Part 18
This chapter is called "Romance Defined"
This chapter began with the basic question: why don't women want to have sex for
pleasure? Why do they insist that men pay for it, and why do they clamor for "romance"?
"Romance", as conceived and practiced by contemporary women, is a sham, a plague
which poisons the souls of men. It is a woman's viperous view of "morality", and has
shackled the male vitality in heavy chains. Hardly monogamous by nature, a man is
nevertheless constrained to dam up his biological birthright of sexual freedom. He is
forced to pay for what should be offered and shared openly. His own passions enslave
him; as we have seen, a woman's strategy is to use his lust against him, because then he
will channel all his resources to her disposal, which is the sole focus of her life. Women
are assassins of the male spirit.
Dating is a sick charade of natural mating behavior, a twisted travesty of the laws of
nature. It is a plot hatched by unprincipled women to curl their manicured talons around
male credit cards, a female con game sanctioned by society. A date is (as usual) an affair
entirely controlled by the female, even though she will work very hard to convince men
that just the opposite is true. For a social engagement to take place, a man and woman
first have to meet, or to be introduced. If she is physically attracted to this man-or even if
she's not, if she smells cash-she will almost immediately institute "The Probe". The Probe
consists of an innocuous-sounding list of questions, sometimes put bluntly, but more
often insinuated into the flow of conversation, which is designed to calculate a man's
earning power, the way a salesman qualifies a prospect. Taken at face value, these
questions appear quite ordinary, the sort of polite queries one might ask when talking
with a stranger. But in the hands of a woman sizing up a man, they take on a sinister
significance. "What do you do?", "Where do you live?", "What kind of car do you drive?"
all may seem innocent enough inquiries, but a woman interested in a man will work them
into the first few minutes of a conversation so that she can determine whether he is worth
an investment of her time. These questions all translate into, "How much money do you
have?", while the little calculator inside her brain goes clicking away. One wrong answer
and she will immediately excuse herself. Variations of The Probe can be subtle: "Where
did you go on your last vacation?" would be an example. Concomitant with The Probe is
the "tell-him what-he-wants-to-hear" con. Thus if a woman ascertains that her prey is
wary of gold diggers, she will say, "I've never cared about money; I don't understand how
women can act like that", and the like.
If a man can survive the gauntlet of The Probe, his labors are just beginning. Our culture
prescribes that men be the pursuers, which puts them in a weakened position from the
start. When a man asks a woman for a date, he is risking soul withering rejection (most
women, flushed with sexual power, feel no remorse at shredding the male ego); he must
plan the location and activities of the evening or she will brand him as weak or wishywashy;
he is expected to bring offerings as if she were a member of royalty; she waits for
him to pick her up like a chauffeur; and there is unspoken pressure that he take her to a
"nice" (expensive) place or he will be labeled "cheap" and thus emasculated. While on
the date, he is supposed to pander to her every whim and help her on with her coat and
hold doors open for her, like a servant. And then he is rewarded with the exquisite
pleasure of having to pay for all of this. She, of course, goes out of her way to keep her
escort deeply hypnotized, deadening his senses to her treacherous agenda, for it wouldn't
serve her purposes at all if he suddenly realized what a sucker she's been making of him.
Sexual initiative certainly is humiliating for men, but it is a system designed to serve a
woman's best interests. A single, dating woman is the queen of dishonest prostitutes.
What arouses her is not an aching hunger for the pleasures of intercourse, but an
unquenchable materialistic lust. Sex is not about sensuality, but power. A woman has
frightening sexual leverage over a man: he might as well just hand her a club so that she
can beat him into the ground. In this unhealthy game of smoke and mirrors, women
dictate all the rules. Thus she restricts access to her body until he has made a significant
investment in her-the more he spends, the less likely he'll be to walk away. Eternally
buttressing her illusions, she will feign disinterest in sex and slap his wrist or invoke
"date rape" when he makes a pass at her. She will pretend to flee when he comes on too
strong. Dripping with sugary charms, she commands him to dress up the date with
flowers and candlelight to mask the dispassionate business deal at its core. This
masquerade allows her to envision her sexuality as innocent and pure, her vagina as
sexless as a plastic doll's. She can dupe herself that lavish meals and a glittering diamond
aren't just bald faced surrogates for cold, hard cash. A woman's version of "romance"
does not draw its power from love, but from rape-the violation of a man's bank account.
But the soft light of the restaurant helps to mask the truth: "romance" is a woman trying
to convince herself that she's not really a whore.
