Bilge Rats in Boston
Jobs for our boys. Plunder for Tortuga. Booty for Cap'n Walt.
So I just had a pretty great weekend.
One reason for this is that I managed to have sex with a human femoid for the first time since November. And it’s actually kind of an interesting and bittersweet story, but I’m also saving it for the end of this piece because I’m fairly certain that sandwiching my content with pussy will maximize your engagement.
The bulk of this story is more a tale of fraternal affection, which ties into the second reason this past weekend was so lovely: I finally got to meet my friend and equity partner
in the flesh, because on Friday night the two of us flew into Boston to celebrate the first major win for our external staffing venture.Long story short, the Tortuga Society finally managed to place three of our members into decently-remunerated remote gigs by leveraging the headhunting startup that Theon and I founded alongside Tortuga Strategies last year. And that’s the third reason my weekend proved an untrammeled joy—it really bolstered my self-esteem to know I actually Delivered The Goods for at least a few of our men.
The fourth reason is that Tortuga Strategies cleared just under $40,000 in placement fees from this transaction. Now I myself am only pocketing eight grand of that because the senior Tortugan who facilitated this arrangement is getting $20k, while
is also entitled to a share for doing literally all the actual work… plus we apparently need to allocate a few thou to reserves to cover gay shit like “taxes” and “expenses,” but whatever—the solution to expenses is always just to make more money.Which brings me to the fifth reason my weekend was splendid: the aforementioned Tortugan (henceforth “Jason”) signed a contract with us that by all appearances will enable us to place a lot more of our boys over the next few months under a vastly more scalable comp structure. If we can keep the ship reasonably steady—and Cap’n Walt can actually focus on the fucking business instead of thirsting after teenage art hoes and writing masturbatory showtunes—then Theon and I and Jason and any Prospective Jasons Reading This stand to get ludicrously rich from our scheme.
Once that happens I intend to hand over all meaningful staffing responsibilities to Theon and focus on the one thing I’m better at than making money—spending it.
I’ll pour cash into the Tortuga Technical Institute to help earnest intellectuals even smarter and more autistic than Wally B. deploy novel asymmetric strategies in service of authentic scholarship and creative entrepreneurialism, while also workshopping methods for resisting dopamine traps and ensuring that AI remains our servant instead of the other way around.
I’ll use our staffing proceeds to finance creative endeavors that would struggle to attract funding in the faggoty woke halls of power—starting with my own dark cabaret show.
I’ll donate to organizations like
and ’s Empyreal College, because I think we need a space where exceptionally smart and interesting people don’t need to worry about tedious shit like “making money.” Words genuinely can’t express how much I wish something like that had existed when I was their age.And obviously it goes without saying that I’ll also be a bit of a nigger rich degenerate on occasion. Not like I used to be ofc—who has the energy for that in their thirties? But I’m too much the epicurean *not* to set money on fire having Panera couriered to my door every morning. Meanwhile if the past year has taught me anything it’s that abandoning rakishness wholesale is most definitely *not* the right path to securing a decent wife; if anything the exact opposite route seems most fruitful of late.
But more on that later.
First we’ll get the boring incel-coded business proposal out of the way.
Any girl readers who mostly subscribe to my blog for the misogynistic facefucking stories can feel free to skip this section. The other part’s coming soon don’t worry.
But for any Waltheads encumbered by a wiener and concomitant social obligation to generate economic value, here’s the basic proposal:
We’re looking for guys who can personally connect us with hiring managers or internal recruiters, or are themselves a hiring manager / internal recruiter.
Both parties will sign an NDA drawn up by my Jew lawyers so we’re all protected and information can be exchanged without worrying about opsec
This is actually a legitimate business—our entire value add is being able to put forth genuinely worthy candidates because Theon and I have enough industry experience to accurately judge an applicant’s competence, and even outside our respective industries are infinitely savvier than the airheaded sorority girls and technically useless Boomers you typically see as headhunters.
This is eat what you kill—you only get paid when we place someone. We need a guy with enough agency to push Tortugans through the system and slice through any red tape imposed by HR ladies—think what I did for that Nice Jewish Boy in my Goy Who Lived story. Note this isn’t especially difficult in practice; it just requires decent social skills and a bit of follow-through. But even if you lack the former it’s nbd because my boys will write every email for you.
Initially we’ll give you 50% of the placement fee (typically $10k-$20k) for connecting us with a hiring manager and 20% for connecting us with an internal recruiter. Then long term we’ll put together a bespoke contract (i.e. what Jason signed Saturday night) that makes sense for the specifics of your situation.
Right now we’re focused on staffing data analysts and software engineers, alongside adjacent STEM roles like actuary / financial analyst. But we’re expanding out of that niche and have tons of CPAs, lawyers, marketing guys etc. in Tortuga as well. I also have a decent network outside of the Society, so if you know literally anyone who’s hiring and can make it work hit me up—I can def find the right guy.
It’s optimal if you have sufficient internal clout to really lean on hiring managers (Jason for instance is in a director-level role which made it a lot easier with him), but you could literally do this as a 24yo analyst if you’re generally respected and have a great relationship with your manager. Don’t count yourself out here, because with this sort of dosh even a 5% chance of success makes it worth the effort.
I’m way too lazy to check emails regularly so if you want in on this adventure please reach out to Theon at the email below:
theonultima@tortugasociety.biz
Now some of you won’t be able to help us place anyone else but will be very interested in getting placed yourself. Generally speaking we currently have too many qualified Tortugans who really want to be placed, and I’m duty-bound to prioritize the fellers who’ve already given me their hard-earned shekels. But if you want into that pool you’re obviously more than welcome—jump on in, the water’s fine.
Appreciate your patience, ladies.
Feel free to tune back in—the rest of this piece is in narrative format.
My much-delayed flight touched down in Boston around 1 AM Saturday morning, which in my estimation is easily the scariest time of night.
Historically people disagreed with that assessment, referring instead to 3-4 AM as the “witching hour,” but that’s just because agricultural people had a biphasic sleep cycle and would generally wake up around this time to have a snack or fuck their smelly wife before going back to bed. The thing is back then most poor people had cognitive developmental issues due to a lack of saturated fat in their diet, and as a consequence were a lot more likely to hallucinate shit or just psychosomatically experience their sleep paralysis / hypnogogic imagery as an incubus raping them or something. So it makes sense people back then incorrectly thought 3 AM was scary.
These days I only find 3 AM scary because it’s so fucking close to morning, and whenever I’m procrastinating shit morning makes me feel like a worthless fuckup. When my life is good and I’m feeling proud of myself I actually quite like mornings, but when I’m running away from something I’ll often become quasi-nocturnal, sleeping or dissociating through the day while treating nighttime as a sacred respite from all the people in my life demanding shit from me.
But even then 1 AM never stops being a little spoopy. Midnight isn’t spoopy at all because it sort of feels kitsch—a lot like Halloween, but also kind of a mini New Year. It’s almost impossible to imagine a maniac breaking into your house and carving your throat open at midnight. But imagine someone coming to kill you at 1 AM. See what I mean?
Thankfully it’s hard to get scared even at this time when you’re sharing oxygen with dozens of sweaty normgroids in a confined space with zero legroom, because generally speaking annoyance is a very reliable defense against fear (the possibility of a black pilot notwithstanding). That said the middle aged woman sitting next to me who kept wanting to talk about the Bible might have come off as a bit eerie under the right circumstances had she not completely ruined it by disagreeing with me when I tried to Yes And her into supporting the Crusades.
See I was trying to explain how they were ackchually a geopolitical act of self defense, but she was one of those Gen X low church prot bitches who takes a weirdly intransigent line on gays but insists on licking every minority’s asshole at every opp because she grew up in that brief slice of history where you only had to do the latter. And sadly
wasn’t there to confound the hag, so I ultimately determined the funniest tack was to performatively adopt an ultra-Tradcath stance while getting far to the matron’s right on literally everything she cared about.Now make no mistake, she almost certainly knew what I was doing here. The old girl was hardly dumb—some kind of accountant, if memory serves? But she still couldn’t think of any decent way to escape the trap I’d set except to disengage on my terms, and ultimately I found it quite satisfying and not a little arousing to start my trip to Boston by so thoroughly eviscerating a modern Puritan.
Thankfully the airport was close to deserted when we landed and picking up my bags was a breeze. The only thing standing between me and Boston was a 25-minute car ride with a similarly nocturnal Dominican man. And at first that did induce some cognitive load insofar as it contained the possibility of him trying to engage me in conversation, but this anxiety was happily obviated by my discovery of an option in the Uber app to instruct your driver to be quiet.
And some of you guys *dislike* modernity.
But I actually did end up talking to Luis for most of the ride—both because Substack is basically dead at that hour and I register no hedonic return from Twitter these days, and because I remembered Dominicans are often hilariously racist against Haitians and I wanted to see if the fellow could be baited into saying something edgy. Sadly he didn’t indulge me—not because he was a libtard or something but bc he probably had a rather severe case of social anxiety or agoraphobia. The whole time he seemed quite uncomfortable and almost scared? idk maybe the Uber autismo switch goes both ways.
Anyway before long Luis dropped me off at the Mandarin Oriental hotel, which I’d chosen for reasons that are probably obvious. Ever the flinty Dutchman, Theon had objected to this choice and proposed we go for something a touch more economical, but I had lofty plans for this weekend and wanted to make a proper impression.
I suppose this is as good a time as any to introduce Marie—her middle name btw.
It’s her last name on FB because she’s still a retarded woman despite easily having a 125+ IQ—by my reckoning the fourth highest of everyone in my spreadsheet, though she’s prob the second or third most sentient. Thinks like a man (except I guess on FB).
I really wish it were her first name because IMO it’s a lot more beautiful than the generic Zillennial slop her psycho BPD mom chose. Though it would also be kind of strange to say while fucking her given that it evokes primarily that little white cat from the Disney movie and secondarily the grandma from Everybody Loves Raymond. But I guess most girls her age sort of like to think of themselves as the former during sex anyway, so maybe it would work? I’d definitely need an opaque check before I could ever admit to liking something like that myself.
Anyway Marie was actually the last girl I dated during my anger phase circa 2020, prior to that fling with Rebecca more or less dispelling my residual Incel Rage.
I chronicled this era briefly in Women Don’t Have Agency:
At this point I’d been on steroids for a few months and had just begun experimenting with meeting girls from SeekingArrangement. I’d hooked up with a few of them in the prior months, but still felt like an incel sort of assailed by the world, and in that scarcity mindset I wasn’t especially motivated to treat my conquests well.
Obviously I never coerced anyone or outright lied to a woman about my intentions—if anything I was brutally honest with them about my transactional mindset and always insisted on creating a hard paper trail to prove consent. But I did this because I saw the sexual power game as zero sum and something to be “won” against my heartless and implicitly predatory female adversaries. Thanks to that attitude I occasionally acted rather callously / carelessly toward girls I later realized had come to me entirely in good faith.
Looking back I’m inclined to say the actual substance of this passage was directed almost entirely toward Marie—the handful of other girls I slept with before Rebecca were basically just hookups, during which I never did anything that actually crossed the line from Rakish into Predatory.
That said I *was* a lot less experienced then and far more of a sperg, and that did create a few genuinely uncomfy moments—one girl for instance told me a week later that I was much kinkier than she’d been expecting but went along with it because of her “fawning trauma response.” She didn’t blame me at all for what happened because she’d only responded positively in the moment, and altogether was very cool about it, but it still fucked me up for a while and I sort of temporarily lost faith in the ability of women to meaningfully consent to sex—especially because something similar happened around the same time with another gal I didn’t hear from for several years.
But that other girl actually ended up hooking up with me three years later (dw she liked it this time even though I was MUCH more aggressive funnily enough) and we had a super honest convo about what happened. Being older / wiser / less of an incel this exchange helped me understand these situations from the girl’s perspective in a way I never could have as a young aggressive sperg, and it was actually because of this discussion with her that I felt inspired to take up the cause of the unagentic Zoomette contra Regan and
in last year’s Female Agency Wars. Anyway this girl and I are still friends—she actually played a large role in helping me write Bluebeard and I’d say there’s like a 30% chance she ends up reading this (hi J!).Looking back on both of these girls I still feel sad about what happened just for their sake, but I also give myself lots of grace for being an inexperienced young guy who genuinely thought they were into everything because, ya know, they were literally telling me so at the time. It’s just that shortly thereafter I dated Rebecca and observed in her enormous Jew eyes what it looks like when a girl is REALLY into That Sort Of Thing.
Though Marie had been into it too—all intellectual women really are just insanely fucking masochistic. Though Marie was actually a switch IIRC. I want to say her M.O. prior to me was pegging twinky Asians? Then she was also purely a dom with girls because she found the idea of another woman dominating her demeaning, which I rather appreciated. But I believe she also adopted a purely submissive role during sexual congress with wealthy older white or middle eastern guys.
She actually sent me one of those groace reddit kink sheets before flying down from Virginia to get fucked. I told her I wouldn’t look at something so retarded and she giggled and said fine I can just rape her. But I looked at it anyway because I was curious and it indicated that she found it hot to be called a “bitch” or “cunt” or “slut” but to never ever ever call her “fat” or “pig.”
Poor Marie. Little Marie.
She’s the one girl from that era I objectively just wronged.
So of course she’s the one who felt like getting fucked this weekend.
It was nearly 2 AM when I met Theon and his side hoe at the Mandarin Oriental (ha!)
The first thing I noticed was that Theon’s ears are pierced. I wasn’t expecting that at all, but it honestly struck a lovely dissonance with his steely baritone and stoic demeanor, lending his overall aesthetic a pleasing dimensionality that suggests intriguing hidden depths and a thoroughly integrated anima. Nicely done, lad.
My second observation was that Theon has a vaguely similar look and deportment to Zac Efron, who I only know from High School Musical and that Ted Bundy movie, both of which I greatly enjoyed him in (I actually watched the latter with Marie when she visited me back in the day—she’d attempted to present her serial killer fixation as quirky but it’s like shut up bitch literally all of you fucking like serial killers).
Anyway on a scale of Rajeev to WBE I’d say Theon only comes in at around 2-3 on the serial killer scale (I personally oscillate between 4 and 8 depending on my restedness), and if Tortuga ever gets a physical office I’ll need him to work on that because it’s very important for a COO to be able to trigger that flight or fight response in people. But I suppose Theon’s regrettable deficiency in dark triad traits only makes it all the more impressive that the dude is somehow able to hold down three girlfriends at once.
Speaking of…
The first thing I noticed about Claire was that she’s like four inches taller than Theon. And Theon’s not short, either—maybe like an inch shorter than Cap’n Walt, who stands a regal 5’11.5. But this broad mogged everyone around her. She was formidable! Honestly these Zoomers really are built different—5'10 girlies are fucking everywhere these days and even 6’2 isn’t that extraordinary.
Anyway Claire kind of seemed like a bitch tbh. But to be entirely fair it was quite late and at 23 her brain is still developing. Also Theon did a pretty great job reproaching her whenever she started acting too cunty, which was very amusing because the guy seems almost saccharine-sweet whenever I hear him talking to his girlfriend.
No doubt that’s how you make polygyny work in practice. You need firm roles and expectations. Theon can pull that off because he’s like 85th percentile in trait conscientiousness and actually does what he says—why I chose the nigga as COO. Meanwhile I’m like 19th percentile conscientiousness and most of the time feel proud of myself for maintaining a basic contiguity of Self.
Don’t get me wrong, my volatility has loads of benefits as an artist and rhetorician and entrepreneur, but it also makes it rather hard to maintain a “main girl” and “side girl” without them constantly switching back and forth in some elaborate byzantine court intrigue. They’ll certainly put up with a working class girl they don’t perceive as a threat, but they’re far less tolerant of any woman they perceive as comparable status. Hell, last year Alyssa and Rebecca actively encouraged me to keep supporting my qt goth single mom exgf even after we broke up, and were both individually down for a threesome with her. But OF COURSE they instinctively mistrusted each other.
I’m not sure how Theon is managing this with Claire—in my experience tall blonde pantsuit types are the very last ones who’ll put up with this shit. He’s not even taking care of her financially, being quite traditional by disposition (ntm delightfully stingy—another reason he’s COO) and only paying his girlfriend’s bills. She probably just had a weak or absent father and needs someone to crack the whip on her in that stern yet relaxed way Theon really excels at. Or maybe his cock’s just nine inches long or something—would it count as sexual harassment to ask him that?
Anyway the three of us grab drinks and the conversation immediately turns to the topic of Pokémon, with Theon and I engaging in a surprisingly heated debate about whether the franchise started to suck ass with Gen Three.
Naturally this discussion was absolute torture for Claire, who departed for their room approximately 20 minutes into our exchange (it goes without saying that any ladies reading this are welcome to join her and skip to the next section).
Okay, so I’m obviously not so chuddish as to be an unreconstructed Genwunner, even though Yellow was my first game.
Ultimately we all know the first generation was janky as shit—Psychic types were like Jews in twentieth century America and had no hard counter, there was that weird ‘Special’ stat, the difficulty curve was terribly balanced… the list goes on.
I really loved Silver though because to my mind 251 was just enough Pokémon, and I also loved the breeding system and day night cycle. IMO those were just enough gimmicks. It was also cool af you got to go to Kanto in the postgame and fight Red. TBH I’ve never had a moment in any other game hit me quite like that did.
I only played Gen III many years later on an emulator when I was like 15 or 16, so maybe that was the problem. Maybe I just lost the kid magic. But I think it was something different. It got too complicated. I hated the weather system. I hated the double battles. There were way too many gay little gimmicks.
And more importantly, far too many Pokémon now.
One thing I find really fascinating is that the number of Pokémon in Gen I is 151—this tracks almost perfectly with Dunbar’s Number, or the number of individuals we’re able to conceive of as distinct persons (presumably because ~150 is the rough organizational carrying capacity of a paleolithic tribal band before you start to see fragmentation and splintering). Beyond that number it’s hard not to mix up details and implicitly dehumanize people by lumping them into abstract categories.
When I think back on Gen I Pokémon I can still recite nearly all of them by heart, even though I was never a huge Pokémon fan. They’re like my tribal band. Gen II Pokémon are like coworkers or in-laws or women on my spreadsheet—I can 100% remember their names if I see them, but I’d be hard-pressed to list more than a quarter of them off the top of my head. Then once we get to Gen III it’s like my old Twitter friends from the Alt Right era or pornstars or middle school acquaintances. There are just too many and it would be really fucking weird to remember them all.
Theon told me to Google a list of Pokémon and he proceeded to rattle their names off sequentially like I’ll do with Presidents to impress a bitch. He got a few mixed up in the low 200s but was mostly perfect until I stopped him at Shedinja (#0292) having heard enough.
I’d forgotten that like my other INTJ fren
Theon basically has an eidetic memory—yet another reason this nigga is COO. God knows Wally B can’t be trusted to keep track of hard facts and figures like that; most of the time it’s genuinely easier for me to improvise some clever epistemic sleight of hand pulled completely out of my ass to run cover for not knowing wtf I’m talking about. Meanwhile Theon just does the fucking research then actually fucking remembers it. He’s also practically immune to energy-sucking cognitive load, which stops him from pooping his pants the moment a task has any ambiguity or complexity.The thing is while both of these traits make him a monster of a COO they also give him a rather shitty and solipsistic stance on Pokémon.
He doesn’t get that not everyone can meaningfully appreciate 1025 distinct Pokémon (does even Theon’s Dunbar reach that high?) plus a trillion interacting gimmicky mechanics that taken together make the gameplay so complex it basically just feels random, not to mention grotesquely tonally inconsistent.
No doubt this direction was assessed as necessary by Nintendo in light of Gen Z’s frenetic novelty-seeking and goldfish-like attention spans. These brats probably wouldn’t even register tonal consistency as a desirable thing. But I suppose the Boomers could easily say the same thing about us looking at our entertainment—action flicks from the 1970s seem slow af today.
Every generation is worse than the last. Our brains are always growing more rotten, more desperate for novel fucking gimmicks, more desperate for that aggressive oscillation between high and low. The reason guys like Theon and sunshine usually rise to the top of society is that they have the RAM and cognitive bandwith to consistently navigate these complex interlocked systems without getting overwhelmed and losing track of the deets.
Meanwhile guys like me rise to the top because we’re really good at finger-fucking your calcified amygdala.
Marie was 20 at the time. Terrible evil BPD mother. Raised by a single dad. High IQ blue collar dude—high prole per the Fussell taxonomy. Those are the only type of girls who actually Have Agency. The father doesn't let them abrogate responsibility. Leaves them really defenseless. She was a gifted kid. Graduated early with a humanities degree in something cool. Actually understood it well. (I still knew more than her) The Jews canceled her postbac in Italy because of covid. ...just like my first girlfriend's Disney program ...and that gym my trainer planned to open ...and my barber's independent shop All their dreams flushed down the john, with no one held to account. The lockdowns were great for me though. I met her on Seeking and told her she looked like my old Algebra II teacher. "Is that good or bad?" "Neither just an observation" My game was so much better then. We started talking. The connection was fucking volcanic. I told her to come see me and threw out a number—$800? My old bestie didn't approve of SA. Thought it undignified. Said she wouldn't need money if she ackchully liked me. I got insecure. I was handsome at this point but still felt like an incel. So I told her no $800. She was a little bummed but still wanted to see me. Obviously I still covered her plane ticket. My friend tolerated that at least. Later he ended up marrying an escort—a consistent extension of that same impulse.
Marie looked like Emma Stone. Froggy face, captivating eyes. She led with those eyes. It was lockdown era, the masks flattered her. Her mouth wasn't ugly—it was actually sort of like the other girl in Superbad. Less frog, more rabbit. Nibbling. She sucked cock like a rabbit. Never had the fortitude for a properly unrestrained facefucking. Not like Rebecca. (Who is?) Next to her eyes her feet were easily her best feature. Slender, feminine. Perfect little arches. Nice long toes. It was inside Little Marie I first discovered how much I really adore biting down hard into that remarkably fleshy and luscious midsection of a girl's lateral arch. You can really sink your teeth in. Make the bitch whimper. The first time I fucked her she asked me to slap her hard. At that point I knew basically all girls loved choking gotta squeeze from the sides bro don't push down But slapping?! Bitches be cwazy! I fucking loved it. The fourth time I fucked her, on the third day, she started crying during. First I'd made my way somewhat inelegantly into her ass. Then I'd done the foot biting thing. She shrieked. And then I whacked her hard. My hand-eye coordination isn't amazing and I engaged more jaw than cheek. She couldn't stop crying. To my credit I went soft immediately and fell out of her. I cuddled her Sang to her. She giggled and said I was being silly This is super normal during sex! She just wasn't used to pain from so many directions at once But it was a good kind of intensity We went to Universal the next day. Got dip'n'dots. Why do I remember that in particular? We had a fight over something gay and she started being bratty. I took us back to the car and fucked her face in the parking lot until she cried again. We were both in a really great mood for the rest of the night. Watched the Ted Bundy movie. She cried at the end. I figured she'd concur when I opined that Ted actually did love Liz, but that was the only time Marie disagreed with me about literally anything. I really hated her body. She wasn't obese or anything. Just a little heavy, with tits like mosquito bites. She said guys always complimented her ass but I'm not a nigger. She was slightly fatter than me at the time. Quite a bit thinner than I am now. But I'm much too rich to have sex with a girl who looks like that today. Even at the time I was too rich to actually date her, though I would have considered that an honor just a few years prior when I was poorer and uglier. When Marie fell in love with me I realized I held all the cards. I also realized that as much as I loved her eyes and feet and personality, the erections that penetrated her were 80% fueled by a sense of superiority that bordered on narcissistic contempt (in my defense I always felt bad about this after cumming). She said if I kept sleeping with other girls she wanted an allowance. To fuck her for free she'd need exclusivity and the girlfriend title. I prevaricated. Dissembled. She 100% knew, but lied to herself all the same. I've been there, babe. It fucking sucks. The next week a bulimic little Jewess named Rebecca waltzes into my life. I let Marie know about her and show her pics where Rebecca looks particularly waifish for literally no good reason other than a blistering subconscious (?) desire to hurt women as recompense for all the times they rejected me when I was a fat kid. I tell Marie I think we're better as friends Marie asks if it's because she's fat.
After Theon and I conclude our Pokémon debate I return to my hotel room and masturbate furiously to the nudes Marie sent me the night before.
She looks good. Really good. Not sure how she tightened her skin up like that—collagen supplements? Or maybe a tummy tuck. The stretch marks are still there but I’ve been with plenty of single mothers, that shit doesn’t faze me in the slightest.
I text Marie to make sure she set her alarm—you honestly can’t take too many logistical precautions with Zoomettes. She asks what I’m gonna do to her tomorrow. Bitch, I don’t know. Probably just lazily fuck your feet and face and try to watch Black Mirror. I say something about excavating her intestines like a grapefruit and don’t even know if that makes sense but she seems to respond fairly well to it.
I just want to have lazy sex and cuddle her. Don’t get me wrong I’ll still dominate the shit out of her… but not in an especially mean way. I only feel authentically sadistic when my life is sort of annoying and I need to take my anger out. Now that I’m excited about everything the whole ooga booga dooga routine feels performative and gay.
I hear a knock on the door. Looking through the peephole I see it’s Theon.
Don’t even know how he got my room number—is the concierge allowed to give that out to anyone? Either way, the man’s efficient! That’s why I chose him as COO.
Theon cajoles me into taking some of his side hoe’s anxiety medication so I can sleep, and also hands me a stress ball and some other shit he picked up at Walgreens. "You need to stop pulling on your beard all the time, it looks weird. Obviously I don't care but let's try to use signing the contract tomorrow as practice. Play with this ball whenever you're tempted to pull your beard. Also don’t drink these Red Bulls until tomorrow morning—you REALLY can’t stay up all night tonight.” After he leaves I only drink only one of them and manage to sleep nearly six hours, which is actually remarkably responsible by Walt standards.
In the morning his Zoomette is sleeping in so the two of us grab a quick breakfast alone—it seems low status to eat in front of people, but Theon says to stop being gay. Then we leave to go whale watching, which I’m initially quite excited about until I realize Theon fucking lied to me about the whole thing and it was actually just an elaborate complot to trick me into a gym.
“You know what really codes as low status? Looking like a question mark. We’re doing some heavy-ass deads so you won't slouch when we're signing the contract tonight." Well played, Mr. Ultima. This is the first time I've set foot in a gym since 2021. Other than sex I haven't really exercised at all since then, unless you count walking around amusement parks with girls a little over half my age and a little under half my weight. It takes a while to get my form right, but it's also rather nostalgic watching Mark Rippetoe videos to recall all the proper mechanics. There's no way that guy isn't secretly racist. Theon and I get our sets in and I do my best not to spend the entire time texting Marie, who's now being super gay and saying shit like "maybe I should just stay at the airport..." Looking back she was definitely just pretending to get cold feet at the last minute--either because she wanted to see if I was actually invested in this thing, or just as a very tedious feminine power flex. So ultimately I neutralized it by just suggesting we grab lunch and play it by ear, because if I've learned anything about women it's that they really love plausible deniability. Marie probably would have been way too agentic to go for that sort of thing the last time we hooked up, but she's learned to play the Woman Game a lot more effectively over the past five years. I'm proud of her. An hour later I'm freshly showered and meet Marie outside the hotel. She's so much prettier than before. It feels like a gay feminist platitude, but some girls honestly do peak in their mid 20s—I imagine this is true for higher IQ working class women in particular, as well as girls with autistic tendencies. I can also tell Marie has a more distinctive fashion sense now. I don't remember exactly what she was wearing because I'm straight but I do remember she just looked a lot more put together in general than in 2020. She was also quite skinny. She makes a big deal of glancing at my belly and smirking, like when Richie Aprile met up with Tony after getting out of the can. I indulge her in this; she clearly deserves it. Also I'm literally about to fuck her so it's not like it's really an own. I bring her to the hotel restaurant—currently booked for a business event, exactly as anticipated. "Oh shoot!" I suggest we go up and just order room service instead. She's clearly about to suggest we go find another restaurant, then cuts me a wry little grin. Fuck, that's cute. How often did she do that under a mask five years ago? Seven minutes later I'm inside her. Nine minutes later I'm inanimate atop her. Leave me alone it's been four months. I make her cum with a vibrator I carry around in my briefcase for situations like these and then we talk for like three hours. Turns out I made her eating disorder a lot worse. Even though I'm getting quite hungry I decide I'd best not offer to get us room service. I learn that after me she got abs and then a sugar daddy turned boyfriend who had a wife he promised to leave for her. I swear to God, these fucking girls. Then after he tossed her aside I guess she dated an older software engineer who was job stacking several high paying remote roles and clearing well over a million per year (it was probably like half that and their lies are compounding but whatever). And now I guess she's engaged to some rich brown dude but they're currently "on a break." I don't call her out for obviously cheating; no need to ruin a perfectly good moment by acting like Ben Shapiro. But I do ask her if she's happy. She doesn't know. She says she's doing well in her professional life—PhD candidate, promising research trajectory—but feels like she's never going to be satisfied in a relationship and sort of feels like they're all fake. For once I manage to resist the explosion of sentimentality within me and don't immediately propose marriage; instead I reflect thoughtfully on her comments and ask quietly if she feels like I set her down a bad path. That really pisses her off. Goddammit. Apparently I'm a big fat narc overestimating my influence in her life, and besides she'd been with like 20+ guys before me so why do I think I was so important? blah blah blah Thankfully the fact that we're fighting makes me horny and I tell her to shut the fuck up while I fuck her feet. I cum in less than a minute and she giggles at the absurdity of the situation, which resets the vibe and lets us be chill for another twenty minutes. But then I fuck up AGAIN by apologizing for everything that went down between us and offering to pay her that $800 I reneged on five years ago. "I don't need your money I'm engaged to a guy who'd buy and sell you blah blah blah" Why can't this bitch just be direct with me for once? What does she fucking want? I ask her directly. She looks away for a moment and I can't help but wonder if she's just coming up with some random bullshit on the spot. "I needed to show you I'm more powerful than you now." "...by letting me fuck you?" She rolls her eyes and cuts me another wry little grin. Motherfucker.
I check my texts and observe that Theon’s been trying to reach me for hours—seems he booked an Escape Room for all four of us and already had to reschedule once.
Marie is super excited at the prospect of doing a room and hops in the shower to rinse off my leavings. Meanwhile I kind of like that I smell like her pussy and don’t bother.
It’s a heist-themed room. Immediately I get us all yelled at because while the kid is doing the introductory spiel I refuse to Follow Instructions and can’t resist the compulsion to shake a key out of a prop book that looks out of place.
Thankfully they weren’t too pissed to give us an extra twenty minutes to finish the room. They also said our time was decent for four people (it would be more fair to say three because Claire checked out ten minutes in and clearly found Marie annoying).
Thank God for Marie, though, because Theon’s deadlift scheme had worked a little too well and I was solidly in exclamation point territory for the rest of the night. She proved an invaluable little helper when it came to opening locks that were only accessible by e.g. crouching or stretching around corners.
Anyway after the room we let the girls retire to their respective quarters while Theon and I met up with Jason. But I won’t write much about our night with Jason—both because Jason specifically requested that I leave out any potentially identifying details to accommodate his opsec concerns and because by this point I was sort of wistfully fixating on Marie and fine letting Theon handle the finer points of socialization.
And Theon was content with that, because despite generally being more introverted than me he’s also a lot more normie-friendly. He made sure I had my Walgreens squeezy ball and some of Claire’s propranolol and for the rest of the night I largely managed to avoid coming off like Slavoj Žižek.
The contract was signed and our fortunes secured.
When I returned to the hotel room I made love to Little Marie like a man possessed.
A chubby middle-aged man possessed, perhaps—but where I’d declined in stamina I’d significantly improved in my ability to successfully connect palm with cheek and eye with clitoris. She also didn’t cry this time.
I myself very nearly did, but I successfully repressed it at the last minute by thinking of that Puritan bitch I’d managed to Shapiro on the airplane, which gave me a massive erection I promptly employed to excavate Marie’s intestines like a grapefruit.
Then if I’m being honest I did cry a little.
She knew that was going to happen. That’s what the little bitch wanted. Well played, Little Marie.
Anyway the next morning Marie indicated that she *might* want to hook up again and might not. I’d estimate the current probability at approximately 30%, with the conditional prob of us dating at roughly 60% if we do and the chances of marriage being close to 100% if it makes it that far just bc we’re both a little BPD / impulsive.
But she’s ultimately an honorable person (also single dad daughter) and wouldn’t divorce rape me if it came to that so I’m not particularly scared about that prospect.
But even if she did w/e—the solution to expenses is always just to make more money.
For now I’m just happy to remain her dear friend and will wait very patiently to see if she ditches the sandman after defending her dissertation. In the meantime I need to focus on my business and my men and especially my dear friend Theon Ultima.
It couldn’t be more obvious Theon is the real hero of this story. Whatever genius I have in me, I’m also just a volatile fuck, and I’ve honestly come to game my entire life around people misconstruing and mishandling me.
But not Theon. He doesn’t just tolerate my little quirks like I tolerated weather effects in Pokémon Ruby. He memorizes and masters and strategizes around my complex intersecting eccentricities proactively and agentically and treats it like an enjoyable puzzle, almost as if he’s playing Pokémon Black and White or Pokémon Sword and Shield or Pokémon Poopoo PeePee or whatever the latest one is.
Theon has the cognitive bandwith to handle my tonal inconsistency. And that’s why I made him COO.
You all should give
a follow btw—over the next few weeks he’s gonna be posting some really great film and literature analysis.Anyway I think that’s all I wanted to say here. It’s a beautiful morning and I have a lot to get done today.
But first I think I’ll take a walk.
This is great!
Glad to hear you survived being confined to flying public transportation and had a productive trip to Boston. Theon sounds like a great INTJ to balance your ENTP as well.