From Chateau Heartiste: Why do so many betas harbor gauzy delusions about female sexual nature? Why are monogamously inclined traditionalists, manginas and white knighters so quick to sanctify women and paint their misbehavior in rose-colored hues while simultaneously offering unconditional support and shitlapping amen choruses for women when they accuse men of committing a litany of hackneyed misdeeds?
I’m here to provide what I believe is the most parsimonious answer to this riddle:
Beta males are rarely in a position to witness the worst of women.
Put yourself in the typical beta male’s shoes. He spends a goodly chunk of his horniest years — teens to mid 20s — when holes in watermelons look like acceptable vagina substitutes, pining for ethereal hot chicks who don’t pay him a lick of attention as they swoop by him on a cloud of incandescent purity. He sees them only from afar, where his imagination is free to feverishly fill in the gaps with only the most pleasant assumptions about his dreamgirls. When the rare communication does occur, she is as nice and kind as a saint to him. He is too smitten to recognize the hint of pity and condescension laced in her polite chat.
Later, usually college, he fumbles his way through awkward social interactions with plainer janes, the great majority of which end up with him being used for emotional sponging and ball-twisting, torturous friendships. All these girls are exceedingly, superficially kind to him because, after all, why look a gift herb in the mouth? A girl loves beta male attention, as long as it’s platonic, on her terms, extractive, and focused on feeding her ego. Naturally, these girl-friends never talk about their sex lives with the beta, never reveal what really goes on behind closed doors, and never invite the beta to join them on any adventures that really matter to him. Contrary to media popularization, betas rarely hear “This one time, at band camp…” from girls in their social circles. What they often hear instead are requests for help with term papers.
Then, due more to a combination of luck and (ovulation cycle) timing rather than bold effort or charm, the inoffensive beta male might find himself in a fledgling relationship with some semi-cute shut-in nearly as awkward as he and already past her beauty prime. She really likes him and treats him well… more sincerely than the cuter girls who made a sport of cockteasing him at any rate… but like ‘Rat’ Ratner from ‘Fast Times’, he labors for months and months waiting patiently for her to put out. For reasons beyond the beta’s ken, she is an extremely modest girl. He interprets her chasteness as evidence of women’s all-round goodness and saintliness, but of course he is sorta pissed off that she won’t satisfy him without months of “getting to know each other” warming up. When he finally does bust that cherry, after painful years wandering the celibate desert, it’s all he can do to stop himself mentally affixing a halo atop his girlfriend’s head, and pronouncing all women the undistilled essence of goodness…
Eventually, the beta male gets married, and his lack of experience — one to three lifetime “partners” (and I use the term loosely) is the norm — has cultivated in him a strong inability to read women’s signals, which sometimes leads him into blissful ignorance where infidelities can linger for years unnoticed, and “Surprise! I have a divorce paper!” gambits accost him like hammer blows to the head. Mostly, though, he floats through his marriage thinking the best of his wife, and worst of himself should feelings turn sour or the sex dry up. Because this is just what men are supposed to do when a woman is less than happy: take the blame. Women are the weaker sex, after all.
So you see, in the final analysis, it is very likely, by dint of the beta male’s ignorance, inexperience and habituated veneration of women and reflexive indulgence of women’s motives, that his view of women is severely constricted, child-like in its naivete. The beta male is not privy to what Tyler Durden famously called the secret society of women. He was never invited, and he was never apprised of the secret society’s goings-on by any woman in his life. He lives in a pinched world with only a peephole to the wonders beyond, given him not by insight but by stumbling into depravity or by the good grace of a sympathetic alpha male. As far as he knows, women don’t have much sex, and they are very nice and polite most of the time…
If betas knew what alphas experience, it would blow their minds. Completely, utterly. Out from under the judgmental Eye of Proper Society, equipped with the requisite beauty to pay the price of admission, the wild female libido is insatiable, crass, debased. It is willing to surrender to the most vile sexual plunderings, screaming in ecstatic pleasure at every enthusiastically welcome violation. Women of the sweetest daytime dispositions and most innocent countenances — smartly coifed women in demure business suits who expound drily on cost-revenue projections and wait tidily in lines for healthy lunch alternatives — will unleash vaginal hell in the arms of alpha lovers, squirting glorious love over dominant men who swap them like baseball cards, presenting like beasts in heat for throbbing units in dank dive bar restrooms, casually spreading as far as they can go in locked office rooms for illicit lovers, giggling in breathy whispers in their lovers’ ear about the clear and present danger of getting caught, deliberately effusing a fake sorrow for the cheated-on boyfriend back home unawares, bemusing wistfully about a history of letting alpha lovers snort coke off her ass while claiming another headache to evade hubby’s entreaties.
