As I’ve often noted, Feminism and True Love are both mating strategies. The former relies on social control to reduce competition for the highest valued women by discouraging active mate selection among the rank-and-file. By reducing the social impetus to permanently mate, otherwise-dangerous competitors devote their most fertile (and attractive) reproductive years to a career, or a string of failed relationships due to their lack of investment. True Love, on the other hand, promises “Happily Ever After” (HEA) for the woman who relies on traditional feminine allure to seek out the highest-value male she can attract, promising wedded bliss and masculine comfort (tall, broad-shouldered, seethingly Alpha masculine comfort) for ever middle-aged pudgy office manager with a Kindle, on the basis of their imaginary virtue alone.
The two would seem diametrically opposed: the feminist perspective is an ideology which de-emphasizes marriage and family altogether, while the mystical True Love seeks nothing less. One would assume, based on the ideology, that feminists would eschew romance novels for the context-dependent female pornography they are. Ditto the celebrity pages, Huffpo’s incessantly mindless fawning over fashion, “supernatural romance” and soap operas. Yet feminist-oriented organs almost inevitably cave to the pressure of HEA, as a guilty-little-secret or as a (utterly rationalized) bit of “feminist empowerment”. When you get past the rhetoric about rape culture, the patriarchy, and misogyny rhetoric, it appears that what hardcore feminists dream of, fantasize about, even obsess about is . . . marriage.
The delicious irony should escape no one. While feminists play Beat The Beta in the cultural arena, condescendingly blaming regular dudes for everything from wage disparities to sexual assault, their mouths may say More Beta but the secret fire in their loins is only inflamed by Mythical Alphas. Only the profound power of the Rationalization Hamster can heal this devastating rip in ideological reality. Only by denying its importance and playing off the inherent element of wish-fulfillment in the genre, near-desperate apologies such as this (from a column entitled “Feminism, Y’all”) by blogger Alison Piepmeier can the Hamster possibly keep heads from exploding.
Don’t mistake me: I am not opposed to romance novels. They fulfill a vital role in feminine sexual psychology, providing data, suggestions, and accessories to the constant demand for context a women gets from the Female Social Matrix. Just like porn, in the weak-minded they can provide too much data, feeding
deep-seated feelings of entitlement and dooming the viewer/reader to perpetual disappointment with reality. But for most women they are mere fantasy jilling material, grist for the mill of their imaginative sexuality – despite the never-varying plot/character structure. Ms. Piepmeier sums up the appeal nicely, but incompletely:
The novels feature female protagonists who initially may seem to fit the stereotype of the helpless woman, but who ultimately save the day — or play a very significant part in saving the day. They have fun plots with twists and turns, controversy and conflict, moments when you hold your breath because it’s clear that everything is going to fall apart. But everything doesn’t fall apart, because these novels always have happy endings. And the happy endings are crucial for me.
Ms. Piepmeier doesn’t mention the fact that the “happy ending” invariably involves (expressed or implied) permanent commitment for the plucky heroine with her perfect-but-flawed Mr. Right. In other words, Marriage. Feminism’s sworn enemy.
Rationalization Hamster to the rescue! Indeed, Ms. Piepmeir not only dismisses the rational disconnect, she enlists the aid of other apologists to lend weight to her rationalization:
Conseula Francis, a professor of English and African-American Studies at the College of Charleston, studies romance novels. “Here’s why the happy ending matters,” she told me. “These novels force us, whether we know it or not, to take joy seriously. Literary fiction often asks us to consider the pain and angst and ennui of human existence. Romance asks us to consider the pleasures.”
“Joy” and “pleasures” in this context mean a ring and a June date with Mr. Right, after the heroine has rescued him from himself by virtue of her Magical PoonTang. The essence of every successful romance novel is the heroine’s ability to use her femininity and sexuality to change Mr. Right’s destiny, saving him from his own base emotions and desires by the simple virtue of Being Together. Married. Not independent fuck-buddies who pursue different careers and take a week off together every Spring – but honest-to-Hera Husband and Wife (with hyphenations, natch). Mr. Right is inevitably brimming over with Alpha, but with the heroine’s influence he becomes a domesticated Alpha, content with whatever charms her Magical
PoonTang may hold.
The fun plot twists and turns cited are nominal, at best, and require the special knowledge or skill the heroine alone possesses in addition to her Magical PoonTang, but in the end the decision for Mr. Right’s precious commitment is lies almost exclusively with his unrelenting devotion to her personal abstract femininity . . . the same quality that 3rd Wave feminism despises as “masculine entitlement”. When a feminist woman “takes joy seriously” in a romance novel, the joy she is taking is is that of a woman submitting herself to an Alpha under the pretext of “taming” him.
If nothing else, studying romance novel structure and tropes strongly reinforces core Game concepts. More importantly, discovering a woman is a reader of this jillfodder gives you keen insight on her inner psychological approach to her nether regions, key areas where leverage can be easily applied. Most women who read such novels are wearing their Hamster out in the open where anyone who knows Game can see it. It’s a cry for more Alpha in her personal life, more shirtless billionaires and misguided oil barons with muscles like spring steel, more ruggedly handsome strangers with exotic accents or chilling pirates with an inexplicable gentle side.
Articles like Ms. Piepmeir’s serve to cautiously make a stab at reclaiming some kernel of femininity from feminism’s crushing jaw. In admitting to the allure of brazen cis-hetero sexuality and the longing for the Alpha feminists who read romance novels betray the secret behind feminism’s ham-handed approach to a mating strategy: as an elaborate shit-test designed to weed Alphas from Betas-and-below, wrapped in a thick layer of rationalization. None of these romance heroines are leaving their men behind to pursue their careers, they aren’t abandoning Happily Ever After for the prospect of making partner, they are all graciously accepting the masculine commitment at the end of the book. Oh, they’ll agonize about it the whole way – that’s the fun – but if they don’t succumb to the commitment with Mr. Right at the end of the book, then there’s no “joy”. “Joy”, it seems, means succumbing to marriage, and nothing less.
Ms. Piepmeier has a different take. But put through a Red Pill filter, one may translate:
The female protagonists get to have adventures. [“They get to be stimulated by danger and excitement but without real consequence, thanks to Mr. Right”] They get to be competent. [“They get to demonstrate the characteristics that make them acceptable mates, other than the Magical PoonTang, which overrides everything else”] And they get to have great sex. [“They get to have great sex with a perfect dude willing to offer them commitment, enjoying the infatuation stage of the relationship without addressing the pesky realities of sustaining a relationship or criticizes them on their performance or approach in the slightest”]. Reading them is a fully feminist act.
You bet it is, Cupcake. That’s the feminist take on romance novels: Lean in until you catch a ring for yourself. Then repeat as necessary. There are plenty of Alphas to go around for everyone. And gosh, you deserve one, even if you don’t need one.
The flip side of this of course is the female Omegas, those poor women who use these novels like internet tube sites. Perpetually invested in the True Love strategy, which doesn’t account for real-life attractiveness or the scantness of shirtless billionaires, these poor women have hamstered themselves into a level of
entitlement that screams defiantly at reality. When they do embrace feminism, it’s usually out of a sense of sexual frustration. Feminism offers them the opportunity to rationalize their own personal failings and past humiliations as the fault of the misogynistic patriarchical rape culture, which oppressively doesn’t realize the obvious advantages of the Magical PoonTang of the bitter, pudgy middle-aged single mom and awarded the Alpha accordingly.
These women are waiting in vain for their Mr. Right, because they foolishly took feminism at face value, when it came to the war on sexism/sexuality/male sexulity/rape culture. Feminism told them that a real Mr. Right wouldn’t care what a woman looked like, just as True Love told them that her personal femininity was enough to ignite the fiery passion of every big-dicked Alpha who was worthy of her.
Like the fat 30 year old bronies who just know that they are entitled to big-boobed supermodel heiresses who will realize what a cool and witty dude they are, these female Omegas have been tricked out of even showing up to the Sexual Market Place. Nor is their misery wasted: feminism uses it to confirm their solipsistic belief that The Patriarchy is what is hiding all of the Alphas away from them, not their own failure to compete. Guys would be nicer, more gentle, less judgmental, and just more accepting of cats, aging, and Teen Wolf binge marathons if it wasn’t for the darn ol’ Patriarchy and its misogynistic minions. Romance gives them the personal ideal, feminism provides the finger to point the blame for their disappointment, while smart women skate between the two, run female Game, and snag up the marriage-minded Alphas.
The difference between porn and romance novels isn’t just the genre and medium, however. There’s a contextual difference that many forget. The 30 year old schlubs who are whacking it daily to the tubes still have time to learn Game and free themselves. Thanks to their biology, their sexual capital in the SMP is about to mature, even if their personalities don’t. A year spent in the gym, learning Game, and applying themselves to their lives can make even the most unredeemable Omega dude acceptable, perhaps even impressive. I’ve seen it happen.
The Omegas’ romance-reading female equivalent, on the
other hand, is at the end of her shelf-life as a viable commodity. The Wall loometh, and all the feminist theories in the world aren’t going to change that. Men will always be attracted to youth and beauty over age and plainness.
By the time your average feminist woman’s hamster accepts that, and she’s grudgingly willing to admit that yes, she might like to be married someday . . . she’s usually devalued herself heavily in the SMP. Heavily enough so that in the brutal competition for quality mates she’s severely handicapped. Neither feminism or romance can offer her a solution, not one that she can stomach.
While a 30 year old male geek who discovers Game can re-invent himself fairly easily, a 30-year old short-haired feminist Omega has to make severe compromises of her ideology and her approach if she’s going to stand a chance, even for a desperate Gamma. She’s starting fifteen years too late, at the last gasp of her natural talent in an area of expertise she’s been taught to despise. Her best hope lies in capitulating utterly,
becoming a Red Pill woman and embracing her femininity while eschewing feminism. Dreams of even mild suburban fulfillment are elusive as the men she thinks are in her league realize their own growing value. In the end, she’s as likely to have an empty home and cats to read her novels to than even a poor quality commitment.
But perhaps her story will prove to be a warning to younger generations before they repeat her mistakes. Happily Ever After has to be earned. You can’t depend on luck and access to your Magical PoonTang to give it to you. The real Mr. Rights of the world have more discriminating eyes than that. The smart ones aren’t going to marry avowed feminists, anyway.