I Wish I’d Had A Fight

Douglas Stoodley was fuming.

Foam was coming from the corners of his mouth.  That wasn’t just because he was angry though.  It was because of his speech impediment. He sounded very much like an arabic-australian Donald Duck.

“Say it don’t spray it!” I taunted.

That was the last straw.  His stained, yellow teeth grimaced through tight lips.  “Bike racks after school dickhead!” he spat, storming away in a foamy wash of invective.

 

Oh shit

 

Ask any man alive to tell you of his first fight.  It’s up there with virginity loss and getting your bumgina waxed in memory burn, and he’s sure to regale you to murderous boredom.

Not me though.  I’ve never been in a fight.

Back in the schoolyard I thought of myself as a pacifist.  Of course that was never true. I merely never used violence to ascend the hierarchy. Like everyone else, I tried to get one up on everyone in the playground, but I used my words.  Shitty, primary-school, asshole teasing.  I teased the fat kid.  I annoyed the braces off the braces kid.  I insulted the country boy cos he only had a shower once a week.  Plus, he had a speech impediment.  An easy target was poor Douglas Stoodley.

I was never willing to fight.  I was, for all intents and purposes a coward.  I ran away. I got pushed around, shoved, slapped, punched and kicked.  In the balls too.  But I never struck back.  I was too scared.

Every ten year old who pushed me around seemed bigger, stronger, smarter.  They seemed indefatigable.  Willing to do whatever it took to beat me, stopping at nothing.  I rarely felt real pain.  Instead there was the perceived pain, intense, unending, leading to death.  And second only to death was humiliation.  Losing a fight seemed to be so humiliating as to be a death in itself.

 

Big scary death
My death didn’t look quite so cool

 

A psychologist would say that my father was the violent and undefeatable monster that I projected onto every bully I faced.  But that does’t change the fact that I was a pussy.  And the fact that I have never had a fight haunts me still.

See, without being in a fight itself, every mundane act of non-physical violence was perceived as going to one place.  Verbal, emotional, eye contact… it all led to physical violence, with humiliation and death at the end.  I could not bring myself to risk that loss, even with my ongoing descent down the pecking order.  There was no future past a fight, not one with me in it.

I had no idea of my own strength, my own power.  I did not know the damage I could do with a strike to the nose or a front kick in the plexus. I always thought that a fight would be akin to those in a dream, muddy, slow, quicksand blows that the enemy would not only endure, but would gain strength from.

It took me years to learn to endure men, to discover that insults are often signs of affection.  Stand-offs rarely ended in violence, and instead were used as gauge for your bluff tolerance.  I could learn to enjoy hard hitting barbs and verbal violence without fear.  And I started learning the art of physical violence myself through martial arts and combatives.

My schoolyard self never realised the respect that came from standing up for yourself.  I never realised that everyone in the surrounding group took close note of the way in which a boy held himself in the pressure tank.  It didn’t matter whether I won or lost.  It was only that I held myself against another.

I never discovered the friendships that arrive out of fighting.  Two boys who enter the arena with the fear of extermination in their blood are brothers on the other side.  I only discovered that years afterward, when my first few confrontations ended to my surprise with man-hugs, beers and ongoing acquaintanceships.

Preventing boys from fighting is an atrocious side-effect of our risk-mitigating society.  It is one thing for a bully to pick on someone weaker.  It is another for two boys to decide their hierarchy on their own terms.  To prevent this is to lessen the experience of being a boy, and later, that of being a man.  I only wish I had been given better advice than “Hit first and hit hard.”  I mean good advice and all, but not when it’s the ONLY advice.

When I advise my boys I will say:

 

  • Don’t start fights, but if one gets started on you, fuck the kid up.
  • Pain hurts, but only for a little while.  Being the bottom of the pack hurts less, but for a lot, lot longer.
  • Your peers will respect you when you stand up for yourself.
  • Try to talk your way out of a fight.  But when that doesn’t work, go hard.
  • No matter how big they are, stand up.  Bluff works wonders.
  • While you are small, you will be hurt, but not much.  Learn to fight now, while it doesn’t hurt so much, and when you are a man, you will not have to fight.

I wish I’d fought as a boy.  To face an equal at that age didn’t mean permanent injury, disfigurement, lawsuits and possible death.  Now, I doubt if I will ever be in a fight.  But if it comes my way… I’m ready.

 

After taunting Douglas I went to class.  The beautiful brunette next to me, Rebecca Morgan, asked if I was going to fight.  I said hell no.  Then she said the words I’ve remembered ever since.

“Are you a coward?”

I’d like to think… no.  Not any more.

 

 

Your Best Friend – Why Your GF / Wife Is Not It

I love you man best friends husband and wife
We’re Besties, aren’t we… Aren’t we?

 

Don’t fall for that bullshit.  That language merely makes her feel better, and pops you in a ribbon-wrapped box of friendship that’s easy for her to open and occasionally poop in.  It gives her the superficial security that friends give each other: no-pressure, like-each-other, be-there-for-you bollocks.

You are friends, sure.

But first you are business partners and lovers.

Hollywood has again fucked with your head.  A thousand rom-coms have salted your brain in a preserving barrel of feminine brine.  You believe that the perfect woman is out there.  Your Soulmate, decked out in a sultry little black dress, ready with witty one-liners and enough charm to bring a dead orca back to life.  She knows you.  Everything about you. Your fondest memories, your ticklish spot.  She knows how to surprise you, gets the present you wanted without you even telling her.  

Movies have told you this woman is your Best Friend.  And, unbelievably, it’s always the male character who says it, at the altar. Or to one of his mates.  Or to her on the couch. It’s always the same.  And it stinks like a tartan pile of dirty flannies.

So you meet said perfect girl.  There is only one question that needs asking:  Can you be completely, 100%, hand-on-heart, sauté-a-baby-in-onions-if-I-mitigate-at-all honest with the girl?

If you can, congratulations. You have won the feminine lottery of the millennia and deserve a place in history alongside Attila and the guy who invented the penny-farthing.  Which is a pretty good thing.

For the rest of us, Men are the best friends required.

Blokes.  Best mates ever.

One of the greatest things about being a man is the potential quality of a man’s friendships.  Once a certain point of confidence is reached, a man chooses his closest friends with great care based on their honesty, their attitudes, and their accomplishments.  These friendships are pure diamond.  Brutally hard, vibrant, cutting and beautiful.  A good friend pushes you. He is incredibly honest. He makes you laugh.

He holds a view of the world distinctly different from your own while still accepting and even encouraging that difference.

Sit down with your mates and discuss cooking children, ironing porn and off-colour jokes and no one will bat an eyelid.  Does your wife know about that?

You may read this and think I am a misogynist.  I am not. I love my wife heartily.  She is an incredible woman.  But though we share a house and children and a bed, she is not and cannot be my best friend.  She simply cannot, through basic biology, understand my most basic function: that of being a man.

My Best Friends MUST be men.  The women in my life cannot understand what it is like to have a hard cock, or to feel the fire of Jupiter running in my veins. They cannot know about the passion to strive, to fight, to want to endure pain hardship and incredible anxiety for only a possibility of success.

In my life, only another man can understand.

A stranger stabs you in the front
I call bullshit.

 

This poster illustrates the difference between men and women.  To a woman only a stranger would dare be truly honest to her face.  Meanwhile, her friend is only truly honest about her to other people behind her back.  Only then, when all honesty has been used up, do her best friends ensure that nothing real ever gets shown.  They can share only those air-filled platitudes which collapse upon transmission like a shiny, useless soap bubble.

There is a profound saying that sums up a man’s Best Friend:

Best friends stab each other in the front.

Brutal honesty is only possible with a friend who is a man.  And if something bothers you about your friend, you better make damn sure he knows about it from you.

 

 

Who’s the Boss? A Marital Questionnaire

Who's the boss stars wearing tshirts saying "I'm the Boss"
Exactly.

Who’s the boss?

Maybe your kid asks it.  Maybe some friends bring it up in a drunken conversation.  Maybe your father-in-law teases you about it.

Who’s the boss?

Is it you?  Or is it her?   Who do you want it to be?

If you even need to ask this, she’s the boss.

You’re both the boss… right?  So in other words, she’s the boss.

She laughs under her breath… you got it, she’s the boss.

Ask yourself these questions. Then ask why you are not the boss.

Who is the strongest?

Who is the smartest?

Who earns the most?

Who would defend the family?

Who would protect the house from attack?

If you answered yes to all these, and you still feel like the bitch, you have some work to do.  Of course, if you’re ok being a fucking pussy to your wife, then cool.  You’re probably not getting laid though, and your missus is nagging you to death.  This is all a function of you not taking your proper role.

Protection is the common theme here.  Physical protection, intellectual protection, financial protection.  Can you protect your family and property from predators?  Can you protect your family from stupid ideas?  Can you protect your family from financial ruin?  A man’s role is protection, and if you are competent at it, you are the boss. No man who can adequately protect his family and provide for them should play second fiddle.  The strongest person in the household should be the boss.

But this isn’t how it works, is it? Decision making is where boss-dom is won or lost.  Solid, non-mitigated decision-making earns maximum respect points from women.  Unfortunately this is where most guys give it away, including myself.

For years I answered “whatever YOU want to do” to questions from my wife.  We were still happy. But I certainly didn’t feel like the boss.

It took me a while to realise that I needed to make decisions.  Strong, fast decisions.  My marital happiness depended the solidity of that decision making process.  My wife wanted someone who could decide what to have for dinner, where to go tomorrow, when to buy a new car, where to go on holiday.

Put your hand up if your dad ran the house when you were a child.  I thought so.  Dad owned the house, he ran the house, you lived there UNDER HIS RULES YOU FUCKING DONKEY.  There was no doubt in his mind or anyone else’s about whose place you were in and who you had to listen to.  I went to my old man’s house recently, ate some ham off a plate with my fingers, and got my ass chewed out for ten minutes.   I’m four inches and ten kilos bigger than him, but it didn’t fucking matter cos it’s his house, his rules.

Men, this is where we need to be.  If you’re having problems in this area, you need to read the Married Man Sex Life Primer immediately and man the fuck up.  It’s not about ruling the roost with an iron fist, kicking ass for minor infractions.  It’s about knowing your place as ruler of your kingdom and protector thereof, and living that life.   It’s not about natural law, it’s about who is more qualified to be the last stand of responsibility in your house.

Who is willing and able to be accountable for any fuckups that occur?

Who is able to sacrifice themselves for their family at last resort?

And if such a sacrifice is necessary, who is to shoulder the responsibility for all the decisions to come before?

I sure as hell will be making the decisions if it is to be my life on the line in the final instance.

 

The Charismatic Man – Not a Pipedream

I spent years at the bottom of the pack.  While there, I could never understand why some men conducted audiences with abandon while I struggled to hold one person’s attention to a shitty story.  But over time I noticed that some actions improved attraction measurably, while others stank.  I worked hard at the non-smelly ones and have non-bottom pack status to show for it.

I am still far from being charismatic.  But people listen to me.  They pay attention when I have something to say.  Women like to be around me.

My ability to attract others has increased through conscious improvement. Here’s what I’ve worked on over the last decade to improve my personal magnetism.

 

Improve the body.  Men and women hold healthy looking people in high esteem.  If you look big, healthy and strong, people pay more attention to you and value what you say.  If you’re a hippo, or have to run around in the shower to get wet, then you are fading into the wallpaper socially.  People literally don’t notice you, because evolution is telling them that a) you are not a physical, social or sexual threat, and b) you are not healthy and therefore cannot produce healthy babies.  And that’s how you become carpet.

You want bang for your buck?  This is the shiny platinum Amex you want.  Exchange 3 hours a week in the gym and you’ll get attention out the wahoonie.  Unless you’re a douchebag.  But I’ll get to that.

 

Healthy beautiful woman jogging
Most certainly healthy

 

Increase eye contact and improve it’s quality.  Want to look like a shifty and untrustworthy junkie?  If you can’t hold proper eye contact you are profoundly reducing your charisma.  You look weak and shiftless.  You seem uninterested, which is precisely what the Charismatic man avoids.

 

beautiful cat eyes
feel what you saying baby

 

Eye contact takes practice and lots of it.  Eye patterns are defined from birth by parents and siblings, and are more difficult to change than a Sikh’s headwear.  Work on them every day.  Increase eye contact one second past what is comfortable for you, then two seconds.  For practice I stared at my classmates until they looked away. This improved my tolerance hugely… and almost single handedly put me at the top of the pack.

When practicing look directly into the pupils.  Looking around or between the eyes is cheating.  You are looking to create a connection, and deep eye contact releases oxytocin.  This bathes you and your partner in a wonderful chemical bonding session.

Lastly, if uncomfortable, look sideways or up but never down.  Downward glances are for submissives.  Charisma comes not from being top of the pack, but from being entirely comfortable with yourself, so work on this as well.

 

Move and talk slowly and deliberately.  Charismatic people see themselves as high value.  When you are worth-y there is no need to rush.  Others will rush for you.  Your movements should convey deliberation, power and strength.

The ability to create and withstand tension is paramount.  Submissives rush their movements and speech in order to appeal to their masters, usually because the tension of attempting equality is too great to withstand.  Create instead the impression that nothing and nobody phases you, regardless of the situation.  If a tough question is asked, endeavour to slow down the need to answer by taking deep breaths.  Show that you are in control by using your right to answer when and how you wish.  You have the power.

Think about what you say and consciously slow your speaking speed.  Slowing it down will help you form whole coherent sentences and prevent ums and aahs. Quality speech patterns create perceived competence.

Own your space.  Make large, sweeping, slow movements.  Stand in alpha positions.  Touch people in your area of influence.

 

Never, ever second guess yourself.  Hesitation is weakness of character, and shows lack of conviction.  The Charismatic Man commits, and convinces others of his certainty.  Most people’s commitment is like a candle.  Yours should resemble a blue, fiery, close-to-supernova star.  People like to follow stars, especially when they are only yellow, smoking pigfat.

Don’t be pigfat.  Be freaking awesome.

 

Silence – A Man’s Best Friend

Solitary canadian cowboy walking in the huge expanse between sea and desert

 

Real men love silence.

 

Man’s mind is like the desert.  Clean and clear.  A breath of thought breezes through on occasion.  The unknown is over the horizon, soon to be known.  Man does not worry.  Man breathes, and is silent.

 

Silence between two men is tremendously powerful.  Each man acknowledges his deep respect for the other through his silence.  There is no need to talk of trivialities which only waste energy, time and breath.  A man realises that to fill silence with shit is a terribly selfish and arrogant act.

 

The adolescent abhors silence.  It is scary.  It is scary because all self-honesty is found in silence.  In a moment of silence The Great Illusion, that you as an unaccomplished youth are worthy, is shattered.

 

A man however, feels the weight and power of his accomplishments.  He enjoys the satisfaction of achievement in his silence.  He feels fulfilled even as he finds the presence of his approaching death unsettling.  Words often serve only as a flimsy barrier to our knowledge of this impending doom.  In silence man cannot ignore it, but he has the power to sense the legacy that will continue in spite of it.

 

Silence and solitude are the media of mastery.  When there is no-one and no words, work flows.  Works done silently solo are immensely satisfying.  Time slows.  Minutiae grow.  Learning accelerates.  Experiments flourish.  When there is no-one and no words, there is nothing to excuse yourself to.  Anything goes.  Everything flows.

 

Women connect through their words, feelings and emotions.  Men connect through common work, few words and shared silence.  We are not women, but were raised by them. When young we feel the childlike need to fill silence with voices.  It’s time we learnt to be men.

 

Learn to love the silence.  It will show you it’s secrets.