I’m lying in bed at noon, tapping away on WhatsApp conversations and trying to rouse myself to action. There are a few parallel conversations running. I’m sorting out the afternoon’s daygame plans but toying with ideas of lunch first. The Three Stooges R’s (Roy, Ricky and Mr R) are still in town but Ricky is leaving imminently and wants to have one last big night out. SevenDG is visiting for the weekend so he’s with us. [1]

Aside from the usual text game with girls I’m also canvassing opinions and schedules of the VIP Inner Circle of Euro Daygame [2] to decide which city is next on my list. I’m halfway through the Moscow trip and getting tired of all the rain. Plus there’s the usual daily updates demanded by Little Finger, my British friend in Belgium. He takes an unnerving glee in all things squalid about the life and appears to be positioning himself as the central clearing house for filthy stories and gossip. Sometimes I feel like my real role on jaunts is as his intelligence asset, scraping up stories of filth, squalor and hubris that he can add to his Rolodex.

Is RVF aware of this tall story?

“Are you not doing nightgame?” he prods, hoping to manipulate me into getting drunk, disgracing myself, then telling him the story the next day.
“Not my thing. The others are well up for it though. All they do is drink” [3]
“RVF-talk is that Gypsy and Icon are where the action is at” he counters. “Give it a go”

I’d been to Icon the previous summer and was thoroughly unimpressed. I can see why the forums like it, because with certain prerequisites, it appears to be pussy paradise. What are those prerequisites you ask?

• You are used to chasing skirt in the Anglosphere, South America or South East Asia and haven’t yet acclimatised to the vastly superior quality in Central and Eastern Europe. You still think a six is an eight because you just haven’t seen the real top end of skirt.
• You haven’t yet developed the experienced player’s ability to X-ray a girl to determine how hot she really is. You’re still blinded by make-up, tight clothes, heels, and dark lighting. [4]
• You need to get drunk before opening.

Now, I’m not saying I wouldn’t fuck her….

I find that nightclubs in the FSU are simply not the place to find the hot girls. If I was to estimate the pecking order of where to find the hotties I’d say it’s as follows, starting with the best:

1. Nice cafes in the affluent part of town. The problem is these girls teleport into them and aren’t seen outside of their huddle at the table.
2. Nice malls selling brand name clothes. The problem here is the girls arrive in taxis or flash cars, walk around in pairs with a best friend, a parent, or a sponsor. There’s also very very few of them to be seen any given day.
3. University buildings at kicking out time. You need to time these places for the ends of lectures. The problem is the girls are nearly always in groups, there’s lots of peer pressure even on solo girls, and the universities are often nowhere near the other good daygame spots so there’s tonnes of dead time.
4. Normal daygame in Old Town, normal malls, central parks, and busy shopping streets. This is the only place you get decent footfall but suffer a quality-per-vag drop-off compared to the top three places. On balance, it’s still the best bet overall.
5. Bars not frequented by tourists. Usually you have to go a bit outside the main areas for them but rarely more than one metro stop. The problem is the girls are usually in social groups and there’s very few sets over the course of the night. Also, quality is skewed towards girls who like to drink, who are rarely as hot as those who don’t.
6. Nightclubs that tourists would know about. This is where Icon and Gypsy fit in.

The single biggest problem with these kinds of clubs is the calibre of girls in them. Almost exclusively the age skews upwards, probably averaging well over twenty-five, and the tourists attract scammers. Arena City in Kiev is a good example of that: the entire complex exists to let ageing women scam Turks and forum chodes out of drinks. If you look good, you might get picked for free but don’t count on it.

So, back to Icon…….

We pound back beers at our favourite dive bar by Kamergirsky then take taxis towards the riverside bar area where the clubs are. We end up in a nice bar overlooking the river and I bump into a blonde I’d number-closed a week earlier. More on that in another post. We soon stumble over to Icon and I’m blasted by the godawful dance music. Aside from that, it’s lively and there’s some decent skirt. We all start opening. Let me tell you a little about Icon so it makes sense.

After walking in you are in a long lobby area lined with sofas and a bar at the end with some stools. It’s the only quiet room in the club and it gets footfall because every girl walks through it to enter, again to leave, and the toilets are just outside it’s connecting door to the first dance floor. It’s as close as you can get to bar/street game in a club that doesn’t have an outdoor smoking balcony. We spent nearly all of our time there because you can open without shouting.

The next room is a large dance-floor with a long bar, upon which a couple of semi-naked women dance. It’s rammed on weekends with about 60/40 men-to-women. You can just about talk if you really raise your voice but it’s mostly dance-floor game in the middle, or talk-into-the-ear-of-a-wallflower game around the edges. I number closed a pretty synchronised swimmer there but mostly had conversations-to-nowhere. This room is where all the men trying to get laid ply their craft. It can get a little wild.

Who’s a good girl?

Finally, accessible only by running the dance-floor gauntlet, is the “here for the music” room where the worst possible electronic dance music plays at full volume with accompanying strobe lights. It’s where the “DJs” play [5] and vacuous fools stare at them. It’s also where the VIP tables are so expect to see fat old men pouring vodka from a bottle for nicely-done-up girls who then dance on the spot at the edge of the area.

I ended up drunk

It was a night where all the sets blur. At any moment I could look around and see at least three of my four companions working a set, usually by the bar. We picked up momentum and the girls were usually game for a chat. Numbers were collected. For me, the only number that went anywhere went like this…..

I’m standing kicking my heels by the bar in the quiet room when two girls stream past. The one who catches my eye has incredibly good hair: thick, black, glossy, and literally to her ass. It shamed most shampoo commercial hair and I doubt I’ve ever seen better. She also had a bright orange dress and black heels. Without seeing her face I catch up with her.

“You. Stop. Two things”
She smiles. She must have at least some English
“First, you have amazing hair. I love it. Like a shampoo commercial.”
She smiles again. Dare I say she shifts her hips and settles into giving me a shot.
“Second, your dress. You look like a tangerine rolling down a hill. I just saw a blur of orange.”

I see she’s actually ethnically Korean, though born and raised in Moscow and tells me she’s never been to Korea and can’t speak the language [6]. She even has a Russian name. Let’s call her Natalia.

But a bit thicker. And not just her hair.

She’s entirely self-composed and starts chatting with me, giving some gentle banter and encouraging me to keep trying it on. Out of nowhere a drunken Mr Arr comes in and starts using loud code-words to indicate it’s his set because he’s number closed her on the dance-floor an hour earlier [7]. This presented a tough judgement call. On the one hand, wing rules determine that whoever opens the set owns the set (and thus it’s his set). On the other, we’d all been spamming the club so there wasn’t really any set discipline. At this point it was just a quick chat so I decide to back out. I let Mr Arr run the conversation and I mostly look away, staring at other girls and looking for the right moment to leave. It doesn’t come for a minute or two because every other friend is in a set.

“You stopped talking” says the girl.
“Yeah. Wing rules” I mutter absently-mindedly
“What rules?”
“Wing rules. He chatted to you first, in the other room, so I must gracefully withdraw.”
“Oh”

Finally Roy comes out of his set so I join him and knock back a whiskey. Twenty minutes later I’m pushing through a pack of locals on the dance-floor as I’m doing a circuit of the club to eye up fresh talent. I squeeze past Natalia from behind. Her friend sees me, taps her and points me out.

“Oh hello again” she says. “How is your night?”

I’m drawn into conversation for about thirty seconds then escape. Not before she’s rested her hand on my forearm and give me a strong look. I continue on and probably open a couple more sets over the next half hour.

It’s getting late and now more girls are leaving than entering. I’m back in the quiet room at the bar when Natalia and her friend come past, going home. She turns and gives me a big smile and a wave, then seems to pause. I have a difficult judgement call.

Being drunk and horny, I resolve the conflict in my favour. There’s a subtle shift in cosmic karma as the gods of daygame inform me that it is, indeed, my set now. I go over and take her number. An hour later I’m wandering through central Moscow with SevenDG as we both bang on about the pleasure of the Player’s Journey, then I get some sleep.

More to follow.

If you like the idea of running around chasing skirt during the daytime you really ought to read my book Daygame Mastery. Until I release Daygame Infinite, it’s the best there is.

[1] I may be garbling some of the details here. One reason I’m blogging this stuff now is to get it written down before my memory fades entirely.
[2] Yes, that’s facetious
[3] A little unfair. All Roy does is drink. Mr Arr is fuelled more by an obsession to never quit. One sentence I’ve never once heard him utter, “you know what lads, I think it’s time we called it a session and went home”
[4] I am interested in fucking the girl, not the dolled-up costume avatar of the girl, nor the shared-with-your-friends-on-whatsapp Instagram oil painting of the girl
[5] I refuse to speak of DJs with anything other than utter contempt. The emperor has no clothes.
[6] Nonetheless, I’m forced to score this one as a gook. Sadly.
[7] Which I hadn’t seen or been told about until now. He’s telling the truth, though, and Natalia confirms it.

That’s the click-bait title out of the way, so let’s get to the point. A good while back, well over a year now, I wrote a post giving my advice on how to write a Player’s Journey blog. Some enterprising fellows took me up on that advice and it inspired some existing bloggers to post more [1]

“click-bait” you say?

I promised to feature the ones I liked, but then I just kinda forgot about it. Well, I’ve remembered. So, this is what I’ll do……. This is an open casting call for all of you on the Player’s Journey to inform my readership of your own humble efforts. Submit a short one-paragraph description of your blog, and a link. I’ll then edit this post (and my sidebar links) to neatly list them all so that enterprising fellow daygamers know what’s out there.

A few conditions are attached. Your blog will only be accepted in this list if it meets them:

• No commercial sites. My goal is to help the community side of daygame here, not the business. If you have both a commercial page and a genuinely non-commercial blog, I’ll link the latter [2]
• You must be producing original content based on your own daygame experiences. By this I mean you’re out daygaming and then telling stories or reflecting on your adventures. It’s fine if you’re a beginner, not getting laid, and feel like you don’t have any special insight. So long as you are trying to express your own player’s journey in your own words, you’re in. Such blogs are still valuable moral support for guys near your level. I won’t link Armchair PUA blogs [3]
• I’m not linking blogs that cannibalise other people’s material or general community wisdom, even if you’re doing so with honourable intentions to help others. So if your blog is “Five steps to stand out on Tinder” or “What Is An Alpha Male” you are outside the narrow scope of this list.
• I don’t mind if you follow material from other daygame theorists. This isn’t the Team Krauser list. I also don’t mind if you are critical of my material, so long as it’s not hating on me [4]

Here’s a starting list based on blogs I know fit the bill. If the proprietors of said blogs wish to change the one-paragraph summary (I wrote them from memory without double-checking), let me know in the comments.

Roy Walker Daygame – An early thirties Irishman living in London and taking his Euro Jaunts when he can. Getting laid and telling mostly war stories. Heavy statistical focus, tracking open/number/close/date ratios. Very much in the LDM style of game and writing.

Ricky Roma Blog – An early thirties office lad living in London and Euro Jaunting anywhere that might have Russian girls. Getting laid and telling war stories. Focus is narrative-based, expressing how it is to live the life. LDM style game and writing.

City Daygame – Three mid-thirties Brits living in London and forming a mini-rat pack for pick-up. Stories are varied between London and travel, each man writing under his own handle. A mix of daygame, nightgame and online. Mostly war stories but some reflection pieces. LDM style game and writing.

Seven Daygame – A French-born Asian man’s journey, starting in Ireland, then Tallinn and now St Petersberg. Lots of content and step-by-step field reports with lots of detail. Getting laid, too. Written in the LDM style.

Days Of Game – An American guy with a passion for Japanese jaunting. Very frequent posting, split between war stories (including field reports that don’t result in lays) and theoretical discussion. Quite wonkish at times. LDM style but also talks a lot about RSD material.

TD Daygame – A thirty-ish Pole in Warsaw writing a hybrid field-report / coaching blog in both Polish and English (separate sites). LDM style street game and a heavily technical focus, but some war stories.

Mickey Miller – A forty-ish Aussie living in Brisbane and jaunting to Asia. A mix between lay reports, inner game introspection, and theory. Probably the most personal blog for openly discussing inner game issues and private thoughts. LDM style.

VicVega – A forty-ish Italian nomad travelling around Central and Eastern Europe chasing skirt with a mix of nightgame and daygame. Lots of field reports and think pieces. He’s recently announced he’s going to focus on the latter.

The Alpha Teacher – A late-thirties Brazilian man playing poker and chasing skirt mostly in his home country. Suave was my first good daygame wing and features in my memoirs. One of the original London daygamers and Chateau RSG tenants. He still posts frequently.

Authentic Attraction – Another hybrid field-report / coaching blog, this time from two Aussies. A series of war stories and some reflection pieces.

Rusty Daygame – A new blog from a Kiwi guy doing the LDM style. Not much content yet.

Rambo PUA – I’m not sure if this blog is still active. An LDM daygamer writing field reports of his successes and failures.

Jimmy Jambone – Not very frequently updated, this is a blog opining on game and life, wrapped up in a narrative style of war stories. One of the original London daygamers and Chateau RSG tenants.

Thomas Crown – This one has only been going a couple of months but he seems to understand the Game and how to write about it. An LDM-style blog with theory and war stories.

If you like reading war stories of chasing skirt you’ll love my memoirs Balls Deep, Deplorable Cad and Adventure Sex. If you don’t like paying to do so, check out the list above.

[1] I never stop with the grandiosity. Get used to it.
[2] There’s a grey area, such as TD’s blog, where he prominently mentions he’s a coach but puts up enough helpful free content that it’s not just a commercial site. So, I’ve linked him.
[3] I like some Armchair PUA blogs, but this list is Player’s Journey blogs which is a different category
[4] I draw the line if you voted Hillary or Bernie.

My winter was another experiment in getting the fuck out of Dodge. Since becoming all unplugged and stuff I’ve become constitutionally incapable of tolerating the cold British winter. I’ve come to believe it’s against my ‘uman rights.

I looked it up

So I spent two months in Thailand with some friends then wrote a book about it when I got home in early February [1]. Having spent time in the third world surrounded by trannies, Aussies, whores and mudslime I was rather keen to just chill out in Newcastle playing video games and reading paperback fiction. By March I was anxious to travel again.

Problem is, March is a shitty month. It’s just about warm enough that you know you could daygame, but not warm enough that you actually should. So I had the choice of either wasting my time on a jaunt, or feeling guilty for not going somewhere and doing something. I thought it through and booked two weeks in Prague.

Believe it or not, my goal wasn’t to get laid. Really.

Since the God Emperor won the presidency I’d been at a loose end over what to do with myself. Men need a purpose in life and some kind of project to work on. Shitposting and tweeting in the run up to the US election had been great fun and diverted me from the central issue in my life: game has become meh. As readers of Adventure Sex know [2], by the end of 2014 I’d reached the end of my Player’s Journey and was now just staggering around on autopilot without a grand over-arching goal.

Sure, I had goals: write a book, lose weight, finish all Skyrim guild questlines etc. What I didn’t have was a grand goal [3]. Nihilism and hedonism will always be undercurrents to the player’s lifestyle but I’d at least had the progression and purpose of getting good with women. But now I was. What next?

Palladium, yesterday

Two months of debauchery in Thailand [4] was an exclamation point on the nihilism and hedonism. The last thing I wanted was to become an ex-pat loser in South East Asia, clacking sub-par brown skirt, telling bullshit stories on RVF to build rep points, and engaging in substance abuse with fellow forum-chodes and calling it “high value lifestyle”.

Fuck that.

Frankly, I was worried that all this travelling and shagging had completely ruined my ability to make emotional connections. I wondered if the absence of accountability in my last eight years had made changes that can’t be undone. So I thought about it a while and decided to put it to the test:

Can I enjoy hanging out with pretty women without trying to shag them?

Prague was a natural testing ground because I know many women there who I’d already slotted but were now in relationships. They’d still chat to me on WhatsApp. I decided to meet four of them and hang out. Crucially, I wouldn’t try to fuck any of them again. I flew out in mid-March and as luck would have it Nicolas Drillman was there so there’d be some male company too.

Much of the first week was spent discussing life with the friendly Hun. He’s not much younger than me and has done plenty of Euro Jaunting and skirt chasing so we were on the same page. I expounded my current thoughts on daygame and in particular how to integrate it in a sustainable manner as you get older and less enthused with the thrill of adventure. We discussed meta-level models of human learning and how beyond a certain level of experience and competence, all skills are learned the same way and mindsets converge. We did some sets but it was cold, wet and miserable. Very few girls worth chasing and neither of us really care to do more than a couple of sets a day. By day four I didn’t even want to chase skirt.

I was testing myself. Do I enjoy Euro travelling even when I’m not chasing the skirt? Apparently I do. I had a nice apartment, a stack of paperbacks, and just walking around was pleasant. El Commandante visited form Turkey for a weekend so that too was nice. If I remember right, GG popped in for a few days too. Probably a couple of other men too – my apologies if I forget.

And the skirt?

Readers of A Deplorable Cad [5] will remember a Croatian girl called Zehra who I banged in 2012 and became rather sweet on. I hadn’t seen her since but she’d recently gotten a job in Prague and moved over, so we met for coffee on a Saturday afternoon. That coffee became another, then a walk, then dinner, then beers. We spent all of Sunday together too.

No, I didn’t try to fuck her [6]

My mind was put to rest. For nearly twelve hours I chatted with an old friend, rekindled our emotional connection, and we had a great time. At no point did I get the familiar feelings of “let’s just escalate and get on with the fucking”. There was also a nice highlight in Battalion Bar.

We were sitting on the high stool near the entrance with a bottle of beer each. I was explaining pizzagate to her, outlining the basic charges levelled against Hillary, Bill, Epstein, the Podestas, Alefantis and so on. I spent a while explaining how Trump had suddenly excluded Epstein from his social circle over a decade ago without explanation and then in his famous Al Smith roast speech following the third presidential debate he’d made an odd quip about Hillary [7]

“Hillary famously said it takes a village. Which is interesting, because in Haiti she’s taken a few”

That quip is incomprehensible unless you fill in two datapoints: (i) Hillary’s quote that it takes a village to raise a child and (ii) the allegations that Hillary intervened to save Laura Silby from child trafficking charges after she was arrested crossing the Haiti/Dominican Republic border with a bus load of unaccompanied children.

“Trump knows!” I told my Croatian friend. “That’s why his son Donald Jnr always looks like he wants to literally kill Hillary. It’s why she said he’d have them all hanging from nooses”

A burly Irishman at the next table chimed in.

“Excuse me, I couldn’t help but hear you mention Donald Trump. I have to ask you – what do you think of him?”

I knew where this would lead. His manner, his tone, and the fact he’d poked his nose in all suggested a typical SJW tactic: Politely inquiry intended to get to you formally utter crimethink, that they can then attack you for. You’ll see this in offices every day in the UK.

“I think he’s a hero. The only man in the world I idolise” I replied

The next five minutes involved him trying to maintain his calm (unsuccessfully) while pretending to earnestly inquire into my position and to helpfully point out where I’m mistaken. By then steam was coming out of his ears because at no point did I back down and recognise that Trump is stupid, or psychotic, or sexists etc. Finally he went into a rant about the Middle East.

“But Trump is going to start wars. He’s violent and dangerous. He said he wants to bomb the Middle East” he spluttered.
“No he doesn’t. He said he wants to destroy ISIS. He’s never beat the drum for war against any Middle Eastern country”
“He wanted war in Iraq!”
“No he didn’t. He’s on the record, on video, years ago saying the war in Iraq was wrong. He’s already avoided war with Russia. Believe me, if Hillary had won we’d already be in World War III. Trump was the only candidate on either side who was against war with Russia”
“but but but….”
“Hillary stated she wants Ukraine and Georgia in NATO and a No-Fly zone enforced against Russia in Syria. That guarantees war. Just look at a map – Russian cannot possibly accept NATO forces on it’s borders.”

It was at this moment his fat girlfriend chipped in, having been mostly silent. She told me how they’d both lived in New York and it was common knowledge that Trump was a racist who called Mexicans rapists.

“Trump was the exisiting immigration laws enforced. That’s really not extreme” I said.
“I had many very nice Mexican friends in New York. At least I’m not racist” she finished, flicking her hair in a triumphant flourish at unloading her big guns.

“I am” I replied.

The Irishman kicked off and needed his girlfriend to restrain him as he backed off out the bar. Looking at the Croatian girl I probably could’ve fucked her at this point, but it was against the plan.

If you like hearing the same basic story told in dozens of different ways then you’ll love my memoir series Balls Deep, A Deplorable Cad and Adventure Sex

[1] I still haven’t decided to release it as is, or fold it into a bigger memoir with the Euro stuff
[2] Well spotted. Yes, it’s an up-sell
[3] I suppose you could call that grandiosity
[4] Most of which was squeezed into the first week after which I had a rapid adverse reaction to the sleaziness of it
[5] Well, fancy that! Another up-sell
[6] She looked great, though. Slim, curvy, and still with her amazing hair.
[7] I’m pretty sure I’ve told this story before but I’m writing these posts with a different goal in mind.

Cast your mind back to September 2016. I’m coaching a residential in Moscow, teaching GG. As long-time readers are no doubt well aware, I don’t really teach anymore. It’s not that I lack enthusiasm for it, but rather I find coaching sits uneasily with my self-image and my medium term goals. The problem comes down to this: I’m prone to grandiosity. The PUA world is outrageously grandiose and coaching tends to feed a man’s urge to hoover up all available sources of narcissistic supply.

A grandiose man loves to feel separate from and above the world around him. He feels special. Deep down he knows he has no innate special-ness and that his achievements probably don’t support his grandiose self-image either. Nonetheless, the more people he can find who will buy into his false idealised self, the more narcissistic supply he has to support that image. Think of the many opportunities for grandiosity offered to the PUA coach:

• A blog chronicling his larger than life adventures, weaving his thoughts and world-view artfully into each post
• A YouTube channel showing him jetting off around the world doing all kinds of adventure sports, seeing cultural sights, and chatting up birds.
• A phalanx of young enterprising men modelling their own lifestyle upon his, and using a lexicon to describe it that he invented.
• Internet comments telling him how awesome his life is and how cool he is.

Once I’d identified grandiosity as a central weakness in my own character, as amply outlined in A Deplorable Cad [1], I vowed to be very very careful about engaging in any activities that would feed it. I want to be tied to the real world, not a delusional version of it. The thought of someone paying £5k to follow me around for a week, hanging on my every word, doing whatever I tell them, and conscientiously trying to implement whatever changes in their psyche I encourage them to….. well….. such power is dangerous [2]

I actually read this last year. Good book. Great author.

I received this email in July 2016

Dear Nick,

Hope this email finds you well. It’s GG (you put me in touch with Skeletor, and we last met at the Outlaw event).

The last few months I’m been targeting higher quality of girls. Unsurprisingly I’ve reached a plateau (with the occasional success). Coaching with a competent daygamer would be beneficial in speeding up the learning process.

Hence, I’m contacting you to enquire if you’d consider doing residential coaching?

Kind Regards,
GG

Normally I don’t reply to such mails but I’d met GG a couple of times and was impressed by the massive change between the meetings. In less than a year he’d gone from typical Paki to sorted man. He also told me he’s half-white. So I reply. Five weeks later.

Hey boss, glad to hear from you again. I’ve only just replied because I’ve been avoiding coaching queries lately. However, I’m looking to do one or maybe two more residentials this year so if you’re still interested, let me know which dates you can do and we’ll see how it fits in.

I’m not cheap, mind.

We agreed a week in Moscow for September and it’s on the second day of coaching that this story picks up steam. We’d gotten off to a good start because the weather was fine, our vibe was on, and the girls were receptive. While walking through an underpass at Tverskaya late evening I see a blonde girl coming down the steps. She gives a pretty strong IOI so I do a demo set for GG [4]

Her English is weak but she ticks the usual check-boxes. Smiles, laughs, flirts. All that boring stuff you read about in Daygame Mastery [5] so I take her number. She’s just graduated and started a PR job. Twenty-one. Pretty. A solid seven, possibly an eight. Then GG and I do a few more sets and the next day I send a feeler text.

Nastya is not a texter. Everything is short and functional.

It takes a week to get her out, by which time it’s raining heavily every day, my vibe has gone to shit, and I’m now sharing an apartment in Arbat with another hanger-on friend from London. Nastya meets me at Smolenskaya station and not ten metres across the path is a quaint English pub serving proper beer. We get a pint each and head upstairs. Nastya has that peculiar quality of saying very little and just following my lead: a good sign. Halfway through the pint I sit her next to me and begin escalating. It’s all very easy, she’s already a done deal. We make out and after the pint I walk her to my apartment.

We roll around on the bed then she tells me she can’t have sex because she’s on her period. That disgusts me so I don’t press the issue. We watch some YouTube and I wave her goodbye at the Metro. There’s still a week remaining so I’m optimistic. Giving her four or five days to become normal again, I get her out for another drink. By now I’m in a pokey private room in a Hostel by Kamergirsky and running on empty.

You’d be tempted

We meet at Red Square and walk around looking at all the pretty tourist stuff twinkling in the evening darkness [6]. She’s dolled up nice with heels, tights, form-fitting dress, and real care in her make-up and styling. She hangs onto my arm and wants to take selfies together. She’s so obviously come to fuck. I walk her to an underground rock bar on Kamergirsky that I’d been meaning to try. Unfortunately it’s expensive and whiskey plus her wine sets me back a tenner.

Her phone rings and her face drops. Within a minute of chatting her mood sours. She starts complaining about the drink, then the bar is too loud (it isn’t), and then she goes silent on me for ten minutes. I have so little patience with bad behaviour nowadays that I’m tempted to walk out [7] but instead I down my drink, reach over to snatch her half-finished wine out of her hand and neck it in one gulp, then walk her to my hostel.

I have no desire to humour her shitty mood but I do intend to fuck her. We walk back in silence, not looking at each other. I say a few words as I unlock the front door and walk her up the stairs but she doesn’t reply. Then she follows me into the bedroom, takes off her jacket and heels then sits on the bed with a prissy look.

“Did you get bad news on the phone call?” I ask
“Yes”

I push her backwards and we start making out. She halfheartedly plays along and doesn’t quibble as I undress her. Finally, she’s naked but for her panties and I’m pulling them down [8]

“No. I can’t” she says, then quickly dresses. “I want to go”

We walk in silence to the Metro and exchange frosty goodbyes. That’s the end of that one. Silly cunt.

If you like stories about failing to have sex with girls you’ll love Death By A Th… my memoir Balls Deep available for just ten notes.

[1] Yes, that’s a subtle up-sell
[2] There’s an additional coaching problem that most students are twats or no-hopers, but let’s park that for now [3]
[3] Or brown men chasing white women. When the Day Of The Rope comes, I don’t want to be known as a daygame coach who cucked on immigration and taught the invaders to molest white women. I certainly won’t be forgetting the traitors. I don’t wish to be one of them.
[4] Or at least that’s what I told him it was. A demo set. For his benefit not mine.
[5] Or its shameless rip-offs. Wait… hang on… was that grandiosity again?
[6] Which I find rather boring, having spent probably a hundred hours in or around Red Square on this trip
[7] Evidently, not that tempted

[8] Yes, I’d already gotten my dick out

It’s midway through my trip and the sun is turning my head into a tomato. Having spent the first three months of the Euro Jaunt season praying for the rain to stop, I’m now praying for the sun to go back behind the clouds. Lately I’ve been dressed in shorts, a Guns’n’Roses vest, and some black imitation Converse I bought at an underground mall at the bottom of Khreshatyk street. I looked a right prick. So today I went back to my usual style but I’m suffering for it in the heat [1]

Now it’s early-afternoon and I’m hiding under a parasol in the Belgian cafe on the said same street in anticipation of rapidly increasing temperature. Not a lot is going on so I’m happy to sip a beer and talk to Roy and Xants letting my eye roam over the small number of girls walking past. I swear the air shimmers from the heat, but doubtless I’m imagining things.

The sun does indeed go in, for about half an hour, and the street cools.

I do a few sets. A blonde girl seems especially into me. It takes a persistent strong stop to get her to pull up but I step in on her and her eyes sparkle. She touches my forearm, plays with my pendant, and matches my eye mesmer. It seems so very on but I remind myself that what happens in the bubble stays in the bubble. She gives her number and walks off.

A blonde bird, into me

A pint and a half later and it’s roaring hot. I see a brunette walking the opposite direction dressed in tight shorts and a striped black and white shirt like my hometown football team. She’s dawdling, about as slow as it’s possible to walk while still calling it a walk. Her feet glide along the pavement, her hips are swaying and her head bobbling. Tick, tick, tick, she’s in my sweet spot. I’d say “I give chase” but it was like the hare catching the tortoise.

She stops immediately and looks up expectantly, a smile on her face. Later she’d admit to me she was walking around precisely in the hope someone would talk to her. That’s what the girls of Khreschatyk are like, and why it’s a nightmare for false positives. I step in on her and run my patter.

“You look like a wrestling referee” I say, searching google images on my phone to show her.

She eats it up. Emboldened, I step closer and begin talking directly into her ear. She doesn’t flinch at all. Doesn’t step back. If anything, I feel like her heart skipped a beat. So now I blow into her ear as I talk, then pull back a little to look into her eyes. Then back to her ear, nibbling it as I cup her cheek with my hand on the other side. Astonishingly she takes it.

“What a moment” she squawks, and fans herself, smiling.

I can’t remember much about what else I did but it was close to molestation. We are standing crotch-to-crotch and I’m breathing out of my nose onto her forehead. There are many silences. The rest of the world doesn’t matter. Finally she tells me she’s meeting a friend so she we swap numbers and off she goes.

I return to Team Krauser with a big grin on my face. That was it – that’s why daygame is so maddeningly addictive. I just can’t go from zero to 100mph so fast and so unpredictably any other way. Then the texting starts.

So far so good, I just have to wait out her logistics and hope nothing goes wrong. I put her into a holding pattern but then she pipes up. Evidently she’s starting to wonder if I really am the bad boy she’d hoped for.

So as you’ll see I noted what she wanted and gave it to her, though I couldn’t help messing with her first. After the Captain Caveman photo I sent her a proper portrait picture of me (which I didn’t screencap for this post). Often girls give you static because they aren’t so interested or don’t respect you. In this case, I think she wanted ‘the rub’. I sense there’s something going on in the background I don’t know about. Is she wasting my time to get her kicks over Viber or is this a seduction proceeding to the bedroom? I wonder.

She seems keen but then leaves town a few days and we are back to the usual pinging. Finally she agrees to come out, strongly hinting that she’s coming to fuck [2]

I’ve described that date here. It was a topsy-turvy day where I nearly got laid three times but had to make do with just one notch. The next afternoon she messages me and we arrange to meet later that evening. There’s no pretence it’s anything other than fucking. We walk to a grocery store where I buy wine and she piles some bananas and apples into my basket, then we walk to my apartment. She chops up a fruit salad and feeds me while I play Ghost Recon Wildlands on my laptop [3]

Finally I lift her onto my lap and we make out. Very soon after that I’ve got my dick in her ass and some extremely good sex ensues. I dare say it’s the best sex I’ve had all year. Great stuff. Thank you Kiev, you always pay off at the end of my trip!

Like this but less blurry

If you like this kind of daygame thing, you’ll probably love my new textbook Daygame Infinite once I’ve actually finished it. Doing a final edit now before sending it to a professional editor

[1] And probably still looking like a prick

[2] Note I skipped a good chunk of the chat here including where I held my frame and gave a bit comfort after she balked a little at talking about dominant sex

[3] A tremendously under-rated game. It’s the best parts of MGS Phantom Pain, Splinter Cell Blacklist and Far Cry 4 mixed together. I’d go so far as to say it’s the game MGS5 should’ve been, had Kojima actually been allowed to finish it.

“Do you find game stressful?” a wing recently asked me as we walked by Maidan mall mid-afternoon.

“Not at all” I reply. “The street work is fantastic fun and I thoroughly enjoy it. The only thing I dislike about game is the flaking. It’s the emotional rollercoaster that fucks me off.”

Daygame for me is a hobby – that is, something I do for it’s own sake simply because I enjoy it. I want to bang hot girls and try hard to do so, but even when results aren’t coming through it doesn’t take away from the joy of daygame. The joy of walking around in the sunshine with friends, chatting about life, stopping for coffees or beer, seeing a foreign city, and then popping off to open girls and have good interactions.

But fucking hell, the flakes! Fucking hell, the Kiev flakes. This city is a nightmare for it. Yesterday was one of those “only in daygame” days that reminds me how odd this journey is. Let’s begin at the beginning.

I overslept and didn’t get my arse out of bed until half past one. I set up a two pm lunch with an English former-squaddie who’d introduced himself to me a few days earlier while walking with his girlfriend. He’d seen my London Real interview from 2011 and made some changes in his life regarding work, hobbies, and knobbing foreign girls from daygame. He bought me coffee as a thank you [1]

While sitting outside a cafe a nice blonde girl walks by, dressed in a Sgt Peppers’ style faux-military jacket. She appears to IOI me. I do nothing. As the Brit goes to the bathroom, two other guys walking past recognise me and come say hello – a German and a Swede doing a euro jaunt [2] We chat a little and they go their merry way. The Brit settles the bill [3] and we walk towards my favourite Belgian place for whiskey and so I can make use of their better toilet facilities.

Not far off

On the way I see Sgt Pepper Girl again and she gives me another IOI. I open, it’s on, and I take a number. Half an hour later Brit has to go back to the office and I need to hang up my laundry. I ping the girl and she’s keen to meet right away. So I trundle back to Kreschatyk McDonald’s. While waiting for her to show, the same two euro jaunters walk by and say hello again. Blondie arrives and I take her to Porters Bar.

It turns out she’s only visiting Kiev, for a week. She’s rather keen so within half an hour I’ve made out with her and gotten her tits out in the bar. She seems extremely on so we walk up to a park near my apartment and get coffee, and it’s then she starts to show resistance. We try another bar and she orders juice. The whole time forebrain/hindbrain conflict is writ large over her face. She even verbalises it.

I pull her into my building’s lobby and there’s more sloppy make-outs but she won’t come up. I let her go because it’s 9pm now and I have a Day 2 with a different girl. I drop off Blondie at the 24-hour side of McDonald’s then wait five minutes and meet the Brunette at the main entrance. She’s clearly come to fuck.

Imagine a mediocre version of this

Back to Porters but it’s busy now, Friday night. We go to the other bar near my house and eat. Brunette drinks wine and I’m pawing her. For no particular reason I get my dick out then put it away again. Her phone keeps ringing and by 10pm when I pull her outside, her feet lock to the ground.

“I can’t come into your apartment” she says.
“Why not?” I ask, genuinely mystified as she’s clearly come to fuck.
“I want sex now” she replies. “I want sex with you, but I can’t. Not now. I must go. We can meet tomorrow”

She gives me a passionate make-out, pushing right up into me and moaning. She’s clearly gagging for it. However I am forced to walk her back down to McDonald’s. I message my hanger on friend in Belgium

“I’m pretty sure I was cockblocked by a phone call”

I’m a bit fucked off now. Kiev has been flake hell and then twice in ninety minutes I had a horny young girl gagging for it at my apartment building but unwilling to come up to my room. Must be cursed, I mutter to myself.

While muttering under my breath my spider sense tingles at a dark-haired girl walking past. It’s dark, the streets are almost empty [4] and something about her seems right. She’s wearing tight black trousers made out of sequins. I open saying she looks like a disco ball. There’s an immediate crackle of sexual tension.

Daygame Infinite, yesterday

Have I found her? Have I found the one girl in Kiev who will actually have sex with me quickly?

“I’m a tourist here, from Romania” she says in poor English. “I’m here four days visiting a friend”

It turns out she’s ethnically Ukrainian but from a border town slightly north of Romania and spent a long time living the other side. We walk up to Maidan square and we walk past the Brunette who is with her boyfriend. I guess now I know who’d been calling her. I think she sees me but doesn’t react. I figure Porters might have some empty tables by now. Romanian girl follows me in and orders a coffee.

It’s obviously on so I pull her over to my side, massage her legs, play with her hair and then make out within half an hour. She’s very much into it, pushing into me in that tell-tale way to show horniness. Her friend calls and is going to join us for ten minutes, but then messages to cancel.

“She went with a man” the Romanian says simply. “She not come here now”

I don’t inquire whether it’s a regular guy or a stranger. My phone is dying and because we need Google Translate it seems a perfect pretext to bounce.

“I need to charge my phone. There is a good bar next to my apartment. Let’s go there and I can charge my phone too”

She agrees, we walk up, and never actually go into the bar. Straight up at the apartment she takes off her shoes and jacket, sits on the bed, and ten minutes later I’m boning her. One hour SDL of a 25yr old Romanian. Nice. There’s probably never been a single day in my pre-game life that had such volatility. Three girls making out, gagging for it, at my apartment door and one SDL between 9pm and midnight.

And of course having strangers buying me lunch because I write this tosh on the internet.

High value lifestyle

If you recognise me on the streets of an FSU capital, how about you rush home and buy one of my books. Then we’ll have something to talk about while I rinse you for food and alcohol.

[1] And in true Khreschatyk tradition I rinsed him for some food too at a nice restaurant.
[2] That brings my “recognised in Kiev and stopped by daygamers” tally to seven separate occasions on this trip alone. Bless my luck I wasn’t with any RVF-level girls at the time.
[3] Cheaper than a resi, mate
[4] Really weird for a Friday night at the liveliest street in a capital city, I know, but that’s two weeks in a row that it’s been deadsville.

I’ve just finished reading Christopher Berry-Dee’s latest paperback Talking With Psychopaths And Savages which I picked up at the airport on my way out to Kiev. CBD has made a career out of meeting serial killers in prison and interviewing them for books and TV. For his latest book he’s put aside the grisly details of murder and instead focused entirely on the psychology of the serial killer.

He’s not actually a psychologist, which is a major plus in his favour [1]. He’s also not very red pill [2] Nonetheless the fact that he’s a down-to-earth man of a wolfish bent [3] means he has a lot of insight. He provides all the data to draw parallels between homicidal psychopathy, narcissism (especially covert type) and r/K selection. He actually explicitly draws parallels between the first two in the book.

The book spends eight chapters outlining his theory then nine chapters each devoted to a case study of a murderous psychopath he interviewed. I liked the book and recommend it. However, if you’re in the PUA community be ready for lots of spooky passages where you think “this sounds just like [insert public PUA coach]”

But I get ahead of myself.

The very last chapter of the book is Could You Have Spotted These? in which CBD wraps up his ongoing theory that homicidal psychopaths are impossible to identify until it’s already too late for the victims and that such men construct a glib impressive facade [4] that fools normal people into believing they too are normal. Well, CBD, I probably could have spotted them. Pretty damn sure I would have if I’d ever spoken to them in person.

And to that I must thank Anonymous Conservative and his study of facial handedness. Let’s have a look at it, shall we?

“[there is a] Chinese idea that when people consciously try to generate a facial expression, the facial expression will be handed, with the right side of the face usually presenting a more effective expression of emotion, just as most people exhibit greater dexterity with their right hand. Likewise, this means that deceptive people hiding emotion will generally mask their underlying emotional state more effectively with the right side of their face, meaning the left side will be more of a true face, or the more honest representation of their underlying, true emotional state.”

AC then goes on to devote several posts to mirroring photos of known sociopaths and narcissists to demonstrate facial handedness in action. Remember why this is so important to our subjects:

1. Homicidal psychopaths must hide their emotions in order to blend into normal society and to lull their victims into dangerous situations.
2. Narcissists must hide their emotions in order to present a convincing false idealised self that hides the low self-esteem they really suffer.

When you spend a lifetime faking emotions and one side of your face is dominant, you’ll develop an imbalance equivalent to going to the gym and curling heavier dumbbells on one side than the other [5] Thus facial handedness could be expected to become increasingly pronounced as a person ages or as the degree of incongruence between true emotions and faked emotions increases.

I Google Image searched all nine case studies in CBD’s book and found…. well…. why don’t you have a look. Scan each photo once to get a feel for the wonkiness of the face. Then put a paper (or thumb) over the right side, then the left. Consider the difference in which emotion appears to be expressed in each, and try to simulate that expression in front of a mirror to see which emotion it brings up in you.

I’ve inserted two non-killers as a control test

Sorted? This isn’t a foolproof test or anything but it’s pretty blatant once you’re looking for it, no?

I think the above photos actually show one of two situations:

1. The serial killer is trying to show a plain face, in which case the right side succeeds but the left side shows the killer’s dominant emotion while at rest (usually rage or sorrow)
2. The serial killer is trying to fake a particular emotion (usually happiness), in which case the right side succeeds but the left side is unconvincing and comes off shallow and vacant.

This is probably one of the many reasons humans have evolved to sense and value facial symmetry and why crazy people almost always strike you as crazy if you clear your mind and listen to your gut. In the next post I’ll draw some parallels between serial killing and the PUA lifestyle.

If you get off on the grisly adventures of sociopathic drifters, you’ll probably masturbate over the rotting corpse of my memoirs Balls Deep, Deplorable Cad and Adventure Sex

[1] The entire criminological psychiatric profession is a case of rabbits working tirelessly to release murderous criminals into the world as super-predators in order to recreate the conditions of r-selection that rabbits need to out-compete wolves. CBD doesn’t know r/K theory so he remains befuddled by this aspect and constantly ascribes the release of obvious serial killers to incompetence or well-meaning errors.
[2] Thus he takes at face value when the wives of all of these obvious sexual sadists claim they really didn’t know what their husband was, and also seems bemused why so many borderline women would seek out the serial killers and get killed by them.
[3] Unlike the bottom-feeders of the True Crime genre, CBD is not writing to get sexual kicks from the squalor and danger of serial killers. He’s actually methodically collecting evidence to keep them locked up and he’d clearly rather just execute them all. Good on him.
[4] Not unlike a PUA YouTube channel
[5] The compulsive masturbator’s asymmetry, I believe it could be called.

Roy and I have only just arrived in Moscow for a one-month jaunt. I’ve never travelled with him before so have no idea if we’ll get on, or if he’ll turn out to be another daygame weirdo [1] However I’d been keen to get back to Russia and hate travelling alone, so when our schedules matched up we agreed. A few beers in Warsaw a fortnight earlier helped. I was informed Ricky Roma would be there a couple weeks too, and Shotgun and Gollum would also fly in.

Great, I love it when a Team Krauser assembles on the fly.

I check in to a grotty hostel up the road from Red Square. I’ve got better places lined up later but there was a lot of drama in getting myself behind the Iron Curtain. After returning from Minsk I had six days in Newcastle within which to get a Russian visa, a flight, and accommodation. It’s no exaggeration to say my visa-enstamped passport arrived with literally the very last post before my flight.

It was nail-biting, like having an eight about to bounce home.

Roy and I meet late afternoon by the tourist district of Arbat and then rattle off some sets in an underpass that gets lots of rush-hour foot traffic. Then the heavens open. Little did I know but it would rain almost non-stop the next two weeks and really diminish our daygaming opportunities. Still, I’d just spent three weeks in Minsk where it had been thunderstorms literally every single day of my trip. Surely it couldn’t get that bad again.

But more rain and no girls

I do a great set with a smoking hot girl who can’t speak English. We are coseying up under her umbrella [2] Then we take a metro to Ohkotni Ryad and walk up to Kamergirsky. Dusk is cutting in now and the rain has stopped. Street musicians play, families walk around, and there’s a few girls. As we climb the bank to Kuznetsky Most station I see a very pretty girl round the corner.

Umbrella bird from Arbat

Thick dark hair, big raccoon eyes, slinky tight figure, and tottering along in high heels and a skimpy dress. I find out later she’s half-Persian.

Roy sees her too. She gives me a big IOI so I jump in ahead of him. I don’t think he likes that, but she certainly does. It’s immediate eye sparkle, close distance, and a long handhold. She’s on her way to a job interview so I just mesmer her a bit and take a number. I apologise to Roy for going in a bit strong on the 50/50 ball but he doesn’t quibble things.

Texting is sparse but keen. She comes out for coffee soon after, around 3pm in Coffee Shop Company on Kamergirsky. The moment she arrives I know it’s on. Careful make-up, figure-hugging tights, and a big smile. We sit upstairs across each other on sofas but she’s smiling so much, leaning into me, and agreeing with everything I say so I soon pull her over to sit with me.

Kissing soon follows. She’s all over it, half an hour in. Her English is good and I genuinely like her manner and character. It’s the kind of date that makes me glow with satisfaction and remember why I’m in the game. Every moment is good and she’s well worth a dip.

We walk around side streets for a while, visit a free sculpture exhibition, and I finally get her to my door but she won’t come in. We walk a bit more then somehow end at my door again. Still won’t come in. Ok, get fucked you stupid bitch! Fuck off! Next! I do the gentlemanly thing and walk her to the metro, kiss her goodbye and more texting ensues.

There’s two more afternoon dates like this, spread over two weeks. She’s always so busy. I’m running out of time now, entering the last weekend. My numbers are finally coming through for me and I’ve gotten a log jam with dates, carefully scheduling four per day and trying to estimate which is most likely to put out and thus earn the coveted final evening slot.

I get this girl out for 2pm and need to meet my regular at 4pm [3] so I figure we’ll have coffee and I’ll just sound her out in case it’s proper on. We sit in a cafe by Kuznetsky Most and it’s great again. Good chat, she looks lovely, and just being there fills me with happiness.

I start fingering her through her tights

She squirms, smiles, lets me do it. Then she sighs, “I’m on my period”. It has the air of “I’d definitely fuck right now otherwise”.

My turn to sigh. With only two days left in Moscow, this notch will have to wait. Unsure what to do I pull a newspaper over, get her to hold it up like we are reading it, then I….

wait for it…

wait…

….

Get my dick out.

The Krauser Flash

Her eyes go wide and she gives a beaming smile. Then she wanks me off. We are sitting on a sofa in the corner of a very busy cafe but the newspaper does it’s job admirably. She just can’t keep her hands off me for ten minutes. Finally we are out of time. She poses a few photos for her Instagram that I take, then arranges the newspaper to be visible in one and adds the caption: “moments! :)”

I take her to the station, see my regular coming, and divert the outgoing girl to the other side of the tunnel and hurriedly kiss her goodbye. We’re still in touch so I’m hopeful she’s still on. Then I take my regular home and bang her. A so-so date follows, then I have a second date that leads to a notch but that’s for another post.

If you enjoyed this story then you can’t fail to enjoy my memoirs: Balls Deep, Deplorable Cad, and Adventure Sex

[1] On reflection, I still don’t know. Maybe he just hides it well.
[2] I fuck her the next afternoon, taking her anal virginity.
[2a] Actually I didn’t. I just wish I had. She flaked.
[3] “Regular” is something of an embellishment. I’d fucked her once on first date previous summer, then she’d freaked out on second date and run off. Irregular texting followed then when I met her early on this trip she’d appeared to be on her period and avoided any talk of coming home. So, this meeting would be only second time I’d fuck her. She was a very hot 19 year old.

It’s Thursday evening on Khreschatyk street and dusk is descending. I’m standing with Eddie and Xants in the square by McDonald’s, subjected to the trashy music the street dancing kids are performing to. A crowd has gathered around them, enjoying the balmy summer evening.

Another crowd is conspicuous by it’s absence – the sleazy fat Turkish sex tourists. There was a full-on turkroach infestation the past week, their slimy rat-faced kind fouling up the whole of the street. They’d wander around in pairs eyeballing every single girl, then tap them on the shoulder and follow them down the street trying to offer an iphone, a slap up meal, or whatever else it is they pay for sex.

Even if you discount my very mild and well-hidden racism, it’s not good for daygamers. All the normal girls had been frightened off and it was a magnet for actual whores, who seemed to be everywhere. Xants almost got scammed by one, but that’s his story to tell not mine.

“Like I give a fuck, we will rule your lands”

Anyway, they’d mostly gone home so now the street could breathe. I’d gotten some sets in collected a bunch of numbers to pour into the daygame slop machine. Unfortunately nothing really stuck.

“Time for gutter game” I announced. “I’m filtering for horniness and vulnerability”

A short time later Eddie is trying to convince me to join him in Chernobyl on Sunday, waxing lyrically about the irradiated soil, the deserted shacks, and of course the glowing yellow Nuclear Power Plant itself.

“My vibe is already radioactive” I complain. “I don’t need more of it”

I briefly consider if radiation works like it did for The Hulk and Spiderman, granting me special powers of eye mesmer and escalation. If it would give my phone numbers a longer half life, I’d take it. Instead I decline Eddie’s offer. I’d just completed Stalker Clear Sky and installed the Complete mod for Stalker Call Of Pripyat. My adventures in The Zone would be limited to the virtual world.

Criminally under-rated even by Stalker series fans

I see a girl walk past. Dark hair with fringe, wide child-bearing hips, and young. Unfortunately no better than a six but I utter the strongest inner game mantra I know: “she’ll do”

I step right in on her, almost breathing down her face. She lets me in, her eyes spazzing wide. I mumble some nonsense to her about her hairstyle and face. I probably compare her unfavourably to a hamster. She’s giggling. I start pawing at her, my hands on her shoulders or cupping her head as I talk into her ear. I sense her body shudder in excitement. It’s electric.

Just wish she was a seven or better.

A seven or better

We walk off to the nearby Porters Pub. The fact it’s a white power pub with all kinds of militia and special forces flags hanging from the ceiling has nothing to do with my choice. Nothing, I tell you! It’s cheap and dark.

“Don’t laugh at the quality” I text Eddie.

We nestle into a corner booth near the door and she joins me in ordering unfiltered white beer. A good sign. For the first quarter hour she’s at the perpendicular angle of the L-shape, rather than next to or opposite me. I get her touching my Rings Of Power rings then pull her in to play with her hair. After that she scoots back.

“No. Come back here. I want to touch you” I command and she obeys.

I want to escalate fast so I dive into a questions game and am soon asking about the colour of her underwear, the last time she had sex (six months ago) and if she watches porn. I drop a few ratbag DHVs and it’s going great. She won’t let me kiss her but she does moan when I pull her hair and bite her neck.

Funny how girls who won’t kiss will often let you maul them. There’s a lot about that in my new textbook.

I continue to maul her. I’m running a finger up and down her thighs, playing with her hair, biting her ear. Finally I decide I’m going too slow so I put my hand up inside her t-shirt and start playing with her tits. We are continuing on with the questions game like no escalation is afoot, but I’ve gotten her tits out of her bra and I’m fiddling with her nipples under her shirt.

I finger her through her leggings for a bit and then get my dick out.

That surprised you, didn’t it. No way would I usually get my dick out in a bar (or street). She looks at it, then I put it away. I invite her to my apartment but she declines. Time is ticking so when she says she needs to go meet friends I take her Facebook. Finally, I summon the courage to kiss her outside. She gives it back a bit but not a heavy makeout.

“Ok, we can meet another day” she says and walks off. The bubble bursts. She does in fact strike up conversation the next afternoon.

It’s my last full day in town and I’m purring like a cat in a sunbeam. The hectic weekend has only just passed and was sufficiently eventful that my trip has been upgraded from “decent” to “great”. Now I’m just enjoying the sun, walking with Roy and Shotgun, and wondering if I can eke one more notch out of my phone list on this final evening.

My eyes rest on the middle distance, scanning Kamergirsky Street for female silhouettes in the distance. It’s usually pretty quiet around here mid-afternoon, not picking up till dinner time when the girls come out to restaurants or simply prowl back and forwards. I see a girl.

Tall, tight blue cocktail dress, heels. She has the dark features I like and the undulating walk I filter for. I open. Something about walking like a cat and having a scary face. It doesn’t matter. She stops and her instinctive reaction to me is to smile. Cat-like energy exudes from her. Noting this, my two hangers-on wings continue down the street for an early beer.

A lot like this. Probably even a bit hotter

“I’m Nick” I say, holding out my hand.
“I’m Ela” she replies. “I can’t shake your hand. I’m Muslim”
“A muslim in Moscow?” I query. Surely Putin had put a stop to such nonsense.
“I’m Chechan” she says.

Deep inside, I somersault, high-five, and pat myself on the back. I’ve always wanted that flag. Any time you Google Image search Chechnya you see beautiful dusky girls and big fat Jihadi-bearded troll men. I never imagined I’d meet one of the former without an escort of the latter.

I look around anyway, just be to on the safe side. There are no cries of Allah Akhbar and no explosions. I’m safe for now.

Her dad

We chat a few minutes and she tells me she’s just walking around, enjoying the sun. She’s a violinist at a local academy and seems like a strong K-select. Yet something doesn’t seem to fit. Her walk was sexual, her eyes are smouldering, and there’s a crackle of sexual tension. This might well be a rabbit in wolf’s clothing. I suggest we go for a walk.

The next fifteen minutes are spent walking towards Red Square then past the Bolshoi theatre and back to Kamergirsky. I politely probe her for information about her lifestyle, interests, and character. It turns out she moved here for university a few years ago (she’s twenty) and finds Chechnya cloying and restrictive. She confirms that yes she feels like an outsider, yes she’s a little rebellious, and yes she loves the anonymity of the big city. I calibrate my DHVs accordingly with a focus on freedom, passion, and rebellion.

We are twenty minutes in now and I’m pretty sure she fancies me. I suggest a coffee at a nice outdoor bar at Kuznetsy Most.

“I’ve never drunk alcohol before”
“It’s tasty. It’s worth a try”
“No. It’s ramadan. I won’t even have water”
“Surely you must be so hungry”
“Oh yes! It’s terrible”
“I just had a cheeseburger for lunch. A thick crispy bun and then lashings of sweet mayonnaise dripping over a hot succulent burger. The flavour was like….”
“Stop! It’s killing me!”

Like this, but a point lower

We sit at a rickety wooden table, her across from me. At this point I notice a dozen or more small scars on her left forearm. Trying not to stare, I eventually conclude they are self-harm. This girl is a cutter.

“Should’ve left her for Roy” I think to myself. “More his kind of girl“

I order beer and check my watch. Can’t get her drunk tonight and I’m out of time to do second dates. Might as well heat her up, escalate, and shoot for the fences. I begin the questions game. She enthusiastically agrees. Highlights include

• She’s wearing black lace underwear
• She’s a virgin and hasn’t kissed a man
• She thinks about sex all the time, and at least ten times about sex with me since we met
• On a scale of one to ten in horniness she is, at that precise moment, a twelve

I tell her my SDL with a porno star story from Prague last year. Every word of it is truth and it’s a beauty to drop on ratbags when you’re pulling fast. She loves it. I see her pupils dilate and she shifts position in her chair several times.

“What do you like about me?” I ask
“Your face is handsome. And your shoulders. You have deep eyes, like the ocean. And you are very charismatic”

She probably said a few more things too. Call it an IOI. This girl was boiling in her love juices and just staring at me. I try sounding her out verbally about sex and coming to my apartment. I explain I’m leaving tomorrow. She resists. I try waxing lyrically about the joy of freedom and acting on impulse, about how we only live once and it is important to take our opportunities. She still resists.

“Let’s go for a walk” I suggest then lead her to my apartment at the top of the street. She knows that’s what I’m up to and dumbly follows.

She fancies me, she’s horny, she’s been telling me her sexual fantasies, and now she’s following me to my apartment. Too early to pop the champagne but the One-Hour Twenty-Year Old Hot Chechan Virgin SDL flag is looking about 50/50 now, the closest I’ve ever come. And she really is hot, a solid eight.

As we turn into the courtyard, she wobbles. There are just a few parked cars, and the front door to my apartment block at the end. No people. She doesn’t look frightened, just immobile like her anti-grav boots have locked her to the floor.

“I can’t come in” she states, standing in the middle of the courtyard.
I try hand-waving it and key the code into the door lock. I look back and she’s still rooted to the spot, five metres away. I go back and try to coax her in. She’s not having it.
“Do you trust me?” I say. “Do you trust that you can leave my apartment without getting raped?”
“I trust you” she replies. “I don’t trust myself. If I go in, I’ll have sex.”
“That’s the point”
“No. I can’t”

I unzip my trousers and get my dick out, right there in the courtyard at 4pm. It’s rock hard and I’m hoping no-one is looking out of the hundred or so windows overlooking us. I’m not entirely sure why I did it.

She just stares at my dick. Her jaw goes slack, her eyes lose focus and I’m pretty sure she wobbled a little.

“No! I can’t” she whimpers, then runs away back to the main road.

I follow, take her number, and walk her to the metro. After saying goodbye I get a takeaway coffee and walking back past the metro I see her sat in a corner messaging. Then she walks off back towards where we met, the direction I’m headed. I give her ten metres, not intending to re-open. When we cross a road she literally helps an old lady across the road.

Later that evening, I’m checked into a hotel for one night in order to get my police registration stamped. Around 9pm I ping her – “I saw you help an old lady across the road”.

She strikes up conversation and replies fast. After a dozen exchanges I suggest she come around and watch a movie. She agrees to From Dusk Till Dawn and says she’ll get to my nearby metro station for midnight.

She doesn’t come. She blocks me the next day.

If you enjoyed that vignette, you’ll love my memoirs – Balls Deep, Deplorable Cad and Adventure Sex