From the Chateau: On my travels to the four corners of the globe, I’ve noticed something very telling about the casual fashion choices White women make within different contexts. Yoga pants, as most of you know, have been staples of the White woman wardrobe for years. Basically, yoga pants are underwear, worn in public. Most styles are extremely tight, some have thigh cuts that are see-through, and all display the camel toe in its full glory, leaving little to the imagination. A few styles cut a crevice so deep in the ass cheeks you can just make out the rusty starfish.
So yoga pants are the striver class-approved slut outfit for SWPL women who want to flaunt their sexy bodies and then bitch about beta males, who have the gall to possess functioning libidos, ogling them. See, proles and SWPL ladies are more alike than not; their goals are the same, but they choose to achieve those goals via different pathways of expression.
Anyhow, to the chewy center bursting with Bartholin’s flavor. In the blacker neighborhoods — the ones gentrifying but still menacing enough to put a pep in the step of Whites who venture out after 7pm or have to walk past throngs of friendly “teens” — you will rarely see White women in yoga pants. They are more conservatively dressed. Jeans are common. Leggings with a long-ish dress or skirt over them are also common. In the heat, shorts are tasteful; no underbutt. I’m talking about SWPL White women here; the ones with mid-paying jobs, sterling Women’s Studies credentials, and big brains they drown in mimosa juice. I’m not talking about the mudshark dregs with the tattoos and needle marks.
In contrast, in the Whitest huetopias, the skin-tight, labia-compressing yoga pants are everywhere. Where da sluttily-dressed White women at? In White neighborhoods. What’s going on here?
I have a thought. Striver White women soaked in a lifetime of feminist tankgrrl indoctrination dress to attract alpha males (while having to deal with the risk of sending the wrong advertising signal to beta males), and they dress to flaunt the power inherent in their number one asset (their figures, culminating to a point at the mons pubis). In White neighborhoods filled with hirsute hipster goons concealing weak jawlines, White women feel unrestricted freedom to flaunt their creases and cracks. This freedom makes them power-drunk, and they love the torment (or thought of it) that they can cause to erupt in the silent skullcases of fearful beta males ogling them from a safe distance.
In the blacker zones, this strategy doesn’t work. Way too risky. Black-on-White women rape is epidemic (leftie White women know this even though they’d never admit it). A darkpool of dindu nuffins loitering on a street corner, veins coursing with the liberating elixir of low impulse control, will not let a yoga pants sloot, with looks that shame the mammoth black beasts the brothers are used to boffing, walk by unmolested. One thing blacks don’t do: cast sidelong, shy glances from a distance while pretending not to notice the lingerie show strutting down the street. They will let a slutty White women know, in so many jungly hoots and howls, that her goods are the sheeeeiit, and they intend to sample them.
Naturally, there will be no White hipsters to white knight for her. And justifiably so. What noodle-arm would risk a five-on-one swarm because he stood up for the honor of some cunty careerist feminist White woman who thought it would be a good idea to display the contours of her vagina to the Congo line?
