Way back in 2001, Mystery had moved out to Los Angeles to hit on the local women. To cover his rent and feed his ego he’d begun teaching other men his system. Back then, instructional events were always seminars held in hotel conference rooms. The “guru” would stand in front of twenty or more eager students and just… talk. Perhaps write on a flipchart. And that was all!

No evidence. No demonstrations. No interactivity.

The students were supposed to just accept the instructors at face value without the slightest shred of proof that they were any good with women. It was a time of outrageous charlatanry. Mystery’s great innovation was to conduct his instructional events “in field” by going to real bars and hitting on real women, providing a live demonstration both of his method and also his skills. For the time, it was revolutionary. He called it a “boot camp” and typically they were held over a weekend with seminars in the early evening and then the in-field session immediately afterwards.

I wanted to take a boot camp. In my naïveté I projected mythical levels of “mad skills” onto professional instructors and desperately wanted just a little of their awesomeness to rub off on me. An hour searching google for the main PUA companies brought me crashing back to earth. Jesus Christ, £2,000 for a weekend with Real Social Dynamics.

I mean, I want to get better with women. But… £2,000?

It wasn’t cheapness on my behalf. If I was guaranteed success with beautiful young women I’d have handed over my credit card, date of birth, and mother’s maiden name. Empty my bank account all you want, Master PUA, so long as I get to tap top-class ass! There was no lack of desire in me. Rather, I doubted my ability to survive the weekend without a mental breakdown. They’d push me hard, and would I stand up to it?

So I wanted to dip my toe in the shallowest end of the kiddie pool. I looked for the cheapest boot camp I could find, telling myself I’d just see what happened and, if it was okay, I’d spend the big money on the premium guys. This was stupid. Now that I’m an experienced teacher I see this half-assed attitude all the time. People are always half-assing the important decisions, and so was I.

I was stupid, but I was lucky.

There were only a handful of companies offering live events in 2009. The big names would fly in a couple of name instructors every month or so (LoveSystems, Venusian Arts, Real Social Dynamics and so on) but charged well north of £1,000 for the privilege. There was the local big fish PUA Training that seemed to have the slickest package but wanted £800. Towards the bottom of the food chain was PUA Method, charging £300, but even to my novice eye I could see they were clowns.

And then Sarge School was charging £99. A couple of London forum guys gave positive reviews and when checking out their crappy website, I thought they looked cool on the photos. Okay, that’s the kiddie pool for me. It was poor decision-making exemplified but little did I know how much it would affect my life.

I filled in the online application form for the next “beginners” boot camp in July. The following day I got an email for someone calling himself Jimmy Jambone (everyone in the community has a pseudonym, partly due to ego and partly because there are many, many haters who try to destroy you if they think you’re getting laid). He was to become one of my best friends over the next three years and my first Game mentor, but at this moment he was just a guy whose reputation intimidated me.

“Hey Nick. Thanks for your inquiry and booking. It’s great that you’re taking positive action on this path. We’ll send out a detailed email in the week before the boot camp giving you all the necessary information. But for now, feel free to ask any questions. JJ.”

I was too scared to ask anything. I felt like a man caught in a river flood looking up at the rescue helicopter, stretching out a hand to my rescuer. I was determined not to let myself down on the weekend and studied my books extra hard and read the Sarge School site from top to bottom. Two days before the fateful day an email arrived couched in secretive tones. We were to meet outside Borough underground station whereupon an instructor would collect us and take us to the seminar venue.

So at 7pm on Friday evening I made the short walk up from my house. Four nervous men stood in a huddle, furtive-eyed near the Underground exit. That would be the other students. I introduced myself. There was a Polish guy, an Italian, a Scot, and a white-Zimbabwean called Steve. The latter would be my first wing over the next couple of months until he ended up with a serious three-year relationship. We chattered excitedly, and then the instructor arrived.

He was a young guy called Johnny. Nicely dressed, confident manner, and a deep cool voice. He led us away to a nearby pub/Thai restaurant for a couple of hours’ classroom teaching. There was a sense of adventure in the air, like anything could have happened and probably would. Johnny put us at ease with a mix of aimless chit-chat and probing a few personal questions with genuine warmth and interest. Another preconception about Game was being dispelled.

I’d assumed the men who are good with women were all aloof arrogant swine. I assumed they’d lord it over me and seem impossibly far away from my position, unable to relate. Johnny was the opposite. When he spoke to me he turned his body fully towards me, looked into my eyes, and oozed understanding and rapport. This is how good seducers are. They make you feel good about yourself in a very authentic way. They aren’t “playing” you. This is crucially important when talking to girls because not only do they usually need to feel comfortable around you before they can surrender to sex, but they are also extremely good at sniffing out inauthentic and fake behaviour.

Arriving at the dilapidated old pub it was empty but for the Sarge School guys playing pool and chilling at the bar. Seven guys in all and every single one exuded cool. I was encountering a real live “rat pack”, a group of men who had actively worked upon their value and knew how to support and reinforce one another. This was not the clueless ill-coordinated rabble that I called my own friends. It was a class apart, and I was already sold. First up, a charismatic black Londoner called Diamond gave a talk on the basics of Game, including how to “open” in a bar by asking an “opinion opener.” That’s as simple as it sounds—you ask girls for their opinion on an interesting question. At this time Sarge School was using this one:

“My friend is going to take his girl on a trip to propose. He’s wondering where to go. Which is more romantic, Paris or New York?”

It sounded a bit lame, but it was just an ice-breaker. If the girls want to chat they’ll run with it. And if not, no big deal. They can give a curt answer, and you can eject without feeling bad. Remember, I was in a bad way at this time, just five months after the love of my life had walked out on me. I was still broken inside, lacking any kind of selfconfidence. Diamond went around the students in turn asking them what they wanted from Game and women. I was almost choking up when I replied:

“I think if a woman gets to know me, she’ll love me. I just don’t know how to get her that far.”

Yeah, I was pretty low back then. I think Diamond swallowed down some of his own vomit hearing such woe-is-me-ism.

The night went as good as I could’ve hoped. We decamped en-masse to Piccadilly Circus doing warm-up sets on girls in the passing throng outside the bars before heading inside. Diamond was my assigned instructor that night and kept an eye on me, encouraging me, giving feedback, and demonstrating on girls. He seemed so cool and friendly. I felt a warm glow of gratitude that he so expertly guided me through such a stressful evening. I ended the evening with the number of a Moroccan-English girl from Jewel Bar. We swapped texts but she never came out on a date. Around midnight our energy was flagging so the instructors let us go home with an admonition to sleep well and meet up at Borough Station at noon the next day for the day game session.

The scene of many an RSG bootcamp

Life is full of bifurcation points, moments when you’re at a fork in the road (wittingly or unwittingly) and the smallest accident or slightest whim decides which direction you take and yet that radically changes the course of your life. I’d already had a few of them:

• Picking up The Lay Guide one day in HMV, purely from idle curiosity. It had been a choice between that and Killing Pablo. That made me aware Game existed.
• Choosing Sarge School rather than a different company. It had ultimately rested upon a chance recommendation by an anonymous forum member I had never met. That decision would end up protecting me from the various charlatans that often derail a would-be seducer’s earliest steps.
• Johnny was actually the newest member of Sarge School. My boot camp was also his audition with the company as an instructor, and he’d been brought in because he’d begun to build a local reputation as a daygamer (all the other SS guys were night gamers). This would be the first ever SS daygame session.

Thus, the second day of boot camp would prove pivotal. I’d be introduced to a workable method of daygame. It was primitive, suboptimal, and became rapidly outdated but it was something. Had I been left to aimlessly wander parks asking girls what they were reading (“going indirect” in the jargon) I’d have likely given up on day game within a month or two. Instead, this was the second step in what would ultimately lead me to being the world’s top daygame instructor and theorist. A bifurcation point indeed!

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

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.

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.”

“Pangapsumnida.”

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

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

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

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. Match.com 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 JapanCupid.com 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

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

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.

Introduction

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

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

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.