The tired sex worker look

Women possess a short fragile bloom of youth. From about age fifteen their body begins to take on a woman’s shape but it takes time for her to grow into it – to lose the puppy fat, have her hips widen, and develop the poise of a real woman – so she is kinda cute but not really able to inspire lust. Depending on the girl she’ll hit her true bloom somewhere near nineteen years old and hold it for a maximum of five years. She can continue to be sexy into her late twenties but the unmistakeable radiance diminishes.

I believe how a woman conducts herself determines the length of her bloom.

Put simply, “good girls” who follow a healthy lifestyle and identify with the feminine last longer than “bad girls” who chart a path through hedonistic waters. The following bad habits ravage a girl’s radiance:

• Excessive drinking. Men are constituionally far more capable of holding their beer over time than women. It’s not merely because a man’s physique is less important in determining his overall value. Women who drink even 10 units a week are seriously messing up their hormones, their shape, and their skin.
• Excessive cock-hopping. Sex in itself adds to a woman’s glow but sex with different men detracts from it. A woman who gets herself fucked 500 times by one guy she loves will look good. If the same woman spreads those fucks across 30 guys she will look like shit.
• Excessive careerism. Women are not designed to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. Look at photos of Clint Eastwood or Charles Bronson. When a man carries responsibility he takes on a weathered look that adds value. A weathered woman looks horrible.

Weathered, yesteryear

The extreme case of such short-blooming women are sex industry workers. The ones who rise to prominence, whether as whores or porno actresses, usually do so because in the beginning they have beauty and radiance. They inspire lust in men who then vote with their wallets. But after a few years on the game these girls unravel. Years of new cock, sexual depravity, hustling for cash, drugs, partying…. these girls become empty shells. Consider Lenka Gabarova.

Nom nom nom

As a debutante I’d put her at a solid nine. My current girlfriend has a very similar look and I dare say that was probably in my mind when I elevated her above the others. She has a clear bloom – fresh skin, sparkling eyes, soft manner.

Now look at her several years later. At first blush she just seems to have degraded slightly through age. But look again, feel the difference. Note her hard eyes and disillusioned posture. This girl’s vibe is now just going through the motions without any joy de vivre.

Not even with a borrowed cock

Sluts have the same problem, just less marked. The typically inexperienced beta male is so overwhelmed by her basic beauty that he can’t read the subtle slut indicators. A few girls come to mind…. Last year I threesomed a Romanian girl who was loaned to me by a wing. She was 21, university educated, well-mannered and to all external appearances a “good girl”. Fully in her bloom. However she was a genuine nympho with self-esteem issues. Although she was an incredible fuck and great company, within months she unravelled. My wing told me she was now getting herself beaten up by violent boyfriends and turning up at his door at 3am high on cocaine, ranting and raving, then disappearing for weeks on end. Needless to say her bloom withered. Another girl (also Romanian, as it happens) was almost threesomed by a buddy of mine two months ago but was on the rag and just settled for giving blowjobs. She’s another hot 21 year-old girl in bloom. She’s also a raving nympho. Last three stories I heard about her were….. caught giving blowjobs to a roomfull of guys in a house party…. SNL’d from a goth club by a tattooed/pierced freak who fucked her so hard she couldn’t walk the next day and she immediately fell in love with him…. rescued from a crack house where she was wandering around naked, fucked on drugs. This girl is already coming apart physically.

I’ve picked extreme examples but just watch for it. Notice the difference between girls in bloom and girls who squandered it. Once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.

Pimpin’ ain’t easy

I’ve been reading up on pimping again. Many of my readers will be aware of Iceberg Slim’s classic autobiography Pimp, a book I heartily recommend for it’s portrayal of the dark side of male-female attraction. Mr Slim had certainly mastered the dance of the wounded souls and although it ultimately ruined his life and made him a deeply regretful man, at least he had plenty of lulz.

Intrigued by the skills and attitudes of these men I bought a few more related books. Right now I’m reading The Pimp’s Bible by Alfred “Bilbo” Gholson. Although he looks like a black hobbit his woman-skills are rather better than those of the Shire, who ought to stick to protecting the One Ring rather than running a stable of bitches. I haven’t finished the book yet but it’s a strikingly interestingly read.

Unsurprisingly it’s a mea culpa of Gholson’s life. Most first-person crime books are, because the worthless scoundrels who write them wish to preserve their self-opinion as worthwhile humans. I’m sure even Heinrich Himmler considered himself doing good and unjustly put-upon from the world at large. When you have your boot on someone’s neck, you find a way to blame it on them. Eddie Bunker novels are a great example of petty trash blaming unfortunate circumstances for all their violent avarice.

Gholson has a strong frame and a silver tongue, he’s a successful pimp remember. So his big reframe isn’t bad luck, it’s providence. God wanted him to be a pimp and God wants him to now set the world’s misapprehensions about pimpin’ to rights. Oh, how selfless of him. It makes for a fun read though. The whole book is a No True Scotsman move in which all the bad aspects of pimping (violence, drug-dealing, larcenry etc) are ringfenced as the work of dirty low-down wannabe pimps while “high class pimps” are providing a public service with the blessing of everyone involved. Rather than bang on about him analytically, I’ll revert to his words. Some choice quotes:

On going down on a woman: “Higher class pimps wouldn’t dare let his women become equal with him. He believes that any man that has oral love with his woman is her human douchebag. High class pimps are under the impression that a woman’s body accepts so much filth during a month’s time, that nature forces a cleaning out period once a month. Doctors say it’s acceptable but that doctors aren’t God and most high class pimps have their own opinion about it.”

On laziness: “Pimping is his job and a pimp works. He constantly deals with seven or more female minds, when the average layman cannot deal with one. If anyone thinks it’s not work, let them try it.”

On public opinion: “The pimp has always been the tenth wonder of the world. Only three people understand a pimp – God, his women, and another pimp.”

On the decline of morals in pimping: “But if I was pimping today, dead whores would turn over in their graves if they thought I was being treated like the modern day pimp, and the old ones who are still out there would come out of the woodwork to protest.”

On homely women: “You may not have a pretty face or a lovely body but don’t forget everyone has a brain. Some women resort to their brain department.”

From the 12 commandments: “He strikes his females only to shock them back to reality. Toss a bottle at her; hit at her head with a golf club, break a mirror over her head; but make sure you don’t strike her – that is called a king pimps whipping.”

On types of women: “The prostitute is secretive and typically gets her money with a taste of class. The whore is lewd, cunning, sneaky and gets her money any way she can.”

On sluts: “It is incredible what a fifth of whiskey, wine or drugs can make some loose women do.”

To an air hostess he just banged: “Baby, you could make alot of money if you stop giving this heaven away and start selling it. Pretty as you are, you could make a mint”

You’re only as old as the woman you feel

For much of my youth I was puzzled by the attitudes towards ageing that people around me adopted. Generally, people’s future time orientation and expectations of ageing were both unabashedly low to the point they assumed getting “old” (basically 50+) was inevitable, shitty, and totally out of your locus of control. I never agreed.

My great uncle Tommy died last year aged 85. It came suddenly over the course of less than a year, as his hearing went, he became confused, and he suddenly lost alot of weight. A fairly unpleasant final year of life although he was only bedridden for about a month of it. However, the preceding 84 years were full of world-travelling and activity. A keen mountaneer and cyclist in his younger days, Tommy continued to cycle up and down country hills 20 miles a day, several times a week, into his eighties. He was slim without being skinny. And until that final year was also mentally alert.

Mature at middle age

Old at middle age

In short, as an 80-year old man his general fitness, alertness, and overall quality of life was higher than most 30 year olds. These days it’s common to assume that physical degeneration sets in from thirty (back pain, aches, weight gain) and accelerates through middle age (sendatry hobbies) until by age 60 you’re hobbling around with bad knees and piss-stained trousers. Fuck no.

I expect the final 20 years of my life to be as high quality as any other 20-year section. My death will be preceded by a short rapid unravelling rather than multi-decade degeneration. Bad luck aside (e.g. cancer, stroke, accident), that is. I will not abuse myself in my 30s and thus compromise my 60s and 70s.

Generally, ageing is an opportunity. It is time you can invest in making yourself a better man. This was brought into stark relief for me a few days ago when I was in a restaurant in Thailand and noticed to men of similar age on adjacent tables who were light years apart in how they’d handled ageing. Guy A was cool as fuck. Guy B was a shambling schlub. So I snapped off a quick video on my phone. Apologies for the low res.

Note the following:

• Guy A has maintained a solid trim physique with well-proportioned lean muscles whereas Guy B has let himself get doughy skin, stooped shoulders and gone to fat.
• Guy A dresses with style and good accessorisation while Guy B covered himself in superglue and ran through Primark, looking generic and plain.
• Guy A holds strong posture with slow decisive movements and his lean-in towards his girl is interested without neediness. Guy B is sloppy and leans in from weakness.
• Guy A had a hot (I’d rate her high-7) young local girl who spoke good english, no tattoos, and an all-round nice girl look to her. She was most certainly not a bar girl. She spent the whole of the meal listening intently to her man and giving of soft female vibe. Guy B had a middle-aged emancipated woman with dowdy clothes and haircut and an air of uneasy equality between them as he ran every decision past her. Twenty years ago, she’d have still been no competition for the other girl.

You can look at a middle-aged man and know if he’s capable of dating young girls without artificial props and ruining his own life.

I’m not without sympathy for the forlorn

I know what it’s like to have your heart broken. It happened to me once. It was my motivation to learn game and chronicle my journey through this blog. I know what it’s like to have sleepless nights, to worry what your ex-girlfriend is doing and who she’s meeting with, and formulating plans to win her back. I know how it feels to have someone you love so entwined into your life over the course of years that you can’t imagine life without them, and then the gaping emptiness you feel when they are wrenched away from you. And then you’re staring at the abyss… wondering what happens now that your future has collapsed.

My current girlfriend was in a six-year relationship with a beta who I stole her from. He’s taken it pretty hard since she gave him marching orders. It was last summer that he got his P45 but he’s still pining. I know how that feels. A couple of weeks ago he made another attempt to win her back, which we chatted about.

sympathy and understanding, yesterday

Cuba Libre

Later this week I shall be headed to Cuba with Toe for country three of our Central American jaunt. We’ve never been. I’ve got some expectations which I’ll detail here. Jimmy went years ago and fucked eight girls in two weeks without handing over cash. Any other country in the world and that would be a phenomenal score, especially considering JJ doesn’t bang below a seven and rarely below an eight, yet he was very blaise about it commenting “you can’t not get laid in Cuba”. He explained it thus:

Girls will approach you all the time. If there’s a particular girl you like, all you need is to say hello and start a trivial conversation. Be nice, they’ll come on to you. Take them around for a couple of hours like an instant date, then back to your private apartment to fuck them. It’s soft prostitution. You don’t need game, you just need convertible currency and a foreign passport then girls will flock to you for the novelty and the chance to get into tourist-only venues they are normally excluded from.

I’ve checked some forums and it would appear quite accurate. Most of those places are for mongers / sex tourists and thus those guys end up paying actual cash – they aren’t exactly attractive fellows from the right-hand side of the male bell curve. So repeat the above formula but with a taxi driver introducing the girl, zero game, and a $30 cash exchange at the end. This leaves many ponderables. We won’t know for sure what the score is until we get there, but these are our draft rules of engagement:

• No lays go on the official notch count / flag count / lay reports. They don’t count as game.
• F-Town is in cryogenic suspension until we touch back in Mexico.
• To the extent we can call a lay an achievement, the girl must be extremely hot, a nonpro, selected by us in a normal cold approach encounter (i.e. not pimped and not selecting us), sticks around until we dismiss her, and does not get uppity if we don’t pay her.

I suspect I realise now why so many keyboard jockeys rant on about how “easy” it is to pick up girls in Eastern Europe. I used to think it was the normal hating dynamic where everyone on the internet is a self-delusional seven feet tall model-banging badass (when not in his mum’s basement playing WoW), the type of guys who hallucinate about picking up supermodels the moment they step off the plane in Moscow simply because they have a US passport and a +7 Staff of Enchantment. But no, perhaps there is an actual logical reason for their delusion and by jove I think I understand it.

These guys are all American

"I adore US passports" - artist's impression of LIthuania

I’ll explain. American’s generally don’t leave their own country and when they do it’s to nearby Americanised resorts that sell twinkies and budweiser. I just suffered such a hellhole in Cancun before decamping to cleaner pastures. What little world history they have is about the collapse of the Soviet empire in 1989 and the brutal impoverishment there as gangster capitalism ran wild, thus leading many young women to whore themselves out. They probably still think Eastern Europe is like that. The oil and gas boom in Russian, the EU membership of Romania and Poland, the ERM mechanism for the baltic states, the ability for Poles and Bulgarians etc to simply take an Easyjet flight to London and start work the next day for a high minimum wage (a legal entitlement in the EU treaty)….. these all pass by the typical American. They don’t realise that Eastern European girls don’t need the money from whoring and don’t need a new passport.

What they do see is Cuba. Those girls do need the money and would love to snag a US-passport-holding boyfriend. Cuba is still a communist hellhole with long queues for the basic necessities of civilised life. Banging girls in Cuba is a clear case of economic disparities.

A hot Cuban, yesterday

Two weeks from now I’ll have an answer for you. A direct comparison of street gaming in the former Soviet satellites and “gaming” in the still-Soviet Cuba.

Saturday night in Playa Del Carmen

I’m didn’t come to Mexico for game, quite unlike my last 18 months of trips which were unabashedly about hitting on the local birds. 2012 is my year of not giving a fuck about knobbing women. Sure, I’m still gonna open and still gonna close but for the first time in years I have a who-gives-a-fuck-I’m-a-man-and-everything-is-in-order tranquility that allows me to focus on other pursuits. There’s an interesting story about the dappy tarts Toe and I dated last night (we didn’t bang ‘em) and it begins when they didn’t show up at 8pm outside McDonalds for the Day 2. We agree to give them 15 minutes maximum before bailing and then I see a gorgeous girl go by. Perfect mix of youth, prettiness and not-overdone-hotness. So I open her. It sticks, so I decide the dappy tarts have missed their chance and I idate the new girl instead. Here’s the street open:

I haven’t bothered with editing the idate itself. It was routine stuff for an hour. She wants to meet again but time will tell. It’s not long till I go to Cuba and I’m far more interested in stockpiling a mountain of cheap Cuban cigars than I am about closing a bird, despite the fact she’s clearly my type. Wouldn’t turn it down, but I’m not in the mood for chasing girls when I could be swimming in the sea or breaking out my Rosetta Stone to learn Mexican.

A nice bird, yesterday

After the date I meet Toe back at the hotel and we go out for a fine feast at Taco Loco (recommendation of a local hostel owner we’ve been drinking with). The dappy tarts get in touch making all manner of excuses then agree to come to our hotel bar. We sit playing Jenga and they do in fact show about 11pm all dolled-up like proper club tarts on their way to the BPM music festival. The chance of us going to a club district full of monotone screeching dance music is about the same as the chances of Burnley winning the league. We decline and let the girls go. They are in high spirits and a bit drunk despite having tottered on their high heels for 20 minutes to get to us. Toe and I decide to chill in the hotel room and wait for the late-night post-club text, if it comes. The decision seems binary: they get a better offer and we never hear from them, or they don’t and they come to our hotel for a nailing. Neither happens. Toe begins the light text game at 2am.

Toe: Pacifico or Victoria?

Girl: U guys have a bad attitude u shouldn’t talk like that. U think we r sluts we’re not. Stop harrassing us [I paraphrase]

Uh??? These girls had been texting us 3-to-1 for 24 hours. It’s an absolute non-sequitor. We hadn’t done the slightest escalation verbal or physical. Can only imagine its a classic case of projection because they are sluts. Whatever. I was sleepy so I went to sleep.

Some thoughts on the Yucatan

In keeping with my goal of financial and geographical independence, I’m experimenting with spending my winters outside of London. Although I think its good to keep my base in London – it’s where most of my friends are, the most lucrative work, and it’s just….. English – I want to be able to travel anywhere anytime at the drop of a hat. So when Toe started his six-month Central America tour I decided to join him in San Diego and then again in the Yucatan. As I write, I’m sprawled out in a hammock sipping coffee listening to The Clash on the hotel speakers. We had a swim in the sea earlier and we’re meeting two dappy tarts from Mexico City that we picked up yesterday lunchtime in a grotty (but delicious) local eatery.

Local eatery tarts, yesterday

My dance card is pretty full. I had that bootcamp in San Diego, then went up to Newcastle for Christmas. New Year in London was pretty wild. Now I’ve got three weeks in Mexico with a sojourn to Cuba next week. No sooner do I get back to Old Blighty but my bird swoops in from Lithuania to lick my balls for a week. Then I pack my bags for Thailand and a month of hardcore muay thai / hitting up university girls with Bhodi. I’ve barely got time for Skyrim.

I’m rather unimpressed with the girls here. It would appear there’s two entirely different species of local. There’s the Mexicans, who are normally-proportioned, kinda pretty (both girls and pretty-boy greasy men), and basically humanoid. Then there’s the Mexican’ts who are 4 foot tall, 4 foot wide, with no necks and little Tyrannosauras arms. I’m leaving the latter for Toe. He’s got a couple of girls into him from earlier work.

They must be the next beach along, or something

I think I’ve done about 5 opens since I got here. Just not in the mood and it doesn’t seem the most conducive environment cos I can’t speak Mexican and there’s very very few hot girls. I street-opened a really lovely Mexico City girl last night and bounced her to a two-hour i-date and kiss close. Lovely elegant girl but it was weird because she was in Playa Del Carmen with her boyfriend (temporarily separated on the way back to their hotel) and her friends were at a pub across the road unaware of my nefarious attempts to bang her. It was fun seeing the age-old forebrain/hindbrain conflict as her eyes spazzed, she kept pawing my forearms, and complimenting my good looks (yes, really) then worrying her boyfriend will be angry that she’s late. I straight out told her I want to fuck her and she invited me up to her mum’s house in Cancun later this week.

I suspect it won’t go anywhere…

This is what female perfection looks like

There is a quiet war ravaging our world beneath our noses, a war most sense but cannot put into words. On one side are the men and women of greatness, of a commitment to truth, reality and excellence. The men and women who lead lives like beacons of hope, who inspire you with the belief that you too can be great, that life can be everything you hoped it would be. Set against them are the ragged collectivists, the cultural relativists who would drag everyone to the equality of the gutter rather than let a single soul shoot for the stars. The Guardian-reading, Islington-dwelling, Labour-voting, WholeFoods-shopping intellectual vandals who would have you believe there is no objective good. That Beethoven is no better than Britney Spears, that Jason Statham Alfred Hitchcock is no better than Ken Loach, Alexandre Dumas no better than Dan Brown.

There are people who will deny greatness exists. They wish everyone to be equally miserable.

They do so to rationalise their own miserable existence. They have given up the challenge of life and it’s struggles and now wish to insulate themselves from the harsh feedback of the real world. They set up internet echo chambers to pat each other on the back as they snitch, sneer and snide on those who acheive.

One part of this war is to persuade you all women are tramps, harlots, and whores. They wish to denigrate the greatness of a fully-developed woman and the joy she brings to those around her. These losers are stuck in an ever-repeating cycle of find-slut-fuck-slut-hate-on-slut. The only way they can stand the soul-death it brings is to deny life can be better. These practical men will bullshit you down to their level.

Should you need a mast to cling to, a patch of dry land in a storm, return to this video. Female perfection exists, and this is what it looks like.

Watch this video and try to tell me women are just warm bodies to fuck

Berlusconi is still The Man

As much as I disapprove of his stewardship of the Italian economy over a cliff and into the gutter, I have immense respect for Silvio Berlusconi‘s relentless tooling of other world leaders and his nailing of dappy Italian tarts. Despite the political putsch from the Politburo of the EUSSR casting him aside, the sly old dog can still rile the little dwarf Sarkozy and moisten the crotch of butch dyke Merkel

An alpha male, yesterday