Last week I talked about the miserable marriage I endured for seven years before pulling the ripcord and getting the fuck out of dodge after finally having tolerated enough bullshit.

That said, I figured I’d just rip off the band-aid and get the rest of my embarrassment over with by regaling you with the third and final chapter of my “ROK Origins, Sharpe Edition” series.

This particular story can be summed up by one succinct phrase:

…you can’t turn a ho into a housewife…

-Dr. Dre

Truer words were never spoken and like many men here, I had to learn this the hard way.

Dr. Dre was ahead of his time back then

Now gentlemen I’m going to warn you—this story is going to make you cringe as my beta-fied hind brain is on display at practically every turn. I was an omega-level simp at the very lowest level and my thirst is almost too pathetic to be real but I can assure you that every word of this tale is true.

Hang on to your hats…

“Aye Papi”

papi

True story

The day after my wife and I had physically separated (she moved back to her parents house) I felt like a new man. The world was my oyster again as I had now shaken myself free of my ungrateful wife, and was certain it wouldn’t take me long to find a snowflake who loved me for me and appreciated me for the loving, swell, generous man I was!

Being a call center supervisor certainly presented me with plenty of opportunities to step out on my wife over the years. I’d flirt with a girl or two every now and then but I never took it any further, and used my sorry example of a marriage as an excuse not to explore the side chick option.

The simple truth was that I just didn’t have the game or the balls to engage in infidelity on any level. Looking back at all the chances I had, I could kick myself for not cheating to fulfill my needs that weren’t being met, but I digress.

I was now a free man ready, willing, and able to commingle with the girls who had been shooting me IOIs since before I could remember. There was one girl in particular I had flirted with on and off who seemed ripe for the picking.

“Carla” was a fiery Puerto Rican girl with hot body, an ass like a Georgia peach, and a pretty face who made my boner stand at attention every time I saw her. Never seen not wearing skin tight jeans that accentuated her unbelievable ass, she always turned heads at the office.

Carla had a boyfriend whom she lived with, but her choice in dress and flirtatious temperament made it clear she was on the market and willing to sell her assets to the highest bidder.

SOLD! to the thirsty simp!

Again, with the benefit of hindsight I now know she zeroed in on me for two reasons: a) she knew I offered more in the way of provisioning because of my position as a supervisor, and b) that she was attracted to my authority.

My dumb ass thought she liked me because of my charm and winning personality…

The day she found out Darcy and I were separated she immediately turned up the heat, and I was all too happy to drink in the rays. She’d bring me home cooked lunches on days we worked together, update the sales board for me (back then we used a whiteboard and dry erase markers), and even took my calls while I was away from my desk, cementing her place as my own personal hot secretary.

After a couple of weeks she started calling me “Papi” which placed me completely under her spell. When a beautiful Latina looks you in the eye and calls you “Papi” you are powerless against its effects. The only antidote to this is the red pill, but as you’ll soon see, I had none to speak of.

Funny thing is that after months of flirtation, dates, meals, etc. I still hadn’t slept with her. I was certainly going to get my opportunity soon right?

To the rescue!

The more time I spent with Carla, the more I learned about her “desperate situation.” Each date she’d tell me more and more about how her boyfriend was threatening to kick her out and that when and if he did she would have “no place to go.”

At first, I didn’t take the bait—but not because I had learned the lesson administered by my soon-to-be ex wife. I was still thinking that saving women was the key to getting into their panties.

Even though I’d worked with Carla for over a year I really didn’t know her that well and that was the reason for my apprehension and not that I had just come out of a marriage that started much the same way.

But Carla knew exactly how to kill that apprehension and trigger that oh-so-useful male provider instinct by upping the ante:

One Monday morning, Carla was absent from work. She hadn’t called or texted since Saturday night so I was on edge wondering if another man had her attention now.

Finally, around lunch time I get a frantic call from her. She tearfully tells me her boyfriend kicked her out on Sunday, threw all of her and her son’s stuff out on the lawn and that she was at her sister’s place.

I told her I was relieved that she at least had a place to stay. But Carla turned up the heat just a few more degrees by telling me that her sister’s boyfriend told her she could only stay for a week and after that he’d take her to a shelter…

…and that was all I needed to hear. I got her sister’s address, told my boss I was taking the rest of the day off, jumped in my car, and raced over to rescue my fair maiden with my cape flapping in the wind.

I was so excited about how lucky I was to get a second chance to rescue a woman it was pathetic. I was actually thinking to myself “I’m gonna do it right this time” on my way over to get her.

After all was said and done, I had rented her a 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom house with a fenced in back yard for her dog near downtown. I paid the deposit and first month’s rent, turned on her electric and cable, all in my name. I even rented a U-Haul and moved her shit into her new place (with the help of her sister’s boyfriend).

Carla was outwardly grateful and for the first month or so things were great. Though I never spent the night I was over there pretty much all the time. Her kid seemed happy to finally have his own room (they routinely bounced from place to place) and her dog was as happy as a pig in the mud being able to run around freely for once in her life.

But I still hadn’t fucked her and was beginning to wonder why. I’d done everything “right” to that point so what was the problem?

Little did I know that getting pulled over would soon give me the answers I was looking for.

My week behind bars

One night in early February I’d just left Carla’s place and was headed home for the night. It snowed earlier in the day but even though the roads had been cleared there was a black ice warning on the news so I figured I’d better take it slow.

About half way home I noticed that a cop was tailgating me. Having been pulled over plenty of times I knew preemptive traffic stop behavior when I saw it, so I reached into my glove department to grab my registration and insurance. Sure enough the blue lights came on a few seconds later.

My license, registration, and insurance all checked out but I had an outstanding warrant for my arrest. The officer was a young guy and was actually pretty cool about the whole thing. Before he slapped the cuffs on he let me smoke a couple cigarettes while we waited on a buddy of mine to come get my car, who he allowed me to call to avoid having it impounded.

I could have bonded myself out rather easily—except for the fact that I had just paid Carla’s rent, electricity, and cable and didn’t have enough in my account to hire a bondsman. My next direct deposit wouldn’t hit for another few days and as result I spent a week in jail.

My boss and I were cool so I still had my job when I got out. I took care of my legal situation quickly and easily and in the end, the only collateral damage was monetary. The whole thing certainly took a chunk out of my finances, but it was over with and that was worth the financial body blow.

Carla was happy to see me out (of course she was) and eventually told me she wanted me to spend the night. I happily agreed thinking I was finally going to fuck her. All of my “hard work” was finally going to pay off. I slid off my clothes, climbed into her bed…

…and smelled cologne—a man’s cologne. I jumped up and turned on the lights and asked her who’s cologne it was and she said it was “a friend’s.”

A raucous argument ensued that woke both her son and her dog and when the smoke cleared I wasn’t any closer to solving the “mystery” as I was when I climbed into bed with her. She denied fucking whoever this dude was but I knew otherwise.

As bad as this was, believe it or not, it gets worse…

As I was getting dressed to leave she actually has the gall to say to me “Donovan, I think it’s a good idea for you to stay away for a little while” and I agreed. This woman had just kicked me out of a house I was paying for and I stood there and allowed her to do so—in front of her son no less.

But when I told her I would continue paying her rent and bills because I was “a man of my word” I as good as handed her my balls. It wasn’t until her sister told me the truth about what was happening from the beginning did I grab my Y-chromosome and cut her ass off, and even then I was hesitant because I was still holding out hope that she’d eventually come around.

According to her sister, the father of Carla’s youngest son (whom she had custody of) had been released from prison a few months back and she’d started fucking him behind her live-in boyfriend’s back. Her boyfriend got wind of it and told her to end it. Carla said she did but kept fucking the baby daddy anyway, and when her boyfriend learned she hadn’t kept her promise he finally kicked her out.

Carla wanted to move out for a while but didn’t have the money to get a place but couldn’t leave her son’s father alone. She knew she’d eventually get caught and kicked to the curb that’s where I came in.

Her sister told me that Carla was “definitely interested” in me but when her baby daddy got out of prison, she “realized she was still in love with him.” She said Carla “struggled to find balance” and decide whom she wanted to be with and that when I exploded at her for having him over while I was in jail it “turned her off.”

I wanted to believe Carla’s sister, but the writing on the wall was so bright and clear even I couldn’t ignore what her end game was: she needed a place for her and her baby daddy and needed a beta bucks to fund her domicile for her and her alpha fucks.

Suckering a simp like me to foot the bill for her residence while getting pounded by an ex-con every night at said residence is just about as close to satisfying both sides of the feminine imperative as it gets. To her credit, she damn near pulled it off. If I hadn’t smelled his cologne on the sheets I may very well have been her beta bucks for quite a while longer.

Fortunately my team had a great 3rd quarter, so I was able to use my bonus to sock away some cash for another rainy (or snowy) day and buy my books for Paralegal school which would be stating in the fall.

Most importantly I finally realized that rescuing damsels in distress was a fool’s errand. I was definitely still a beta but I was probably closer to a shade of purple at this point so I still had a long way to go before seeing red.

And as luck would have it, Amy would nudge me in the right direction not much more than a year later.

As usual…

…Carla had a shitload of red flags:

1. She was raised in a foster home: We’re all privy to the horror stories told about the goings on in foster homes from neglect, poor treatment, abuse, and so forth and the permanent damage it inflicts on children. Carla was a foster child since the age of 6 and unfortunately for her, she became a statistic. She was emancipated at age 11.

2. She was sexually abused by her uncle as a child: This was the reason she was in foster care in the first place. Carla didn’t tell me about the abuse—her older sister did, and then her oldest sister confirmed it. The oldest sister also told me that she, Carla, and their other sister were all sexually molested and raped as young girls. The middle sister denies she was ever molested but her hyperdrive promiscuity and deplorable choice in men betray her denials.

3. She had four kids but custody of only one of them: Carla was either a genetic freak, started having kids early, or both because her body did not reflect four pregnancies carried to term. According to her older sister someone called Child Protective Services because Carla was being severely physically abusive to one of them out in the open. Apparently this wasn’t the first time she’d been reported for such things and this incident was the last straw. As a side note, her four children were fathered by three men.

4. She had a neck tattoo: This story wouldn’t be complete if she didn’t have a tattoo of some sort and this one was of the neck variety. The tatt was the first letter of each of her kids’ names in Old English. I can’t blame her for wanting to do something to remember her children (who she was rarely allowed to see) but the placement was a bad choice.

Super slut tell

5. No relationship with her father: Her father was an alcoholic and was never around. Unfortunately this left the door wide open for his brother to have his way with his daughter.

6. Three sisters, one mother, three fathers: Yep, each sister has a different father. It should come as no surprise that they all hate their mother with a passion. Sluts raise sluts and this situation was no different.

Tying it all together

So there you have it. All three of my most embarrassing escapades with the opposite sex. When I think back on all of those stories I can see my slow, but steady progression toward neomasculinity.

It took Darcy and Carla to get the “ho into a housewife” concept through my skull because when I got with Amy I had no intent on rescuing her and my actions reflected as much. As a result, I didn’t come across as thirsty and bedding her was fairly easy (though her sluttiness certainly played a role).

Amy taught me the value of bona-fide slut tells. What I learned from her, Darcy and Carla carried over into over into my three week relationship with the low quality Latina I got with after I came west. I immediately recognized her attempt at playing the “damsel in distress,” picked up on her slut tells, and dropped her like a bad habit.

When I found she was already out with another dude the night I dumped her I searched “Why do girls get over breakups so easily?” and the rest is history.

I’m glad I walked through the fire

It’s easy to be an armchair QB and say things like “I’d have seen trouble a mile away” or “I wouldn’t have gone near that chick” and if that’s really the case, good for you. You’re one of the lucky ones who are impervious to female allure who is blessed with natural red pill knowledge, or were fortunate enough to have it taught or shown to you from a young age.

For the rest of us pussy is powerful thing—especially to extreme manginas like myself who had no knowledge of game, how slutty and nefarious women really are, or how to effectively deal with it and use it to one’s advantage.

Few of us get to the point of knowing a woman’s true nature without having experienced it firsthand. Darcy, Amy, and Carla showed me up close and personal that red pill truth is real. I had to learn these lessons as opposed to being taught.

That education paid immediate dividends as I was able to quickly diagnose and dispose of that low quality female I hooked up with when I came west. Not three months later she got knocked up by a dude she worked with and her life is now in a tailspin.

That dude could have been me, but neomasculine awareness combined with real life experience kept me from another train wreck with a female.

Most men out there will not be granted nine lives like I seemed to have been given by the red pill gods. I never take for granted how fortunate I am to have emerged from these missteps largely unscathed.

But I hope my stories encourage a few fence sitters to give the matrix of feminism the finger and avoid these pitfalls. If you don’t, your life can and will go sideways in a hurry.

Until next time gents.

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