There is a subgenre of anti-game, putatively trad-con haters who like to assert that having kids is the defining feature, and motivating impulse, of the alpha male. But try this thought experiment.
Imagine you have two choices to pass on your genes and create a lasting legacy. One involves repeated visits to a respected sperm bank to masturbate into a cup. The other involves repeated copulations with your wife and second wife (for the sake of simplicity) that result in both women getting knocked up multiple times over the course of many years. In the latter instance, you voluntarily have no further contact with your kids once they are born.
The two choices are guaranteed to fill the gene pool with five cherubic apples of your eye.
The choice which leaves you more satisfied, more personally fulfilled and brimming with positive feelings of high self-worth, is
a. creating a legacy through a sperm bank, or
b. creating a legacy through sex with your wives?
Remember, hypothetically both choices result in the same number and same quality of offspring issuing from your seeding shaft. If the old skoolers who claim that children are the crux and the crucible of alpha maleness are right, either choice should result in very strong feelings of self-regard and confidence, two undeniably intrinsic traits of the alpha male with which no one but a deranged feminist (but I repeat myself) would object.
And yet, I predict there are very few men who would consider choice (a) as ego-affirming and confidence-inspiring as choice (b). In fact, I bet a lot of donating men leave sperm banks feeling oddly morose.
The reason for my prediction is that the anti-game trad-cons are incorrect in their assessment of what constitutes alpha maleness. It is not the children or the genetic legacy per se that swells men’s souls with alpha sweetness; it is the sex with feminine, willing women which does the trick.
The sex is the prime directive and the origin source of alpha male nourishment. Sex is the trick that evolution concocted to make sure we don’t let ourselves die out. Not kids. Not lovingly-swapped soiled diapers. Not videotape of bursting birth canals shared with creeped-out relatives. The sex is first and foremost, it is primal, it is the cosmic chorus. And it is only relatively recently by evolutionary standards that this ancient sleight of reproductive selection is finally meeting its match in the plunderdome of non-procreative recreation, the prime directive thwarted by an ocean of condoms, IUDs, Norplants, and Pills.
This is why a man who fucks his way through hundreds of maximally fertile women but leaves no legacy thanks to the convenience of modern prophylactic tech is leagues more alpha male than the man who fills his 35-year-old wife’s womb with babymeat, and is certainly more alpha male than the man who sires a whole Duggars’ worth of kids at the local sperm depository.
A clarifying example is needed to focus minds. Picture a fat, acne-ridden, manboobed, greasy, bald, boring, stupid, charmless underprole man who manages to capture the elephantine devotion of a morbidly obese underprole woman. They marry, and, owing to their religious beliefs (or stupidity) neither one uses birth control. Over time, she grunts out twenty of his fat babies (yeah, I know, hard to believe, but this hypothetical is not so far removed from our current idiocratic reality). This man has certainly made his mark on the world. His tribe is impressive, larger than the families built by some sultans and certainly larger than that of most accomplished Western men. He presides with haughty patriarchal pride over a brood that would be the envy of any trad-con harboring dreams of winning fertility wars with the third world. He belches insouciantly at your child-free hedonistic existence, knowing that the future belongs to his progeny. He has ensured his legacy. His waddling kids adore him and respect his ability to unearth cheesy poofs in the folds of mommy’s fupa.
And, yet, would any of you anti-game trad-cons call this man an alpha male? With a straight face? Drop him in the middle of a nightclub, or heck, even in a Whole Foods aisle full of slightly old-country looking SWPL chicks, and the girls would run away, repulsed by the sight of him. He wouldn’t be able to get laid at a lesbian porn star convention full of scheming, mustachioed feminists itching to cry “regret rape!” for street cred. Such a specimen of malehood can only settle for the lowest females of the low. The very bottomed out dregs of vaginadom. He is the patriarch trad-cons extol as exemplary of the powerful alpha male who leads his posterity to the promised land, and yet he would be kryptonite to any feminine woman worth having. Were it not for the grotesqueries among womankind willing to wallow in the sty with him for a chance at producing more pighumans in God’s image, he would struggle to get action beyond the feeble offerings on tap from the friction of his overhanging stomach slapping against his foul pud.
There’s your alpha male, trad-cons. Choke on him. And then think twice about drawing parallels between fecundity and real, true, authentic alpha maleness. You know, the kind of alpha maleness so eloquently and succinctly described right here in these blog pages.
tl;dr Â It’s not difficult convincing a C.H.U.D. with a vagina to pop out a fetid stream of your sewer spawn. What’s difficult is winning the love of a hot babe(s) who is a valuable commodity in the sexual market. Any kid-popping is just icing on the cake after you’ve accomplished that.