as it usually does -- and they asked me to tell them wild stories about things I didn’t in the Grunge Era, which they regarded as a much more fun time than the Politically Correct hellhole that passes for our society today. Without even thinking, I started to regale them with the tale of how I once bedded a married woman at a wedding, then attempted to get her to come live with me, oblivious to the fact that she had an entirely different life in an entirely different city.

The guys howled with laughter as I spilled each and every ridiculous detail, which once seemed sad, but now came off as the hilarious hijinks of hormonal twentysomething. I heard one of their voices rise up out of the din to ask a question, as if class were still in session. But if this was class, it was a class with no class, judging by the topic at hand.

“Do you have any regrets about it?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “That instead of whining I should have been clapping myself on the back for bedding a woman only a few hours after meeting her.”

More laughter.

“And that I didn’t get pictures,” I added. “You should have seen that body. My lord.”

Post: #9

(11-12-2017 09:13 AM)Jetset Wrote:  The New York Times insists on putting the Modern Love column front-and-center on social media. All are uniformly cringe-inducing, but this, involving a man's misguided pedestalization of a married slut from his past, is the worst I've seen yet:

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/11/07/style...-clue.html

Quote:We Were in Our 20s and We Didn’t Have a Clue
By Peter Orner
Nov. 7, 2017

Always hard to believe the ways details vanish. Even what John Cheever once called the marvelous skulduggery of illicit love, time chips away and scatters, and what you’d thought would be seared for life? Reach for it, it’s gone.

We were still in our 20s though she was already married, a weird novelty. My first conflict with that specter: husband. Society’s great, dull bulwark. We met at another wedding. She was a friend of the bride’s. I was an old roommate of the groom’s. The husband hadn’t joined her. I’d come alone also. We were both in the wedding party and had been assigned to walk down the aisle, arm in arm. She wore a lemon dress. It was my first time in a tuxedo. We got drunk and happy and a lot drunker and a lot happier.

We ended up, as you do in Chicago in July: in Lake Michigan. I think of the dark water, that glorious floating, her dress like a little parachute blooming. Stumbled back to someone’s room, hers or mine, I wasn’t sure. Woke up to the open blinds, afternoon light. On the floor, the sandy wreckage of our respective uniforms. We’d missed breakfast. We’d missed brunch. We’d missed the bride-family versus groom-family softball game. Another bridesmaid was pounding on the door. Must have been her room. Bridesmaids are indentured servants, serfs. Groomsmen get drunk. Easy to say now that we were in our 20s and didn’t have a clue. Fact is we were already making plans.

“Remain here,” she said.

“I’m rooted to these sheets,” I said. “Where are the sheets?”

I slept. She came back a couple of hours later and fell asleep next to me in her clothes. At some point I woke up and gave an impassioned speech about fate and destiny to the hotel-room ceiling. I toasted Mr. Marriott for bringing us together. She slept through it. She was small and blond and wore big glasses. When she was awake, she laughed a lot. She already had a master’s degree. She spoke Basque to her grandmother. She subscribed to the Utne Reader. What more did I need to know?

She lived in St. Louis. I lived in Boston. She worked for an accounting firm and traveled a lot. Three months later she came to Massachusetts for work. I remember this. Walking very slowly, as slowly as possible, down the corridor toward her hotel room. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled. She must have felt my presence because she opened the door and saw me and laughed and got down on her hands and knees and crawled my way. Had it not been for a startled maid and her big cart of sundries, we’d have torn each other to nothing out there in the corridor.

Things get hazier. The single bed in my dog meat apartment in Allston. Her putting lotion on her feet. A walk in Boston Common. Milkshakes at J.P. Licks? A rented car and a drive down the Cape to a bed-and-breakfast. How easily she laughed. A kindness in her always wet eyes. Tears waiting all the time, though I never saw them drop. Her braininess. The fact that she paid with her corporate credit card because she knew I had no money.

I was working at the Cambridge Y.M.C.A. on Mass Ave, in the after-school program. I played Ping-Pong and yelled at little kids. And I was writing short stories. She read a couple of them and laughed though I can’t imagine I was trying to be funny. My aim was extreme solemnity. I wanted everything, even then, to be a dirge. But everything delighted her. The clam shack by the Bourne Bridge. Boiled clams were hilarious. Drinkable embryos! At one point, I remember, in the Common, I showed her the statue Robert Lowell wrote about in “For the Union Dead.” I said, Come and live with me. I watched myself. I was gallant. I pulled her close with my poor, artistic hands. In the Cheever story, the guy’s a jewel thief who meets a woman on a cruise. So I worked in day care. Did this mean I couldn’t be a hero?

“In Boston?” she said.

“Technically I live in Allston, which is an independent entity, but it’s also part of Boston.”

“So it’s a neighborhood?”

“Yeah, but sort of more. It’s hard to explain. It’s a little like Kosovo.”

“Or Vatican City.”

“Exactly. Allston’s like Vatican City.”

We walked on, hand-in-hand, swinging arms. I wasn’t going to press the issue, what was obvious was obvious. It had everything to do with time. How you didn’t notice it. How you didn’t even need it. Could be 3 in the afternoon, could be midnight. I remember the silence of the drive back from the Cape. I remember the milkshakes. I remember walking backward, again, very slowly, doing a little backward shimmy, down the same hotel corridor as she stood at her door like an actress, wagging at me with her index finger. A beckoning and goodbye at the same time.

Two weeks later she called. Her husband, she said, was on the line as well. They both had something to say. She wanted to make clear that there wasn’t going to be any more to this. That we’d had our time together. She had no regrets. Did I understand? No more phone calls at work, no more letters sent to work. The husband spoke up: “You all right with this?” His voice was pleasant and considerate. “Look, it’s cool. I know she’s awesome.” She laughed a quick laugh, but stopped. She asked if I wanted to say anything. I said I didn’t think I did.

Part of me wants this to be a sad recounting, not a pathetic one, but I see I’m failing. I’m trying to stay close to the facts as best as I can remember them, but as I say, facts disintegrate. For days, weeks, I mourned around the city. I rode the T and read. I went to work. I shouted at kids to line up for snack. “If you guys don’t line up, there will be no snack, period.” At night, in Allston, I considered the nature of self-pity, how it’s not unlike masturbation in the sense of how satisfying it can be in the short term. And the long term is just a linked chain of short term after short term. Then I’d die.

A few years ago I found myself teaching, briefly, in St Louis. This was at Washington University. (It’s neither here nor there, but my mother had long thought that my life would have turned out better if only I’d been accepted to Wash U for college. She was quite proud that at last I’d made it as a visiting professor.) I thought about calling her or sending her a message. All I had to do was reach out to my friends, the ones whose wedding we met at and who were still together, and ask how to get ahold of her. But it felt more like an obligation to a defunct emotion than something I actually wanted to do.

Still, maybe I’d run into her buying groceries at Schnucks or we’d both be pumping gas on the same island. I’d sit across from her at a cafe and listen to her talk. I’m always interested in the way people edit the details of their lives, the way they compress all the years into sentences.

TL;DR: Broke guy banged a drunk married woman at a wedding. One of his most vivid memories is her compliance-testing him. She banged him again when she was visiting his city on business.

She's merely whoring it up for LOLs, but he took it seriously. She got her beta husband - who is apparently used to this - involved with some half-truth to scare him off. The author thinks it was a romance and that he was the hero of her story, unaware that she's still banging non-clingy dudes nationwide.

He still has soul-crushing Oneitis, not fully understanding that he was never important. He knows it's pathetic but feels compelled to seek validation by putting it in one of the world's largest newspapers anyway, along with a footnote about being a disappointment to his mother. It's almost as if he hopes she'll see it.

EDIT: *gameless. Jesus.

This guy writes like an overly-dramatic fag.

Post: #10

And still pathetic. Who on earth crawls down the hallway of a hotel to a lady? And let's her pay with the corporate card?

I mean....I get the appeal of a cute, nerdy looking accounting girl. That type is a lot of fun, but the way this dude approached the thing is facepalm levels of cringe.

Although to the guys credit it sounds like he still got more play than dudes who just jack off into a potted plant.

Post: #11

(11-12-2017 09:40 AM)Days of Broken Arrows Wrote:  That was painful to read.

I actually didn't find the subject that bad. I think a lot of wisdom could be imparted on this forum if some of the older guys wrote "Affairs Gone Wrong" or "What I Missed Out On" stories. I once wrote one a while back, in fact.

But the way this is put together is nearly unreadable. His highfalutin, pseudo-intellectual tone is off-putting and embarrassing. When we write, we all take on a "voice." His voice comes off like that eighth-grade girl we all knew who had to let everyone know she always made the honor roll. Always!

If this article was a car it would be a Prius. If it was a musician it would be Regina Spektor (that's not a compliment).

This is how writing schools teach people to write, unfortunately, which is why people like me (i.e. an Italian from working-class origins) learned to avoid "fine writing." If they needed an example as to why people prefer video games and cable TV to the written word, this is it.

Couldn't agree more. Some people write to communicate their thoughts, others write to try and impress people. The latter is incredibly annoying to the 95% of people who don't yearn to relive high school English class. That's how you know this guy is an academic; if he worked in a corporate office and wrote emails like that, he would piss everyone off to no end.

The best advice I've ever seen on avoiding sounding like this guy: Write Like You Talk

Post: #12

Most normal heterosexual men love women more than they love anything in the world. This goes doubly and triply for intelligent and literary men who have even a semblance of libido, or had one in their youth. For these men, their experience and memories of eros -- especially of something as infinitely fraught and precious to them as an affair -- are their most cherished memories, the touchstone against which they measure everything else of real value in their lives.

This dude is at least honest about that fact, for whatever little that is worth. He is literary to the bone, but in what is at this point an almost charmingly old-fashioned way, harking back self-consciously to the generation of Cheever and Updike, which is far from the worst crew to emulate if one had to emulate any (Cheever in particular was a near-great writer at his best). The literary text that he produces does not detain one in any particular way, but neither is it pointedly repulsive; its love of the female and all the attendant white-knighting are so dyed in the wool that they leave one with little to say. It passes one by like a certain purely masculine literary emanation and dissolves into the New York Times filled air.

Post: #13

The sluts husband “on the line too” was the worst part of the whole thing.

Post: #14

Did he actually fuck her? He barely alluded to it in his story.

Post: #15

(11-12-2017 09:13 AM)Jetset Wrote:  I toasted Mr. Marriott for bringing us together

Mr. Marriott was a devout Mormon and would have kicked this guy out if he knew what was going on.

Aloha!

Post: #16

If I told this simp about the number of under 20 yr old hot ass college broads I banged just in the last month this guy's head would explode.

It's hard to even relate to this sort of sentiment although I can remember having oneitis in my 20s as well.

But here is a case of arrested development, I'm almost 40 and this guy thinks his prime was when he possibly fucked a married girl who by his description was in the solid WNB category.

Guy writes like Carrie from Sex and the City.

You could sit this guy down and try to redpill him, and he'd accept none of it.

Twat

Post: #17

It’s really sad actually. I like to think that despite my outlook on people I’m still a good and decent person.
To that end, I try to help men as much as I possibly can by pointing red pill truths out slowly.
Most will have NONE of it.

I’ve run across men who have been nearly ruined by women who they “still love”. It’s just total madness out there

Post: #18

"Guy writes like Carrie from Sex and the City."

It didn't hit me till now, this is a girl writing her fantasy out.

Post: #19

(11-13-2017 03:53 PM)Cattle Rustler Wrote:  "Guy writes like Carrie from Sex and the City."

It didn't hit me till now, this is a girl writing her fantasy out.

I can tell you that 80% of the male comments and 20% of the female comments were along the lines of "she's garbage and you're an idiot, that poor husband probably divorced her by now".

The remaining 20% of the male comments and 80% of the female comments?

"So beautiful."

This is absolutely a woman's fantasy, to be the unaccountable subject of this kind of delusional thirst.

Post: #20

Quote:So I worked in day care. Did this mean I couldn’t be a hero?

This guy had no chance. Did he actually admit this to her?

(11-12-2017 02:15 PM)porscheguy Wrote:  Did he actually fuck her? He barely alluded to it in his story.

Fuck? Probably not. Going really slowly, asking her "does this hurt, baby?" every few minutes, probably.