2022.01. Sidebar. Effects.

Nixon the Dark
5 min readFeb 7, 2022

Facts.

I’ve developed my best ever physique at age 43 through disciplined weight lifting in the last 6 months. This started merely as a disciplined, general effort to do ab exercises. The effort got more intense and sophisticated. Now I have upper body muscles that pop in a tight T-shirt. Testosterone augmented.

My diet has gotten a little more disciplined. But I’ve not made a material change in my nutrition. Testosterone neutral.

I’ve volitionally put myself in social awkward situations to re-engineer my default social norms. Adrenaline augmented. Testosterone neutral?

No other facts.

Effects.

Lack of inhibition.

Recently I’ve had moments where I had to restrain myself from just telling a woman that she was looking good (that is, sexy). Restraint suggests inhibition. But the inverse is true. Guys with shame never want to say things like that even if they feel them. So Nice Guy Nixon was never tempted to express sexual approval.

This Nixon is. So mild restraint is necessary just in case it’s the wrong time or place or woman.

Eventually some remark will slip out. That will be a little apex moment. By the time it does, it will have come from a place where I am finally not hiding my sexuality at all. It’s becoming less hidden already. But there’s still more to chip away.

Another inhibition example.

Yet another young girl I see at the gym occasionally. Not my type, but being young, blonde, blue-eyed, compact, and wearing the same extra tight sexy outfit every time she goes to the gym makes her every man’s type.

Last week she was working out in a baggy T-shirt and shorts. I’ve had one conversation with her. She is not even an acquaintance. But I see her often enough that she’s a familiar face. After a couple laps around the track, noticing her, I felt like it was a good opportunity. I stopped to talk to her.

“What’s up, is everything okay?”

She was confused.

“You’re not wearing your uniform. Every time I see you, you’ve got on your regular outfit. I didn’t recognize you today.”

“Oh. No, I just felt like wearing something different.”

No agenda. Just felt entitled to briefly tease her about not wearing her usual tight outfit.[FN. And I did it deliberately for the practice of talking to a young hot girl.] Shame-filled guys don’t feel entitled to say a word to any woman they deem too attractive. Sadly, if they do, it freaks the girl out because his anxiety is contagious.

Involuntary stares.

I’ve probably heard it before, but have now seen a version of it. Women stare at strong arms like men stare at great asses (but with about 20% of the intensity).

My arms and chest are getting bigger. Not cartoonish… yet. But enough to be noticed. And women notice. I catch little reflexive glances in my direction, especially by younger women.

Under the compliance officer theory of women, this attention is like a sexuality compliance grade. The more masculine my physicality becomes, the more women respond to it with feminine attention. A woman quietly noting a man’s physique is deeply feminine.

Giving orders and asking favors.

While finishing my workout, I caught a woman at the water fountain staring at me on my way to the locker room. I returned the look a bit. To my surprise, she said something. I didn’t catch it.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were going to get water. I’ve got a big bottle to fill.” She was telling the truth. But she also sounded like a tongue-tied woman caught up in seeing me, appreciating me, and fumbling for a legitimate reason to speak to me that was unrelated to her attraction.

“Oh, no. I’m good. Hey, make it count.” Referring to her workout.

“Thanks.”

I walked away. Then I turned back because I had some business to take care of.

“Actually, you’re going to help me with something.”

I walked up with calm energy and direct eye contact.

“I want to learn the name of everyone I see around here. I see you work out a lot. I’m Nixon.”

“Hi, I’m Lemur,” she said after a brief but creamy pause.

“Nice to meet you. Have a good workout.”

A bland conversation, but I gave and order. She complied with a quiet, submissive look on her face. Was sort of polite, but not nice. We both had a flat affect, a quietly charged non-friendly exchange. The lack of overt friendliness is why there was a spark.

Had I defaulted to “Gee, I’d like to know your name…” (smiling, genuflecting, requesting) she would have complied, but with zero femininity. Such an approach is genderless and gets a genderless response.

When a man issues an order. A woman complies. Aren’t you being an asshole? No. It was a tame demand. Yet she answered like a woman, with quiet submissiveness. She didn’t give me eager affection. Rather, quiet receptivity. And an unspoken, “maybe we’ll do this again…”

The more I behave like this, the more I wonder if the bad boy label is just a form of shame-based disqualification. A shame-filled beta who can’t get a reaction from women has to paint the successful man in immoral terms as a cope for his own ego.

In all of my newfound ways of being assertive, I’ve caught myself a handful of times coming off as too abrasive, but never acted like an asshole. This is a far cry from the Dark Triad. But I have no doubt my old self would view my new self as evil incarnate.

No apologies.

Another new gym acquaintance, as a result of introducing myself to over 100 people this month, is a boisterous 50-year-old woman. A gal. There are girls. There are women. And there are gals. Sometimes they overlap. But a gal is a fucking gal. She is a gal.

I got the impression she doesn’t like me. But she’s friendly. I don’t see her often. When I do, I don’t bug her. She’s a Chiefs fan.

Saw her on a Sunday morning and she gave an unexpected hi.

“Cathy, good morning,” I said.

“Cathy?”

“Julie. Sorry.” One merited mini-apology.

She snickers.

“Big game today.” I said. The Bills play the Chiefs later.

“Sure, change the subject.”

“I got it on the second try…” I said with a playful, defiant, assertive edge.

I refused to accept her frame that I was to be defined as an apologist for forgetting her name. The defiance itself was great. The fact that it was a reflexive retort was even better. Reflexive defiance means greater internalization of a strong, shame-free frame.

I’ve since seen her around more frequently than expected. My forgetting her name (and not apologizing for it) was the best thing that could have happened for our little relationship. At first I thought she hated me for it. Now I can see she enjoys giving me shit and getting it shoveled back in her direction.

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