Women can smell desperation and it stinks. I cringed as I watched Ryan on The Bachelorette beg and plead Ashley to reconsider.
“Please take me back. Please give me another chance.”
No chance, dumb-dumb. Pussies get no pussy. The last thing any woman wants in her man is a sniveling little puppy tripping her up while he dances around her ankles. She doesn’t want to be doing the emotional propping—that’s a man’s job.
Don’t get me wrong; women love men who will aggressively pursue them as long as these men are attractive, successful, and confident. Once the line is crossed toward begging, men become as attractive as tobacco spit in the Arizona sun.
The man can’t be aloof either. He has to show interest, step up, stand back, and convince the woman he’s in demand. Nothing of value is easily obtained. I have a number of female friends who are nothing more than street value enhancers for me. My targets assume I must have something significant going on to be hanging with such lovely ladies. I’m careful to give the proper impression that the candy is sweet, but not mine to eat. The target Tootsie becomes confident that I’m not the average creeper, and leaves me an opening. Closing the deal is another issue.
Back to this Ryan wussy.
When he sees Ashley, he gets all giggly and nervous. Worst of all, he tells her so (as if she wouldn’t notice).
“Aw shucks. Gee. You sure are cute. I have butterflies. Tee hee.”
His voice cracks, his hands shake, his breath becomes shallow, and his pussy shows. All Ashley can think is, I have to be kind and compassionate because the cameras are on. If the cameras were off, she’d probably laugh and tell the toad to slap some Miracle Grow on his testicles.
“When we first met, I had this feeling and I knew we were meant to be together.”
No, my man, the feeling you had was fame-addiction. You were pissed because you were tossed back into insignificance. So, you begged Chris to let you come back on the show and extend your fifteen minutes of fame. Chris, being a wise marketer and producer, saw this as a prime opportunity to tease his viewers and expose your swinging labia. You bit and Ashley didn’t. Har-de-fucking-har.
No matter what Ashley says about Bentley (the guy who shunned her), he’s the man who makes her damp—not the Nadal doppelgangers, not the John Cena wannabe, and certainly not Mr. Heart-Palpitations-in-Pink-Panties. Bentley is confident. He’s the alpha male. He’d keep her on her toes. Ryan will keep her looking for excuses to work late and feign yeast infections.
If Ryan had a drop of testosterone and common sense, he would have said, “I’ll have you know I’ve been rejected by less attractive women. Once the bright lights are unplugged, you’ll realize there’s no room for two attention whores in one relationship. Then, you can call me. If I’m single, I might give you a shot. If not, hey, you had your chance.”
“Please take me back. Please give me another chance.”
No chance, dumb-dumb. Pussies get no pussy. The last thing any woman wants in her man is a sniveling little puppy tripping her up while he dances around her ankles. She doesn’t want to be doing the emotional propping—that’s a man’s job.
Don’t get me wrong; women love men who will aggressively pursue them as long as these men are attractive, successful, and confident. Once the line is crossed toward begging, men become as attractive as tobacco spit in the Arizona sun.
The man can’t be aloof either. He has to show interest, step up, stand back, and convince the woman he’s in demand. Nothing of value is easily obtained. I have a number of female friends who are nothing more than street value enhancers for me. My targets assume I must have something significant going on to be hanging with such lovely ladies. I’m careful to give the proper impression that the candy is sweet, but not mine to eat. The target Tootsie becomes confident that I’m not the average creeper, and leaves me an opening. Closing the deal is another issue.
Back to this Ryan wussy.
When he sees Ashley, he gets all giggly and nervous. Worst of all, he tells her so (as if she wouldn’t notice).
“Aw shucks. Gee. You sure are cute. I have butterflies. Tee hee.”
His voice cracks, his hands shake, his breath becomes shallow, and his pussy shows. All Ashley can think is, I have to be kind and compassionate because the cameras are on. If the cameras were off, she’d probably laugh and tell the toad to slap some Miracle Grow on his testicles.
“When we first met, I had this feeling and I knew we were meant to be together.”
No, my man, the feeling you had was fame-addiction. You were pissed because you were tossed back into insignificance. So, you begged Chris to let you come back on the show and extend your fifteen minutes of fame. Chris, being a wise marketer and producer, saw this as a prime opportunity to tease his viewers and expose your swinging labia. You bit and Ashley didn’t. Har-de-fucking-har.
No matter what Ashley says about Bentley (the guy who shunned her), he’s the man who makes her damp—not the Nadal doppelgangers, not the John Cena wannabe, and certainly not Mr. Heart-Palpitations-in-Pink-Panties. Bentley is confident. He’s the alpha male. He’d keep her on her toes. Ryan will keep her looking for excuses to work late and feign yeast infections.
If Ryan had a drop of testosterone and common sense, he would have said, “I’ll have you know I’ve been rejected by less attractive women. Once the bright lights are unplugged, you’ll realize there’s no room for two attention whores in one relationship. Then, you can call me. If I’m single, I might give you a shot. If not, hey, you had your chance.”
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