You scroll through the dating apps, and it’s a goddamn comedy. Every other profile, a woman staring into the camera, trying to look both sexy and profound, and the caption always says the same damn thing: “Not here for a hookup. Not just looking for sex.”
Then there’s the disclaimer, the little list of rules they post at the door. “If you’re married, if that’s all you’re looking for is sex, swipe left.”
And you just have to laugh. You have to. Here are these women, in their fifties, the best of what they had is long gone, a ghost in some other man’s memory. And they’re trying to sell you on the idea that they are so goddamn overwhelmed with offers, so inundated with men who just want to get between their legs, that they have to post a goddamn disclaimer on their profile just to manage the traffic.
“I’m tired of being asked just to have sex,” they say. “Please, stop bugging me. I don’t want to hear it anymore.”
It’s a beautiful performance. A real masterpiece of self-delusion.
All this, while she’s wearing a push-up bra that could stop a bullet, her face painted for war with rosy cheeks and blood-red lips, showing you a picture taken from an angle so high it could give God a nosebleed, all to hide the fact that she’s not twenty-one anymore.
They know what we’re all looking for.
So let’s be honest about it. We’re on there for one reason. I’m on there for one reason. I want to get laid, with as few goddamn strings attached as possible.
The ideal scenario? A quick conversation, a couple of drinks to see if you’re not completely insane, and then back to my place, where I’ll give you the best goddamn performance of your life.
And don’t kid yourself. Ninety-nine percent of the men on that app, that’s what we want. We’re just the only ones honest enough to admit it.
But no. You have to play the game.
You have to pretend you’re not a man who just wants to get laid. You have to sit there and talk about your feelings, your dreams, all that bullshit.
And she? She gets to be the one in control, rationing out what’s between her legs like it’s the last bottle of water in the desert. She gets to play the part of the innocent blonde in King Kong’s hand, swinging off the Empire State Building, all wide-eyed and pure and terrified.
But you know, deep down, she has a certain… passion… for that big, dumb monkey. And so does the rest of the world.
You try to challenge any of it, the whole rotten setup, and you see right away who controls the power of manipulation. You get the automatic pushback, the rewriting of the narrative. The stated goal is “equality,” but that’s a goddamn lie. Their idea of equality is a one-way street, a toll road where all the fees are collected from the side of male masculinity.
You want real equality? Fine. Let’s play. No more makeup in the workplace. Women can only wear boxers. On dating sites, avatar pictures only, no trick photography. And let’s install a “village bicycle” rating on the app, so we can all see the mileage before we take a test drive. Let’s get the real data men are interested in: how much they collect in child support, how many times they’ve been divorced, how many “guy friends” they have on the side, how often they’re actually willing to have sex. Put it all out there. The shaming of the male side for wanting the one thing we’re biologically programmed to want has gone on long enough.
These are not the traditional women who deserved the old social benefits. So let’s get rid of the old rules. No more automatic child support, no more spousal support. The marriage laws need to be torn down and rebuilt from the studs. You don’t want to be a traditional wife? Fine. Then don’t take my last name, and don’t you dare touch my money.
Good motherhood, if such a thing still exists, should start with keeping a father in the kid’s life. Not having some stranger raise your child for eight hours a day while you’re at your hourly-wage job, sneaking off to the bathroom to check your dating app messages, and still having the balls to claim the title of “mother.”
My point is, the old traditional values, the old titles, they used to mean something. They were earned. Now they’re just costumes people wear to hide their own failures.
You want to end the game? The whole rotten, two-faced charade of modern dating? You want to end the power trip, the manipulation, the quiet, simmering war between men and women?
Then you have to end the women’s cartel.
You have to take away the one weapon they’ve been holding over men’s heads since Adam first took a bite of that goddamn apple. You have to remove the backbone of their leverage.
You legalize prostitution.
Nationwide. You drag it out of the back alleys and the shadows, and you put it right on Main Street, next to the goddamn bank and the post office. You tax it. You regulate it. You make it as clean, as boring, and as transactional as buying a quart of milk.
Why?
Because it’s honest.
It ends the game overnight. It kills the bullshit courtship, the expensive dinners, the phony conversations about your feelings. It turns the whole song and dance, the whole tired, predictable play, into a simple, clean business transaction.
It calls the thing what it is. And in a world built on pretty lies, an ugly truth is the most beautiful goddamn thing there is.
Second, you make mental mind games a criminal offense. Gaslighting, manipulation, leading a man on for three months just for free meals—that’s not just bad manners; it’s theft. It’s the theft of a man’s time, his money, and his goddamn peace of mind. You treat it like any other crime. You get a good lawyer, you present the evidence—the texts, the lies, the broken promises—and you sue the bitch for damages.
But that’s all just legislation. That’s just changing the rules of the cage. You want the real concoction? The one that actually sets you free?
It’s this: you stop playing.
You just stop. You walk away from the whole goddamn table. You accept the hard, ugly, beautiful truth that you are on your own. You stop looking for a woman to complete you, to save you, to be your mother or your whore or your goddamn everything. You learn to be a man who is whole all by himself.
You learn to enjoy the quiet of your own company. You find work that matters, something that leaves a mark, not just a paycheck. You build a life so solid, so real, so completely your own, that you don’t need anyone else to validate it.
And then, if you’re lucky, if you’ve done the hard work, you might just find another person who has done the same. Not a game player, not a manipulator. Just another survivor who is tired of the bullshit and is looking for something real.
And that, my friend, is the only goddamn “relationship” worth a damn.
