Nick Krauser’s opinions on race

February 22, 2015

There’s currently a rather involved discussion going on over at the RooshV Forum about me. You can go here to see what I originally wrote, and here for a thread Roosh started to whip things up. I’m not much interested in the opinions of people I’ve never met, but I am interested in correcting falsehoods that are spread about me – whether through malicious intent or innocent misunderstanding.

So, here are my actual views on race. Normally I restrict the “culture war” stuff to my Twitter so as to keep my blog purely Game. However, this will take more than 140 characters so the blog it must be…

  1. First thing is I am racialist not racist. That means I think race is a natural organising line in humans, just as sex and age are. For examples of this just watch groups in action e.g. prison, dance halls, housing. It takes constant intervention by integrationists to deny this natural human impulse.

  2. Second, I am committed to truth and reality above all else. Any time anyone tries to twist or deny reality, they are on my shit list. I write about this all the time in “compliance” in daygame, in martial arts, in science, and in business. It’s a pervasive human weakness to deny truth in order to advance your goals. I’m against that. I think modern culture has become extremely anti-white, at the expense of truth, and it’s a deliberate cultural marxist front.

  3. Third, I believe each race has a natural homeland – the one they evolved in. So Europe for Europeans, Africa for Africans etc and smaller subdivisions within. That doesn’t mean “no blacks in UK”, it just means UK is a white land and the laws and culture should reflect that. Everyone else has to integrate. Africans are accorded the same control of their homeland.

This naturally leads to a few fairly simple conclusions such as:

  1. Different races have differently-weighted traits, as HBD is quickly proving. Each race has a combination of positive and negative. There is no one “master race” but different combinations tend to lead to statistically observable trends that can be functional or dysfunctional depending on the environment. To deny these facts is to deny reality, which puts someone on my shit list as stated above. In practice in the West differences are usually denied in one direction only: to push down whites and push up non-whites. So, it’s a (cultural marxist) politically-motivated denial. When I highlight non-white bad behaviour on my Twitter, that’s in my mind redressing the balance of selective reporting against whites.

  2. Every race has a right to be proud of it’s own people, culture and to control it’s own lands for it’s best interests. Current Western culture is very careful in protecting these rights for everyone except whites. We are the only race not allowed to be proud. You see this on RVF when I’m immediately slandered as Stormfront and racist. That’s the closet-SJWs having a go. I don’t have any desire to see other races abandon their culture in favour of mine – for example I’m very much against colonizers forcing a subject people to speak the colonial language, and I’m against do-gooder NGOs trying to turn Nigerian schoolgirls into So-Cal SJWs.

Note this is NOT white supremacy. I don’t think the world is the white man’s playground. We have no more business in Africa than Africans have in Europe. So I was against colonialism and when the UK went to war in Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya and Kosovo I was against those wars at the time (I have a dim view of what lots of those foreigners were doing, but it was their country and not our problem. We had no right to interfere).

Also I lived in alignment with (2) in my own life: I went to Japan on a legit visa, worked four years, paid taxes, followed their laws, learned their language, then I left when my visa expired. I committed no crimes there. I didn’t apply for benefits. I didn’t try to change their culture to my liking. I didn’t demand regions of UK law. I didn’t shame the Japanese for being “racist” for not letting me vote.

So that’s the “serious” side of what I actually believe and will defend in debate. Now to discuss the inflammatory rhetoric that I often write…..

Firstly, I greatly value Victorian culture. I think that era was the greatest in UK history. One of the cultural habits of Victorians is “casual racism”. It’s basically an intersect of free speech, pattern observation, and ethnocentrism. It’s an expression of national / racial pride little different to what other countries have also used to mythologise their own histories and to provide social cohesion throughout the nation. It’s a crucial part of creating social order and a “we’re in this together”. It’s now fallen out of favour when whites do it because it’s a barrier to multiculturalism and the cultural marxist attack on white identity.

For me, casual racism is fun. It’s like people from Newcastle trolling people from Liverpool or Sunderland. I see identity groups (race, sex, age, region etc) in a good-natured competition, like rival football teams or businesses. For example Bojangles is a Liverpool fan and also my friend. So we chat, have drinks but on match day I’m in the opposite stand singing “scousers are all pedos” and hoping my team wins. I’ll shout at the referee when he disallows a Newcastle goal regardless of whether his decision is correct. I fully expect Bojangles to do the same to support his team and to ridicule mine. Then after the match we are friends again.

I happily embrace people taking the piss out of white Brits whether it’s our bad teeth, vulgar women or stodgy plain food. I fully expect every other race to have funny and offensive stereotypes about my race. They are supposed to. That’s part of their own racial pride.

That’s pretty much my view on race. I have many non-white friends on a personal level because they intuitively sense this. On a public policy level I expect the UK government to protect the interests of my people from predation by rival groups. I expect my Indian friends to expect the Indian government to look after their interests, including when those interests are in conflict with the UK. And so on. There’s no contradiction between this and having Indian friends.

I’m not even anti-Muslim. I’m just anti-Muslim-conquest-of-Europe. I think they have a stupid backward religion but that’s their business. They can do whatever they want in their homeland.

Balls Deep: Chapter One, The Journey Begins (2 of 4)

February 22, 2015

20th May 2009 was to be my big day. This was when I’d decided to begin day game. I took the underground in to Covent Garden and my hands shook. My skin was clammy. It was a glorious day, and I was shitting myself because so much was at stake. In my mind this was my one chance, my Last Chance Saloon for happiness with women. If I couldn’t make Game work, I was fucked. And not in the good penis-invagina way. This is how it happened…

I’d just been sitting in a Caffè Nero re-reading the Mystery Method hardback that arrived from Amazon a week before. I was reading about new concepts to me such as survival and replication value, indirect openers, the three-second rule, and other such technical terms. My mind was reeling with the sheer amount of new information and the underlying world-view that states women are an abundant resource that you pro-actively go and hunt for. There was even a glossary of jargon where Mystery had put names on to commonly encountered situations. Things like:

“Approach Anxiety”—that gut-churning sense of dread deep in your stomach that you feel once the idea of talking to a new girl moves from idle possibility to immediate probability. “AA” and I were to become intimate bedfellows over the next few years.

I was definitely shitting myself. I stayed in the comfy sofa-chair much longer than I needed to as the little demons whispered in my ears, trying to give me reasons to give up and go home. Nonetheless, I finally roused myself and put on the figurative PUA Wizard hat. I began my walk through the market towards Neal Street, entering the bustle of a shopping afternoon. Several hot girls walked past and I did nothing. No way did I have the balls to open a moving target.

After twenty minutes with my hands in my pockets, beating myself up for not approaching, I tried another tack. Finding a less intimidating environment, I walked into a retro clothes shop. I really liked Japanese girls at this point, more so than any others. I’d also had this lingering belief that told me I should focus on Japanese girls because I speak Japanese and, thus, they’d be impressed, giving me an “in”. There was a Japanese girl browsing some trousers. Hmmm, I’ll need a prop… I picked up a shirt, took a deep breath, and walked over to her.

“Hey. Do you think this shirt suits me?”

She smiled and told me it looked nice.

I kept talking. My mind was blank, my heart pounded, and my hands seemed to shake. I was actually talking to a hot girl I just “opened”!

A few minutes of jibber-jabber dribbled out, and she was not running away. I did some clumsy touching by using her hand to draw a map of Kichijoji (a sub-region of Tokyo) when it turned out we both knew the area. I tried way too hard to build rapport. I was totally un-calibrated and asked her to go for coffee within two minutes. She politely refused. I ejected.

Balls Deep chapter one 4

So I ended up with nothing, but I was so fucking happy! Totally stoked. I’d just approached a random girl and didn’t get destroyed.

Obviously, I had to find another retro shop, thinking if it had worked in one shop maybe it would in the next. I wandered into Rockit, another retro clothes place tucked in a cobbled back alley behind the market. Dusty Springfield’s voice lilted over the air as the speakers pushed out I Only Want to be With You. At a circular clothes rail by the back wall there was an okay-looking English girl rummaging through the German army coats. I blundered in clutching a hastily grabbed shirt and tried the same opening line. I got a polite answer, brief small talk, but she didn’t hook. No doubt I was sweating, shaking, and had my lips pulled back in a rictus grin. I probably terrified the poor girl. Whatever, I was on a roll!

I was really excited, adrenalin flushing my veins and distorting all sense of perspective. I was elated that I had spoken to two girls without traumatic incident. Hey, do you think I could approach a girl in a different type of shop? Come on Dixons, let’s see what you have! I saw an American girl looking at some cameras over the counter. I walked up from behind (always a no-no, but I was socially clueless at this point in my life). I tried to be casual.

“What you thinking of buying?”

She jumped, visibly shocked. Then she calmed down and replied, “Uh, that one.”

Total failure. At first she looked at me like I was a mugger and then as some low-value un-calibrated tool. And she was right, so I muttered an apology and departed. I shuffled out of Dixons and crossed the road, walking down towards Embankment and the river. A really hot Malaysian was coming up the street towards me. I stepped across her path a bit and gestured.

“Are you someone I should get to know?”

Even now, years later, I cringe as I write that but I think it conveys just how low my social intelligence was in 2009. At heart, daygame is a test of how socially normal you are. No matter how slick your lines they must be overlaid onto a sound foundation of social skills. Girls sniff out weirdoes in a heartbeat, which has proved the undoing of many a hapless new daygamer. At this point, I was that hapless daygamer.

Fortunately my social intelligence was so low I didn’t realise how low it was. I was filled with a beginner’s overestimation of how quickly he can “get it”. That delusional overconfidence would serve me well in powering through the daily grind and endless rejections. If I’d been more socially savvy I’d have probably abandoned the project as an impossible dream.

By late afternoon on the 20th of May 2009 I’d approached four girls. No numbers, no success, but I’d controlled the one thing that can be controlled—my own behaviour. I’d started.

At that point it was still not in my reality to stop random girls in the street, interest them, and then get a phone number.

Another week of work passed. While my body was physically present in team meetings and PowerPoint presentations my brain was elsewhere, turning over the latest information to be gleaned from my instructional books and the PUA blogs I’d been finding on the Internet. It was like a whole new world had opened up in front of me—there were actually men on the Internet who wrote journals detailing their
attempts to seduce women! It was like discovering the Necronomicon. Perhaps I, too, could learn these mystical incantations that will make women feel uncontrollable attraction towards me.

“Nick!” barked my manager and my mind snapped back to the job. “Nick, have you cleared review points six and nine from the work papers?”

I muttered an unfocused reply and began plotting my next toilet break, to sneak away with The Mystery Method for a furtive read. Eventually it was the weekend again.

1st June 2009, and I was now loitering in St James Park. I was wandering around the park looking for any girls sitting alone. I floundered for a while, nerves shaking my limbs, so I sat in a deck chair reading a book. It was pretty tempting to stay there, but I forced myself to approach.

There was a cute brunette sitting with her little lapdog. I walked over and stroked him, going to my haunches so I wasn’t towering over her. I said I liked her dog, what breed is she, etc. She responded, but she was just being socially polite. There was no interest. Really, I was trying too hard to find any kind of flicker of interest from her, but I was nervous and subconsciously looking for an excuse to eject before my ego got battered by rejection. The conversation stuttered and died after two minutes. She didn’t dismiss me, I just bailed. My legs were still shaking.

I saw a colourfully-dressed girl sitting on the grass reading the Economist. I opened with, “Hi. What’s that you’re reading?” She responded pleasantly in a French accent, and we chatted. I was so nervous I was just wittering on about the magazine, France, and doing the twenty questions routine, trying too hard to fill the space. I sat down and she didn’t flinch, but I had no idea what I was doing. Even though she was continuing the conversation I felt out of my depth and contrived to eject at the earliest opportunity. That was it. Two conversations and I was spent. The anxiety had drained me, and my legs felt weaker than they used to after a two hour kickboxing session.

The next day I wanted to try walking around Soho. This is the entertainment district in Central London, packed with trendy cafes, bars, pubs, and all manner of media offices. Pretty reliable for there to be some pretty women walking around. I was off work, and I started strong. Boarding the train at Kennington there was a hot Asian seated listening to her iPod and doing Sudoku. I bottled it initially because there was a random guy next to her, and I didn’t want to risk being rejected in front of him (I still haven’t internalised the, “I don’t care what anyone thinks of me” mantra, so I was feeling what we call the Spotlight Effect which is the erroneous belief that you are centre of attention). Luckily she changed train at the same station as me. I planned my exit to end up slightly ahead of her on the escalator so I could turn over my shoulder:

“Hey, I’ve always wanted to know, is Sudoku really Japanese?”

She replied, “Um, I’m Korean.”


She smiled at that so, emboldened, I continued, “Yeah, it’s just I used to live in Japan, and I never saw them play Sudoku. I think it’s probably one of those things they say is “big in Japan” because they know nobody is gonna prove them wrong.”

We chatted, she got the same train connection as me and, as she sat down, indicated for me to sit with her. Famed PUA Mystery seemed to be speaking in my mind that I should affect disinterest so I stayed standing but next to her, not giving her my full body language. I struggled a bit for conversation, and I knew I had to get off in two stops.

“Hey. I’m getting off in a minute. If I wanna see you again what do I do?”

She didn’t seem too convinced. “Um, take my number.”

I took the number and we ended up swapping about thirty texts, but I couldn’t get her out on a date. Re-reading the texts now with the benefit of hindsight I realise my text game was awful but for now it was a victory story—my first ever daygame “number close”. This was an early little reference experience for changing my reality towards that of the kind of man who picks up girls in the street.

Flush with the rush of success, in true noob fashion, I proceeded to kill the opener (stick to the same opening line too long) by doing it on another four Japanese girls that afternoon. One pair of tourists hooked really well and chatted, but I was lacking direction and ran out of steam.

I was pleased with myself for hitting the streets and making things happen, no matter how incompetently. There was a pleasure from taking action and bringing my sex life under my control (or at least the illusion of control). It would’ve been easy to just stay home and play the latest Call of Duty, yet, here I was stalking the streets in a constant battle against my own anxiety and negative self-talk, and eventually getting some work done. That said, I knew I was clueless. It was time to find someone better than me to give me direct training. So I opened my laptop and searched the Internet for a PUA boot camp.

Next installment (Chapter One part three) in three days. Balls Deep full book available in PDF here for £10 and paperback here for £20

Guest post: My first bathroom pull

February 20, 2015

Here’s a little victory story from a friend of mine who has been dipping his toe into Game waters. By way of context, he’s also a middle-aged professional man. I offer it here without edits:
In a decade as a denizen of the manosphere, this is my first-ever published lay report. It came about because I happened to tell Nick about a recent adventure of mine, and, flatteringly, he said “That’s textbook. Any chance you’d write it up as a guest post?” I decided to rise to the challenge. First of all, I’m not a playa in any typical sense. And even though I live in a big city, for various reasons beyond the scope of this essay, I do most of my approaching, daygaming and general skirt-chasing when I’m travelling. It’s part of the fun of being on the road, which I often am.
Recently, however, I flipped the script on myself, mostly because a “toilet pull” had been on my bucket list for awhile, and I figured home turf might be the best place to attempt it.
Using a popular dating platform one fine Friday night, I struck up some conversations with women here in town, paying particular attention to those visiting on holiday. One of the women I was messaging back and forth with had just arrived to the city, and was going to be here for a week. Her plan was to see a lot of museums. I’ll describe her as early 30s, European-Latina, and a professional scholar of theology (albeit an atheist). Very independent, cool gal in my book. Mentally we hit it off, and once we did, she made it plain that she was was looking for adventure sex. She wasn’t remotely coy, and sent me half-naked pics in our initial online chat.
A somewhat idealised impression

A somewhat idealised impression

During that chat, she also mentioned a museum she wanted to see the next day. I knew the place, and I asked her if she wanted a companion to join her. She said yes. I suggested we meet at a cafe first for a bite to eat. I wanted the museum to be the second venue, as bouncing works miracles, especially during the daytime. She arrived at lunch right on time, and we had a civilised meal. The conversation was purely platonic and unstructured. We’d already had the sex talk online. No need to overdo it. As the old salesman’s advice goes, “Once you’ve made the sale, stop selling.” As the host, I paid the bill. Then we strolled over to the museum.
She knew a lot about the stuff on display, and she enjoyed showing off her knowledge. I found it a turn-on, as her enthusiasm for these esoteric objects amplified her postgraduate expertise about their historic meaning. Really, I wish I had a recording of her fairly skipping ‘round this musty collection, cooing about the artefacts. ’Twas a lovely sight. Then…escalation.
About 20 minutes in, I took her hand. Ten minutes after that, I pulled her into a dark corner and we made out. She was so lustily responsive that my mental wheels immediately began turning. From previous visits, I knew that downstairs there was a hallway of individual toilet stalls, configured perfectly for a bathroom pull. I led her down the stairs and we checked out some galleries on that level. Meanwhile, I kept an eye on the row of WCs. When the coast was clear, I grabbed her arm and made a move to drag her into one of the men’s stalls with me. But my move was too sudden, and her automatic response was to pull back. Luckily, I could sense she was only flustered by my advance, not appalled by it, so I wasn’t overly worried. She scurried into a female stall, and I went by myself into a male one.
I gathered my thoughts.
Gathering thoughts, yesterday

Gathering thoughts, yesterday

I came out of my stall and stood outside the one I’d watched her go into a minute earlier. The museum was crowded with people, but by brilliant good fortune, at the exact moment she came out, there was nobody around to see us. Carpe diem. It was now or never. No hesitation. I pushed her back into the stall she was trying to exit, and went in with her, locking the door behind us. If she hadn’t known what was up before, she knew now. At this point, a wave of exhilaration and calm settled in. I could tell she was into it, and that we both felt safe now, ensconced. No one had seen us enter. No one would bug us.
There was no resistance as I tugged at her shirt and jeans. She was pinned to the wall by my body, and I put her hand on my crotch. We kissed some more. She undid my belt, and slid down to her knees. Shortly, I pulled out a condom, making sure she saw as I tore it open: I did that so that without breaking the trance or impeding the flow, I could double-check we were on the same page; we were. She emitted a gasp of surrender as I bent her over the sink.
The mirrors on all sides were a nice touch.
(Fade to black / statistical interlude: meet-to-lay time, 90 minutes; all told, I’d put in less than three hours, half of it whilst lying on my sofa the night before, all of it enjoyable.)
After finishing, we fell into a giddy, co-conspiratorial mode as we calculated how to get out of there alive. I told her to leave the stall first and that I’d lock the door again behind her, in case someone was waiting for that particular stall. I instructed her to knock when the hallway was empty as my signal to come out. More complicated than it needed to be, really, but I wasn’t thinking straight. Anyway, she did all that, and we strode up the stairs, waltzed nonchalantly through the foyer, and ambled back out into the streets.
We walked at a normal pace. Neither of us made any mention about what’d happened — I think we didn’t know what to say — so we defaulted to the congenial vibe we’d established from the outset and just carried on with our conversation about art history. Meanwhile our pulse rates and breathing patterns gradually returned to normal. A quarter of an hour later, I kissed her goodbye so she could go off to meet a friend. (I did see her again a few days later, somewhere more private.)
Something doesn't quite add up

Something doesn’t quite add up

1) It feels extraordinary to behave like the primates we are. I’d never before had a sexual experience that was so non-verbal. Afterward it made me recollect a vintage seduction tape where the guru asks the men in the audience to imagine themselves as cavemen, out in the forest, who happen upon a naked woman bathing in a waterfall. “Without the power of speech,” he asks, “could you seduce the woman? Would you know the motions to go through?” Well, I now firmly suspect that buried deep within us is precisely this innate knowledge. For me, the bathroom pull experience helped revive it. It sparked some dormant circuits and reconnected me with my animal essence in a way I found deeply satisfying and worthwhile.
2) The bathroom pull is one of those phenomena which seemed nearly mythical and impossible beforehand, and now, after the fact, seems simple and natural. Also, like downhill skiing, the whole thing feels a bit different than it looks. Don’t get me wrong, it’s extremely fun, but the experience had a different tone than I imagined. It was so visceral, so completely bodily. My intellect was absent; thoughts all but ceased. As someone who tends to be “in his head,” this made for a welcome change.
3) The woman has to be significantly complicit, and either consciously up for it or fully under your spell. After all, you might be able to “Oops, how’d we end up on my bed!?” But you can’t really “Oops, how’d we end up in the handicapped restroom!?” If you’re dealing with a woman who owns her sexuality, her forebrain won’t interfere with her hindbrain and sailing will tend to be smooth, as it was for me. But if she’s hesitant or “split brained,” you might need more artfulness in the segues. Sure, I can see that dragging a woman off to the bathroom would be a turn on for her and thereby might increase the likelihood of sex in some instances. But I also see that the bathroom pull is probably best employed in pre-heated moments of passion. Which relates to my next point.
4) “Only place bets you know you’ll win.” This was actually told to me by a dog trainer. He meant: during training, don’t ask a dog to do something unless you’re quite sure the dog will do it; then you ask for a little more each subsequent time, rewarding compliance with a treat. This is broadly analogous to calibrated escalation with women, and looking back on it, I realise I did it here by accident: I did not “make the bet” of isolating my date in the toilet stall until I knew she’d comply with my leadership. (That’s not to say she definitely was going to have sex with me in there, only that I was certain she wouldn’t freak out and make a scene. The worst that would happen in there is she’d giggle and blush, and give me massive tingle-credits which I would cash in later in her hotel room. Therefore, pulling her into the stall was a bet I knew I’d win, one way or another.)
5) Furtive, primal sex appears to be massively bonding for the female of the species. Must be a dominance thing, right? For a woman, I expect the bathroom pull is within the realm of the archetypal “taken by a stranger” fantasy, so it’s an intense experience she may not have had before you came along. In a real sense, you’ve just done her a huge favour by shagging her in the loos. And this memorable, shared adventure has quite possibly given her a rush of ecstatic and seldom-felt emotions, which she’ll anchor to you. (Evidence? Many weeks on, this woman still sends me dirty photos of herself unsolicited and sometimes refers to “that time in the museum.”)
So that’s my tale. Hope it was instructive. Obviously, filter it through your own identity and experience, and live your life your way. Happy hunting.

Balls Deep: Chapter One, The Journey Begins (1 of 4)

February 19, 2015

I met my wife in late 1999 at a London bar on a normal Friday night after work. I was training as a finance professional with a top tier City firm so life was quite stressful but full of optimism about my future career. My university friends, Tim and Yasin, were now highly-paid computer programmers and worked nearby for an investment bank. So when 6pm rolled around we’d have a few beers. Young professionals enjoying that great city of opportunity for new graduates.

We stood outside Brown’s wine bar by the Bank of England surrounded by other blue-shirted office drones sipping lager. A few pints later we were in an old man’s pub in nearby Old Street. Tim was playing the slot machine by the door and hit the jackpot just as the door opened and three Japanese girls walked in. My head turned as I heard the put-put metal cough of the machine dumping coins into the collection tray and my eye caught the middle girl. Very pretty.

Enveloped in a drunken haze I did something I’d not done since late night in student nightclubs—I walked up to a girl I didn’t know, tapped her on the shoulder, and hit on her. Incredibly, it worked. She gave me her number and then three dates and two weeks later I was fucking her. Six years after that we were married.

Of course, a lot happened in between—me living in Japan for four years as first a high-school English teacher then later as a fight journalist and a kickboxer, her joining a professional dance company and touring the world as a performer—but that’s just boring “origins” stuff. Let’s just get to the main point.

I was with my wife a total of nine years and for the first eight of them it was perfect. Like a Disney romance movie. We had holidays together in Thailand, Turkey, and Tunisia. We moved in together in London in 2006, and I really thought that was it. I’d found the love of my life, we’d have children, and we’d grow old together. Job done. Now I just had to mature, settle, and be a good husband.

It started to go wrong in early 2008 when she got antsy about giving up her dance career to have children. She’d been putting me off for two years with the excuse, “I want more time as a girl, before I become a woman,” and I was starting to doubt she’d follow through. She was also showing reticence in moving to Newcastle with me to buy a house and settle. Then she decided she wanted an office job after two years as a housewife. There’s blame on both sides and it doesn’t really matter now but, suffice to say, 2008 was strained. She changed, I changed, and the marriage was strained.

happily married and thinking it would last forever

happily married and thinking it would last forever

With the benefit of hindsight I should’ve seen it coming. She went back to Japan in January 2009 for two weeks to visit family. On the day she was due to return to London—nothing. The next day she called me from her friend Andrea’s house and said that she wanted to meet me after work. I felt my stomach drop. I couldn’t believe she’d leave but my body knew what my mind wouldn’t contemplate.

Even now, over five years later, the image of her walking towards me down the street outside my office is burned into my mind. We sat down in a pub and she told me she needed space. That space became separation and ultimately divorce. I was against it and did everything I could to convince her to stay. Again, hindsight is 20/20. She did us both a favour, but it would be well over a year before I’d see that.

She’s happily remarried now (to a former best friend of mine from university—a long story!) with two children. We’re still on speaking terms though we rarely ever do speak. She chose her path after divorce and I chose mine. And here the path began—single, loveless, frightened, and broken inside. I felt like a glass vase had been shattered and now rattled around inside me.

I remember lying on my sofa in a squalid little two-bedroom flat in Kennington, Xbox360 controller in my hand as I played Battlefield Bad Company. I’m a video game nerd and a sucker for first person shooter games so this should’ve been a perfect evening’s entertainment. But I couldn’t enjoy it at all. Everything seemed so dull and pointless. My life seemed dull and pointless. I turned the game off, shut my eyes, and did some serious introspection.

What was so wrong? Why was I so unhappy?

Hiking with my brother a couple of months before the separation

Hiking with my brother a couple of months before the separation

My university friend, Charlie, had gotten divorced six years earlier and never remarried, or even had a girlfriend. He’d foresworn women (which didn’t take much as he was hopeless with them anyway) and dedicated himself to scuba diving trips around the world. I knew intuitively I couldn’t do that. It was giving up. I’d never quit anything in my life.

So I had to get a new girlfriend. I wanted sex. I wanted companionship. But how could I do it? I’d had a short experiment with online dating as soon as I’d recognised my divorce was final. had resulted in one date with a mid-thirties English woman who turned out to be rather fatter than her profile pictures suggested. I’d fallen back on my old “in”—Japan—and signed up for but that led to three uncomfortable dates with post-thirty girls I didn’t fancy.

Then I cast my mind back to a book I’d read some six or so years earlier called, The Lay Guide, by a man calling himself Tony Clink. It was a paperback in the HMV book collection in amongst the rock star biographies and Hunter S Thompson diaries. That had been my introduction to the Seduction Community, a guidebook on how to get laid. I’d read it and compared his advice to my own successes and failures. While not remembering much of the book’s content, I did come away with an overall favourable impression. I’d thought, “I can see that working.”

But, of course, I was in love with my soon-to-be wife at the time. My job was already done. I didn’t need that stuff. Until now.

So as I laid back on the sofa with my eyes shut I started idle speculation. Could I become a pick up artist? Could I walk into a bar and leave with a fistful of hot girls’ phone numbers then get them out on dates the next week. It didn’t seem very likely for an average-looking thirty-five year old man. How was I going to compete with all the good-looking guys, the rich guys, the young guys? Last time I’d been to a nightclub I felt completely out of place. I felt old, and it seemed everyone else was having more fun than me.

Nah. No chance.

But perhaps I could use it to get a nice girlfriend. A pretty late-twenties girl would be fine. Maybe she would fill the void in my life and I could go back to what I’d been doing.

It should be quite obvious that my mind-set was all wrong. I wanted an easy solution without having to change anything significant in my life. I was refusing to learn the main lesson of my wife leaving me— that something was a bit wrong with me. We’ll get to that as the book progresses. I avoided learning that lesson for a long time.

Four days later the brown cardboard Amazon package thumped onto my doormat, and I had a fresh copy of The Lay Guide. I read it on the toilet at work, devouring every page. I was determined to give it a try. I’m pretty earnest when I commit myself to a new hobby (and this was basically to become a hobby). For the previous two years my hobby had been global economics (I shit you not!), and I’d been obsessional in reading blogs and dozens of dry academic books until I’d cracked the code and figured out how the economy works. As with Game, I accepted I was a clueless beginner and was willing to humble myself and start from the bottom floor.

The Lay Guide explained to me there are three types of game:

  • Bar Game: Talking to girls in pubs and bars. This is mostly a verbal game in which you impress her with your witty repartee and use knowledge of group dynamics to manipulate yourself into a strong position and collect phone numbers.
  • Club Game: This is mostly about getting physical with girls on or near the dance floor and then sexually escalating them until they are horny and ready to leave with you. Fuck! Hadn’t done that since I was eighteen, and I’d only pulled it off a couple of times back then.
  • Day Game: Meeting girls during the daytime in coffee shops and on the street, striking up conversation, and then taking a number.
The absolute low point, a month after the separation

The absolute low point, a month after the separation

I’d eventually experiment with all three types but, as you’ll see, I quickly gravitated to day game. Once I’d finished with Tony Clink (and writing my own flashcards of his salient points) I moved on to the next books, the most famous of which is The Mystery Method. I still swear by this tremendously misunderstood tome. Unlike most newcomers, I didn’t go through a long “theory phase” of consuming dozens of books and instructional videos before actually going out and talking to girls. Right from the beginning I knew that was just avoidance—a way to delay the anxiety felt by approaching a girl you don’t know. Instead, I just read The Lay Guide, The Mystery Method and The Game. Within a fortnight I was itching to hit the streets.

Next installment (Chapter One part two) in three days. Balls Deep full book available in PDF here for £10 and paperback here for £20

Hollowing out

February 18, 2015

If I was to pick my lowest point of 2014, it would have to be my flight home from Prague on November 6th. The previous day I’d rotated four girls through my bed, all of them solid 8s, the oldest 26 years old. I’d fucked three and the fourth was (and remains) a 19 yr old virgin. I’d fingered her a bit while she gave me a timid blowjob (the first of her life).

This was a holiday where I closed four girls in the last six days. It was clearly the highlight of my entire Game career. The best I’ve ever done per the younger-hotter-tighter scale. Yet as I boarded the Jet2 flight home to Newcastle, the filming of Daygame Overkill just two days away, I was feeling low. Dejected, even. Why was such a high followed by such a crushing low?

A low point, yesterday

A low point, yesterday

A passing comment from Steve a year earlier came to mind, “Nick, fucking birds isn’t all that. Once you’ve shot your bolt you’re still the same man you always were. Shagging birds doesn’t solve anything.”

I was feeling this on a deep level. It’s pretty hard to conceive of a better send-off to the 2014 Euro-Jaunt season than to parade a string of hot young things through my bed on the last day in Prague. It’s one of those improbable scenarios that can only happen after years of patient work and then jumping on statistical rarerities when they pop up. So, if that’s as good as it gets and yet next day I’m still the same man with the same concerns…… oh well.

Game is a necessary but insufficient condition for a happy life
Moving away from the deeply introspective level, away from high-falutin’ concerns over contentedness and peace of mind, there’s also a cyclical aspect to the ups and downs of a player’s life. Sexual desire is a strongly motivating force that gives a man a sense of purpose – get laid. All that time you are chasing tail you have your eyes fixed on the prize and a clear sense of where you want to be. Once you’ve actually won, that goal evaporates. Typically a new goal immediately presents itself – the next girl. But knock over a bunch of girls in a short time span and that next target doesn’t appear.



You’ve shagged yourself out. All that energising testosterone has been squirted across a succession of firm breasts and into hungry young mouths. The tanks have run dry and listlessness follows. That’s how I felt boarding the plane. Half a pint of my DNA was currently being digested in the four corners of Prague while I was a shambling drained wreck waiting at the departures gate cursing my PSVita as it ran out of battery. I just wanted to lie down by a log fire and sip a cup of hot chocolate.

That’s just a short-term cycle driven by hormones. There’s also a medium-term cycle that I call Cycles of Immersion in Daygame Mastery. Players need an off-season to avoid the dreaded Hollowing Out.


Bear with me on a digression into Dark Souls 2. I love video games more than the Game itself. My favourite games of recent years are the Japanese cult hit Souls series. You play a solo adventurer thrust into a hostile demon world with no more than a broken sword. The game is punishingly unwelcoming – there’s no map, the NPCs give no advice, there are no waypoints, and everything that moves wants to kill you. It’s just you against the world. Alone. Like Oxford Street on Saturday afternoon.

Your character begins as a human but you die pretty quick. The first encounter with the undead ends with you as a bloody pool on the stone floor. Your spirit respawns but now you’re “hollow”. Your humanity died with your physical body and you’re now a shambling undead. Your health bar is limited to 2/3 of your human form and your face is a ghastly rictus grin. You notice most of the human NPCs dare not venture out of the small safe havens because the whole world is full of hollows. Those undead you must kill are just men similar to you who turned hollow sooner. The whole game becomes a battle to regain sources of humanity in the world to combat the degenerative hollowing process.

It’s grim stuff.

Now replace the caverns and castles of Boletaria with the pedestrian streets of Eastern Europe. Really they look quite similar – just light a few lanterns and increase the footfall. Now you and your fellow NPCs daygamers are travelling through a cold unyielding world, each creating his own adventure, creating and breaking alliances as their paths cross and then diverge. Each evening the fellow wanderers come back to the shrine to warm themselves by the campfire, drink health potions, and share stories by the firelight. Some poor lost souls get beasted in the wide world and shamble back as hollows, searching for humanity.

There's only so much of this you can take

There’s only so much of this you can take

Back in the USA’94 world cup I remember the German coach being asked why he allowed the team’s wives and girlfriends to stay in the same hotel as the players. Wouldn’t that deplete the players of their energy? No, he replied. Sex isn’t the problem. It’s the chasing sex that tires the men out. I’ve noticed this. I have an inability to produce anything of consequence while on a Euro Jaunt. No sooner have I sat down in Starbucks to read a book than a lithe hottie will totter past and sit opposite me. So I start that familiar self-dialogue:

Shall I open her? Okay, let’s figure out a category for her. Hmmm, what country? Okay, is she solo or waiting for her friend to come up from the barista counter? Right, should I try forcing an IOI first……

Ten minutes pass and I find I’m re-reading the same page over and over again, unable to absorb anything. That girl may wander off but I see a few more walk past the window. And my Whatsapp buzzes as a new lead has responded to a message. And should I invited last night’s close out tonight for some jollies?

A week of this is fine before heading back to normality, but a full month grinds me down. My 2014 Euro-Jaunt season was April to November, with only short one-week trips back to Newcastle to try to reconnect to my humanity. Halfway through a Jaunt I find myself daydreaming of “reality”: of Call Of Duty on my big screen TV, of a giant yorkshire pudding with Cumberland sausages from my favourite cafe in Newcastle’s Grainger Market. I start forming lists of all the good books I’ll read “once I get away from all these women who distract me”.

Chasing women is extremely disippating. It’s great fun but needs to be managed. I know some very effective seducers who are empty shells of men – completely hollow. Not all the time, but I see them hollowing out over time until they seem to realise the danger and then rub the Homeward Bone and come back to the campfire to recover their humanity. So this is the situation I find myself in now. My Euro season finished at the beginning of November and I haven’t banged a new girl since. I put myself into a self-imposed hibernation to recover humanity and reverse the hollowing process. But now it’s February and I’m human again. I’m chomping at the bit. Now I see other guys out daygaming and I’m like a kid clockwatching during the last lesson of the schoolday, waiting for the bell to ring so he can run down to the lake with his pals and swim in the water.

So my advice to you all as the Euro-season rolls around in late-March is to marshall your resources carefully and book regular trips back to the campfire. Maintain your hobbies, your routines, and your connections to humanity. Success can hollow you out faster than failure.

Balls Deep: Introduction

February 16, 2015

Ever since I was little I dreamed of becoming a professional seducer....

Ever since I was little I dreamed of becoming a professional seducer….

Chronological Note

Half of the book’s chapters focus upon one particular girl per chapter, telling her story in full. These are organised according to the order in which I first had sex with them, regardless of when we first met. The additional non-sex chapters are slotted in approximate chronological order between those. However, every story overlaps and covers time periods of varying length. For example I met and laid Rakiya within two days over the New Year ringing in 2010 (and never saw her again) whereas the Dovile story covers two years from meeting in September 2010, to sex in January 2011 (determining her chapter’s placement), to finally ending the dating in mid-2013. That’s the best way I could impose a narrative structure upon a fundamentally messy reality. This volume begins in January 2009 and effectively ends in March 2011 when I finally laid Zaria, with some girl’s stories continuing on longer where necessary to close the loop.


It’s difficult to write a memoir about fucking a lot of women without coming across as an insufferable show-off. By definition, I’m a man who succeeded and chances are you’re holding this book because you want to know how I did it. Yes, in four years I had sex with one hundred new women. Most of them were hot and their average age was early twenties (I was thirty-four when I first got laid on this journey).

What I achieved was rare, but not special.

Each and every man carries within his DNA the burden of responsibility to pass it on to the next generation. Every single one of us is the current version of a DNA code honed through a million years evolution to be a winner.

Yes, that’s right. Every single man reading this book is the latest in a long line of winners.

Of course, so are each of the other 2.99 billion men on the planet, so let’s not think of ourselves as special snowflakes just yet! At each generation we are embroiled in a Darwinist fight for survival and replication and… it’s a dirty low-down fight. While Disney tries its best to put a clean romantic gloss onto the fight, the reality is often squalid, dishonest, and shocking. Just pick up a women’s gossip magazine and read the relationship pages.

Like most men, I preferred to believe the Disney version. While I was no hopeless romantic I truly believed in the white-picket-fence respectability of the suburban family. It’s how I grew up—my parents still married as I write these words, an older brother, a steady job. It was what was expected of me, and I was happy to fulfil the role. So I worked hard at school, even harder at work, and by age thirty-one I was happily married to a sweet Japanese girl one year younger than me.

That was how I planned to acquit myself of my DNA’s burden of responsibility. And then things went wrong. The marriage turned sour, my wife left me, and I lost all interest in my job. It was a bad time. Not just the shock and heartbreak but also the shame of it—I was the only person in the history of my family to have gotten divorced. It stung.

For three months I moped around. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, and had no joy for life. At work I was like an imposter in my own body. Approaching my thirty-fourth birthday I was single and—worse yet— completely lost. I had no idea how to find a new girlfriend. The rest of my life stretched out ahead of me like a sexually-barren landscape.

On my birthday I decided to treat myself and fucked an escort. She was twenty-four years old, from Hungary, and pretty damn hot. I calculated how many times a month I could afford the £150 in-call cost of an escort and checked the websites to see if they were hot enough for me. I seriously budgeted it. It was the only way I knew to get sex with women I found sexually attractive.

Ugh! I shiver at the thought now.

It was at this low ebb that I heard about the Seduction Community, a world-wide group of men (connected through Internet forums) who claimed to have learned the secret code to picking up women and having sex with them. I believed their bullshit and gave it a go. Incredibly, it worked. Most men fail, but I actually succeeded.

I’d found a new path. By the end of it I’d learned far more about women and about myself than I ever dreamed possible. All of my preconceptions would be smashed and my entire world-view rebuilt from the ground up. As you sit reading these words it probably sounds far-fetched, so let me ease you into the journey. Right now almost everything you think you know is wrong. One reason I wrote this book is to show, through examples, how I stumbled upon my version of the truth.

This book is mostly about the women in my life. I find writing it that way takes the edge off my narcissism. As the story progresses you’ll see me develop from a sexless hopeless fool who couldn’t even get a kiss for six months into a man who was having sex with nineteen-yearold students in pub restrooms in the middle of the day an hour after meeting them. As I sit writing this introduction, just two hours ago, I “notched” (had sex for the first time with) a nineteen-year-old fashion model from Serbia on our second date.

And it was fucking awesome.

So, inevitably I’ll come across as an insufferable braggart. I apologise for that. There’s no other way to write about fucking a hundred hot young women. But I’ve also tried to share the darker sides of the story. This journey has been an emotional rollercoaster where I was probably unhappy far more than I was happy. I’ll relate to you the anxiety, selfdoubt, and sense of isolation I felt for months on end as I knuckled down and tried to get good at seducing women. I’ll write about my failures—there were a lot of them.

This is the first volume. It tells approximately twenty-five percent of my story. I’ll share my experience of beginning the most difficult journey of my life and by the end of this volume reaching a stage that most men have long since given up on. Many of my readers will be dipping their toes in these waters for the first time, wondering if they too could become a professional seducer. I’ll do my best to guide them through those tough early stages where most of the feedback is failure and the path is littered with landmines and wild goose chases.

And if people enjoy reading it I’ll write the next twenty-five percent. So I hope you enjoy reading my story. I certainly enjoyed living it.

Nick Krauser Belgrade, June 2014

Next installment (Chapter One part one) in three days

Balls Deep full book available in PDF here for £10 and paperback here for £20

The first Rock Solid Game holiday, to Malaga in November 2009. That’s me almost walking into the lampost

The first Rock Solid Game holiday, to Malaga in November 2009. That’s me almost walking into the lampost

Balls Deep – Free book serialisation

February 15, 2015

This blog has been neglected for the past six months or so. I’m sure you noticed. While I’ve kept telling myself “just finish the next product, then you can get back to the blog” what’s actually happened is as one product is wrapped I immediately start another.

I’ll admit it, I enjoy writing when I know I’ll get paid.

That said, I don’t want to be one of those buffoons who resents giving away any sliver of value that could possibly be monetised. While I’m 100% capitalist, I still know the value of helping your fellow man. It’s quite possible to give away some value while making a living off selling other value. It’s not healthy to shackle myself by second-guessing whether I’m “giving too much away” or it’s opposite extreme. So my issue is how to balance regular content on this blog, which I’ve always enjoyed writing, with maintaining a profitable business. Recently I’ve erred too far to the latter.

So, I hit on a good plan. In addition to the normal flow of think-pieces and commentary, I’m going to serialise volume one of my memoir here. For free.

Try to contain your excitement

Try to contain your excitement

Starting next week, I’ll publish two posts per week of approximately 1,000 words each, starting from the beginning of the book. Those of you who can’t wait for the next installment can just go right ahead and buy the full thing. Those of you who prefer free content can just wait for the next section. If it’s good enough for Alexandre Dumas, it’s good enough for me! I’ll be leaving the comment section open on each installment and encourage readers to give feedback on both the story and the presentation of it. Future volumes are in progress so it’ll help me make some editorial decisions.

First installment arrives tomorrow.

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