Member-only story
“She’s Not Yours, It’s Just Your Turn.”
Another Red Pill Dicktum anal-sis.
The other night I went on one of those fantastic once in a blue moon dates that started off perfectly. The kind where you’re finishing each other’s sentences, laughing uproariously at each other’s jokes, and looking into each other’s eyes with chemical attraction, both thinking “This is the one!”
I’m not sure how the floodgates of simpatico opened. Was it our mutual rizz? My confidence? Her charm? Or maybe my seductive sweet talk.
Her: You’re unusually confident. Most guys turn into jibbering idiots around a Mars, Inc. heiress and Miss America contestant like myself.
Me: It’s because I know you’re not mine, it’s just my turn.
Her: That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.
Me: Right? If you and I were to get together, eventually you’d leave me beause of hypergamy, also known as “monkey branching.”
Her (swooning): You know so much about female nature.
Me (taps head): I’m a Red Piller. I’m in the know, baby.
Her: But I really do like you! I swear!
Me: Oh, sure. You say that now. But in two years? Five? Ten? Fifty?
