Here at ROK we often emphasize the need for all men to take the “red pill” and subsequently accept the truths about sex and gender that it reveals. This is easier said than done, however: it is often quite challenging for men to process the revelations offered by the red pill. The truths it offers are generally obscured by mainstream societal narratives and when one is actually able to identify them amidst all of the misinformation, they can prove very difficult to accept and digest. Finding ways to properly and efficiently convey easily digestible red pill knowledge is therefore of crucial importance.

Every so often I come across writing in the manosphere that seems to go some way toward completing this mission. At RooshV Forum, a user by the name of “HeyPete” offered a post that seemed to fit this bill:

My best friend in high school is the personal trainer for a DJ in LA, who was bigger in the 90’s and last decade. He DJ’d, had a radio show, produced, remixed for some really big name artists like Madonna, Britney Spears etc., etc. Shit music, but it made him rich.

When his personal assistant had to miss some trips to other parts of the country (He somehow never missed overseas shows) my friend would go on the trips as his assistant.

So, one such trip/long weekend, they came to St. Louis when I was living there. I also joined them in Indianapolis (Sat. night) and Columbus (Sun. night).

I — simply a hanger on, who toted a few boxes of merch and set up some tables where they were to be sold and basically just hung out got laid all three nights.
It was insane the crazy shit we could get hot, hot 18-21 year olds to do for a shirt or a CD — and the small chance to go to the DJs after party. Because, apparently, every DJ has an after party.

In St. Louis, about 20 girls came back to his hotel suite. I banged a solid 8 on the bathroom sink. Little brunnette about 18 or 19. I figured that would be the highlight of the weekend.

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In Indy the next night. My friend and I ran the merchandise area when the DJ played. I started off slow, because I felt a little guilty giving this dude’s shit away. Things like wiggle your ass, shake your tits back and forth. By later in the evening, after I said, “fuck it, when will this happen for me again.” I was saying, “Let me put my hand down your shorts and see if your wet enough to deserve a CD.” Or “Oh, you want a shirt. OK, let me finger your pussy behind the table.” Boom. They didn’t hesitate.

Back in the suite, it was incredible watching about a dozen 9s all trying to compete and outdo each other. They all wanted to screw the DJ, but they had no idea he was in another suite on the phone with his wife and soon fast asleep. Two were in skirts. I said, “I bet you won’t take your panties off and leave them for the DJ.” It was like they raced to slide them off. Later, one was sitting on the bed and I was on a chair halfway across the room. I motioned for her to spread her legs a little. She did. I gave her a thumbs up.

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By this time I was as bold as ever. I motioned the hottest girl on to the balcony, asked if she wanted to meet the DJ. Of course, she is almost giddy with delight over the prospect. I simply said, “He likes me to see what’s up with a girl before he meets her. She took my hand, we went into the kitchenette area and she blew me with gusto. Then she let me do pretty much anything I wanted. I pulled some things out of the porn playbook that I never tried on “regular hookups.”

My friend was having a three-some, while five or six other girls watched. It was surreal.

All for the chance to meet a fucking DJ.

The next night in Columbus, same stuff. It was incredible having that much power (none of earned either) over seriously desirable chicks.

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It was a little tricky when we had to kick them out and they never got to meet or do the DJ. Lots of, “Sorry, he has an early flight. He was about to come over too. I guess his set really tired him out.”

It was one of my best weekends.

This story serves as a powerful lesson for the blue pill, beta, “Nice Guys” out there, and a good way to encourage Red Pill acceptance.

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For each of these hot, kinky cumsluts going out of their way to impress the DJ, there were probably 3, 4, maybe 5 or more ordinary guys out there in Columbus (or Indianapolis, or St. Louis) who were subsequently holding her up on a pedestal and wholeheartedly convinced that their individual girl was “not like that”. Their conviction isn’t hard to understand—according to the descriptions given, these girls probably weren’t hardened hookers/strippers or pornstars, but rather young, pretty looking co-eds from middle America. They didn’t necessarily look like the kind of girl you would expect to engage in such kink/debauchery upon first glance. For the ordinary guy raised on a steady diet of blue-pill delusion, it would only be natural to remain oblivious to all this.

To these males, these girls are princesses, future girlfriends and wives. They are females that these men hope one day to date and potentially wed. To HeyPete, the DJ, and the rest of his entourage, these girls are mere cum dumpsters and easy sextoys.

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The other gameless men continue to pedestalize them, unaware of their real exploits and ignorant of the fact that these young women (like most of their peers in this society) don’t really want to be on that pedestal in the first place. They’d rather party, travel, have fun with their friends, and hook up with hot (hopefully famous) guys. They’d rather be the hoe, not the housewife that so many of the young, naive, idealistic young dudes have been raised to want to turn her into.

I know how these young, idealistic dudes think because I was one of them not more than 3 or 4 years ago. I was one of many naïve, insecure “nice guys” spending entirely too much time looking up at the young women I’d placed on a pedestal for simply being cute and female.

And you know what these young women were doing while I was busy drowning in my own insecurity and lifting them onto pedestals they didn’t deserve (or desire) to be on? They were out having fun, meeting cool guys who didn’t put them on a pedestal and could treat them like the sexual beings they actually are. While I was busy rationalizing my belief that none of these girls were “like that” and coming up with new first date/gift ideas for my next encounter with them, these men were casually meeting and fucking them.

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How did I get beyond this pathetic state of affairs? After a couple of rude awakenings I just stood up and asked myself a question:

“Athlone, who do you want to be?”

The question sounds quite simple, but really has profound implications. In this modern dating environment, it is crucial that young men face this query head on and satisfy it completely.
Young women know who they want to be during their prime years. They are going out, having fun, meeting new people and exploring their sexuality. They are socializing, they’re partying, and they’re fucking. They are doing so whenever, however and with whomever they please.

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Why? Because they can. This isn’t 1950. The days of “traditional” gender relations in the USA (and the fairly stringent limitations on female sexuality that came with them) are gone. The genie is out of the bottle and it isn’t going back in.

So what are you going to do about it? Will you swallow the red pill, face the hard truths it will inevitably reveal and work toward the substantive self-improvement it demands? Or are you going to cower in the “nice guy” corner and remain ignorant to the sexual realities of your environment?

Would you like to be the “hot/interesting” guy banging these girls on bathroom counters on a whim? Or would you prefer to be the “nice guy” that those girls keep in the dark while they fuck those “hot/interesting” dudes on the bathroom counter?

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When these girls head out at any given time to socialize/party/have sex, do you want to be one of the guys they seek out in order to do so? Or would you prefer to be one of the guys they leave behind as they do so?

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Do you want to actually be the one night stand, or would you prefer to be the man who is merely stood up?

The choice is yours.

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