The Cure for Nice Guy Syndrome

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For the "nice guys have low testosterone level" argument, what does testosterone have anything to do with ability of manipulating women's emotion?

i have higher than normal testosterone for a female and i am neither competitive nor aggressive.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U0ERFVvJu0s

Based upon this, do you all think there is some basis to what the nice guys say?

T'was ever thus.

Some apt lines from Eliot's Prufrock, a favourite of mine:


And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ?Do I dare?? and, ?Do I dare??
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair?
(They will say: ?How his hair is growing thin!?)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin?
(They will say: ?But how his arms and legs are thin!?)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all?
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all?
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows??

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ? tired ? or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet?and here?s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: ?I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all??
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: ?That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.?

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor?
And this, and so much more??
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
?That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.?
. . . . . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous?
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ? I grow old ?
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

[Full text: http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html ]

It isn't the kindness that's the problem-- it's the expectation of sex in return.