It’s day four of Team Krauser‘s FSU jaunt and now we are in some second-tier Russian city where endless steppe has been replaced with endless grey foreboding apartment blocks. The kind of style 1960s England used for municipal car parks. At 11pm we take a taxi to a local bar/club.
Literally. On stage behind the semi-circular long bar is a live act ripping through 80s and 90s guitar rock. All around locals are dancing with undisguised joy in that peculiarly non-ironic Russian manner. It’s a great atmosphere. Tom, Bodi and I stand motionless in the throng, scoping it out. Although far from a “high end” club, the quality is off the scale compared to London. There’s alot of painted-up sixes and sevens, a smattering of eights and importantly no fatties or munters at all. A pattern quickly emerges.
The hotter girls are standing in pairs at the bar or in small groups seated along the edge of the small dance floor. They all studiously ignore the throng of enthusiastic chodes dancing in front of them in a childlike manner to get attention. Never have I seen so much “pull” from a group of willing suitors. The girls alternatively blank them or politely indulge them for their efforts. Noticeably there are no “bitch faces”, ever. Guys are getting blown-out like Jihadis caught in the open against an Apache attack chopper but at no point are the girls petty and mean. Such a good atmosphere.
We are already drawing IOIs. Dressed English (and r-selected), having English faces, and not following the dancing-monkey routine means we stand out like a white man in KFC. I’ve decided to play the Jabba Game. Tom is far too impatient for that and immediately begins a circuit to open sets. For the first hour Bodi and I just talk to each other, build some vibe and studiously avoid value-scanning the room. It works because whereas I entered the club in shit state, by midnight I’m getting a buzz and feeling good. I can sense the subtle IOIs around me and they get stronger. Soon girls are walking past giving The Look or bumping into us purely to get noticed. I’m not used to it. In a London club I’d get one IOI per month.
Finally I’ve found a club I can put the Jabba Game to the test. I stalk the club, eyeing up girls and forcing looks before returning to Bodi. The first two times don’t uncover much but by 1am I’ve counted off ten girls who are pinging back with some interest. Unfortunately nothing above a high-seven. I open, putting the claw on two tall girls eyeing us up. Halfway through the girls eye-code and switch up so I am now talking to a six-foot blonde. She’s loving it but I’m off-form, not really in my element in clubs. I try the talking game and she’s playing along, letting me spin her around, check out her heels and so on but then she asks my star sign and on my answer she suddenly backturns and pulls her friend away. How weird.
Another tall brunette is eyeing me so I pull her in, kino a bit, but her English is weak. There’s no sizzle in the chat at all and I have to try a clumsy physical game. She likes me but it’s just not happening. Too clunky. I reopen her an hour later and do more of the same pushing for extraction but she smiles and declines. Tom has disappeared by now, having fortuitously bumped into a girl by the coat check who inexplicably offered to drive him home within a few minutes of conversation. He’s sniffed out a chance and put all his chips on one roll of the dice.
Lots of MILF types are eyeing us up but we don’t really want to forego a chance at the hotter-younger-tighter girls. I’m really getting to experience what Good Looking Guy Game is like. There are now a dozen girls IOIing me and the grottier ones are full-on eye-fucking me on and off for hours on end. I know that if I’m willing to drop down to a six, or thirty-plus girl, I have an easy SNL.
While coming out the toilets with Bodi I see a blonde and brunette eye us. As we walk past the blonde gets out of her seat, gets in my way and starts dancing with her back to me. Briefly I wonder if girls always did this and in my chode days I was too blind to see, or if it’s because now I’m cooler so the girls only do it now. I spin her around and immediately she’s put her hand on my shoulder and the other on my arse. She’s super-on. Bodi goes in with her friend. Language is poor but these girls are DTF so I start wondering if I should just take the easy cheeseburger. Then she tries to make me buy a whiskey for her so I walk off.
This kind of thing goes on with girls until past 2am. Once or twice the girls are solid eights but somehow not quite available (chode boyfriends in tow). We see raw naked hypergamy as girls are dancing with K-selected boyfriends while eyeing us up over his shoulder. My buzz is great but I’m impatient.
Finally as I return from the toilet again I make an all-in play. The blonde girl I’d backturned over whiskey is now necking on with the best-looking guy in the club. He looks like Tim Tebow – jacked, brawny, good features. He really does look like an NFL quarterback and his fashion and tattoos give him a player edge. Surprisingly he has no game – she’s a washed-up low six, not even the 25th hottest girl in the club – and he immediately latches onto her when she grabs him. An hour later he’s still with her and is trying to extract. At this moment I walk past and her now-solo brunette friend gives me The Look.
I walk in, grab her, and escalate. Within thirty seconds we’re kissing. The girls are eye-coding and my girl is desperately telling the blonde to leave and fuck the big guy. He’s standing there awkwardly while I do him the massive favour of turning the cockblock into a helper. He gets her away. I choke my girl as I kiss her and she whimpers with pleasure. That’s a test I always do now (hat tip D&P). I tell her
and lead her by the hand to the cloakroom. There’s the usual “where are we going” and “what are we doing” so I tell her we’re having coffee at my apartment and nothing with happen. She stays in text contact with her blonde friend who has been playing silly-buggers in the taxi rank then ditched the guy to roam the club lost and forlorn. The capacity of women to ruin their own chances is incredible – one of the top guys in the club, a full three points better looking than her ageing carcass, was willing to bang her and she screwed it up pulling the same shit like she did with the whiskey on me.
My girl is only in my apartment five minutes before I’m knobbing her. She’s a biter, screamer and scratcher. Halfway through I hear Tom come in with his bird and he begins a laborious four-hour battle against LMR. After I shoot my muck on my girl’s tits I have to walk through the lounge to get toilet tissue and Tom is giving his girl a shoulder massage and eye-coding me to make myself scarce.
He knobs her a bit later on the sofa. My girl dresses and leaves at 9am, while Bodi is in an afterparty in some squalid Soviet-era apartment with some locals he met in the taxi rank. A good night.
The internet would have you believe English girls possess sophisticated anti-Game powers that make them impervious to charisma. Anyone who has actually daygamed Europe will quickly tell you English girls aren’t harder, they are just unpleasant. The moment you step out of the Anglosphere it’s like stepping out the Fat Room of a carnival Hall of Mirrors and you realise it’s not you, it’s them. Anglosphere society is broken and most women with it.
Most human traits follow bell-shaped normal distribution yet different demographics can shift the whole curve left or right (see for example IQ by country). 66% of people are within one standard deviation of the mean. For Euro-girls under thirty that mean is a high 6. For FSU-girls it’s a high 7. For Brits, Yanks, Kiwis, Saffers, Aussies and Paddys it’s a low 5. In a nutshell that’s why it behooves every man to ignore native English-speaking girls. Exercise some cultural and geographical arbitrage to up the quality of the women in your life. I avoid English women. Their voice turns my stomach. Their frumpy ill-coordinated fashion hurts my eyes. They can’t follow a man’s lead and have nothing of interest to say. In general.
So when I’m out one Saturday afternoon with Bodi near Buckingham Palace the last thing I’m expecting is to initiate an interaction with an English girl that ends with me fucking her a few days later. My vibe is still flat so when I see a Brazilian girl that’s a bit chubby for my taste but otherwise screaming to be opened I let Bodi have her. As he wanders off on an idate I hang around looking for targets. Amongst the trees outside St James Park I see a French-looking girl alone, inspecting a plaque of the local wildlife. Sorted. I open.
Incredibly she’s English. From Cornwall. I rapidly calculate that’s as far from (literally and culturally) London as a Brit can be and it shows in her vibe. She’s chatty, pleasant and (for a Brit) reasonably feminine. The set takes on that weird non-polarity English girls have where it’s chatty and fast-paced but there’s no crackle of man-woman vibe. She likes me. A Yes Girl. Text game progresses easily and I get her out a few days later…..
Me: So this is the chatty Cornish separatist :)
Her: Chatty? I could hardly get a word in!
Me: How memory deceives us….
Me: [next day] I’m sitting in a cafe with hot coffee and enthralling book :) how are you?
Her: Sounds lovely. I’ve just had a very uninspiring Christmas lunch. Think I get to leave work early though, woo hoo!
Me: Works lunch? I get restless at those
Her: Desperate to leave! xxx
Me: Steal the mince pies and sell them to tramps
Her: I’m free! Nice plans this eve?
Me: None at all. Maybe exercise and video games
Me: Hang on… you’re cadging a date invitation aren’t you…. how smooth you move young lady :D
Her: It may sound like that but actually I’m not free. You are very slow with your invites though. Where’s my cup of tea?
Her: Very good. I need to work on my patience!
Me: I approve
I’m really not much interested because I thought she’s a mid-6 and didn’t even have make-up on when I opened. She’s new in town and doesn’t know anyone. As 3pm rolls around my eyes wander to the darkening skies and bitter wind. I’m seriously thinking of flaking on her. Don’t care for new notches this year. I’ve had my fill. I want to go home and finish Operation Flashpoint Red River.
But I’ve literally just finished drawing my Krauser Daygame Model flowchart for the book. Wouldn’t this be a great chance to run the model exactly as written in the model, step-by-step, with no variations. I could voice record it all and who knows, if I bang her on Day 2 it’s a full uninterrupted audio of the model *. Maybe I’ll meet her afterall. So I’m decided.
6pm in front of Top Shop on Friday evening and I walk her to a nearby tea shop. She’s hotter than I remember – a respectable seven but being English she’s still not wearing makeup and she came straight from uni with a hiking jacket, ill-fitting jeans and unwashed hair. It reminds me of one of my Serbs telling me about a day she visited her grandmother without putting on her makeup first (“How dare you come here looking like that?” Granny says, “Have some self respect, girl”). Enroute to Venue Zero, I actually say exactly the same dialogue examples as in my book. Over tea I follow the body language advice exactly. I bring up the same topics. I precisely monitor the energy levels per by model prediction. It’s literally textbook game. She loves it.
Being English she’s already derailing it, talking total gibberish that would quickly kill the vibe if I didn’t haul her back on track. She likes me, she just doesn’t know how to be attractively feminine – being English and all. Venue One passes the test so I walk her on to Venue Two for a bright alcoholic drink. I run the twin escalation ladders (verbal and physical) in precise order and get my amber lights. So I move her to Venue Three at a dark blues bar to run the Questions Game and go for the kiss.
Textbook. She even refused the kiss twice to allow me to do my little Recovery Loop and keep moving forwards.
The questions game starts to break the fourth wall. She’s really loving it and starting to share such as her fantasy to have two men at once, how she just got out of a long long relationship, hasn’t had sex in three months and hasn’t had good sex in over a year. She masturbated last night to the fantasy of an investment banker she’s messaged on Match.com but hasn’t even met. She’s gagging for it. Sexual and Ambient Logistics are perfect.
As we walk out up Regent Street I’m looking to flag a cab. Her next question is:
“What do you think the odds are we have sex tonight?”
Of course my first thought is they just rose dramatically. I reply.
Me: On my side it’s 100%. I’m attracted to you, I like how we got on tonight, so I want to take you home and fuck you. On your side I think it’s 70%. You want sex and you think I’m probably the right man right now but you have a few reservations. Probably you think it’s a bit fast and you are concerned about adding to your Number.
Her: No, I don’t mind the number. I was in a very long relationship. And yes, I’m very horny these days. I fancy you but I think you’re a bit of a wanker
Me: Only a bit? Well, you’re a bit of a hippy. When the revolution comes we’ll be on opposite sides of the barricades
Her: I like that
Me: Yes. Forbidden fruit is the sweetest
A cab arrives and I push her in, saying she hasn’t agreed to anything so I won’t hold her to anything. Just a drink at my place and see how we feel. Back at my place I run the Venue Four bedroom escalation model. It’s still textbook. Five minutes after sitting down she can’t hold back and jumps me, initiating the kiss. Her clothes falls to the floor in seconds and she’s on her knees sucking me off. Her body is a nice surprise – firm, flat stomach, vibrant tight skin – country living and hiking has kept her looking young. I take her next door to get the notch and that’s it.
English girls are not harder. Just different.
* My phone runs out of battery midway through Venue Two.
The player lifestyle is an emotional rollercoaster that throws up all kinds of unusual experiences. The typical chode has a love-life something like this, with some adjustment depending on how high his value is:
Perhaps I exaggerate but the chodes I know all have drearily predictable lives. Once you board the emotional rollercoaster that is Game it’s like a tiger raised in capitivity being released into the wild.
The buffers are gone, the safe societally-sanctioned routine is gone and now you are confronted with the many opportunities and threats of the wildnerness. It’s exciting times. It’s a rollercoaster because you are now putting yourself into position to experience the extremes of success and failure. This is not a flat straight motorway with a car on cruise control. You are constantly forcing yourself into (relatively) high stakes situations where the difference between roaring success and shattering failure is razor thin. Just ask any player who has pulled off an SDL with a young hottie. Hence the old saying “emotional control is the foundation of Game.”
One such unusual experience is sex with girls you don’t like. In ChodeWorld it’s weird to have sex with a girl whose personality grates on him because he (i) believes the Disney romance myth and (ii) is chosen by girls partly on his agreeability to them. Players, however, have relentless notch-count hyena to feed and also far more stringent standards on who they like. It’s just that we’ll still fuck her anyway. Making a habit of enduring unpleasant women’s jibber-jabber just to get into their pants is a soul-destroying foolish errand but once in a while the grotty shamefullness of it is fun. So it was with this girl.
It begins normally enough at 10pm on Regent Street as I’m walking to the bus stop after a drink with friends. The streets have emptied out and from about twenty metres away I see a girl with exactly the silhouette I want – tall, leggy, wide hips, breasts, long hair. As I see the whites of her eyes I see she’s from the sub-continent and walks nice. So I open. My assumption story is dead-on that she’s a student from Sri Lanka. She’s surprised by my accuracy and she’s a fairly smart girl so the banter is good (at first). She’s loving it but a bit guarded and challenging. I take the number and she’s keen in the texts. It goes downhill from there.
Every new fact I find out about her is either a red flag or an irritation. Over the course of a short Day 2 (one drink on a Friday night) and a longer Day 3 in a blues bar I discover the following:
I figure she’s quite a slut so I shouldn’t have to endure much before I get my notch and smoothly disappear from her life. The Day 3 is just a technical challenge of my ability to run the model and move things along against her resistance while suppressing my desire to dress her down and next her. I can deal with her obstructionism by the usual push-pull and dominance. I can deal with her femthink by holding my frame and not engaging. She’s so set on keeping her frame that it’s tough to break her down. She’s desperately clinging on to the “I’m a girl. I’m the value. I’m choosing” script but I won’t budge an inch and she grudgingly plays along, plotting and scheming ways to snatch back some frame.
It’s quite a chore. I probably shouldn’t bother but I want the Sri Lanka flag.
Day 4 is back at my house but she’s getting off on stringing things out and denying the sex. I get her rather generous breasts out but not much more. She’s gagging for it but the script matters more to her. Day 5 is in my house again and I’m decided that I’ll next her if she doesn’t put out. She doesn’t put out. Next!
She’s chasing hard by text. I give one-word answers, take hours to respond, don’t take her bait to invite her out. I’m just sick of it. I cannot face the idea of rebuilding momentum just to spend another four hours on my sofa of her saying “no”. She seems to get the message. She invites herself over one final time and then I fuck her within the hour. She makes a face-saving show of banter and reluctance but her eyes and mouth are a dead giveaway that she’s come to fuck. It’s actually a great lay. High energy, very physical, noisy. I put her into a taxi and delete her number.
Girls really ought to learn that how they act before the lay determines if they get called back. This one was just so precious, so inane, so poor at banter that I shut myself down and by Day 4 getting interest and affection from me was like blood from a stone. She’s not a bad person, just a case of drinking every bottle of PC/feminist Kool Aid and wrecking her ability to inspire care and affection from a man. Poor girl.
+1. New flag.
Back when I was a
normal person super-chode my life was a fairly unadventurous affair, something I still see in the dead-eyed shambling of all my coupled-up old friends. Monday to Friday is the corporate cubicle grind then a few drinks after work with other blue-shirted finance/programmer chodes in an All Bar One until each of my friends’ “weekend passes” expired and Her Indoors summoned them home. Saturday and Sunday were mostly recovery from the week with a little shopping and cafe-dwelling mixed in.
A pretty boring life. I escaped that gulag four years ago and the Blue Pill Gestapo will never take me back alive.
So I’ve been living the Euro-jaunt lifestyle. Every month or so I’ll take a week or two’s trip facilitated by budget airlines and airbnb. I’ll number-farm, pick the low-hanging fruit and add the tougher, chaster and prettier girls to Facebook and Skype to work them ready for a return trip. When you’re a fan of the Euro-jaunt lifestyle, Long Game is indispensable. You have to learn your mistakes the hard way and few things are more depressing than working a girl over social media for two months, agreeing to meet in her country and then she doesn’t put out. It’s only happened to me twice and it’s very unpleasant… an “I suck” moment to beat all I suck moments. So I developed a Long Game checklist to be ticked off before booking flights and it’s served me well. It’s in the new book.
I wouldn’t be an aspiring player if I didn’t sometimes push the envelope, take a risk, and put myself into stupid situations. With this girl I decide to fly over to Estonia for a weekend with her when she hasn’t ticked off a single item on the checklist. That’s trouble. But before we get to the end let’s go back to the beginning…..
It’s late July and the sun is beating down on the paved streets around Trafalgar Square. Crowds of slim Euro-tourist girls amble around with cameras, guidebooks and Primark bags while Tom and I run amok. He opens some bint outside the National Gallery and hooks well so I go sit over on a nearby wall. He’s got his girl laughing and tittering so I’m looking around for something to throw myself at….. and I see her. A diminutive little Russian strutting across the square in high heels and tight skirt. Imagine the bitchiest coldest-looking Russian catwalk model and then shrink her six inches and inflate her curves. She’s got the severe makeup, cold eyes, high cheekbones and dark clipped fashion that you’d expect on Victoria Beckham but she’s only 5’2″ tall bless her with hips and calves like a porno actress. Her features are like a blow-up doll. I open.
I genuinely expect to get blown out hard. She seems so severe.
But no, she hooks easily and before bouncing her into the National Gallery cafe “for an English tea like an English lady” I see Tom glide past with his phone camera sneakily flashing. Later he shows up in the cafe after I text asking him to record a little idate footage.
After tea I walk her along the lakeside at St James Park and we sit on the grass. She deftly avoids being in kiss-close range but she’s verbally IOIing me and there’s no danger of her failing to understand my intent. But this is a Russian: you don’t expect much from the first two dates. She’s only in town a few more days as her three-week English course wraps up but I manage to get her on a Day 2 for a couple of hours. We have a beer in Waxy O’Connors and she rebuffs my kiss-close in a “too soon” kind of manner. I move it to Facebook.
Back in Trotskygrad reality hits her like homebrewed vodka and she’s loving the mysterious Englishman schtick. I run the usual Long Game in comparing her to a hamster and KGB agent. She sends me a two-page bio giving me a fantasy backstory (that’s great investment and mythologising) and it all goes nicely. September rolls around and I’m in Latvia teaching a residential with Tom. I get my usual local lays and squeezed between them is a Sunday afternoon when my Russian buses into Riga for a daytrip. It’s a delightful afternoon sitting in the sunshine by the river, taking photos around the Old Town and I get her semi-naked on my sofa. There’s makin’-out aplenty but she’s got rigid forebrain control to refuse the sex. I try everything. At one point I’m chasing her around the kitchen table and she tries to crawl away through my legs.
Another month of Facebook chat ensues then we agree to meet for a weekend in Tallinn. I know it’s not a done deal not only because the checklist isn’t ticked off but my whole gut feel is telling me it’s a 50/50 bet she’ll play the “I’m not that kind of girl game”. She’s clearly angling for commitment. However I’m on 25 of 26 targeted lays for the year, fancy getting out of London, and haven’t been approaching for over a month so have no London leads. I take a punt.
Predictably she gives me the runaround. On paper it’s a lovely evening – we stroll around the Old Town, take photos, eat in a medieval restaurant, have a few drinks and then roll around on my bed in the apartment but…. it’s just one long ordeal for me. It’s a very straightforward powerplay, conducted covertly.
I want to bang her. She wants to get commitment first.
As I’m walking her back to my place towards 10pm she tells me “I should be going back to my hotel”. She comes inside “for a minute only”. She won’t take her coat or shoes off for the first hour. Every babystep forward is a grind. I try everything over three hours on my bed before finally giving up. She stays the night but never takes her tights off and in the morning I’m able to get a blowjob off her. It’s so obvious she’s gagging for it but her forebrain is truly impressive. There’s a reason Russians like chess (and yes, she plays).
I get rid of her on Saturday afternoon because I need my own time and space. A couple of hours later she returns and the battle recommences. I sense a change this time. I’ve very consciously reminded myself to get back into the Now and make myself present, rather than my previously weird outcome-dependent distant vibe. She’s also a little more broken-down than yesterday, her hindbrain having dissolved a few more layers of resistance. So we eat again and have another drink. The vibe has shifted noticeably. Her eyes are more sparkly, she feels closer, and I’m starting to sense the “fuck me” decision being made behind her eyes. The spider sense is tingling.
I take her home again and the same palaver ensues but in only a quarter of the time. Finally I decide for the big escalation push. I’m pretty brutal with her. Moving her body around, ripping her clothes off, giving her stern looks, holding her down. She resists mightily but everytime I release her she gives a mildly disappointed look. Twice I do the Fire Escape routine of going into the bathroom, closing the door and offering her an escape route should she really wish to leave. Both times I come back to find her still lying on the bed in exactly the state of undress in which I left her. She wants it.
So she gets it. She’s saying “no, we shouldn’t” right up until the moment I stick it in her and then – BAM! – She loves it. The barriers come tumbling down and she transforms into a hellcat. She’s biting, scratching, moaning, screaming, begging for more. She loves it rough especially the choking. When I turn her over for doggy-style I see a tramp stamp above her ass…. “oh you deceitful dirty bitch” I think, “pretending you’re a good girl wanting commitment while having that tattoo”. So I stick it in her ass and give her a rough one-man DP. Needless to say she loves it.
Afterwards she snuggles up to me and coos “you’re such a monster”.
I’m grinning. “You look much happier now” she says. “Yes, I won” I reply.
Girls are designed to derail the train.
It’s common to project our own thoughts and values onto others and to assume they share our outlook. The manosphere is full of much chortling at female rationalisations and solipsism such as how career women think men should value them for their intelligence, status and travel stories simply because that’s what the women value in men. It’s true. We men do have our own projection too though. Men are so completely notch-centric that we don’t fully appreciate how little women care about getting a new lay. They really don’t care if an interaction doesn’t lead to sex. They can walk away at any time. It’s only with tight game that you can get them invested enough to want to see it through.
A girl’s default programming towards sex with a new man is non-neediness. She will happily toss a spanner into the works at most inopportune moments because she simply doesn’t care if it all breaks down. A young hot girl will never run out of suitors. This Romanian girl was a hardcore derailer, worse than a band of WWII Ukranian partisans. She did the full inventory of derailments:
In my new book I go into detail on what I call “playing silly buggers”. It’s not a shit test per se. She’s not testing me for my value. This Romanian girl absolutely adored me and was like a meek little kitten in person, totally under my spell. But once she had the seperation of Whatsapp between us she became a derailment machine. So this was a long battle…. full of emotional highs and lows… and then I won. Go me.
It begins on Oxford Street three months ago when the sun is shining and the streets are rammed with 7s. As I pick my way through a crowd I catch the faintest of IOIs from a slim brunette going the opposite direction. She’s separated from me by about five feet and seven people but I’m alive to it and catch that sideways flicker of her eyes. I open with something accusatory for an easy hook. We chat five minutes and it’s electric. She’s a cat (more categorisation in my book) and lapping up the sexual energy so I bounce for the idate outside a nearby pub. We are propped up against the outside wall in mid-afternoon sunshine so I can easily test kino, build rapport and within an hour I’ve kissed her. It seems so on I’m looking for the SDL. We move to a second bar and I’m seeding the extraction then…. ring ring ring. Her boss calls to demand she attend a client dinner a couple of hours later. Everything fizzles. We swap numbers.
As I walk her back to Oxford Circus she begins her silly buggers by crossing the street ahead of me and stomping along the pavement with a haughty expression while I hold my line on my side of the street. I’ve seen this game before. She wants to covertly induce me to following her. Nope, not me. After a few texts I quickly figure out her psychology. She loves to rub up against a guy’s manhood. Intermediates are easily confused by this because it’s pretty rare to find a girl who proactively and consistently does it and thus they mistake it for a shit test.
In dysfunctional form The Rub is why battered women provoke violence from abusive boyfriends. This girl wasn’t that bad, just a naughty minx. As we move to Whatsapp I see her profile picture is walking a rottweiler and she sends me a photo of her on the back of her cousin’s superbike. Yes, her psychology is clear – she likes bad boys. Curiously there’s a twist to her make-up because she’s also very intelligent and has a real job that requires real administrative skill. She lets on she’s read alot of the classics and surprises me a little with her historical and geographical knowledge.
By now I’m rubbing my hands in glee. She can only be attracted to men who have shedloads of bad boy dominance as well as well-rounded intellectual sophistication…. and how often does a girl find both in one man? My prediction turns out right – she can’t stop messaging me and is like a moth drawn to a flame. The whatsapp messages are tremendously entertaining for me with a constant stream of her poking her head up and me slapping it down. Logistics interfere horribly though and her business trip ends before we get a Day 2. She tells me she doesn’t like London and will not return. Bugger. This news comes when I’m in a run of extremely bad luck of sets collapsing due to forces beyond my control. I write her off but the banter is good enough that I’m happy to keep the text messages going.
I get a few semi-naked selfies. She tells me she’s had dirty dreams about me. I want to move things further along into authentic communication and deep rapport but part of her derailment is to hold things in a fizzy banter-ish mode. She’s constantly breaking rapport and avoiding connection. Ok, I’m not going to force it. I’ve basically reached the point where the only reason I’m chatting to her is to test out new material and to pester her for naked photos. And then she gives me the news: “I’m coming to live in London.” Game on.
Of course it was never going to be that easy. She claims her boss is constantly making her work late, and she has trouble house-hunting. Finally I get her out a week after she arrives. It goes great and she’s bubbling with sexual energy. We have a civilised tea and then a pint, make-out but she hits me with another my-boss-needs-me-back-now evasion. Two weeks pass then she tells me she’s leaving London soon. Bugger. It’s such a pain to arrange things but finally we agree on Whatsapp to meet on Friday.
She tries one more derailment by messaging me an hour before the date along the lines of “can we postpone till next week.” I swear I nearly throw my phone at the nearest woman. I take deep breaths, compose myself, then tell her off. No, we won’t postpone and it’s too late to do so. So we meet in Camden.
And predictably, it’s completely on. I walk her around the market a bit, we have some street food then a coffee in the upstairs of a secluded souk. I have her tits in my mouth there and every fibre of her being is screaming “fuck me”. So I walk her to the bus stop. “I’m not going back to your place” she pipes up but gets on the bus anyway. Back in my house it takes about half an hour of battling until finally I fuck her. It’s not fast but it’s definitely furious. A very hot young minx. I’m pleased with this one.
Sometimes you’re the good-looking guy.
Most girls most of the time are looking to derail the train. Encoded deep into their DNA is the mating strategy of don’t get fucked. Considering how a young woman’s life consists of non-stop daily offers of dick it makes sense that her default mode is disqualification. Too short, too fat, too old, too flashy, too boring. It doesn’t matter how spurious the pretext, the girl is looking for ways to avoid being fucked by all those men who are trying. Vying with this is the reality that girls love sex and love fucking high value guys. When a girl has gone a long time without sex, her body starts screaming for a man. When she’s ovulating, the screaming becomes deafening. She becomes a Yes Girl. Now all she needs is to find a man good enough. Even better, a man who fits one of her “the kind of guy I’d like to fuck” archetypes. How can you be that guy?
Plan A is to choose the right parents so you are born good-looking then every Yes Girl who ambles past is going to flash you an IOI. Learn to spot these and you’ll have a never-ending stream of hot leads. Or go to a nightclub because there’s always a small proportion of them there and your job is to simply filter out the timewasters to get to them.
Plan B is to be a relentless number-farmer. Hit the streets every day for hours on end, flipping over the stones until you turn up a Yes Girl. I don’t recommend this because it’ll burn you out and kill your vibe. I literally only know one such number farmer who still has a good pleasant vibe. The rest are pretty angry men.
Plan C is what I do. Optimise your look, go to places where hot girls walk, do bread-and-butter cold approach game and simply be alive to the occasional Yes Girl when you stumble into her. That’s how I got this girl. Consider the Yes Girl checklist:
When you’re out meeting girls and these ticks just keep appearing on your checklist it’s a wonderful feeling. After so many sets that are blowouts or where you have to be really on or where the numbers flake….. to just have it all go smoothly is a great feeling. So it was with this girl.
I’m in a shopping mall with Tom and our student when I see a shop assistant flapping her gums with a friend. The place is almost empty so they are just gabbing on when the assistant tells a joke and pulls a funny face. At that moment I happen to walk past and catch her eye. She’s totally busted pulling a face and cracks up in embarassed laughter. I keep walking with a smug smile on my face. At the very next shop there’s a girl putting products onto a high shelf. Her RAS triggers and she looks over, flashing a beaming smile. I’ve accidently forced an IOI so I immediately walk into the shop and open, calling out the Elephant In The Room. Strong hook and I walk away five minutes later with a number. She told me she’s busy the next day but free on Monday evening. I send the feeler on Sunday evening:
Me: So this is the cute shop girl… how was the event?
Her: Hi, it was good considering that i didn’t train a long time before this. feeling so tired but proud of myself :)
Me: You must be exhausted. A perfect time to sit in your favourite chair and relax by the fire :)
Her: Too bad i don’t have fire place… How was your day in boring Latvia?
Me: I spent much of it lying in the sun. Great weather :) so tomorrow is good for you?
Her: Yes tomorrow is good. what time?
Me: 8pm, Cafe X?
Her: Great I like Cafe X. See you there.
Wise men amongst you will notice how simple the text game is. I played it very light, pretty close to deliberately over-choding it to counteract the player vibe. She shows up on the date in a beautiful short dress and heels, at least a point higher than I’d originally thought. She’s a solid greyhound, later telling me she was a cheerleader in high school and university. Game on.
I lean back and rattle off some light DHVs and I notice her vibe is slightly odd from the beginning. I can’t quite figure it out. She looks nervous and twitchy, not quite relaxing into the conversation causing some awkward silences. She takes my verbal IOIs and her hands are soft when I find an excuse to touch her fingers but it’s not quite right. Halfway through I tell her to join me on the sofa and there’s still that distance. Admittedly I’m moving fast because a year of regular lays has made me overly impateint but this isn’t right. Rather than overthink the set I just keep to my date model and open into the questions game. When the free-form analogue conversation isn’t sticking and she’s not opening up it can be helpful to have a more direct structure such as turn-taking questions. Finally she softens and I pull her in for a soft quick kiss. At the next venue, a dark secluded wine bar, I pull her closer and we are soon making out. She doesn’t quite jump me but she’s lightly scratching my forearm and putting her hands softly on my shoulders. Still she seems a bit nervous and finally I figure it out……
She came to fuck, from the very beginning. The nerves are anticipation.
Have you ever held the nuts in poker and see people throwing money at the pot. You start to dream of raking in fat stacks and suddenly your blood is pumping with anticipation. It takes surpreme self-control not to let your leg bounce up and down or your breath to quicken. That’s what this girl was experiencing.
So I just push logistics and seed a drink at my place. She follows, I sit on the bed while she mixes a drink and after a couple of sips I just pull her in and close. A great night of sex. Very pleased with myself. Getting laid is one long compliance test. When she’s complying, you don’t need Game. Just lead.