In my high school blue pill days, I was a lot different. A good bit of acne, tried to hit the gym but had no idea what I was doing so made minimal gains. I had two positives: I was tall (to the point I wouldn’t need to lie about it) and I was on the track team. Track served as my main female contact site in my smaller suburban hometown. As you can guess, my luck with the ladies was nothing like what I can achieve now. Nothing like having 3 consistent girls all wanting to be tied up and consenting to anything. Then I was a little bitch, and somehow managed to beta my way into one unlucky girl’s pants. It was a shit relationship. I was less alpha, she was on birth control and antidepressants, it lacked substance. Besides her pussy, there was little to keep me there, and I should have avoided her to begin with. I'm talking mood swings, constant whining about life, and no idea what she wanted. She had no original thoughts. They all came from her parents, social media, and her friends. In other words, she was the ideal hysteric, at the ripe age of 17, the perfect female consumer. She tried to fit the perfect mold impressed upon her, from any source of authority. I looked back at her once with pity but now with disgust. Good riddance.

To make a long story short, once I discovered TRP, I began making big changes. I hit the gym, gained confidence, cared more about my schooling, and took up personal reading. I started with "the TRP classics", 48 laws and the like, but realized these are beginner books for idiots. The harder the work, the more I found I could use it in some aspect. My favorite useful authors are Nietzsche and Francis Yockey, which was a fire GLO namedrop, and helped with becoming more extreme. All along that hoe was trying to drag me down, keep me from changing. “I like you the way you are…” That is when I started to loathe her. She wanted me to stay in my assigned place in the social order, and I rejected this restraint. She got dropped after hoeing out like her friends wanted, at a lame party I didn't see value in going to. It felt easy to leave, and I went on, heading hundreds of miles away to university. Yet I do hold grudges.

I improved more, and she watched through her Instagram feed as I fucked through the baddest bitches around. She kept trying to stay in contact from her lame local state school, where I’m sure she found plenty of strange unknown dick to suck. Disgusting. Anyway, over summer break I ran into her mother while I was buying my usual anabolic sustenance. Generally, I’m not into older women, I like them around my age, but I was feeling disgusted by the shitty town and its moralizing slave population. It had gotten to me, and I realized the foul action I wished to do. I would leave one final reminder that I was more than that slut and always would be. This would let me forget about her and have her remember me forever.

I knew her mother well and struck up a conversation. I knew she was your typical mom, but she was hot enough many of you would call her a MILF. Too bad her daughter didn’t get more of the sexy genes she had. We made the usual small talk, dancing around the topic of her daughter, as I knew she would, and got reacquainted. By the end of the conversation, we agreed it would be more proper to catch up at a bar the next night. I already had her number and had a feeling that it might not only be me that wanted what I wanted. By all regards, hypergamy as an idea is against this happening. She had a rich, muscular, more complete husband, but I knew they were liberals. After years of propaganda from their Television, they had accepted promiscuity for their daughter. By watching her body language, I had seen her ideas for how I fit into her social fold changing. I know MILFs are the desire of the new generation. It is on them to accept this as the desire of the collective, and to try and serve this desire, though it will never be enough for them. She was the same as her daughter, without intention or desire of her own, and I was poised to take advantage of it.

We met at a local tavern for a few drinks and to play shuffleboard (I have my tricks for having an older crowd like me). Three drinks in, she had begun to touch me, and we had a narrative set up. Gone was her discussion of this and that, instead I was leading a conversation and she was playing along. It was much like I had tried many times with her daughter years before with less success. Six drinks in, and she was rubbing my arm, telling me how glad she was that I had gone out to the world and was doing great things. It pays to be a good storyteller, one who also can share information in how I say things. Immediately after we left, I walked her to her car, not yet having called an Uber. We made it there, and I was invited in for “a ride home”. It was a ride indeed. But nothing compared to the feeling of videoing the backshots and sending them to the ex the day I left town. The situation happened once, as it was more an act of doing than something I was that interested in. I didn’t even cum, I didn’t let her drive me home, I left once I had collected what I needed. The ex was devastated, and I haven’t heard from either of them since. I have heard from friends that it caused quite the drama after I left, where she freaked out and got her new expensive Mercedes taken away. Somehow the parents are still together, I guess he's a cuck now.

I would like to extend a special thanks to some of the proficient writers here for helping me build the skills to pull this off, u/Heathcliff--, u/VasiliyZaitzev, and more recently u/GayLubeOil. Your knowledge of the minds of women as well as how the world works never fail to amaze. They have led to many success stories in my life, one of which I just shared with you.