Mambov garbage dumps
Money decides everything in this life. That's the conclusion I've come to myself, having lived a considerable amount of time in this life. This is especially true regarding women — just look at any adult film, where "Not that one" is ogled in all positions for a very long time, an hour or more. Successful macho men won't hear the tired excuses about headaches, a sick hamster, or lack of personal time. Girls gladly give themselves, opening up to millions of anonymous viewers. The reason is banal — money.
I once read a long time ago about a porn actress who committed suicide because she wasn't paid. That fits quite well with the image of a lustful bitch who
values her own body, while a partner's body, given by nature — that's just trash, always in abundance and not particularly in demand. With my nerves of steel, I spent a whole month, with sighs and groans, and some cursing thoughts, registering on Mamba, the biggest plankton of dating sites. My goal was this — not to write first to thousands of fakes and prostitutes, but to post ads myself. For this event, I created three emails and from each posted 3 ads a day. I connected another board — that made 12 (!!!) ads a day for a month. That's over 300 ads in a month, which would be more than 3500 in a year! A colossal number. I'll say right away — there is no result. And there couldn't be. I was specifically looking for pleasant pastime, as that function exists there, and in theory (and only in theory) selfless nymphomaniacs should write to the email themselves.Then more sophisticated virtual girls started writing. They praised my photo, pretended they wanted to meet. One sent her photos to show off. I asked for her number, the excuse came: "Phone is broken." Yeah, right. Go have fun, baby. There turned out to be way too many of these lovers of virtual correspondence. Is this some new disease of the 21st century?! A phase deviation, apparently. If you want to chat — go to chats, go to websites, create profiles. Why write to uncles who are looking for relaxation, just like that?) So, as soon as I gave my number or my WhatsApp, there was an immediate drain of such princesses in 99% of cases. One wrote on WhatsApp "Hi," to my question of whether she was a girl (you never know), silence followed. I ignored her, a couple of days later this beauty called me and in a languid voice wanted phone sex. She even promised to come the next day. It was said in such a deliberately fake voice that I sent her packing without a second thought. The immediate thought was: "And these are the famed nymphomaniacs of Mamba? Virtual girls, crazy people, gays and... the main mass — prostitutes working for money?"
The very process of posting ads on Mamba induces quiet horror and slowly frays the nerves — endless captchas, constantly having to confirm these ads, everything freezes, loads slowly... After a week of posting, there was no desire to continue, but for the sake of sporting interest, I lasted a month. As a result — about 40 messages, 20 from gays, the rest from virtual girls, at most 1-2 from real ones, maybe they didn't like me, I don't know, but in a month and 300 attempts — no result at all! Just a brain drain. Apparently, this is becoming a thing of the past. Now without cash it's only like this — arrived, handed over the money, inserted, and left. Without emotions, without dreams, without "romance." Like animals, forever obligated.
The impressions from the experiment — the most disgusting. Possibly, even in a year and 3500 attempts, the result would be the same. Wasted effort and correspondence with virtual girls, of which there have become too many. The edge of the offended and all sorts of scum. In chess, there is a concept — "material advantage." That's when you have, say, a queen and a bishop, and your opponent has a bare king and a couple of pawns. So, this material advantage is on the side of those who ruined everything and left only prostitutes and virtual girls there, turning an oasis, once flourishing, into a desert of death. A spiritual one. Anonymously