A college roommate was able to bone several different women each week. He was good looking, but not substantially hotter than me. He was also petulant, in a childish, pay-attention-to-me way.
I was on the couch when I overheard him say from his loft, “I love you.” His girlfriend was insisting he commit to her before she’d have sex with him. Three weeks later, he was on to the next one.
I used to feel really sorry for these women. I had a conscience. How could my friend abuse them?
I’d even listen to their problems. I was not an orbiter looking to score. I was genuinely interested in comforting them.
Ten years later, I am my friend.
Not only do I lie, but I enjoy it. I concoct detailed false narratives.
I’ve re-watched Catch Me If You Can many times, and have read books by con men. I create separate identities – new jobs, new names, new relationships – when meeting women.
My friends go along with this, enjoying the fun. What name do you want me to call you by? What’s your job?
Creating fictional characters is as much a part of the pre-game as listening to good music and taking Vodka shots.
When I’m visiting a new city, I set up an online dating profile. I tell women I date, “I just moved here for work.” They fuck me, hoping to score a guy new to the scene before another woman can snatch me up.
Then I must always leave, “on business,” of course.
I’ve become everything my friend was.
How I got here is a tired story, shared by many men. I played the game by the rules. Upon learning that I was playing a rigged game, I went through rage, grief, depression, and denial.
Feminism created me. As with Marry Shelley’s Frankenstein, I am too ugly for my creators to behold.
I don’t think of myself as a victim, because I am happier than ever. I get an unreal amount of sex. In relationships with women, I am in complete control.
I emotionally manipulate every girl I am with, as a cat does with a mouse.
When dealing with American women, one may remember Nietzsche’s admonition, “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.”
Nietzsche was wrong.
I have become a monster, and life as a monster is far better than one lived as a human.