Often have I expressed the opinion that there are three types of men, Alpha [leaders], beta [followers] and Omegas [loners].

In many situations, where there is no alpha, or in a government or unionized workplace where alphas are not tolerated, [1] than a beta will be in the leadership position, resulting not in leadership and inspiration, but in conformity and management, with management, in recent years, becoming increasingly feminized.

In less formal, criminal and high stress situations, where betas immediately crumble under pressure, one may find the omega, the loner, serving in a temporary leadership capacity. Omega leadership either lacks inspiration or balance and even when effective does not provide the beta personality with the breadth and depth of comfort, security and conformity that he desires.

I recently flew to Utah and had the following experience. After I related this to a friend, who is a strong alpha who I coached for and ever defer to, even as he sometimes seeks my company for relaxation, as he does not have to lead me, but can interact with me as an equal, he told me:

“Title it The Aisle Seat and write as a beta male profiling study—just do it, James. It needs to be written.”

Okay, that is an alpha.

None of the men profiled below, including myself, are alphas.

I was the last person on the Delta flight to Salt Lake City to be seated at 9:41 a.m. on Sunday, September 10.

I had the aisle seat, though had hoped for the window seat so I could write some landscapes in flight.

The window seat was taken by a tall, thin, low-testosterone man of 25-30, with short sandy blonde hair, slightly curled. He was biting is nails, flinching, going fetal and closing his eyes like vices.

Between us sat a woman of 27, 5’ 2”, 115 pounds, perky mid-sized breasts, slightly wide hips, athletic thighs and a lithe midsection. She was dressed in a black bodysuit with a cute vest open to frame her pleasing cleavage. Her eyes were brown, makeup minimal, hair straight black and her face veered between Courtney Cox and Marie Osmond depending on the light. She was visibly nervous about flying and was being made more so by the chittering nail-biter to her left.

I, immediately had the urge to make him serve as her quivering pillow while I had my way with her—but then recalled that I was a post-sexual wreck, reminded my dick that he had no operational propulsion system at his disposal and that I’d be arrested for his crimes, as if I had agency! and defied his commands to put my hands at his evil service.

I believe it is a sign of maturity—or impending death—that I win almost all my arguments against my organized anatomy…

Suddenly propelled 40,000 years forward into the present, I settled for looking around through other windows, trying to get a childish glimpse of the upward flight.

If I had been an alpha male I would have comforted them both with positive conversation, getting them to focus on positive aspects of their lives, such as their destination, profession, etc., even offering to exchange seats with the coward. But I am no alpha and silently stewed, a bit afraid myself, suffering from vertigo as I do and remembering the cowardly days of my boyhood…

But one thing links the alpha and the omega and bloomed dark red in my conversation with Super Doc, when he said, “Sure, I have reservations about flying, but even if I’m terrified there is no way that some hot young woman is going to know! Are you fucking kidding me! You realize how many times I looked at a mangled body in the O.R. and thought to myself, ‘Oh, fuck, how am I ever going to fix this?’ But would I ever let the nurses and techs know? Hell no! You have to fight fear, fight death, fight doubt every step of the way—especially in the presence of the eminently fuckable!”

Readers may recall, that I began this Man Gearing projects—and will continue and conclude it in like fashion—by stating that the first thing a primal man does—primal meaning honest with himself about his nature, despite his discipline—is determine which female he would rescue in the event of a disaster. This exercise focuses on the woman as the mirror of a man’s value, and also provides a meditation on the fact that women are often the spark of bad men’s actions.

Yes, when the plane rattled and dipped in the air turbulence, the businessman across the aisle closed his eyes and pushed against the seat before him, the sissy by the window cringed and bit his nails, and the darling beside me looked around worriedly, I smiled down on her in a fatherly manner, despite wanting to pass out and stop thinking of Daedalus and Icarus, and she reflected that with a demure, daughterly smile and laid her little head on my shoulder nearly ruined.

An hour later, when she awoke, permitting me to access my laptop without waking he, she looked up at me in an embarrassed fashion and said, “I’m sorry, Sir.”

I responded with a wink, “Miss, you look like Marie Osmond and you can lay your head on my shoulder anytime you want.”

And she did so, as she watched me type the outline to My Dad, Bert: Siwash the Hunter’s Totemic Trek Within.

I’m no alpha male, never learned her name, inquired her destination, tried to seduce her, where she would have surely found a prideful place in Super Doc’s black book. What she was to me was practice being the kind of man that can either ally with or defy the alpha male. My interaction with that little beauty was training myself to be a better man than I am.

1. The fact that Donald Trump is clearly an alpha male holding a presidential seat that has been recently retooled to fit an elevated beta, may go some way towards explaining the extreme, irrational hatred he has inspired among tens of millions of Americans.