Why Women Call It Fate

And Men Call Them Crazy

Probably the most irritating quality of the fairer sex—and also far and away their most endearing—has always been women’s famous ontological liquidity.

In less winsome moments men experience this tendency like pavement turning into quicksand mid-stride; the little bitch will call your bad luck and fuckups Fate, your self-mastery narrative Cope, and fail to take accountability for anything, until soon that pavement left behind you is quicksand too and according to her always has been.

Yet in its best moments? Imagine an autotune package that functions simultaneously as hagiographer, propaganda minister, and fixer—and in each case True Believer in the Myth of your quintessential and indelible greatness, which in practice ackshully kind of does have a remarkable way of impelling men to inhabit that better version of themselves bae imagines—a virtuous cycle that almost makes it all true retroactively.

Such is the paradox at the heart of feminine desire: women mistrust and at times seem rather to despise male agency—its ugliness, insecurity, social indelicacy—preferring almost without exception the dignified remove of an unbothered prince; by default, Ashley always trounces Rhett.

Nothing in life is by default.

There are wars. Bankruptcies. Times men actually ought to be bothered—and besides, the world has only so many Ashleys! Who at the end of the day, quite frankly, isn’t good for all that much save specifically being unbothered, which means in any story with a plot Rhett will always conquer Scarlett eventually and pull her into his frame.

And yes, it has to be Conquer—without that Ashley glides to victory each time and it’s a shitty and awful story. Literally no chick GWTW fan has ever rooted for Ashley over Rhett, even though the more options she has in life the more she’d always choose him over Rhett IRL, because the thing is that for Rhett to win there needs to be toothy conflict—either in the world or Scarlett or both—that let a Monstrous man become genuinely more erotically compelling than a Beautiful one and overpower whichever part of her finds him Scawy / Gross with the part of her that just plain Needs him.

And what’s fascinating is that once he does that, he’s no longer Scawy / Gross anymore—which mechanically spergs might attribute to the paleolithic war-wife getting horny in her cuntcage, but you’ll likewise find yourself acting at least a little bit more coo / Ashleylike now simply by dint of owning her pussypie, which is part of the dynamic that in her Pussfugue btw is experienced always as ~discovery of his ackshual essence.

Beauty and the Beast, of course, is perhaps the most idealized version in the canon of how girls understand this myth, with basically every trashy smut novel that’s been written demonstrating sluttier gradations. But it’s always the same story.

Thing is the way it works most of the time is a guy who’s very genuinely a little sleazy or performative will by way of manipulative and pushy tactics get inside chickie and impose his will on her with most of the time a lazy extractive manchild self-deluding soft narc intent... only then she treats him as the best version of himself and figures out the story that makes his Myth coo in a way that honors their putative dyad and she’ll vehemently insist is his ~Essence... which I guess in full fairness to tidders, it probably *is* a woman’s Genuinely Held Belief in a man’s Essence—
🎵Why won’t he beeeee the king I know he is ???🎵
🎵 …the king I see insiiiiiiiiiiiiiide!🎵
—that makes a nigga have his Simba stop eating bugs moment most reliably.

And so there really is a manner in which it can simultaneously be understood as both Discovery for her and Self-Mastery for him.

BUT you do have to realize that like all biological systems it’s a feedback loop, where e.g. she inspires the right kind of Conquest from him and so doesn’t default to her Contextual Ashley —> then in Taking her (sexily or elsewise) he honors his masculine Self-Mastery narrative not by forcing her to accept that he used to be shitty or w/e but through her precognitive Pussmagic + his own more suave deportment following coitus —> everything about him smells more precognitively smexy to her now —> both let him be vulnerable in a way that lets her help craft narratives where he was always ~perfect that he ambiently comes to inhabit although not in a super deliberate autistic way usually but more naturally and mythically.

Since it’s a story he genuinely wants to inhabit and cohere with his own narrative, this in a way is (assuming the dyad is durable) actually far more protective of his dignity than a strictly transactional mechanistic self-improvement frame, because she’s more or less throwing pixie dust on him to confer some of her Intrinsically Valuable Energy which is because he captured her in the antecedent frame but shhhhh don’t ruin it!

Point is that’s how it goes in real life—or should, ideally.

Stories are different.

For instance in girl-coded stories they always make Rhett way more Ashleyish than he should be at the start as the text is capturing from a prospective read post-Cavepuss retcon that gets applied after the ravishing and which doesn’t have Rhett experienced as genuinely unsavory or threatening in any way.

Now more porny smut novels likely take it in the other direction to a cartoonish level because that fetishized beanflicking shit is probs a lot easier for women to handle tbh than a realisitc account in the middle of the gradient which would have him as the man truly starts (not end, but start) which is going to be both genuinely predatory and a bit disgusting to her (in a way she can eroticize as a self-harm thing e.g. being ravaged by the brute but still) or will involve a woman cucking her bf under more mundane non-LARPy circumstances that chicks don’t want to engage with I imagine as it would make them feel guilty since in practice they’re kind of just Gray Area’d out of dying relationships by rakish guys literally all the time.

That said once it starts it usually will take on a more mutualistic less hunter-y vibe where she’s metabolized the Scawy / Gross stuff and lies about the old guy being Bad or Gross as she develops the right narrative for newfag.

Point is a girl story needs to land somewhere that coheres before it ties out as women are constantly back-projecting moral frames that fit the present moment’s lived reality, which means in turn that it just doesn’t make sense to tell one without starting baked into that whole Ashleyish-Rhett retcon, because the way womanly cognition works 99% of the time is Whatever Happened Was ~Fated, and so they won’t enjoy the story half as much sans felt phenomenology of autonarration, and so the experience for male audiences will be a lot of times be that it feels vaguely fuguey or uncanny in a dishonest way (like Rhett is way too polite).

So what about boy-coded romances?

Main difference is it always foregrounds male agency and is usually lowkey kind of agency porn if anything. It will show the hero fucking up and failing a lot of times, but that is honestly just fuel for future badass moments in a boy-coded narrative because he can just e.g. quote his first humiliation ironically.

The canonical departure from reality in boy-coded narratives I’d say is that especially in recent works the protagonist is seldom half as rapey and manipulative and selfish and disinterested as men start out with a woman when capable of getting laid.

This is one way men often do the retcon thing tho to be fair since when you pull a girl into your frame and fuck a bit of oxytocin in her the inherent adversarial charge often dies down a bit such that you can be more gay. But usually at first there’s a bit of an epoch where’ll you need to “Break Her In” so to speak and act a bit more like a dick.

Alas, this is something the average nigga (not me bc I’m a pig but normies for sure) seems to primarily enjoy inhabiting only in a non-limerent high options fuckboy context that may bleed into a relationship but to an extent a man does feel limerent (usually in low optionality eras or with a Lass Above His Station) he’ll typically resent chicks for any expectation that he not be so, whereas when he is high optionality he’s usually just not super limerent himself usually and treats girls kind of like very fun pets to play with but not anything transcendental.

This most boy-coded romances are fairly unrealistic in their own way given that structurally even older ones will just always let a guy simp more than he’d get away with IRL since that plus agency are the two biggest man cummy-sources.

Oh, and another big one that jumps out—

Male romances tend to have scenes where the female characters explicitly praise male-coded achievement or will flamboyantly react to a man’s Ascension with visible fuck me / doe eyes in a way that rarely happens IRL since chickies will usually side-eye you for being “insecure” at the sign of any visible effort and generally just always have to pickle shit in fake moralfaggotry.

Now to be fair—married women having already been Conquered will on most occasions have more sympathy for a non-Ashleyish dude given they’ve themselves already been pulled into some nigga’s higher-friction male frame—though generally most married women mentally emasculate other Types of Guy besides her hubs so it’s kind of an identitarian thing in practice.

Whereas with single women it seems the more sheltered from proper hardship and higher optionality you get—e.g. younger, thinner, whiter, more neurotypical, more urban, etc. the tastes get more and more Ashleyish (or you could say Legolas instead of Aragorn) which makes perfect sense givent n that ecology masculinity qua itself is next to useless and cognitively fem pete davidson / john mulaney types are the operative top dogs.

So point is it’s usually these movies have a girl who isn’t like older / mexican / poor (obv they’d all choose Rhett day 1) getting impressed by a guy’s hierarchical climb as she would be but a post-scarcity apex sexual capital white filly who tbf it’s true Zoomettes are a lot more status-driven than Millennials and far less moralistic but even then they always come up with some aestheticized higher order shroud to throw around hypergamy / status choice about whose art is purer, who is cringe etc.

And even then they get bored pretty easily as the only thing they have a privation of is privation, which means IRL at least you usually just shouldn’t care about them.

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When a girl gives herself to a man her basic sense of dignity as a sexual selector compels her to believe that she recognized something timeless in him—that beneath all the confusion and vulgarity and cum had always existed some deeper shape; some latent nobility just awaiting proper revelation. And so desire edits, affection revises, and perhaps just a bit of wishful thinking helps a story gather around the ending.

And that story needs to feel inevitable in retrospect. They need to feel that their love revealed something that isn’t contingent or provisional and in some deep sense Ought to be that way—can’t bear the thought of themselves as a predictable mechanistic actor falling through incentive gradients under conditions of uncertainty and market pressure like some little homo economicus bagatelle ball in a sundress.

No—chickie wants destiny.

And we men hate this, because as direct causal actors we understand—all too well, and often pretty painfully—just how contingent we really are.

We know the degree to which masculinity is assembled—everyone’s.

No, the deltas you observed in junior year of high school specifically are not objectively more “true” or “honest” or consonant with genetic fitness so much as the result of higher order asymmetries compounded through path-dependence around e.g. on who had an older brother or who was old for their class or whose parents made them play sports.

Yeah I know your cunny says Cope and will always side with whoever wins regardless; and that’s fine bih because I plainly won a hell of a lot more in the long run. My only point here was that most masculine development happens as a result of peer group enculturation—unconsciously, ambiently, and automatically—in channels you didn’t even have access to at the time, which meant the process was illegible and you never saw all the times of these dudes made utter asses of themselves because men (all men, yes) need to iterate and experiment and see what works.

Then once adequately seasoned most of us will in some way perform Ashleyness for you—some a lot more consciously than others, who will instead internalize their fellatio of power as self-evidently Good—to make ur splendid yummy sweet pussypuss wet and juicy but also: EVERY MAN IS A BOOGER EATING INCEL on SOME level, and needs to have that knocked out of him by other lads as a fundamental part of civilization that you sweet and beautiful beanie babies really ought not even be privy to, as I think we all need to relearn proper deportment again, men and women, just to remember how to be classy and come off nicely with people of a different cognitive style in some container I suspect you wouldn’t see as “artificial” in the slightest.

Speaking of—don’t ever think of it as “guys being performative” per se so much as The Unfair Sex learning to hold in affective flatulence for everyone’s benefit.

That said? Every man has had those moments here and there where some woman saw something in him before he himself could—something embarrassing and premature and perhaps a little bit delusional, but still potent, and a possibility; a shape; some steadier and taller version of himself she’d treated as though already present.

And often he grows into that.

Not because “Fate” exists as such—don’t flatter yourself, babe—but rather because we men are vain creatures, and disappointing the sweet baby who sees enough greatness in us to eat our cum and cook us dindin each night is unbearable.

So perhaps women require their little stories for a reason—perhaps a civilization can’t survive if everybody experiences love as naked transaction or contingency.

Somebody has to throw velvet over the machinery and quietly insist the Beast was always a prince—that the dangerous man secretly noble, that suffering meant something, that love uncovers rather than just bargains. Women volunteered for that job many millennia ago, and I can’t say I envy them for it.

And so maybe this, then, can be as close to peace as the sexes get:

She calls it destiny, and he self-mastery; both quietly suspect the other one’s coping. Thankfully both of them are right about that often enough to stay in love.