Just in case you’re new to this side of things, let me explain what a ‘beta orbiter’ is. If you already know, skip the next paragraph.
A pretty young lady will have a boyfriend or random guys who shag her, and these are often bad boys who don’t return her messages or pay her enough attention etc. etc. So she gets her emotional needs met by male friends, ones who hang around and talk about feelings and stuff, and do date things the real boyfriend won’t do. If straight, he does this for the remote possibility he might one day get a shag. This is a beta orbiter. In addition to the sterile warm and cuddlies, the girl keeps these orbiters around as an unconscious backup in case the bad boys fail to commit and she finds herself single and childless (or knocked up!) in her thirties.
Strange things can happen to a red pill man when a girl tries to make him an orbiter and he knows what’s going on. That’s what happened to me and this is how it went down.
The lady was a colleague. Quite attractive. Perhaps there had been other girls who had tried to put me into orbit – I’m not sure – but this one was different. She wouldn’t give up.
She’d constantly send me personal messages on the weekend even though I didn’t think we were particularly close, nor did the two of us hang out. She’d sometimes mention doing this some time but I’d aver.
There are two things one should do with an orbit-seeker: fob her off or go directly for the lay. If the latter, rejection is fine. You just don’t want a time waster on your hands.
I had to do the former because she was a colleague, and because there were a few signs that she might be a little bit nuts. In other words, trouble. Don’t shit in your own backyard.
Once or twice she complained to me bitterly about my lack of response to her messages – I’d usually reply eventually, just to be polite, but I’d say little and try to wrap up the conversation. Her messages outnumbered mine by about a third, and her words by about two thirds.
I was worried she’d complain to admin about me – either for sexual harassment if I replied to her nonsense too much and took the bait by getting frisky, or for being rude to her if I replied too little. So I tried to maintain a balance and kept screenshots just in case.
Another reason for not going the lay was that I was pretty sure she was not serious. I just had that feeling. I thought, if I ever actually pursued things with her, she’d retreat. That’s what an orbit is, of course: forever in freefall, never hitting the target.
But in my final year at that workplace I was less worried about her causing trouble and I wanted to test my theory. Also I happened to be single at the time. She never knew about any of the girls I’d been seeing previously as I’d thought informing her might have caused . . . trouble.
So she sends one of her typical messages, something like ‘What are you up to this weekend? I really want to go out do something fun.’
I reached over for the bait, grabbed it with both fins and munched down so hard on the hook that it just about pierced my brain.
‘No plans right now,’ I replied straight away. ‘What are you up to tonight?’
And then she promptly disappeared off the face of the planet.
A few weeks later her messages started up again.
So I left that country without ever having shagged her, and a year later we happened to meet up when we found ourselves in the same city, and we finally shagged.
It was pretty piss-poor. Clearly I was indeed not her first choice.
What had suddenly changed to promote me from the rank of orbiter to sloppy beta seconds?
Ready for it?
She turned thirty.
It’s like a magic charm. The particular number can change with culture, but in Taiwan a girl marries in her twenties. If she gets to thirty and all her friends are already married and she can’t compete with all their wedding and honeymoon and baby pictures on Facebook, she launches herself upon the nearest male humanoid with a force presently being reverse-engineered by NASA. Her target is no longer the richest, coolest, most handsome guy. Instead she just aims for the closest one, or the one she’s still in email contact with, or the one who her mum’s accountant’s aunt was trying to set up, or . . . whoever. And I was one of those.
It’s sad. I’ve had three of these now. The other two were former casual girlfriends who desperately pursued me once I left the country and they aged out. And this one is still in touch, hoping to catch up again somewhere, not looking for an exciting tryst, but to sink in the claws and drag me down into her version of matrimonial bliss.