The manosphere at large is rife with success stories. This is a good thing because it shows men that what we preach here works and works well. But relative to the stories of pussy plundering, anecdotes of failure are few and far between. As great as it is to read about the shagging shenanigans of our favorite authors, it is equally, if not more, beneficial to hear more stories our not so great moments.
My previous article gave a brief glimpse into a few of the relationships that had the most impact on my eventual neomasculine renaissance. Being the stubborn bastard that I am it took more failures than it should have for me to see women for what they really are. Ironically, as stated in the article, the most insignificant relationship was the one that led me out of the beta abyss.
But the relationship that did the most damage out wasn’t my marriage or that brief fling with that low-quality Latina. It was a tumultuous relationship with one of the most beautiful disasters I’d ever laid eyes on, and boy did she ever take me for a ride. To this day I still get a slight pang in my stomach when I so much as hear her name anywhere and it’s been over five years since we split up.
I hope this real world account shows men that the dangers of letting a damaged woman into your life are very real.
The “Magic Pencil”
I started paralegal school at a small community college in North Carolina in the fall of 2008. My wife and I had just separated and I was looking for some direction in my life. The law had always intrigued me, but because I didn’t have the money (or the discipline) to go to law school, I did what I thought was the next best thing.
One of the advantages of the paralegal curriculum is that of the 60+ students enrolled in the program that year only four of us were men. This meant a better than 12-to-1 female to male ratio, which rocked the party all night long.
Like every pack of four knuckleheads with a common bond we dubbed outselves “The Four Horsemen.” We were good looking men in our 30s and the fact that vast majority of our classmates were in their early twenties (even a few 18 and 19-year-olds) gave us supreme confidence. We felt like we were in high school again except this time, we were the cool kids.
When we weren’t slogging through case law or grinding through endless court opinions, we flirted and teased our classmates and playfully joked with our female instructors. Between hooking up with our hot, young classmates on the regular and the off-campus parties (that facilitated most of those hook ups), that first semester was one to remember.
On the second day of the second semester we were given a pop quiz…old school SAT style which meant filling in those bubbles with a #2 pencil. I didn’t have a pencil on me so I tapped the shoulder of the dirty blonde haired girl (we’ll call her Amy) in front of me to ask her if she had an extra pencil. When she turned around I wondered how I hadn’t noticed this chick around campus because she was hot…nasty hot. A solid 9.
Amy gave me a mechanical pencil which I used to ace the quiz. When I returned it to her I told her that pencil belonged to me and that she’d have to keep it for me until the next quiz. She smiled and said “definitely.” We’d dubbed that pencil “The Magic Pencil” and she had no qualms with announcing to other classmates that pencil was reserved for me.
Back then I didn’t have the game level I do today but I had enough to know at that point that it was only a matter of time before I was knee deep in her apricot-shaped ass.
Over the next few months our relationship blossomed very quickly and neither of us had any intention of slowing it down. We spent just about every night together. We’d study for quizzes, do homework and cook together, and all the sappy shit that comes with being stupidly in love.
There was also a certain pride that came with having the hottest girl on campus on my arm. I wasn’t one to broadcast things but she was anything but shy about letting anyone and everyone know that we were an item and I’d stand there with a goofy-ass grin lapping up the praise and attention.
What really set her apart from other women I’d dated was that Amy took great care of me and made me feel like a man. She would do things like restocking my bathroom when she saw I was low on toilet paper, toothpaste etc. without me asking. She also made sure I always had my morning coffee whether we were at my place, her place, or otherwise, always making sure it was at my desk at the start of class.
I remember one particular day I was starving because I had forgotten to pack my lunch. I’d decided I was going to go to Burger King between classes and grab a bite to eat and had offhandedly mentioned that in a text to Amy. Not 20 minutes later I get a text from her to come downstairs and when I got there she had a Whopper and a coke waiting for me and wouldn’t let me go back to class until I’d eaten.
I had never experienced this type of treatment from any woman, so I fell hard for this girl. Coupled with the great sex we were having, I never stood a chance. Amy had me hook, line and sinker, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
But things took a steep nose dive when we returned from our beach getaway to celebrate her 20th birthday (which was exactly one week before mine). The things I internally characterized as “nothing to worry about” were boiling beneath the surface had been dormant for long enough. My blissful ignorance was about to cost me dearly in many ways.
The Best, Worst Birthday
On the morning of my 32nd birthday, I opened my laptop to drink up all the validation that came with being the birthday boy. When I opened Facebook, her account was the one on the screen…she’d forgotten to log out. Like any red-blooded male I had to have a look.
My stomach churned as I read message threads from guy after guy asking her if she was free that night or if she was mad at them or if her boyfriend knew about them. I was sick with hurt and pain and didn’t want to believe what I was seeing. I took screen grabs of the conversations and headed to her apartment hoping against all hope she would deny everything and give me logical explanations about the conversations.
When I walked in her front door she was sitting on her couch nervously waiting for whatever it was I was there for. I went into the kitchen, grabbed a chair so I could look her right in the eye during the exchange. I sat in the chair and said the following:
“Amy, we’ve been together for a while and one thing I like about you is your honesty. I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to tell me the truth.” I said as steadily as I could.
“…okay,” she said nervously.
“Have you cheated on me?” I asked. The three seconds she paused were the longest of my life. All she could do was look at me like a deer in the headlights wondering how the hell I could have known. When that three-second eternity had ended she said:
Gentlemen, I cannot begin to describe the gravity of the shock and pain that pierced my soul the moment those words escaped her lips. Those words haunt me to this day and is still by far and away the worst emotional pain I have ever experienced in my life. I broke down and cried like a girl. I was absolutely destroyed.
Call me a cry baby, call me a drama queen, accuse me of embellishment. I don’t care. That pain was as real and raw as it gets and I felt every bit of that sting from spine to sternum. I don’t know how long I was there but I remember throwing up in her toilet at least twice. She cried as well with her hands on her head with a “what have I done” look on her face which made it worse.
After I finally composed myself I yanked off the necklace with the letter “A” charm on it and threw it on the couch next to her and left for work. She called and texted me all day long leaving message after message about how sorry she was how much she loved me and how much she wanted me back. I still loved her very much and eventually I finally cracked and called her.
Amy tearfully apologized profusely and said it was a mistake that happened because she was high. She vowed to spend the rest of her life making it up to me as my wife. She said she wanted to have my children and grow old with me and never leave my side. She told me she’d give me a birthday night I would never forget and begged me to take her back.
I took the bait.
When she came to my place that night she was in full-blown slut mode. She showed up in a mini skirt that barely covered her thong covered private parts, a midriff her tits were all but falling out of, heels so high she could barely walk in them, salon quality curls, and a professional French mani-pedi. Her smell nearly paralyzed me as I was sure she had bathed in pheromones before she came over. I was powerless.
She dutifully prepared her famous pork chops for me (which I loved almost as much as her), gave me a birthday cupcake and the watch I had expressed interest in. As the coup de grâce, she unveiled my name on the small of her back emblazoned in fresh black and red ink against her reddened skin.
We had the hottest, angriest sex of our lives that night and I was back in her clutches. But the relationship had already been damaged well beyond repair and it would never be the same.
Slow, painful death
The next few months were some of the worst of my life. Yes, I’m saying this a lot and it may seem like hyperbole but I can assure you, this is no exaggeration. The constant calling and checking up on her, going through her phone, and outright jealousy deteriorated our relationship in a hurry. Our romance suffered a slow painful death and I hung on with everything I had to keep her.
During the fall and winter of 2009 I became completely unraveled. I’d developed a cocaine and oxycodone habit, and started shooting morphine. Hell, I was even contemplating doing heroin to numb the pain.
I lost my job, my car, and my apartment, and had dropped out of school. All over a fucking girl. Having no place to go, I ended up living with a couple of Amy’s drug addict friends who were a couple and both on felony probation for possession with intent to distribute.
During my stay I found out that Amy had been cheating on me the entire time we were together. I’ll never know how many guys there were but I’m sure there were plenty. Her perfect body, deep southern twang, and flirtatious disposition ensured an endless supply of cock willing to make her acquaintance. I later found out that she’d even been fucking the boyfriend drug addict and had messed around with the girlfriend some. My snowflake had turned out to be 100% bona fide slut.
On Thanksgiving Day of 2009 she finally put the nail in the coffin and told me she was engaged to the father of her daughter who’d recently been released from prison (more on this in a bit). They were married a few months later. It was a mercy killing of sorts. Though I knew this was coming it still hurt just the same.
On New Year’s Day of 2010 I was in a drug-fueled haze watching the Rose Bowl when I heard a banging at the door. The drug addict girlfriend and I looked at each other in horror because we thought it was the cops. It wouldn’t have been surprising because there were drug addicts and drug dealers in and out of that small apartment on the regular. What’s more is that her boyfriend had been taken to jail a few weeks prior because of a failed drug test (he’s in prison to this day).
She opened the door and the landlord walked in, pointed to me and said: “You don’t live here. You need to be out of this apartment by 9 am tomorrow morning or the Sheriff will come and remove you.” I called my brother and explained the situation. He bought me a bus ticket to Atlanta, where my mother, brother, and sister were living and three hours later I was on a Greyhound headed for the ATL.
I managed to find a great paying job a week after I got there and was able to financially recover rather quickly. But Atlanta wasn’t for me and I knew it having lived there a short time years before. So six months after showing up with literally nothing but the clothes on my back and $20 my brother sent me to eat on for the trip down, I was on a plane to the west coast and haven’t looked back since.
…there were scores of red flags about Amy that I flat-out ignored on account of my betafied male rationalization hamster and her stunning beauty. The girl was hot, the sex was better, she kept my balls drained, and my belly full so I mentally explained everything away.
The following red flags were so obvious, even manginas would have stayed away:
1. She had a 5 year old daughter when I met her
Nothing alarming right? She was 19. This meant she got knocked up at 14, which likely meant she had been fucking since she was 13 or younger. Oh and the father of her daughter? My age. He went to prison for statutory rape. The only reason he didn’t get the book thrown at him was because Amy testified that she’d seduced him and the jury bought it. His impending release didn’t become a cloud over our relationship until after my birthday.
2. The day she gave me a vicodin in class when I had a migraine
I was a little taken aback that someone her age had a zip lock bag full of pills, but I was enthralled at the fact that she was, once again, taking care of me. The druggies that came in and out the pseudo-crack house I was living in often regaled me with stories of her meth-fueled fuck fests with this guy or that while I was in class.
She was addicted to heroin the summer after our beach trip and lost a lot of weight. I didn’t notice her drastic weight loss because I was with her all the time but the track marks on her arms were swept under the proverbial rug.
3. Her father was in prison for most of her childhood
This was why she had an affinity for older men at such a young age. She had major daddy issues which was evident in her taste in men. No need to elaborate on this phenomenon as must of us are familiar with the fact that girls like this are often looking for a father figure to fill that void.
4. She seemed to know every guy everywhere we went
Whether we were at Burger King, the mall, pumping gas, buying cigarettes, at the movies, at the park, or anywhere else if there was a male present, young or old, she knew them and knew them well. Each one of them greeted her with a long affectionate hug which she gleefully returned. They’d exchange pleasantries and even lightly flirt in front of me, but I just brushed it off as friendly cheeky banter between two old friends. Chances are she’d been under most of them at one point or another.
5. She had a terrible homemade tattoo on her forearm
Post-renaissance I understand the significance of this, but I was obviously blind as a bat back then. She told me she did some of it herself when she was 15 and knowing what I know now I’ve little reason to doubt her.
There were a few other minor red flags but those were the five that should have set off my alarm bells and told me to stay the fuck away. But my lack of game knowledge made it easy for her to suck me in.
I probably violated all of Heartiste’s 16 Commandments of Poon at some point or another with Amy, but the one I should have adhered to the most was probably the one that could have spared me:
X. Ignore her beauty
The man who trains his mind to subdue the reward centers of his brain when reflecting upon a beautiful female face will magically transform his interactions with women. His apprehension and self-consciousness will melt away, paving the path for more honest and self-possessed interactions with the objects of his desire. This is one reason why the greatest lotharios drown in more love than they can handle — through positive experiences with so many beautiful women they lose their awe of beauty and, in turn, their powerlessness under its spell. It will help you acquire the right frame of mind to stop using the words hot, cute, gorgeous, or beautiful to describe girls who turn you on. Instead, say to yourself “she’s interesting” or “she might be worth getting to know”. Never compliment a girl on her looks, especially not a girl you aren’t fucking. Turn off that part of your brain that wants to put them on pedestals. Further advanced training to reach this state of unawed Zen transcendence is to sleep with many MANY attractive women (try to avoid sleeping with a lot of ugly women if you don’t want to regress). Soon, a Jedi lover you will be.
Ain’t that the truth…
You can’t make this stuff up
As crazy as this story has been, believe it or not it gets better. I spoke to the druggie girlfriend the other day (we still talk from time to time) and she told me that Amy was being fitted with an ankle bracelet because she was suspected in the murder of her husband (baby daddy) and the state wanted to keep tabs on her to make sure she didn’t abscond.
The story goes that Amy had been cheating on him (surprise, surprise) and the man she was shacking up with shot him in the chest at point blank rage with a shotgun when he, the husband, kicked in the door trying to retrieve his daughter. The ensuing investigation has apparently uncovered evidence that may implicate Amy as the shooter, hence, the ankle bracelet.
I didn’t include the story of how I had borrowed $1,300 to bond her out of jail after getting popped for drugs (her bond was so high she had to put up her car title as collateral in addition to the $1,300 I borrowed) and the craziness that followed because this story is already stretching the parameters of ROK articles as it is. But trust me, I was an idiot in this instance as well and we’ll leave it at that.
Learn from my mistakes
This situation could have ruined my life permanently. I could have gotten Amy pregnant (though the kid’s paternity would have been in question from the jump), I could have gotten arrested while living in that drug house, and I could have developed a heroin habit. I was ripe for the picking but I managed to come out the other side with my freedom and my health.
Looking back, even if I had the mythical crystal ball I used to wish for I know I still would have taken the plunge, proving that this was a lesson I had to learn rather than be taught. That’s how pathetic and thirsty I was.
The wisdom I gained from the experience with Amy paid immediate dividends. My new found degree from the neomasculine preschool of hard knocks made it almost too easy to diagnose the low quality Latina I hooked up with shortly after coming west. Took me a week to solve that puzzle and eventually I ended up here in the ‘sphere.
I never take for granted that I was very fortunate not to have been swallowed up by that armpit of a county in rural North Carolina. The fact that I was chewed up and spit out of there may very well have saved my life.
I hope my story helps men to understand the common mistakes we make as well as the red flags that even the best looking women have. Like I said, I was lucky to get the hell out of those circumstances. But if you’re not careful and apply the knowledge sites like this provide you might not have the good fortune I was afforded to put your life back together.
Hear this story in more detail on The Sharpe Reality Podcast,
Episode 4: The Worst Heartbreak Of My Life – A Cautionary Tale,
And new episodes every Tuesday at TheSharpeReality.com