Nice guy / bad boy fractionation

March 30, 2015

Never forget the magnitude of what we are trying to accomplish with daygame: choosing a girl who is minding her own business, interrupting her day, and trying to fuck her quickly offering no more in return than our charisma. If she’s really lucky, she’ll score a free coffee.

Doing that regularly with younger-hotter-tighter is a superpower. There’s an extremely narrow window within which we display a carefully refined, balanced and projected collection of qualities. Central among these is fractionating between “nice guy” and “bad boy” traits, as viewers of Tom’s recent vlog series have seen.

My particular style is to look aggressively r-selected in my style and body language while putting on hard eyes and clear sexual intent. That “bad boy” side is constantly offset by polite language, occasional smiles, mischeivous gestures, and displays of sophistication.

I recently dated a photographer so she wanted to rattle off some posed shots of me. This one perfectly encapsulates the Bad Boy elements I’m trying to project. My mum said it reminded her of James Dean. You are giving the girl her Adventure Sex fantasy, so make it a little larger than life. Lest any of you think I was destined to be this cool from birth, go have a look at the photos of me in 2009 from the Balls Deep serialisation posts. The transformation from Chodey McNumbnuts to the current vintage of Nick Krauser was a painstaking and consciously-implemented process. The whole purpose of this blog has been to chronicle the change.

Best Daygame Theory – The Overkill Discussion Part 2

March 24, 2015

Taking r-selection seriously: A review of Nick Krauser’s Daygame Overkill by Rouge Engineer


When it comes to evolutionary fitness, women are cold, calculating creatures. And brutally realistic: of their partners and themselves. Women may fantasize about securing the attention of an Alpha for life, but alone, in the silence of a room, most women know they’re unlikely to achieve this. With Alphas, the most they can hope to secure is the briefest of moments. Adventurous moments. Moments to last a lifetime. And they do.

Alpha fucks, beta bucks. Secure the genetic seed of the momentary passing of an Alpha, secure the resources of an all-too-numerous beta. Optimal female strategy – at least for the teeming crowd of 6s, 7s, and low 8s (a different strategy might well be optimal for higher 8s and 9s). This fact, this most fundamental of social facts, illuminates much social commentary on the manosphere. The red pill. The forbidden knowledge. But oddly, this knowledge hasn’t been put to work in game itself. Yes, dual mating strategy to talked about in the game literature – but as a basic worldview. It rarely, if ever, informs, shapes, crafts practical game strategy. This knowledge hasn’t been ‘weaponised’. Until now.

Overkill takes female dual mating strategy seriously– and attempts to weaponise it in the form of a set of behavioural strategies devised to increase the likelihood of triggering women’s propensity to engage in quick, fast r-selection mating behaviour – adventure sex – rather than k-selection mating behaviour. Or more simply, to help ensure a certain signal or vibe is given that increases the chances of women responding to you as a perceived Alpha rather than perceived Beta.

The theoretical model

Overkill’s chief theoretical innovation is charting the spectrum between the dual mating strategies. What would the ideal or idealised Alpha look like? What would the idealised Beta look like? Clearly the ideal Alpha would be the ideal Lover – someone a woman fucks for the thrill (conscious reason), for the fitter genes (unconscious reason). Someone anonymous. Someone fleeting. Think the 6 foot 5, masculine, jaw lined, raw masculine vibe guys herding women from the dance floor into the cubicles as effortlessly as shepherds shepherding sheep into the fold. The ideal Beta would be the ideal Provider – someone a woman fucks purely for resources ($$$). Think the ugly, greasy, hunchback desperados walking awkwardly out of knocking shops.

Between these two extremes, these two ideals innocent of any pretence, is 99% of reality: sugar daddies, flings, harems, husbands, good boyfriends, bad boyfriends. The spectrum of rationalisations (“having a sugar daddy doesn’t make me a prostitute” – oh yes it does, luv). Between these two extremes, most socio-sexual interactions operate. This is where men do battle every single day, with themselves, with other men, with women – whether knowingly or unknowingly. According to Krauser, the spectrum between Idealised Alpha (Lover or L) and Idealised Beta (Provider or P) can be charted as follows:

L-range: knowing harem members, fuck buddies (who sometimes are unknowingly members of a harem), r-selected boyfriend, r-selected husband.

(Krauser orders this slightly differently and omits the concept of r-selected husband (perhaps because the concept is incoherent?)– this ordering reflects my own ordering of degrees of  Alphaness. After all, securing a woman who is knowingly a member of a harem, accepting being a side bitch, a loyal side bitch – this surely more of an accomplishment than securing the r-selected love of a girlfriend?).

P-range: k-selected boyfriends, k-selected husbands, sugar daddies.

It’s obviously in a man’s best interests to be within the L-range. No question. Yes we have our different preferences. Some would be happiest with a harem. Others with an old skool wifey. And indeed our preferences change with time. Doesn’t matter which particular arrangement we seek: whether harem, fuckbuddy, short-term girlfriend, long-term girlfriend, wifey, the L-range of the spectrum is where to be. We all know the kind of lives that the overwhelming majority of men who occupy the P-range of the spectrum endure.

Now comes the flash of realisation.

Only Alphas will trigger L-range responses – whether she is willing to act as a quickie, as a fuckbuddy or even consciously a member of your burgeoning harem. Geeks, nice boys, average boys, good guys: their behavioural signals will only activate P-range responses. But by definition Alphas are rare. By definition, only rare, Alpha behavioural signals will activate L-range responses: balls, vibe, masculinity, mastery.

The more your game signals such rare traits, the more likely you will activate a woman’s L-range responses. The less your game signals such traits, the less likely those responses will be triggered – which means being defaulted and pigeonholed along the P-range, with all that involves. We now have a solid basis for day game: the best kind of day game – perhaps even the only one worthy of the name game, as anything less would seem to be a mere numbers strategy – will be the day game that seeks to harness and amplify such signal to maximise the chances of triggering L-range responses.

Do existing day game models model this effectively? Mostly they do not.  They’ll have some occasional Alpha melodies, bits and pieces of effective signalling, true, but also an incredible amount of Nice Guy noise – noise that drowns out any good stuff. If you doubt this, think about so-called granddad game. This strategy, from a well-know node in the manosphere, is to mentally pretend you’re a granddad and rabbit on and on about topics when talking to a woman. How likely is that to ignite that secret passion for the Alpha male laying deep within each woman’s heart?

Enter Daygame Overkill. Overkill presents not only the theoretical viewpoint above in greater detail but presents a set of behavioural skills shaped by that viewpoint – the practical model, as demonstrated by Krauser over a generous number of infields. What are these behavioural skills? That’s the price of admission and so I wont be giving details here. But suffice to say it’s holistic: not simply verbal communication, words and tonality, but also physical and deep vibe communication, working in unison to spark a vibe and subliminally communicate it.

Street Seducer Poster

The practical (demonstrated) model

Broadly, the theoretical model is sound. Accordingly, the practical model should be years ahead of other day game models. In my judgement, it is. It’s pure quality.

Does that mean it’s perfect? Not at all and nor does Krauser even hint that it is. One of joys of Daygame Overkill is that because Krauser discusses the theoretical model in detail, you can refine the practical model according to your own theoretical understanding and experience. For my own part, I believe the practical model has some healthy scope for further development and calibration. In any quest for knowledge, especially forbidden knowledge, this is only natural. In my judgement, some things should be amped up, some things need to be toned down, and some more contextual sensitivity is needed. Action this and the L-signal will be all the more clearer and louder.

(1) Amping up the innuendo – In my experience, eye-contact, touching and innuendos are the workhorses of day game attraction: be or become a natural at this and much of the work is already done. Krauser’s practical model excels at eye contact and touching but innuendo seems underused. Indeed, there are quite a number of missed opportunities for innuendo. One missed opportunity I couldn’t forget is Infield 2, where Krauser is describing the woman as both chocolate and caramel. She is loving it. “First I’m chocolate and now I’m caramel” she purrs. Krauser replies: “It means you’re very sweet”. Sweet? Ok, but how about this: “Delicious. It means you’re delicious”. Say it slowly. With the right kind of smile. Better, right? Small change, clearer signalling.

(2) Toning down micro bursts of Mr Nice Guy – In the Infields, I believe there’s an occasional frequency of micro Mr Nice Guy bursts (spikes?) – which soon adds up, weakening the L-signal. Some examples: in Infield 1, Krauser makes an incredible physical move.  I’m not going to reveal it here – the move alone is worth the price of admission. The verbal part of the move begins with “Sorry I needed to…”. However, this could be stronger: in general, “excuse me” is more masculine: “Excuse me, I needed”. Also, at the end of sets, Krauser usually says: “Let me take your number”. Better: “I’ll take your number”. Finally, at the very end of sets, Krauser shakes hands. Better: Kiss cheeks goodbye at least, lips preferably. Especially in Europe, where that’s normal. Small changes, sharper signal. Micro dominance adds up to macro dominance. It might not seem a big deal to us consciously – but subconsciously, which scans for and scrutinizes every bit of behavioural information received, it can be a big deal, that leaky noise that betrays the otherwise silent submarine.

(3) When L-responses present, escalate to new location – Krauser secured the Infield 1 woman within a few minutes. Impressive. But he continued the set for another 7 or so minutes, entirely unnecessary in my judgement, during which the conversation got a little awkward in places, the vibe weakened in places. He scored her on the date on the other day – which goes to show how strong the initial opening and stacking was. But I was surprised the set continued for so long when it was obvious Krauser could have done a same-day lay: she was merely heading to the library, nothing important, he opens and she likes it, she quickly loves it, she was giving off solid L-range responses. At this point, it’s time to say, “Let’s go for a drink”, grab her hand and go. The rest is c(l)ockwork. Done deal. Indeed, she seemed disappointed at the end of the set, as if disappointed the encounter ended with a simple number swap. Even in the Q&A after the infield the question was raised why a same-day wasn’t initiated.

Krauser’s default is to ‘get number, date another time’ – and he has good reasons. One reason is that he doesn’t want to take the risk of spending 3 hours with a woman if ultimately she’s not interested beyond being the entertained (if she’s to flake, better that it happens on whatsapp). Another reason is the opportunity cost of day gaming other girls and collecting other numbers.

I totally understand these reasons. But we should also be aware of the risks this default. In this specific case, because her L-range responses were quickly activated, the continued street conversation started sounding and looking unnatural, awkward. This risked backfiring and shutting down L-range activation. Her L-range activation was quick and strong and so survived this prolonging of the street conversation, but a weaker activation might not have survived. In other cases, weaker L-range activity might be sufficient for a same day lay but unstable, not lasting to the next day (maybe the reason for the ultimate outcome of Infield 2?) – so better to strike when the iron is temporarily hot. This doesn’t mean ‘get number, date another time’ shouldn’t be the default. But it does show the need to be aware of the L-responses and to have the confidence to escalate to a new location quickly once L-responses are activated – exactly as an Alpha would. Once L-responses are activated, the risk of a woman wasting your time when initiating an instant date will be greatly reduced.


Daygame Overkill consists of two parts: the theoretical model and the practical (demonstrated) model. The theoretical based is solid. The practical model is quality. Not perfect (what is?) but quality.There is something for everyone. Beginners will see what’s possible and will save a lot of wasted time on dead ends and YouTube monkeys. Intermediate will upgrade their behavioural signalling, from Nice Guy to Adventure Guy. Advanced gamers will have a basis for understanding why what has worked worked and so a basis for further improvement and refinement.

By giving such a sound theoretical model, Daygame Overkill allows us to refine the practical model according to our own understanding and experiences. It provides a basis for developing our skills – and to keep developing. And all this for standard hourly rate of a whore. You lucky gits.

Daygame Overkill Double Bill Poster

Daygame Overkill is available for immediate access here

Balls Deep: Chapter Four, Not All Nigerians Scam (3 of 3)

March 23, 2015

I was feeling at that point that things were somewhat surreal. This was an entirely new experience to me. I had been going along for most of my adult life living from one day at the office to the next and going home to my monogamous relationship. Here I was tonight at one of the hottest parties in the city with the coolest group of guys and hanging out with a relatively hot young twenty-six year old. As I watched Mick make the rounds, making out with first one girl and then the next I was filled with a renewed desire to make this work. This is what I wanted and where I wanted to be right now. No more boring office life for me.

As the night laboured into early morning, Betty suggested that we go to another party at CentrePoint, the 27th tallest building in London that was built on the former site of a gallows. Companies such as the William Morris Talent Agency out of the States, Arabian and Chinese oil companies and EA games used some of the offices. Up on the 33rd floor a 360 degree viewing gallery offered spectacular views on London but, more importantly, to us there was a bar in the middle of it. It was a private member’s club at that time, although I believe that has changed in years since. Betty was able to get our names on the guest list that night and the rumour was that Beyoncé, who was on tour in London at the time was going to be hosting an after party. Feeling star-struck, I was having a hard time believing that this was my life. Or, more correctly, it was like peeling back the curtain on what may become my life.

The prior New Year I’d gone up to the roof of my apartment building with a cup of coffee and watched the fireworks with my wife. Then we’d gone back and watched TV. I hadn’t even changed out of my slippers. This was a different life.

As it turned out Jimmy and Betty were so lazy and disorganized that by the time we got to CentrePoint it was 3am. And if Beyoncé ever had been there she certainly wasn’t then. I looked under the tables just in case she was hiding. The party was wrapping up. Staff were stacking chairs and mopping the floor. We had time for one drink and that was it before they kicked us out.

Rakiya was hanging tightly on my arm, giggling at any little thing and as buzzed as I was. She’d not given me any trouble all night, never called her friends, never tried to take me to different bars. The whole time she’d just been pleasant company and let the night unfold. As we made our way down a quiet corridor right outside of the bar we started making out. It got pretty passionate and seedy as I pushed her up against a wall and started grabbing at her tits. My dick was hard and pressing up against her and she reached down and grabbed me through my pants. As things got more heated, a bouncer came along and moved us on.

“Hey kids, none of that here,” the muscled up, nicely dressed doorman told us, putting the brakes on my moves. I had to think fast, it was crunch time. No more bars, no more stalling. Time to pull the trigger.

“But how? How will I get her home now?”

The game plan then called for “extraction.” It simply means getting the girl from the spot of the entertainment to your home so that you can have sex. It was ten years since I’d last done it. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I knew that it had been a year since I’d had sex and I wanted to fuck this girl that night. I looked at her big ass and imagined slapping it as I rammed my dick into her. I looked at her dark brown skin and wondered how she’d look with my cum splashed all over it. I was so horny I would’ve fucked the Queen Mother.

I knew the Tube ran all night on New Year so I walked her to the station, stopping to make out and feel her up along the way. We got the Northern line south to my place. I was still thinking, “This is really going to happen. I’m going to be fucking this twenty six year old girl in less than an hour.” But then when the train stopped two stations before mine and she started to get off I got that sinking feeling.

I said, “Wait, where are you going? Come back.”

“I have to change trains here to get home,” she said. I was getting anxious again. “What do I do now?”

I simply said, “Just come on to my place and have a drink.”

“No, no, I have to get home,” she said.

I thought back again to what I was taught at the boot camp that I had attended back in July. She was showing me ASD—an anti-slut defence. That’s when the girl wants to have sex, but she feels guilty about it and wants the guy to take the responsibility for moving it forward, so she’ll throw up all kinds of obstacles. The crucial point is she is hoping the man will find a way to brush aside those objections so she can get the sex and still leave when it’s over feeling like things had progressed naturally. Remembering this, I quickly said, “It’s okay, we’ll just have a quick drink and then you can go. We’re not going to have sex.”

That did the trick. She got back on the Tube and I high-fived myself mentally. I was shocked and impressed with myself. It seems silly and trivial in the grand scheme of things, but this was a big thrill for me, being able to see the labours of my education come to fruition. We got off the tube at Kennington and were soon in my place. I was feeling great at that point, the voice in my head telling me that it was a done deal. I was going to get laid.

Once inside the apartment I poured her a drink, as promised. We never really finished it though. We were both kind of drunk and still hot and bothered from our earlier groping session. I started kissing her and, within minutes, dragged her into my bedroom. She wasn’t offering any resistance at this point. She was loving it and as ready to fuck as I was.

It was dark, and I didn’t turn on the lights. I fumbled with my mp3 player for soft jazz and the mood turned seductive as I slipped off her dress and tossed it to the floor and dropped my pants right next to it. She slid down my body while I reclined back on the bed and, as I watched her sucking my dick, I almost still couldn’t believe it was happening. I looked down and could see her dark skin and big eyes looking up at me with her decent fake titties bouncing around as she sucked on my cock and I thought, “Damn! This is really happening. I’m really going to get to fuck her!”

I got to have sex, finally, and it was good. We both enjoyed it but then things got weird afterwards. At this point, I was still messed up and broken inside from my divorce. There were still all kinds of strange personality quirks I hadn’t yet straightened out so, suddenly, I felt this intense need to “qualify”. Qualifying is more pick up jargon. It means trying to demonstrate to someone the reasons why they should like you. The best way to explain this would be to think about how on a first date the man typically looks at the woman as being higher value then himself. She’s the “prize” so to speak, and he needs to convince her that he is deserving. So, he’ll talk about how successful he is or how rich he is, anything to make her believe he is worthy. I was being overwhelmed at this point by the need to do this even though I’d already fucked her. It’s not logical. So I did something so weird and now once I thought back on it, so embarrassing.

I reached under the bed and I pulled out an A2 manila envelope. Within this envelope was my resume, my diplomas from my Bachelor’s and my Master’s programs, certificates and commendations from employers, and references. It was a package that I put together in order to obtain a job, or supply proof to Human Resources for a background check when taking a job offer. I began showing this stuff to her.

She was polite and attentive, but I know that she had to be thinking, “What the hell is wrong with this guy? Why is he showing me these five minutes after we had sex? This is just weird.”

She would have been right. It was bizarre in fact, and I know now that it was because I was in a place where I doubted myself to the point of not seeing my own value. I’ve discovered since that qualifying to a woman puts her in a place where instead of looking up at you she is staring down at you from her position of power. Women don’t want to be on a pedestal—they want to look up to and admire the man who is fucking them. The contrast to this is having the woman qualify to you, and that was a lesson I would learn at a later date.

So poor Rakiya probably started getting an icky feeling that maybe she’d slept with a man lower value than she’d presumed. Well, it’s only sex. I’d gotten my notch and finally broke the duck with Game.

Rakiya spent the rest of the night and left late in the morning. I never saw her again, and I’m not sure to this day if it was due to my peculiar behaviour, or if it was that she never really saw it as being more than a one-night stand. Either way, as I stood in my kitchen and poured my coffee that morning, I was smiling. I had a helacious hangover and my balls were aching from finally being relieved of their “blue-ball” state, but the smile on my face lingered throughout the day. I had finally gotten laid, and I had actually completed the process of meeting a stranger and then having sex with her in one or two days, from beginning to end.

This book serialisation will take a short hiatus. Next installment (Chapter Five, part one) coming soon. Buy the full Balls Deep book in PDF for £10 here, or in paperback for £20 here.

Triumph of the Will – Texting Edition

March 21, 2015

I don’t half bang on about “taking a risk” and “be playfully racist” when dealing with women. The last thing a hot girl who fancies you wants is for you to reveal yourself as a push-over. Imagine pulling a smoking hot chick in a club, getting her home, and then while you are retrieving a condom she undresses and….. she has a dick. I think that’s how girls feel when the “hawt” guy turns out to be a pussy. So, take a risk.

With girls, no topic is truly taboo. If you’re sharp, you can turn anything into seduction. I once spent a day in 2010 opening girls and just talking about coffee beans until they excused themselves. Of course that was just a theoretical exercise – there’s a definite bandwidth within which optimal topics reside and coffee beans should be no more an one minute of it, maximum. Generally I avoid anything gross that could trigger a gag reflex or physical disgust. It’s far safer to stick to moral taboos. So faeces, vomit and filching are out whereas Nazis, incest, paedos and slavery are in. As an example of how nothing is really off limits allow me to present a short snippet of Nazi Genocide Game.

I guess given the topic, that was pretty mild.

Balls Deep: Chapter Four, Not All Nigerians Scam (2 of 3)

March 20, 2015

The next morning I woke up to New Year’s Eve. I was still living in a grotty one-bedroomed flat in Kennington, a rundown area that felt more like Lagos or Kingston than the land of my forefathers. My housing estate had been built in the 1930s and probably never updated since. There were metal security bars welded across all ground floor windows in my block due to the crime problem—any time I read about a fatal stabbing or shooting in the London paper it was a fair bet to be nearby. The only reason normal working people lived there is it’s centrally located and cheap—I could walk to my banking job in just thirty minutes. Never underestimate the squalor of London living conditions. Despite earning near £100k per year the punitive taxation, mass immigration, bureaucratic incompetence and creeping socialism of London life meant I lived in a shithole. And paid £1000 per month for the privilege.

It was usually fun times with the RSG gang

It was usually fun times with the RSG gang

This was far from the best time in my life. Working like a dog fortyeight weeks a year, having seventy percent of my income stolen from me by an assortment of taxes so that I could live in a squalid damp flat and sleep in the bed that I’d shared with my wife less than a year earlier. And I wasn’t getting laid.

I’d think, “Is that all there is?” I’d worked hard at school, graduated University top of my faculty, gone straight into a high-pressure high-achievement professional apprenticeship and then risen up the corporate ladder through dedication, talent, and a little good luck. Yet here I was, almost thirty-five years old, single, and living next door to a workshy immigrant family who had exactly the same apartment as me but paid for it with welfare funded by taxes stolen from me while I paid the full market rate. Just a week earlier the council had replaced the windows of every apartment except those of the people who actually paid their own rents. So the immigrants had new double-glazing and I had draughty single-glazing.

I’d done everything society asked of me and done it well. Yet here I was, living in squalor, alone, with no idea where it had all gone wrong. Dark thoughts filled my mind back then. The only faint light of hope in my life was this secret system of Game. Looking back it sounds silly to be so pessimistic but having your heart broken and then enduring a twelve-month dry spell will do that to a man. That’s where my obsession would come from, the driving energy that would eventually turn my life around.

It was decadent but perhaps not how they meant it to be

It was decadent but perhaps not how they meant it to be

New Year’s celebrations bore me. Being somewhat introverted, the idea of being at a party or a club where it was standing room only was not enchanting to me in the least. Neither were the obnoxious mark-ups on the cover fees and drinks in London bars. But, like I said earlier, I was new to this journey. I had become friends with some of the RSG guys and keen to cement it. They were the “cool guys” and I wanted to continue to broaden my social circle and be a part of their group. The longer I hung out with them, the more I could learn. In those dark days it was a lifeline, what felt like my one shot at happiness. My new friend (and leader of RSG) Jimmy had invited me out for New Year’s Eve with a group of the guys. So I went.

The plan was to meet up at a Shoreditch bar-club called “The Last Days of Decadence.” Shoreditch is renowned for its party scene, frequented by a diverse demographic, mostly hipster twats. Last Days is a throwback to the Roaring 20s prohibition era from the stained glass windows to the cherry wood bars it’s an exercise in old school indulgence, like a bar from Boardwalk Empire. It encourages retro evening formal dress. After a few stiff whiskeys I’d feel transported back in time, the perfect atmosphere for ringing in the New Year.

I sent Rakiya a feeler text to see where I was at with her. Men who are new to Game are usually shocked at the flake rate—the amount of girls who will give a phone number then never reply. Even now when I’m pretty good and know how to solidify a number I still expect at least half of the girls to flake. Back then it was closer to ninety percent so even though the energy and sparkle had been good on the street I wasn’t expecting much. I sent this: “Hey Jimmy. I just met this Nigerian girl. She’s cute and sexy but looks like one of those sex perverts you warned me about. Should I date her?”

She understood the joke and responded almost immediately.

“Hahaha, you should be careful! I recommend you run away from her.”

We pinged a few messages quickly and my spirits rose. So many recent interactions had been a waste of time but this one stuck. She had high interest. I also found out that she lived quite close to me. A few hours passed, and as I was showering, my phone vibrated. Wiping my hands dry on the towel, I reached out from the shower cubicle and checked my messages.

“What are you doing tonight?”

Fucking score! Not only was she fishing for a date invitation (an extremely strong sign of interest for a girl, due to them usually taking a passive role) but she was trying to spend New Year’s Eve with me—one of the few get-drunk-and-damn-the-consequences nights of the year. I was almost shaking in anticipation.

I replied something or other and she called. After some quick chit-chat I told her about the evening plans.

“That sounds like a lot of fun,” she told me.

“I think it will be. Why don’t you join us?”

“I’d love that,” she said. I could tell by the sound of her voice that she was excited.

“Great!” I told her. We arranged to meet up near the Imperial War Museum an hour later, then I scrambled to get ready.

Jimmy lived just a couple of minutes’ walk away from me, also in a squalid little two room flat with his mate Tomasz, also an RSG guy. It was funny to be on the inside and see how these guys really lived. Jimmy and Tomasz spent most of their time sitting around in their boxer shorts and watching DVDs on their laptops. It was as if they turned on a different persona when they walked out the door. We had a can of beer each, then I popped out to collect Rakiya. She was all smiles and warm energy, so I took her to Jimmy’s then we got a cab into town.

Last Days was predictably jam-packed. It was like stepping into the 1920s—if that era had also been popular for trashy tattoos, binge drinking, and obesity. It’s jarring to see a chubby foul-mouthed English woman swilling cocktails while dressed like Marlene Dietrich. That’s how my vibe was in 2009—whereas now I find beauty in everything back then it seemed like British culture was a festering sore rotting through a once-great nation. At least the music was good.

Rakiya was dolled up in a yellow dress and with her dark hair and skin she looked very cute in it. Like a big sexy banana. I’d noticed she was a bit chubby, but her smile and her youthfulness were nice and it was so long since I’d gotten laid I wasn’t being too selective. In addition, I’d never shagged a black girl, unless you count a quickie with a prostitute in Prague five years earlier. Game is great for satisfying sexual curiosity.

We shuffled through the crowds until finding the rest of the team. Jimmy brought along an older woman he’d been banging because she was a famous songwriter and producer in the US. Betty was blonde and slim but pushing forty and pretty haggard from all the booze and cigarettes. Not really a catch, you might say. Jimmy wanted to get his band signed while I got the impression that Betty was using him for the bad boy sex. Jimmy was a decent looking thirty-one year old guy. Imagine Liam Gallagher, the wild and moronic frontman of Oasis, and then turn the volume down a little. Jimmy was astute, talented, but also slothfully lazy and not willing to put out the effort to reach his full potential.

Also with RSG that night was Mick, an Australian raconteur gifted with the ability and wit to tell a story that would have the entire room spell-bound. Mick was always the life of the party. He had held down a wide variety of jobs in his twenty-eight years of life ranging from a croupier on a cruise ship, a ski instructor to faking his resume to land an accounting contract. That gave him fodder for quite a few of his tales. He was definitely an extrovert and very good with the ladies.

Tony was the other guy there. He was the grand old man of RSG despite being my age. We all looked up to him because of his experience and deep knowledge of the crimson arts. He’d been a Salsa performer and railed over three hundred women. Even then he was in great shape and projected a solid masculine presence.

An hour passed and whiskey flowed. A burlesque dancer was cavorting across the small raised stage wiggling her hips and showing skin. By my third whiskey her breasts had been freed from their velvet prison and she was dancing the Charlestone. I was walking Rakiya to the basement bar when Mick came over and grabbed me.

“Nick, do me a favour. I want you to use your pre-selection to help me pick up one of these girls.”

When women see a man out with a pretty girl, they look at him differently than if he was alone or with male friends. Deep in their hindbrain women have short-cuts to assess a man’s sexual market value and one is “since he was able to score this pretty young thing there must be something about him, something that I’m missing out on.” Thus, one great way to make women interested in you is to be seen with a pretty girl on your arm. We call this “pre-selection.”

Mick continued, “I’m going over to talk to those girls”. He nodded his head towards a group of three young girls standing against the bar. “Wait for me to open, then walk past with Rakiya and say to the girls, ‘Be careful of this guy here, he gets laid like a rock star.’”

I agreed, thinking of it as helping out a friend while continuing my learning process. Each time I saw Mick with a girl I went over and gave him this verbal pat on the back. More whiskey blurred my mind. Things were going great—we were swapping stories with the RSG guys, drinking, lots of ribaldry. Mick was copping off with some girl in a dark corner while Rakiya was pressed up against me all night, coming on to me. I’d already kissed her.

There’s a nightclub area in the basement that serves drinks and also has a stage where they do a bigger cabaret show. The toilets are just to the side of the stairs and, as we were coming down, I saw Mick. He was coming out of the women’s bathroom with a giggling girl close behind. She scurried off with a guilty expression, and he stopped when he saw me.

“I can’t believe it! I just got a blowjob in the toilets,” then he grinned broadly and said, “Cheers for the help!”

Next installment (Chapter Four, part three) in three days. Buy the full Balls Deep book in PDF for £10 here or in paperback for £20 here.

Picking up pennies in front of a steamroller

March 18, 2015

There are certain changes a man must make in his daygame journey as he progresses through the learning curve. In the beginning it’s pretty simple: approach. Most noobs are terrified of rejection and tangled in a mess of limiting beliefs about what women want and how to deliver it. So on 90% of boot camps and one-on-one coaching sessions the strategy is simple:

  • Give him some simple lines
  • Psych him up to dive into opening

And that’s pretty much it. There’s only so much a student can learn when simply walking up to a girl and opening your mouth is a death-defying act. We tried to teach theory on beginner’s bootcamps and it just doesn’t work. The student’s adrenalin is inhibiting any ability to absorb complex information. It’s the same in boxing – first few times a guy spars his technique disappears and he’s suddenly chin-up, flat-footed and swiping air like a clumsy bear.

This problem can be fixed over time. Repeated exposure drills the muscle memory and reduces the adrenalin. Eventually the noob can calm down in set and begin to see what’s in front of him.

Five hundred sets later he’s acclimated to daygame and can start plotting his jump up to intermediate. This is when he must move from “social” to “sexual”. He already knows how to begin a conversation with a stranger, and he can spot when a girl gives him a topic and then run with it. So he gets hook point a lot and many flaky numbers. He’s now become the chatty guy.

That’s not daygame. It’s have a nice chat with a stranger. That’s a valuable skill to have and it represents progress but as an guy at this level can tell you it is immensely frustrating. Once in a blue moon he’ll encounter a Yes Girl who just needs to be gently eased downhill towards the bed but it’s rare. Most of the time he’s getting into interminable chats that end with a phone number to nowhere. If he’s able to do this with hot girls, he’ll have a YouTube channel and offer bootcamps because it’s not until you’re intermediate yourself that you can easily see through the smoke and mirrors.

So the strategy for this guy is also simple: go sexual. As a teacher, I’ll tell him:

  • Take some risks
  • Get close to her
  • Throw in sexual spikes

I’ve noticed the main barriers to a man implementing my advice are emotional, not technical. What I ask from him is technically easier than all the social stuff he’s doing. Really, all I’m asking him to do is take one step forwards, and repeat some simple one-liner spikes. A monkey can do that. The fact he’s already hooking and number-closing means he’s no monkey. It’s an emotional barrier.

He’s addicted to picking up pennies in front of the steamroller. Consider this quote from a review of Nassim Nicolas Taleb’s book The Black Swan:

“Another human failing stems from the nature of happiness. In the short run, people’s happiness is often shaped more by how many “positive events” occur in their day than by the arrival of one important piece of good news. Winning $100,000 in the lottery feels almost as good as winning $1 million. We therefore look, consciously or not, for small but repeated successes when we should be shooting for “one large win.” It’s easy to see why: Big payoffs come only rarely, and perhaps late in life; in the meantime, who wants to keep on feeling like a loser?”

There are many sweet hits of validation during a ten minute street stop. The first one is when you overcome your AA and open the girl – you get the thrill of having mastered your fear. Next is when you reach hook point, she has just validated you with the “this guy is interesting enough to chat to” thrill. A bit later you collect a worthless number but in the moment there’s the thrill of the number close. It’s all very validating, and by the time you’re five hundred sets in it’s a pretty regular occurrence. It’s also painting yourself into a corner because insiduously, you’ll be moving away from effective daygame. Instinctively you know the following “play it safe” tricks will maximise the amount of validation hits you get in one session of daygaming:

  • Turn off sexual threat
  • Let the chat meander towards rapport and common ground
  • Hide intent

This period is immensely frustrating because you’re “taking action” and “doing daygame” but any time you get laid it’s basically luck. You’re fooled by randomness. The step to Intermediate means taking control of the process again, instituting a tighter cause-effect relationship between what you do and what results you get. And your results will get worse before they get better. Your “easy win” validation hits will actually reduce. We’re now chasing the $1 million lottery, not the £10 scratch card.

I consider myself an advanced daygamer. I’ll talk a bit more about what this entails later, but in this context it means I deliberately court micro-failure. Anyone watching me on the street sees I get lots of blowouts. I have no patience with ten minute chats-to-nowhere. I’ve walked that road and it’s frustrating. Now, I want to find a girl, put my schtick on her and get a quick Yes/No/Maybe answer so I can either try to fuck her or else next her and find the girl who will fuck me.

So I open aggressively, I immediately step in on her, I lay the eyes on, and I bust her hard in the first minute. She knows exactly what I want and that I don’t expect to wait a long time to get it. She also knows she’s free to leave at any time. These days I often see the wheels of her brain turning as she weighs the pros and cons of adventure sex.

The result is more blowouts and more lays. And if I was to post a day’s filming on YouTube the comments would all be “dude, why can’t you get more numbers?”

Balls Deep: Chapter Four, Not All Nigerians Scam (1 of 3)

March 17, 2015

My feet ached.

The inner lining of my brown biker boots had ripped so a little fold of material was pressing against my ankle and the left heel was asymmetrically worn away from many weeks pounding the streets. The toes of my sock were wet from stepping on a loose paving slab that splashed water as it wobbled underfoot. These are the trivial annoyances of winter daygame—the hobby of prowling busy shopping streets to pick up beautiful women gets tougher when the weather turns. I’d been out four days straight through wind, rain, and snow. It was beginning to wear on me.

Covent Garden was wet and dreary that day. I had an enthusiastic young student in tow. He was a young, nerdy, socially awkward kind of guy with an unkempt shock of black hair combed unconvincingly over a thinning crown. The kind of guy you’d expect gets laid about once a year maximum. He was upbeat and anxious to learn, so I was taking him around for free. I wasn’t really qualified to teach but I’d opened about one thousand girls and was at least getting some dates, so LSS guys even less successful than me wanted to hang out.

I pulled up the collar of my fur-lined flight jacket and pulled my woolly hat down to my eyebrows, then jammed my numbing hands deep into my pockets. It was December 30, 2009. A cold, damp typical wintery London day, New Year just around the corner. Christmas decorations cluttered store windows, long streams of golden tinsel framing displays of snowmen and reindeer. As dusk approached, the fairy lights adorning lampposts and street signs began twinkling in the reddening sky. Everywhere I turned people were milling, jostling, and scurrying for that last sale item. Some rushed purposefully to and from their destinations as others strolled along dreamily, shopping the stores with their eyes, or watching as the street performers put on a show for their pleasure and their tips. Lovers strolled hand-in-hand and looked at the sights. Japanese tourists with comically oversized cameras took pictures of everything.

This seasonal fauna of street life was a blur to me. My attention was on the fold of cotton pressing awkwardly against my ankle, and whether I should find a seat to take my boots off and fix it. Little things loom large when daygaming due to the high pressure of the activity.

Covent Garden in winter

Covent Garden in winter

I was sold on daygame now. I loved that there was an art to meeting a girl in a public place and getting her number, perhaps taking her for a coffee there and then. It’s the first step in getting laid. For most men it’s a strange, intimidating but fantastically liberating experience—just imagine walking around the streets scanning for pretty girls and then, when you see one, you just walk up and make a conversation from nothing. Make her laugh, make her curious, and hopefully fuck her a few days or weeks later. For a guy conditioned that bars, nightclubs, and Internet dating sites are the only places to meet women this is an eye-opening thought.

Any girl. Anywhere. Any time.

I was still somewhat new to the game, having stumbled and mumbled through what was now six months of approaches. I had yet to get laid, but I had gotten some basic competence at drawing girls into conversation and getting numbers. Sometimes the girls would even come on a date. That’s what my student was looking for that day. I was still hurting from my devastating divorce from a woman with whom I’d shared the past nine years. We had dated for six and were married for three before she walked out on me that January. By the time I was trawling these Covent Garden streets at the end of the year she had already remarried.

It was almost a year since the separation, and over six months of Game. I was reflecting on the year, as we are wont to do when New Year approaches. Was I headed in the right direction? I’d initially promised myself a six-month commitment to Game to see if it worked and if I could learn it. So how was it working out?

In the early months of 2009 I allowed myself to wallow in the unfairness of it all. The self-pity that comes from being dumped enveloped me. Outwardly, I was the same guy I had always been, but inside I had been smashed into a million pieces, like a jigsaw box emptied onto the floor. I was glad I’d tried something, lest I allow myself to sink deeper into the pits of despair.

I thought back to the Tony Clink book I’d picked up and then reordered earlier this year. A gaudy red book with cover art of a slick lounge-lizard guy surrounded by beautiful women. It promised the secret system to meet and attract women, sleeping with different girls every week. So, although married and in love at the time, I read it from idle curiosity, and it had stung. It’s like the author knew my whole life. I replayed memories of all the girls I’d dated, laid, or failed with and every single time I could relate it to his system. I believed him. Then I loaned the book to a friend and forgot about it.

In business I was successful, having always been at the top of my class from the time I was four years old right through my Master’s program. Every single year I came top at everything. Soon London beckoned and a career in investment banking. I was so focused on professional advancement that I never noticed the lack of women around me. I’d just stumble into a relationship and gave it little more thought. Wolf of Wall Street it wasn’t. I wasn’t one of those rare guys who had girls throwing themselves at him an university and thus graduated with a First Class degree in Entitlement.

As my student and I strolled along through the busy streets, talking to a girl here and there, I suddenly heard someone singing flutter in the wind behind me. A sweet, feminine, melodic voice seemed to tinkle like water in a mountain stream. It was so sweet and uplifting. I turned to look and behind me walked a pretty young black girl. She was wearing a set of headphones, singing along with the music. I smiled and turned back to my student, and almost at once wondered what I was doing. I couldn’t ignore this opportunity. Today I was the teacher, but I was still in the game myself, and she looked like someone that I’d really like to get acquainted with on a horizontal and naked basis.

Turning back towards the girl I motioned her to take off the headphones. She gave me a wide-eyed inquisitive look, but obediently took the buds out her ears and returned my smile.

“Did you really just start singing in the street?” I said.

She smiled again and giggled a bit. “Yeah, I like this song.”

Her brown eyes were large and her long hair hung in curls to her shoulders. She looked to be in her early to mid-twenties. I would find out later that she was twenty-six. My eyes scanned up and down. Decent height, full breasts, wide hips, quite possibly a good ass. She’d do.

“People may think you’re crazy,” I challenged. “The only people I see singing to themselves are also carrying a can of Special Brew.”

It was easy. She was in a great mood and she liked me. My student stood off quietly to watch me work, absorbing what he could. I teased a little, and she laughed. I could feel a spark of attraction between us like the crackle of electricity. Something undefinable in her eyes and manner telegraphed, “I want this guy.” Back then, I was actually terrible at picking up on such signals but she was throwing them out so strongly I couldn’t miss.

“I have to get back to my friend there,” I told her, “But let me take your number and we can have a drink sometime.”

That is how I met Rakiya, a young medical student of Nigerian descent but born and bred in South London. She’d be the first black girl I’d ever fucked. Her number stored in my phone I bid her goodbye and strolled away, re-joining my student with a smile on my face. Perhaps this curvy minx would be the one to finally end my year-long dry spell, and allow me to complete the whole daygame process from beginning to end.

Next installment (Chapter Four, part two) in three days. Buy the full Balls Deep book in PDF for £10 here or in paperback for £20 here.

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