March 29, 2013 26 Comments
That’s a figurative use of princess, by the way.
Imagine a leggy former model who has recently ended her relationship with a super-rich bachelor. Over the past five or so years she’s only ever travelled by limousine or private jet. She can’t remember the last time she looked at a price tag or paid cash, prefering to just sign for her luxuries in the high fashion boutiques. On her wrist is a diamond-encrusted Swiss timepiece costing more than many sports cars. More diamonds around her neck. Her dress costs more than the median average salary of her countrymen. But she walked away from it all, feeling trapped (but keeping the wardrobe, of course). Always on the boyfriend’s schedule, her life planned six months in advance. Always careful not to let slip private information about their lives lest a nosey maid or maitre d’ sell it to a scammer. Always a paparazzi trying to get some photos. She tired of the unreality of it all. She’s changed her number to stop her lovesick boyfriend pestering her.
Her holiday in London is almost over. It’s a breath of fresh air to walk around free and anonymous. She’s had a Starbucks and eavesdropped on the proles lamenting their mundane concerns. Now she’s eating a sandwich in the basement cafe in Top Shop. She checks her watch and decides to browse more high street fashion. As she begins to walk further into the shop, displaying a sultry long-legged strut, a man taps her arm.
“Hi. I have to tell you something. You have a lovely walk. Like an angry cat.”
She blushes, eyes wide open. “Um…. thank you.”
“You look Serbian” he guesses. “It’s the black hair, long legs, and crazy eyes.”
She giggles. “No. I’m Romanian”
He seems crestfallen. “Oh no. My mum warned me about Romanian girls. She said three things. They are all sexy”. He checks her out from head to toe. “Good at cooking. And sex maniacs.”
Yes chaps, it really was that romantic.
Her eyes spazz out immediately, the crackle of DNA-matching fizzing across the air. I know this girl really fancies me. After finding out her crappy logistics I take a number and suggest meeting later the same evening. Surprisingly she tells me the hotel she’s staying at (five star, Kensington) and suggest I call her in a few hours. I do. Perhaps over-emboldened from my recent run of SDLs I think its on for another but….. no. We have a few drinks in her hotel lobby and just kiss. The emotional connection is good. I have no trouble showing the right mix of confidence and vulnerability. Bhodi has his little theory about these types of girls – greyhounds, I think the term is. Girls who have:
- Beautiful proportions mixing long legs, good height but also real curves
- Intelligence and a well-rounded education
- Social and physical grace
- Always an 8 or better
He opines that such high quality girls are extremely difficult for the average player to catch but counter-intuitively easier for men like me. As Sherlock Holmes said “Mediocrity cannot recognise anything higher than itself. Talent recognises genius.” These girls just smell the quality on me and want it. My Euro-harem is stocked with them and they all look from the same mould. It goes well and I think I might get the lay but she controls herself and eventually runs off to her room. Bugger. As I take the night bus home alone we fall into a text exchange:
Me: You had difficulty controlling yourself there
Her: Yes. I succeeds
Me: Does that make you a lucky or unlucky girl? Anyway, it was a lovely evening. Sweet dreams.
Her: I’ve never slept with a stranger. I don’t know how I would feel next day. You were very disappointed I think.
Me: You didn’t disappoint me. It’s just bad luck we don’t have time
Her: Yes. But you can visit Romania perhaps
Me: That’s too much too soon, girl. I know some good English pubs.
Her: Nice We can talk tomorrow
Me: Between now and then, get some sleep. I expect interesting conversation.
Her: Between now and then I shall masturbate
Me: Send me a text when you’re done
Her: (half an hour later) I’m done!
Me: I approve. Good girl
Next evening she comes around to my part of town on a promise of coffee and Italian food. She texts to ask if its a high class place that requires heels. I say wear heels because you’re a feminine woman who likes to look nice. As soon as she shows up in the pub all the heads are turning. She has that imperious air of a woman used to commanding attention and being waited on. One hell of a strut. As she sits down she tells me to order her a glass of wine. “The bar is over there” I reply, not moving. After a pout she orders, fending off two different chodes who can’t help but open her.
I walk her to Pizza Express. Classy. We split the bill. She tells me that’s never happened before. I drink her wine too.
Back at my house we are soon in bed but I’m on the receiving end of hardcore LMR. It turns out she’s on the rag too so I settle for a blowjob in the morning before packing her off in a taxi and a few hours later she’s jetting back to Transylvania. I’m mildly put out that I didn’t close her. She’s a tough nut, having had only two partners in the past ten years, but I did have her in bed overnight so…. meh! Chalk it to the game.
We Skype for a couple of days. It’s snowing outside my window and the weather forecast is for zero degrees the coming week. Spain and Greece at +20C…. my mind turns. I fancy some hot weather and duty-free whiskey. A bit more on Skype and we agree to meet for a couple of nights in the Med. I book a double room. There’s a different wrinkle added to game when you actually travel to close a girl… the frame is very different. There’s alot riding on it. Different pitfalls to avoid.
Down in the Med we check in and then explore the town. Some local cuisine and I hit the beer a bit harder than planned. She’s keeping a slow pace. I hit a rich vein of form and I swear this girl has never been gamed before. Every spike hits. Every joke. Every push-pull. She’s eating out of my hand. There’s a multi-millionaire a short private jet ride away pining for her, a guy who showered her with the best life can buy – Ferraris, Canne’s Film Festival VIP rooms, holiday homes in the tropics… and here she is drinking cheap lager in a dive bar with me, cooing and laughing when I call her a gypsy giraffe. Personal charismatic value > Money.
Game works. Never forget that.
Back at the hotel I fuck her senseless. What a cracking figure! Gazelle-like in the smooth long limbs and an expertly installed set of falsies. There’s literally not a single thing I’d change on her body. The sex is rough. I have her telling me she’s my bitch. After, I read her a Little Miss book (you can probably guess which one) which hits beautifully, making her jump me again. While I’m slamming her over the writing desk she gasps “You are hurting my ovaries!”
Lying stretched out in bed with her, both of us glistening with post-fuck sweat:
Me: Put one hand on my cock, and the other on my balls.
Her: Why? Does that turn you on?
Me: No. You’re Romanian and I don’t want to get up to lock my wallet in the safe.
Just stop for a moment to think…. how thoroughly I broke her frame. She’s a chaste girl, a monogamist who spent her twenties with only two men. People defer to her constantly. And I douchebag-gamed her into putting out on the third date. Big time. Inevitably there’s blow back.
It begins as I’m trying to sleep. She sobs, tells me it was never in her plan to have sex. She can’t sleep all night. In the morning she gives me shit all the way to lunch. She’s angry, she tells me. I remain unapologetic and unreactive, letting the hamster run itself into exhaustion. It’s a major shit test, trying to reassert her princess frame that I should dance to her tune. I flat out tell her she’s only angry because I fucked her on my timetable not hers. Gradually she softens. Then its business as usual.
The strongest reality always wins.