Bedtime stories for big girls

January 25, 2013

Lately I’ve been rather uninspired in my Skype chats, not really feeling the pull to be fun and creative. That’s not an especially good thing when you want to keep your Euro harem happy. So tonight as I lay tired on my bed with Serb A pestering me for a video chat I decided to leverage the wonders of the internet with these two aids.

A quick google search of “bedtime stories” found some free sites with illustrated stories. I told her to brew a cup of tea, get comfortable and imagine she’s lying next to me as I read a story. Girls like the sound of a man’s slow deep voice, especially non-native speakers because they love the accent and the perfection in a native speaker’s delivery. Then there’s the obvious framing of when her dad used to read her stories. Big time rapport on the cheap.


I read her Pickles The Cat. What a great story for winter when she’s couped up in her apartment most of the day. Framing the big bad world outside as scary and exciting. Get the girl to open the link to read as she listens to you.

Next I teased her a little on how when she’s being feisty she reminds my of Droopy the Dog, then sent her this clip to watch together (from 2:12). Vintage kids cartoons are great for that.

Easy rapport. Everyone’s happy.

My year’s stats in review

January 24, 2013

I’ve long believed that I should be ending each year in a better position than I started it according to whatever metrics I deem relevant. My pillars of finance, health, career, social, girls…. whatever it happens to be. The metrics will change over my life cycle and according to interests. A man’s life must be an arrow travelling forwards. He needs a mission. Should you ever take your foot off the pedal then the forces of lethargy and mediocrity will take root.

That’s a long-winded way of saying I was thinking about my girl stats for 2012.

Long-suffering readers will be aware how the tone of my blog changed in late 2011 as I went through a cycle of game-revulsion. I changed from the high-approach/high-adventure phase to a low-approach/maturity phase. At the time I thought it was a permanent shift, now I’m not so sure. Perhaps its cyclical. A couple of weeks ago I started reading Tom Torero’s daygame book and it rekindled the old hunger. Like when I walk into a boxing gym and smell the dried sweat on leather, hear the thumping of bagwork, the whistle of a jump rope and I’m immediately in state to train. I was reading his lay reports, his joy/obsession for going out every day, and it reminded me how much I enjoyed it.

The greatest

The greatest

2012 was the year I switched gears. 2010 was brute-force approaching to get the sets in the bank, with some decent success. 2011 was more brute-force but developing the artistry side and upping the quality. But by the end of 2011 I was still thinking “it shouldn’t have to be such hard work”. There must be a way of making it all easier and more efficient. Thus 2012 I worked hard on lifestyle, masculine value, and removing my niggling career doubts. I cut the approaches right down. Here’s my stats. Estimates because I never tracked numbers.

  • Approachs: I’d estimate 250 in total, about 200 outside of the UK. Of the total about 150 went nowhere, 20 idates, about 100 numbers/facebooks with vaying degrees of flakiness.
  • Dates: I had day twos with about ten girls who I made out with / got sexual with but didn’t actually bang. There were another five girls where the day two went nowhere at all. The remaining dates led to sex.
  • Sex: Seventeen new girls, plus a few continuing on rotation from 2011.

Overall the lesson is I had more sex, better sex, more fun and with higher quality girls. Nonetheless I gradually got the nagging feeling of scarcity as I stopped approaching. It’s important to feel abundance in lead-creation, not merely abundance in having regulars on rotation.

My loveable Fiat Punto

January 21, 2013

I’ve just come back from an idate with a cute little Italian girl I picked up at Trafalgar Square. In itself nothing remarkable so you’ll only hear the story if I end up banging her. As I was ramping up the verbal escalation to test for the SDL she started telling me how her first boyfriend (of six years) was pretty boring and didn’t inspire her to try hard in the bedroom. When I get a girl on this topic I usually start the sexual framing where I’m the superhero and every other guy is shit.I also trotted out this story:

lovable and dependable

lovable and dependable

Imagine you’ve just passed your driving test so you go out and buy yourself a Fiat Punto. It’s cute and you drive it around the city for a while. You like driving. It’s pleasant, you like being behind the wheel. You like your Punto. After a few years its getting old so you buy another car. You like Puntos, so you buy a newer one. You drive that around some more. It’s comfortable and you’re used to it. You’re a Punto fan.

One day, your friend throws you his car keys. “Here, try my Ferrari”

Me, in metaphor

Me, in metaphor

You get behind the wheel, put your foot down and ….. wow! It’s amazing. You can feel the raw power of the engine throbbing through the seat, your hands shaking as they grip the wheel. Every turn is a perfect grip. The feeling of control and of riding the power is incredible.

You finish the drive with your breath coming fast. Your heart beating. You feel exhillarated. Like walking on air. You throw the keys back to your friend, a huge smile on your face.

And then walk back to your Punto. Your little, cute, slow Punto. It’s just not the same anymore.

Needless to say she was dripping wet at the end of this little story, biting her lips, her mind racing frantically.

I bang my first 24 year old Chilean tourist

January 16, 2013

Here’s another textbook same day lay. Learning Daygame is as much a habit as it is a skill so having not done any in London since last summer I was getting rusty. Avoidance weasel was getting vocal

It’s winter. Your libido is supposed to be low. Just wait till it warms up

There’s no pretty girls out in cold weather. Just look at that snow!

What’s the rush? You don’t care about notches anyway. Didn’t you write a post on it?

He’s a difficult chap this weasel, always finding reasons not to approach women. So I overrule him. It’s a new year and I’ve quit my job. All the girls on my rotation live in Central Europe so I’ve got nothing going on in London. I no longer daygame in London for “the lifestyle” and the identity. I don’t go out to improve my skills. That phase is long behind me. Now I go out if I’m in a good mood, or in this case if I have an empty bed. I go out to get a new girl.

Marginally warmer than this

Marginally warmer than this

Textbook Tip #1 – Go out. You need to make things happen.

I’m shivering under a thick woolly hat, my nose going numb. Piles of slush still lie against the kerb from last night’s snow. Not alot of people on Oxford Street. I force myself to open the first decent girl I see – a cute unassuming French twenty-year old. She likes me, there’s that flicker in the eye contact, but it’s logistically horrible. She’s about to meet the male “friend” she’s visiting and returns to Paris tomorrow. Either he’s fucking her or trying to. Either way I doubt I’d get her away from him so I take a flaky facebook. Next three sets are just unlucky. Nice girls, big smiles, but all in a hurry and not much into me.

I remind myself daygame is about flipping over stones. Just keep doing decent work, keep approaching and eventually I’ll encounter a girl who is available and into me. Then I’m in like Jimmy Saville. However, I’m over an hour into it and getting cold. There’s precious little to shoot at. I drift towards the Caffe Nero in Trafalgar Square to warm up and read my book. It’s awfully comfortable in those soft leather sofas.

Textbook Tip #2 – If your state is dropping, take a break. Regroup.

The sky darkens outside, the winter nights cutting in. I’m a little restless. I came out to find a girl and here I am sitting reading the autobiography of an Italian bank robber. I remind myself of my reference experiences. Daygame isn’t so tough. I’ve done it plenty. All four girls I spoke to today enjoyed the interaction. All were very pretty. Just keep churning it out. The pitbull is straining at the leash again. So I put my coat on and step outside…. into a blast of icy air… brrrrrrrrrr. A bus passes by and stops five metres up the road, like a siren song singing me to the warmth of my home. I resist. “Walk up to Bond Street at least, then get a bus” I tell myself and trudge out. I only need one scrap of good fortune. One girl.

Textbook Tip #3 – Choose your targets wisely, especially if your state is borderline.

I don’t kid myself that I’m shooting for the fences here. If I see a ten I’ll open just on general principle but I’m not in the mood for a challenge. I’m scanning for my favourite type of girl and as I reach Piccadilly Circus she appears in front of me like an apparition. She checks all the boxes:

  • Dark features with coffee skin and long black hair
  • Soft feminine dress sense with a cute little woolly hat
  • Wandering around aimlessly, eyes wandering to all the old buildings
  • Sensible shoes, jeans, warm clothes. Urban hiking gear

Over a year ago I once asked Tom from Daygame to write a list of characteristics identifying the best candidates for an SDL. He calls them “vulnerable”. Operationalise it, I asked. So he wrote a list and this girl checked most of the boxes. She’s clearly a tourist who is visiting London alone and spent the past several hours walking around. She’s cold, her legs ache, and she hasn’t had a real conversation all day. Hello, I’m Nick…..

.. and I'm a cute Chilean bird

.. and I’m a cute Chilean bird

Textbook Tip #4 – If you can’t organically build momentum, you’ll have to force it

It’s a slow start. She’s from Chile, in London for two days before returning to her friend in Paris to continue a Euro tour. She’s not giving off any IOIs except the most important one – making no effort to leave. Five minutes or so on the street and I feel just about enough of a hook to bounce to the idate, a pub 50m up the road. We settle in the upstairs lounge and she has a half pint of bitter (her first time in an English pub). Conversation is fine but twenty minutes in I realise I’m too logical, not drawing her onto the right topics so I shift gear. Classic forced-rapport questions:

If your friends were to describe you in three words, what would they be? (answer: intelligent, friendly, crazy)

How old were your friends in Chile when they first kissed boys? (answer: 11)

How do boys and girls meet in Santiago? Is it a bar culture? (answer: same as most countries)

She’s soon perked up and we’ve got good rapport. I kino test a few times. Oh, those owl earings are nice, let me see. Oh, take your hat off so I can see your hair (and then I fluff her hair up a bit). Oh, show me that ring. All I’m looking for is to touch her and see if she flinches away. Nope, she likes it. Green light.

I’m in full-on leading mode now and take her to a second bar where we sit side-by-side. More plausibly-deniable touching and I just sense the moment. I kiss her.

Her: You’re crazy!

Me: Yes

Her: This is so unexpected

Me: Yes. It’s fast

Her: You could be a dangerous killer

Me: Yes. I am

She can’t get enough of me now. Verbal rapport gives way to physical rapport as I pull her in, stroke her hair, hold her hand. Everything I can do to accelerate the comfort. I’m still not thinking of the SDL because she just doesn’t seem up for it. She’s too shy, giving too few signals. Avoidance weasel tells me to take a Facebook – as if I’ll ever see her again when she lives and works in Chile. Fuck that. I’m gonna push and push. I seed a bar halfway home. My biggest obstacle is distance because I don’t live in the city centre. It’ll be a long bus journey.

Textbook Tip #5 – There’s usually at least one big leap of faith in the escalation

We walk out to the bus stop on Oxford Street. She’s compliant and raising no fuss. As we buy a ticket and board she doesn’t seem too worried about the destination. In for a penny in for a pound – I decide to stay on the bus all the way home and forget the idea of a third pub. Now I shift into verbal bamboozlement mode to occupy her mind. Twenty minutes into the journey she’s finally a little antsy and realises we aren’t headed to this pub.

Her: [looking out the window] Where are we going?

Me: My place

Her: [long pensive look] Ok

We get wine from the corner shop and proceed directly to my room. I take off my shoes and tell her to do likewise then I disappear for five minutes to find wine glasses. It’s good form to leave a girl alone in your room for a while – her hindbrain calms itself with the knowledge she is free to leave. They never do leave. Halfway through the wine I pull her in and go for it. Ten minutes of half-arsed LMR and I’m banging her. Mid-bang I conduct a short interview:

Me: At what moment did you realise I was going to fuck you?

Her: During the bus journey

Me: At what moment did you look at me and think “yeah, I could fuck this guy”?

Her: In the second pub but it wasn’t conscious

Me: You like it that I just picked you up off the street and now I’m fucking you, don’t you

Her: Yes!

She never does this

She never does this

Textbook Tip #6 – She’ll usually reconcile herself to the prospect of fucking you quite early on, before you’ve made any big moves

After she’s wiped my muck off her breasts and face she gives that dazed and confused look I’ve seen so many times on SDLs. What just happened? I can’t believe I did that! I never do this! She tells me I’m the eighth guy to fuck her and the first non-boyfriend.

Her: It’s so strange. One month before I came here I met a boy. I think I’m in love with him. So this is very unusual to me.

Me: I get what I want

+1. New flag. Seventh approach of 2013.

Excessive self-regard and male power

January 14, 2013

I just had a bit of a ding-dong with Steve Jabba over breakfast this morning as we were discussing some of the implications of his recent post on the three levels of Game. I thought I’d put a few notes down here for my readers’ edification.

My mother is a shrewish frame-controlling narcissist. Well up into my mid-twenties I’d not even seen anything unusual about this so thoroughly had I bought her frame as normal. Gradually as I got more life experience, discussed things with my brother, and spent longer periods of time away from her due to my living away from my hometown I started to see her behaviour more objectively. Don’t get me wrong she wasn’t a malignant narcissist and she has always been very giving in putting her children’s interests first. For a long time I even considered my childhood idyliic. But that frame-controlling…… here’s a sample conversation:

Her: How was your day?

Me: Pretty good. I’ve been looking for a new camera for a while. There’s a new Nikon advance companct I think I’ll buy

Her: um [impatient]

Me: I want something that’ll fit in my pocket but is pretty good at taking photos in low light, because then I’ll be able to carry it around on my travels but still get decent photos when I’m in pubs and

Her: [interrupt] Yes, pubs. You’ll love this new client at work. The family is…

Me: [interrupt] That’s got nothing to do with what we’re talking about.

Her: Yes, yes yes. So this new client…. [prattles on for half an hour about her job while I overtly show no interest]

My mother is incapable of talking about anything except herself and in particular whatever is at the front of her mind at that moment in time. She’s also got an extremely aggressive frame-push conbined with zero calibration and a refusal to listen to or learn anything new. Her reality is so strong that absolutely nothing can penetrate it unless there’s a predetermined spot prepared for that new information to occupy. Like transplanting an organ if there’s the slightest incompatibility the new information will be rejected out of hand. The frame-push is so strong she’ll constantly interrupt people and follow them around the house to keep chipping away. I’ll say things like “Stop talking to me. I’m trying to read” and it’ll just bounce off. She cannot process the world as it is. Feedback is not allowed into her complex reality-weave.

I consider this a learning disability. In earlier times she’d likely have been murdered.

So that’s what I grew up with. Whereas my father just rolled over and “yes dear”ed his way through the marriage I fought it the whole way through my childhood until I’d internalised the same frame. Narcissistic contagion. A strong frame combined with zero calibration is a recipe for social ostracisation as you dominate social gatherings without taking due care that others are enjoying the situation. Before long they just avoid you. I do that now with frame-controlling weirdos – although I can easily rip the frame off them I just see no point in expending the energy so I just freeze them out of my life.

The trappings of civilisation

The trappings of civilisation

The manosphere didn’t exist in my twenties. I had no vocabulary to describe these dynamics, just blue pill psychology. It never crossed my mind that twenty-five years of resisting a frame-controlling narcissist had a hugely positive silver lining: (i) a bulletproof frame (ii) a strong regard for protecting my own self interest. I struggled to reconcile these attributes with society’s expectations and my own moral code. Put simply, I felt like my animal brain was a barely-domesticated pitbull straining on a leash held by my human brain. The thin veneer of civilisation that covered the beast inside existed only because of a constant restraining effort on the part of my learned logical forebrain. If I let the pitbull off the leash it would just run amok. Not high-school-shooting-amok (I felt no hate to society or urge towards violence) but that the pitbull would just run directly to whatever it wants and take it, consequences be damned. Then like a dog owner cleaning his dog’s shit off someone else’s front lawn, I’d have to deal with embarassment and social fallout as I try to return my self-opinion to that of a gentleman. A respectable member of the community. So I consciously learned to moderate by behaviour to prevent the pendulum to swing out to the extremes – I came to deny myself both exhuberance and anger. I learned state control and a poker face.

Of course this barely-civilised barbarian schtick is a big part of why women fell for me. Blue pill beta that I was I felt it but couldn’t get it into my logical brain.

Many men remember their first encounter with the manosphere (taking the red pill) as a Great Liberation. It’s the moment when a respected elder teacher puts his arm around your shoulder and says “It’s ok to feel like this. You aren’t the only one. Your feelings and secret theories are right. It’s the world that’s wrong.” Women get the same immense relief when I put them in their place.

in touch with his core

in touch with his core

Now I see that men are supposed to impose themselves upon the world. Men are supposed to put their own interested front and centre. Women are attracted by men who do this and feel secure around them. You do need to put the leash on the pitbull in order to navigate through society. Unrestrained alphas don’t last long in modern society – sure we can point to some apex alphas who are killing it, but that’s survivor bias. The road to successful alphadom is littered with the graves of failures. To build the metaphor further, you need to accept your inner pitbull. Accept the aggression. Accept the animal spirits. Accept the urge to chase the car down the street and piss against a lampost. Don’t forget you’ll need a wise owner on the end of the leash lest the exterminators come around with a court order.

And don’t for a moment consider exchanging the pitbull for a poodle.

Don’t judge women for their beauty

January 10, 2013

Sometimes when I look at beautiful women and then frumpy women, and then back again, I’m overwhelmed by the feeling that I’m looking at a different species. A different breed. Just as the elegant athletic lines and purposeful snout of a Siberian husky are worlds apart from a waddling bootfaced pug, the clean curves and majestic features of a top-drawer woman are worlds apart from the stove-pipe block that is a modern woman. Miss Worlds apart.

In the unlikely event Hugo Chavez rolls his fat thieving socialist arse out of the hospital bed he’ll surely attempt to make Miss Venezuela – now Miss World – his concubine. I certainly would. Just look at her. Beautiful.


I once dated a 3rd-placer in Miss World

I once dated a 3rd-placer in Miss World

Who could possibly object to such a fine specimen of female beauty gracing the world’s stage, shining her star for the pleasure of millions of men and a role model for young girls to aspire to.

Oh, someone objects.


Jesus fucking Christ. My eyes!

Jesus fucking Christ. My eyes!

Two different breeds.

What possible motive could this ugly rabble of halfwits have to wish to stop women being judged on their beauty? Would they perhaps be making a virtue out of necessity?

Look at them.

These wimmin need MORE power

These wimmin need MORE power

Telling the world you aren’t ugly doesn’t make it so. If any readers stumble upon a photo of a beautiful feminist, please let me know. Photos of unicorns, bigfoot, or a PUA Hater’s girlfriend also welcome.