TLDR: After feeling pretty good about how I handled the previous night's shit test (laid out in this FR) I let off the gas a bit, injected some beta, and crashed and burned.

Status: 34, married 7 years, together 13, two kids; 5 weeks unplugged. Lifting. Dread level 1 and 2 in progress. My SMV is slightly higher than hers. Sex is 1-2 times a week or so (which is actually a bit lower since I unplugged), almost always starfish/duty.

~

I laid in bed, naked, panting, and laughing to myself. She was in the bathroom cleaning up after makeup sex—our first bang in seven days—and I was shaking my head at just how fast my beta brain sabotaged progress off the rails. True, I got laid, but it was earth-shatteringly lackluster—the epitome of duty sex. I stopped mid-stroke, so astonished at a level of lifelessness surprising even for her that I sarcastically commented "wow you're really into this," before blowing my load into her pussy and rolling off. I have nobody but myself to blame.

But let's rewind.

We had been traveling—visiting friends—and the trip was capped off by a massive shit test the night before that I chose to engage with instead of my normal STFU. The results were mixed, but I walked away from it feeling mostly good about staying in frame and responding with calm confidence.

AWALT has been a topic bouncing around in my brain a lot lately, and while I definitely agree with the sentiment, I also realize that my woman, like all women (heh)—as well as individual relationships—have their quirks and variations, and while a broad application of MRP strategies might work well to turn the armada in the open sea, we must also listen and watch for what factors are unique to our situations to navigate the canals.

My situation is this: my SMV, from a physical standpoint, is and has been higher than hers for some time, and she knows it. Even before beginning down this journey, she regularly doled out comfort tests (usually smeared in shit), often expressing anxiety over other women in my work circles who were younger and prettier and how she was certain they were attracted to me.

"I trust you're not having sex with them," she'd say, "but are you connecting emotionally with them? Having fun with them?"

I was confused by this pre-MRP, but it's hilarious in retrospect. She knew I didn't have the game to actually fuck any of these younger, prettier women, but she feared my beta codependency slash emotional attachments might not be exclusive to her. Little did she know I was so fucking beta that these younger, prettier women could smell my vagina from afar and kept their distance accordingly. My response to these shit tests were hilariously bad.

But there was a lot of truth to her fears. I've never been good at connecting emotionally with her. It had been way too long since she had fun with me with any sort of regularity. If you've seen any of my OYS updates (you haven't) you'll know that a big part of my unattractiveness is my less-than-stellar, boring, introverted personality. This manifests itself in our relationship as general aloofness, brooding, butthurt, and stuck way too far in my head and her frame. I've always been that way, only breaking out of it far enough to originally attract my wife before slipping back into comfort, but she takes it personally, and it's a constant topic of her shit tests.

Since I've been lifting and showing novice gains, my SMV and the accompanying comfort tests have increased. Her health and fitness is lacking, and she never seems to be able to lose the twenty or so pounds she wants to since having kids. (She always keeps a shirt on during sex.) Recently she told me, as I came up behind her with a bear hug and tit grab while she was brushing her teeth, that she felt "out of shape" was "embarrassed at how mismatched we were" since I'd been lifting. I shrugged it off, but it was clear her lack of attraction to me are for reasons other than SMV. My guess is she may find me physically attractive, but the other codependent beta nature of my personality far outweighs any lady boner she may get from my looks. At least I know where I stand.

Because of this, last night I made the decision that five weeks of Dread 1 and 2 (and a lot of STFU), combined with my aloofness which is hard to break, was edging a little too far and fast, and that I might benefit from sprinkling some familiar beta in the mix. Fuck me was I wrong.

I sent her a text while she was out: "Though you let your emotions get the best of you [last night] and say hurtful things to me that you come to regret later, I'm still glad you're my wife and the mother of our children. You're beautiful, smart, hard working, and caring. I'm also fond of your vagina, breasts, and ass--in that order. Love you." Stay above her emotions, I reasoned (I do a lot of reasoning. Can you tell?), but give her some comfort while keeping it light and sexual. Her response was short but positive, and I figured it was a win.

She came home a few hours later and immediately dropped an extension of the shit test she delivered the night before. Gentlemen, I hit my breaking point. I couldn't hold back. For any of you that have lived some time in the anger phase, you know exactly what I fucking mean. Why was this so fucking hard? What the fuck does it take to have a normal encounter, let alone get some respect? Show even a small amount of weakness and they pounce like fucking tigers. AWALT indeed. I immediately dropped out of frame and into hers and lashed out into an argument. "Aha, here you are my blue pilled faggot," I am sure she was thinking. "Where have you been? I missed you!"

Look, the details of the argument don't matter here, because you know how it went: like any other beta fueled out-of-frame argument. You've been there before. As I dug my grave further and further, I could see a version of myself perched on my shoulder, shaking his head, but I didn't give a fuck. I craved this lashing out as much as she did, like an alcoholic off the wagon, even though I knew the pain I'd feel on the other side of it.

When we were done, she apologized again for the hurtful things she said and held me close. She couldn't see it, but my smile was as wide as could be. Not because we ended in a good spot—far from it. Because I knew I had gotten to cocky with my progress, gotten too ahead of myself. I've read all of this shit and I still thought she was different. Thought I was different. Laugh out loud. This was a smile you get only when eating a giant fucking slice of humble pie. I had a lot of work to do.

We hadn't fucked in a week, so I made my move and knew that makeup sex was rarely turned down. At least I could end my night of shame with a nut.

Watch what they do, not what they say. Oh she loved me, sure. But she's not in love with me. She was as limp as a fucking noodle, as excited as sloth. I pounded away, astonished. Astonished at how tired and listless she was, sure, but more at how predictable all of this was.

Lose your frame, show your weakness, share your feelings—she might say that's what she wants, that she loves you, says she's sorry, says she'll work harder, try better, but she's lying to you and lying to herself.

One step forward, two steps back. This is going to be a long journey, but failure is a necessary part of growth.

Don't try to analyze everything. Don't try to have the perfect response, the perfect reasoning. Be willing to step out and fail and test your wife and test yourself. You will find new weaknesses you thought were eradicated simply by reading a fucking comment on the Internet. You will find that you are too fucking theoretical and are not applying much of what you learn to real situations.