Margaret Wente, a columnist with Canada’s Globe and Mail newspaper knocks it out of the park with her article on the sexual economics of today’s young men and women. And her assessment for young women is harsh, but so fucking true:
“A lot of women are in no hurry to get married, either. But it might not work out so well for them. They’ve watched too much Sex in the City. They think they’ll still have the same choices at 35 and 40 that they had at 25. They have no idea that men’s choices will get better with age (especially if they’re successful), but theirs will get worse. Believe me, this sucks. But it’s the truth.”
Basically, women are so quick to give up sex, there’s no incentive for men to work for it, and men working for sex is what BUILT THIS CITY. Sluts offer up their vaginas (but not for cash, so don’t get excited, whores!) for very little effort and in effect, make it hard for ALL women to create lasting and meaningful relationships with men.
Left to their own devices, men CAN and WILL sample as much of the herd as they can, and that’s hella fun! For both men and women, but eventually a woman will start looking around for a provider (unless she voted Obama, in which case she can depend on ALL men to support her through the wonders of taxation). Babies are time sucking assholes who need their mamas fulltime for YEARS, and in order for a woman to do a good job raising her offspring (and no, hiring an illegal immigrant to raise your child is NOT doing a good job), she needs a man.
Dependable, reliable, loyal, strong. A man. The kind of man women’s studies majors HATE. #sorryfeminists.
What is a sensible, reasonable woman to do in the face of sluts throwing their vaginas around like confetti at a wedding?
In truth, it’s not that hard to compete with sluts. What you’ll need are some domestic skills and a sense of loyalty to match your man’s.
True story: when we were in grad school and just dating, I asked Mr.JudgyBitch for the keys to his room and he gave them to me. He told me later that he expected to come home to his room and find me splayed in some kind of exotic lingerie and he was a bit worried about living up to whatever romance novel induced fantasy I had concocted for the two of us. Although that DOES sound kind of fun, I had a different fantasy in mind.
I went to Mr. JudgyBitch’s room and collected all his laundry. I washed it and then, using a piece of cardboard, folded it into beautiful Gap store origami and arranged it on his shelves perfectly. He came home to a room that smelled of Tide and Bounce, with his shirts ironed and hung and his t-shirts lined up on a shelf with military precision.
Yeah. I did his laundry.
He fucking died. He told me later that THAT was the moment he knew he would marry me. We have a long standing joke about choosing me randomly, because Mr. JudgyBitch, handsome and tall, was quite a catch on campus. He had been to a hot tub party at the Faculty of Law and acquired the number of a hot young law student who happened to share the same first name as me. So he had two “JBs” on his cork board and he picked one to call one lonely Friday night, and it was me!
He swears he knew it was me. Yeah. Right. No harm, no foul! Who cares? It was me!
During our 18 months at grad school, I continued to do his laundry. I learned what he liked for breakfast and had a tray ready for him every morning. I fetched him hot food when he was tied up in long meetings, got him coffee when he looked tired and rubbed his back after eight hours of lectures in a chair designed for someone six inches shorter. I folded his laundry, made his bed and listened to his frustrations.
What did he do for me? It doesn’t matter. The answer is: LOTS! But we’re not talking about quid pro quo here. If your first instinct was to set up a mental balance sheet and make sure all of YOUR thoughtful actions are being returned in EXACT PROPORTION to your outlay, you might as well give up now. You don’t know shit about men, or relationships of any kind.
As our relationship progressed, I made sure that Mr. JudgyBitch knew I had a deep care taking instinct. At the beginning of our relationship, we lived in student housing and went to a cafeteria every day. In actual fact, I CAN cook. I’m a terrific cook, but he didn’t know that until we had been married for over a year (we lived in China for our first year and ate out pretty much every meal). What he DID know was that I cared about what he ate. I cared if he was hungry. I would not hesitate to trudge across campus in rainy, shitty weather to bring him a hot dinner.
And he loved me for it. Sucks, doesn’t it? Food, clean clothes, tidy room, sex and a shoulder to lean on. Yep, it’s really that simple.
That’s how you compete with sluts. Be a wife. Be a woman. Look at the man, and care about him deeply. Don’t create a scorecard. Don’t keep tally about who brought coffee to whom. Let the balance swing in his favour dramatically.
What will you get in return? Oh, just a husband. A man who loves you completely. Loyalty, protection, honesty, reliability, dependability. A rock who will weather any storm for you. Who lives for you. As long as you live for him.
That’s how you defeat sluts. Because at the end of the day, sluts are in it for themselves. They don’t give a shit about any particular man, and will toss whatever man they DO manage to snare under the fucking bus the second they think something better has come along. To hell with the man, to hell with their children, to hell with everything but their own insatiable desires. For something they will never have.
Love. True love. It’s a verb, ladies. Show it. Do the fucking laundry.
P.S. Protect yourself from the coming data-powered panopticon by getting a VPN.