From the original article on March 28, 2013. Author: Chateau Heartiste.
Watch this segment on a gayly gay talk show. The mighty, gray-haired warrior male interviews two “””men””” and a woman living together in a polyandrous arrangement. (It’s silly to bless this perversion with the honorific of a relationship.)
Link: video
Both of these men are betas. Maybe you could even call them functioning greater omegas. Why not just call them omega males? Because omega males are typically incapable of getting sex from any woman who doesn’t resemble a dirigible or an extra from the Star Wars cantina scene. At least these two males are, presumably, having some kind of sex with this rather fetching woman of desirable waist-hip ratio and slender BMI.
But one of these males is definitely the bottom bitch in this losers’ triangle. He is the one used for purposes of satisfying the woman’s emotional whoring needs, and for puttering around the adult playpen cleaning up the scattered sex-stained undergarments that the other male leaves on the floor after doing his job as the house cockubine.
He is the lesser beta, and his mission in life is asexual supportiveness, LJBF intimacy, trips to the pharmacist to get the morning after pill when male #1 forgets to pull out, and reflections in the cuckold corner hunched over his effortful pud, wet-eyed and trembly, as the other two housemates pound it out for his emasculatory benefit. Once in a blue moon she services him with a dreary handjob so that he doesn’t stray too far from his duty as harem pit crew.
Can you spot which of the two males is the lesser beta? Take a moment.
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Watch closely from 0:38-0:42.
Catch that?
A woman’s real feelings — her true unadulterated distilled purified desire — will rarely escape from her lips in the form of words. It will, instead, shoot from her fingertips, or emanate from her pelvis, or infuse the air around her thighs, or pierce the nicety veil from her hardening eyes. A woman’s words deliver the message of her brain. A woman’s body delivers the message of her vagina.
Near the ends her hamster reveals, “It didn’t mean I had to end this relationship with male #2. I could get my needs met with someone else.”
What a glorious hamster. So strong, so fit. This rodent must never stop running, because the three-way polyandrous arrangement is bottled lightning. Even weepy, scalzied lesser beta males have their id-shaped breaking points, and a woman who is getting both her sexy stud and provider dud needs met in one complete, if bifurcated, package requires an elite, special forces hamster that can spin up at a moment’s notice. Translating the above from its original hamsterese, we learn what the woman is really feeling:
“It didn’t mean I had to face the prospect of losing my kitchen bitch right when I was about to have a love child with another man. I could get my pussy ravaged by a slightly less repulsive man while still getting all the household help and emotional indulgence from a beautiful male feminist a mentally unbalanced woman like myself needed.”
It should not surprise the reader with which of the two males she decided to have her über bastard.
The starkness of the perfectly delineated two male-one female polyandrous circus is a powerful metaphor for the much larger and more accessible reality of the looser, serial soft polyandry that characterizes the dating market of late stage cultures in decline. There may not be many women willing to abide dating two men concurrently, let alone living with them in the same love shack, no matter how sufficiently those men placate the female dueling desires for sexiness and provider assurance and are willing to surrender their balls to the chopping block, but there are certainly plenty of women happy to date an alpha male and use a beta male on the down low for his gift of anhedonic attention. The male orbiter beta brigade plus the alpha male lover is a close approximation of polyandry in the wild.
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