I am never in the company of men after 5.
– Bertrand Morane
After sex, the company of women can be a drag.
I spend a lot of time with women. Either seducing them, fucking them, fucking with them, listening to them, scratching the napes of their necks, or examining them like a disassembled timepiece. The purpose of such mingling goes deeper than enjoying the pleasure of their company. Books, mentors, a willingness to discard delusion and lies, and a keen eye will aid a man in his divine quest to acquire as much sex and love as he can handle from beautiful women, but no impetus to personal growth is as effective as direct interaction with the subject. Whether sex is or is not the goal, being around women sharply flattens the learning curve. There may be a gene yet discovered which grants its possessor the innate ability to know how a woman ticks, but if there is such a gene, it is a neural algorithm that quickly decays from disuse. Even the best naturals had to buck up and endure spend glorious time around women before their Asmodeus-blessed gifts could find full expression.
Given this reality, some men might make the understandable mistake that their every waking moment should be with women or, if no women are physically present, with women in their thoughts. This would be a false extrapolation. Like a diligent scientist deep in the bowels of his flourescently dismal lab who has forgotten the feeling of the sun on his face, a man who spends all his free time with women risks degeneration of his masculine core. Inhalation of the estrogenic fumes of too much distaff attention and his spirit becomes arthritic, his testicular acuity blurs into maudlin mush. Perspective is lost.
Men would do well to occasionally distance themselves from women and their petty intrigues, and the best way to do this is not through solitude but in the company of other men, reveling in hearty chest thumps, metaphorical or real, and swearing bloodstirring oaths to doctrines good and great that elude the grasp of women stuck in the mud of their uninspiring, earthy practicality. And men, unlike women, are capable of their high drama without uttering a word.
Let me cut to the chase: Women are mostly boring. Even, maybe especially, the brightest and most overeducated among them can induce cataract-like glazing of the eyes if given enough comfort and a sympathetic ear to unleash the menstrual force of their vaggy stream of consciousness. Disconnected from their bodies and sexuality, their flirtations and flattery, and their charm and whimsy, women are incapable of seriously entertaining for any length of time greater than the duration from leer to spent urge any but the most desperately cloying of men. Sure there are exceptions — women of particularly engaging personalities and surprising fondness for the abstract — but these exceptions serve merely to remind a man of the depressing drabness of the mass of women with their meager, provincial concerns.
Don’t lose contact with the world of men. Their vigorous, purposeful company is a refreshing tonic to the pedestrian prattle, contrived machinations, and histrionic solipsism of women.