When I’m hunting, I view a girl who crosses my path from the bottom up. Her legs, after seeing so many thousand pairs, reveal to me her body’s size and shape, even if she’s wearing a long winter coat. I look away if the legs are misshapen or lumpy, not daring to risk accidental eye contact. Otherwise, my eyes move upward, excitedly, to see what kind of chest, face, and hair she has. I then make a snap judgement of her overall condition and if she’s worth my effort.

When a girl passes my visual inspection, she’ll have at least a good body and an average face with one unique quality that is exquisite. That’s more than enough to pursue a night or two of sex, but for more than that, I need much more—I need a face that I could love.

A face that I could love may not contain the most beauty, or the least amount of flaws, but it is a face that I’d enjoy looking at every day for the rest of my life, one that I would instinctively risk my life for if a group of men more barbarian than me tried to take her away. A face that I could love will still contain objective beauty, because a man of my experience and age can’t be anything but a widower of beauty, but I rather stay alone than to be with an ugly face that I cannot possibly love.

A face that I could love will not be the same face that you could love, and that’s something we should both be grateful for. I can try and describe it to you, the softness of her cheeks, the silent invitation of her eyes, the gentle moistness of her lips, but it would just give you the wrong idea. A face that I could love can not be measured or quantified. If I explained it to a police sketch artist, he’d up drawing a monstrosity, because the heart cannot put into words what it wants. A face that I could love is imprecise, maybe awkward even, but always beautiful, like the the first flight of a bird after its mother encourages it out of the nest.

Love is a decision. When you perceive that a girl is deserving of your love, you let go. You turn off your shield so things happen as they may. While she may refuse that love, and stab you in the back with a hundred serrated knives, the decision must be made for you to feel what is love.


If you do not make the decision for love, the end will be decided at the beginning. When the novelty of her energy or naked body fades, or she dares to do something the least bit bothersome that you wouldn’t even notice on a girl who has a face that you could love, you’ll end it hastily, cruelly, without regret. The course of events with a new girl is written in the first meeting, if not the first minute, if not in the first moment you glance at her, top to bottom or bottom to top, with a most careful examination of her face. None of this requires your conscious awareness. You know if you will love her before you know if you will love her.

When I’m with a girl who has a face that I cannot love, I avoid her eyes. What a waste to be with such a girl! I’ll get some orgasms from her, as cheaply as I can get them, but the time it takes to get an orgasm from a face that I cannot love means I miss out on the opportunity, the chance meeting, with a face that I could love, but the need for sex is stronger than the need for love, and even easier to satisfy, so it’s sex I have pursued for so many years and sex that I will continue to pursue, but I know this is a devil’s bargain, for while I can experience the sexual satisfaction of sultans of old, the chance of love fades with every new girl.

The better I’ve become at gaining sex, the less I am open to the possibility of love, and sometimes at night, when I lay on my bed before going to sleep, I wonder what would happen if I write off sex completely to just talk to girls who have a face that I could love, a face I see once every several weeks, often while looking at the face of a man whom she already loves. I fall asleep. The anonymous women who come in and out of my dreams seem to mirror the ones that come in and out of my life. The pattern holds firm, the grey hairs steadily increase in number, and my motivation to work for women fades, so I greedily hold on to any short-term pleasure while the chance of making a sacrifice for a face that I could love becomes ever more improbable, until it will finally disappear. My heart will give up soon, and then it will be hard to look at faces anymore.

This article was originally published on Roosh V.

Read More: All Girls Are Spoiled Children

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