Good daygame is not about bells and whistles, salsa spins and silly pranks. That’s just feeding the YouTube clowns who watch a fuckwit / charlatan and don’t even know what they are seeing. Good daygame is not about standing still and making inane chit chat either, unless you’re top 5% in looks and happy getting girls below you in SMV.

If you want girls younger-hotter-tighter you have to lead the chat, demonstrate value, move her through the stages and do it all without appearing to be performing. It’s tough.

My recent efforts have been to subtley embed the lessons of lover/provider (or r/K selection) into the mechanics of an infield stop. I’m making a discreet and well-calibrated sexual proposition to the girl in the hope she’s step out for some adventure sex. Everything about me has to project the same signal: Adventure Sex Guy. So I need to align:

• fashion
• body language
• vibe
• verbal content
• decision making

Thus I have a bad boy style with rings, chains and biker boots. I stand confident and cocky while my eyes shine and my mouth smirks. I’m sexually intense and unapologetic in expressing it. I turn the conversation sexual with innuendo, teasing and leading. And I make decisions that lead to fast sex not dating (hopefully!).

I haven’t recorded much in Belgrade because it takes me out of the moment. I think the few legit daygamers have already put enough good infields up on YouTube already. But here’s one from a couple of days ago. I’ve added captions to explain some of what I’m doing.

The main things to take from this audio are:

• The r-selection gets tested when she mentions her boyfriend. Watch how I deal with it.
• Try to spot all the subtle fractionation in matched pairs of push/pull, sexually on/off, talking/listening, stupid/smart etc.

Haven’t fucked her yet. Still swapping texts to see if I can take her at the flood.

To learn this style of daygame, check out my books Daygame Nitro (intermediate) and Daygame Mastery (advanced)

I talk a lot in Daygame Mastery about the need to establish male-female polarity from the beginning of the interaction. It’s important to live your life in a masculine manner so that your vibe is manly. When you stop the girl, do so decisively and with masculine dominance. You never let the polarity slip. So how does polarity look once you’re banging a girl and keeping her around?

Allow me to show, rather than tell…

Things to note for those insufficiently observant to just see:

• I have a languid manner with slow low voice and a poker face
• I’m the tree, she’s the squirrel running around me
• I’m comfortable leading her, and she likes following
• She defers to me and qualifies
• I feed her soft dominance too, giving her smiles and laughs

Polarity isn’t a struggle, it’s a pleasant dance. It fills me with contentedness, and of course look how happy she is. This is what stupid Anglo feminists are missing out on…. the joy of being a masculine man’s woman.

A month ago I’m out doing Sunday daygame with Bodi. We’ve both been in hibernation and not pushing it hard. London has been hit with excessive rain and flooding lately and the cold weather has been just slightly past the point where daygame is fun. So I’ve been catching up on my PS3 gaming and finalising my book.

It’s nice to keep my hand in, so I went out for a weekend and rustled up some new leads. Most of the time I was hanging onto one of Tom’s bootcamps just for the entertainment of it. I felt like I ought to see some beginners to remind myself what it’s like and get a bit of empathy for when I start marketing my book. I got a few sets in.

First was a gorgeous Siberian girl. Fresh off the boat, in London for three weeks and really into me. We text for about a week and she always has another plan. Madame Tussauds, Bath, Lion King and the London Eye. Momentum dies and we never have the first date.

That same day I’m walking past the Apple store on Regent Street when I see a squirrely tourist amble past with the rucksack-jeans-converse combo of vulnerability. She hooks strong, telling me she’s from Argentina and here for three weeks doing an art internship. She’s super-keen and does come out for the first date. As I push her into the taxi she tells me “I can’t have sex. I’m on my period. I don’t want you to be disappointed”. So I extract anyway, get the blowjob and four days later take her virginity.

At 5pm Bodi has a date with some Austrian girl who insists on bringing a Brazilian friend from her English school. Bodi asks me to take one for the team so I join him. Brazilian is ok, a bubbly high six but she has a shitty feminist-lite attitude, quite common in Brazilian girls. Bodi leads us all to a tea shop and works the set. Unfortunately he’s wigged out and I’m inadvertantly value-tapping him because he talks too much and my attempts to be silent to let him lead just end up positioning me as the cool aloof guy.

The Austrian really fancies me. She’s giving me the eye spazz and probably wants fucking. By the end of the tea the Brazilian has gone from giggly and excited to bored and cock-blocking, dragging the Austrian off to a dinner party. Stupid bitch. As we say goodbye Austrian gives me a long sexual look. Fuck.

So Bodi and I hit a Sam Smith’s pub for a half and a debrief. It’s quite easy to pick out the areas for improvement so Bodi leaves in higher spirits. We are crossing Regent Street when I just happen to see a DNA-tug girl ambling along by herself. It’s 7pm and quite dark, a sexual time of the evening. I instinctively open.

Almost identical body

“You’re Brazilian”

That’s it. I’m encroaching her distance, she’s eye spazzing and giggling. This girl is a stunner. I later find out she’s a TV news girl. 23 year old SMV-prime. She arrived a few days earlier and is studying English three weeks. I walk her off on an idate, seeing Bodi shuffle off tail between his legs.

The idate goes well. All the usual stuff. We actually go back to the same table at the same pub I was in with Bodi. The glass collector hasn’t been so our empty glasses are still there. That’s how quickly things can change direction in daygame. I run all the usual Venue One material then walk her to the next door blues bar to escalate. We’re standing watching the live music and the vibe is great – she’s completely in the Love Bubble. All the kino hits and she’s letting me move her around but she won’t put herself into a kissable position. Verbal is going great and we are soon talking about sexual histories and fantasies. Two hours have passed and I walk her to a dark secluded Spanish bar. She refused the kiss and I let her go.

Five days pass. She’s at Madame Tussauds, Bath, Lion King and London Eye. Finally I get the Day 2. It’s similar stuff. An English pub where we get the sexual tension going and then a dark wine bar where she’s clearly ready to kiss and puts herself into position. So I take it. The vibe gets increasingly hot and sexual. She’s really into it. So I pull the trigger.

Outside Liberty department store a taxi comes and I push her in. At first she’s up for it but as we pull away the jitters hit and I can feel it coming unstuck. We get back out the cab at Marble Arch on her insistence. I figure I can pull her into another bar to rebuild momentum but everywhere is shut. Fuck. She uses that opportunity to derail the train and insist on getting the tube home. I push her up against a shop window and choke her, kiss her, pull her hair. Then I have to let her go.

You’d think it was on

Another five days pass. She’s at another round of tourist sites then tells me she wants to see Greenwich. We have a delightful daytrip on the Clipper boat, the museum, the observatory and then walk through the tunnel under the river. She’s all over me again but just won’t extract. On the Central Line back into town we’re standing in the vestibule with me locked in against the glass partition and her doing the full-body press against me. And she insists on going back home alone.

That’s the last I see her. More tourist sites, more bitching about the rain and staying home then she flies back to Brazil. I mention my frustration to Tom. This is a solid nine in the prime of her SMV, famous on TV in her region. Exactly me type. She fancies the fuck out of me. And yet she just doesn’t want to fuck.

“You can’t compete with the London Eye, mate. Tourists are all the same. The whole city is shiny for them. It can be a nightmare getting them out.”

It’s pretty important to calibrate the girls you talk to. Roughly speaking you have Yes Girls who are available and into you and thus simply need to be shuttled along without fucking up. There’s No Girls who are unavailable or not into you. You have to spot them and then gracefully depart before wasting any more of your time.

The interesting ones are the Maybe Girls. They are mildly attracted to you and might be available. They’ll let you chat them up and see how their own emotions direct them. Tight game and a little luck will get them but it’s still a roll of the dice. So how do you recognise a Maybe Girl?

• They stop and listen to you but make you work for hook point
• They’ll give back in the conversation but are not overly enthusiastic or verbose
• They’ll follow your lead after a few push-backs
• All the lights will be Amber

This is where the real game is played. It takes little skill to move along a Yes Girl because they’ll pick up the ball any time you drop it and constantly give you state-pumping happy vibes. Maybe Girls require skill and finese.

So here’s an example. She’s a 21 year old Latvian blonde. Listen with an eye for how to calibrate her.

You’ll note my game doesn’t shift out of second gear. Sunday was dreary, rainy and I couldn’t quite find my vibe. Perhaps fucking that new girl on Friday took away my conviction and intent. So I was feeling pretty chill and stateless. I just run the model and grind the set out. Perhaps a 6/10 for technique. She’s been responding well to the texting.

* I’m quite happy to hear reader analysis on this set. Don’t be shy. There was more going on than I noted in the subtitles.

I’m walking down Oxford Street near Selfridges in the summer of 2012. My approaching has already started to wind down after gorging myself in a month’s tour of Yugoslavia. I’m relying on autopilot to push me along but it’s still pleasant. I see a tall African girl dressed elegantly with a colourful headscarf.

Hmmmm. I believe in going after Unicorns. This means girls who are completely outside of my normal catchment demographic but of such rare and unusual beauty that I really ought to give it a go on general principle. I don’t have any expectations of how they’ll react or how well I can get them. Just push the comfort zone and chase the beauty.

Drop a point

So I open this Muslim telling her I love her stylish fashion. Probably I compare her to a giraffe. I forget. She loves it. Her accent is posh and measured, her dememour very classy…. she’s just adorable. Sharp intelligent eyes, a free easy smile. Yummy. My humour is free-flowing and Im’ feeling good:

Me: I’m Nick

Her: I’m Afaf

Me: Haha… [laughing]

Her: What? Why are you laughing?

Me: That’s not a name. That’s the noise dogs make. Afafafafaf

Later when telling her friends they love it and make dog jokes when she tells them of dates. I keep a general “woof woof” theme of callback humour going throughout the dating. So I take the number and get her out a week later. I thoroughly stumped as to how to proceed. She’s a proper five-prayers-a-day Muslim virgin of Somali background but grew up in Saudi Arabia. Culturally we are from different planets. I’m in my head about it.

Day 2 is a walk around a small park near Russell Square, sitting on a bench and later a coffee in Costa. I’m too freaked out to escalate, the headscarf and virginity giving me a mental block. We finish in a pub but she doesn’t drink alcohol and I overtly tell her I have no idea how to proceed. She’s nice about it but I’m expecting to LJBF myself through incompetence. I’m puzzled why I don’t feel the usual drive to just run the escalation model and push towards sex.

Day 3 is a nearby cinema to watch Judge Dredd. I hold her hand like a nervous teenager and then as we leave the darkened screen I kiss close her. Great, she takes it. She leans up against me in the bus stop and I send her home. From now on things are more like a normal girl but she’s got this massive virginity block.

Tepid Escalation

We go to parks, eat in restaurants, have coffee. She comes round my house several times to watch movies and sit in my bedroom. It’s the closest thing I’ve had to regular dating all year. I even take her to a friend’s birthday party in Notting Hill. I’ve got a girlfriend. I like this. Autumn has come and I really don’t feel like generating new leads through the street grind. I want to hibernate and just close off my remaining leads which at this point are:

• – Serb A, Serb B, Serb C
• – Russian A, Russian B
• – Croat A, Croat B

One of the Russians drift away after a solid Day 3 kiss close while both Croats fall off the radar. It’s a shame because all are solid 8s but what can you do? I’m just happy to knock over four of seven. Autumn passes into winter and I’ve now been dating my Saudi once a week for about two months.

Every escalation is painfully slow. First time I kiss her it’s soft. Second time there’s tongues and a bit of groping. First time I get her home she cuddles up to me on the sofa but won’t come to my bedroom. First time in the bedroom I get her tits out but no touching up downstairs. Later I finger her to orgasm through her jeans. Later again she wanks me off. Later again I get her face exploring around my dick but she won’t put it in her mouth.

Weirdly, I’m not too upset about the slothlike pace of escalation. I like her company. She tells me I’m the first man to ever take her beyond kissing. Yes, at age 26 she has never had a man mash her tits, touch her pussy or wrap her long fingers around his cock. I feel like Captain Kirk exploring a new planet. It doesn’t feel like failure. It’s nice having her adore me.

Then things go suddenly wrong. I’m at the next push for escalation in my bedroom unbuttoning her jeans. She’s so hot and horny I very nearly get her jeans off. She’s on the edge of the cliff, one tiny step from going all the way over the edge into full sex. We both sense it. She shuts down. I have to back off. At the bus stop I give her a nice kiss before she waves goodbye and I shrug my shoulders – only a matter of time now.

She doesn’t reply to any more texts. Complete radio silence. Unadds me from skype. She’s gone without explanation or goodbye. A year later I’m out with Jabba in Selfridges cafe when she walks past with a friend. I see her, she sees me, she knows I know she knows I’m there. She completely blanks me.

I’ve since experienced similar behaviour from other chaste Africans. Their body pushes them to hot horny sex but their mind resists. Eventually they reach a moment where they know one more step will put them over the edge. They cool off back home and realise “if I see him again I’ll end up fucking him”. So they cut contact. They can’t trust themselves not to get roped back in and deflowered. It sucks for me. If I’d figured out the solution to this puzzle I’d have had virgin flags fro Saudi Arabia, Ghana and Equitorial Guinea. Harumph!

I’m walking along sunny Oxford Street in July with Bodi, my mind on video games and specifically whether I should get Dead Space 3 now or wait until I’ve completed Crysis 3 first. It’s a tough choice. One constant in my life is wanting more. I get a buzz from buying a new game and booting it up, familiarising myself to new controls and new eye candy in the visual design. Usually the novelty wears off about three hours in and I get into the zone where the controller merges seamlessly with my hands, the TV screen no longer seperates me from the game world and I’m now fully immersed in the game. This flow state is immensely rewarding. Usually by the 50% complete mark (for a typical AAA game that’s about seven hours in) I get restless. I’m so far in that I’m compelled to complete the game (I hate to leave anything unfinished in life) but the enjoyment is subject to diminishing returns due to overfamiliarity. Thus the constant tension between completing games I’m >50% through (Crysis 3) or buying a new one for the novelty buzz (Dead Space 3). Add in series loyalty from me having completed all previous games in both franchises and then reviews saying Dead Space 3 is a staggering twenty hours long – double normal AAA games – and I’m torn.

Such are the things which torment me.

Real beauty, better than any Russian model

Smarter readers will have distilled from this preamble the tension I have in Game. I want the buzz of new girls but I also enjoy the progressively deeper attachments with girls I like. It’s a constant tension. So while thinking about video games I look behind us and see a hot African girl walking along. She’s a little minx with big wide eyes, great curves, slim and dressed in an unexpected chic 60s Paris style. I double take and open. My vibe is great. She sounds smart and classy so within ten minutes we’ve hit it off well and I take a number. Texting is precise, so on-point from both of us that I use sections for my new book’s Text Game chapter. We meet a few days later.

It’s an excellent date. We have tea then move on to a couple of pubs. She’s delightful company and full of confidence in her femininity. I’ve realised the differences between British black, American black and African black girls are like an abyss. Put crudely:

• British black: Insufferable princesses full of false bravado and hollow aggressive sexuality. Hot black women immediately ditch their own race and try to date rich white professional guys.
• American black: I have little experience of these. They appear to be thick as shit and talk like drunken sailors. The few I’ve met professionally in the banking industry are basically men with braided hair. Think Condeleeza Rice.
• African black: Very nice cultured manner and speech patterns, pretty good education and a traditional vibe. I like them alot.

Does this make me racisss? Don’t care. Perhaps it’s just a self-selected sample because I’m never in the ghetto and I avoid the girls with vulgar street fashion. Who knows, who cares. This girl was nice.

So in the third venue I decide I need to be escalating. All the attraction and rapport has gone well. She’s a graduate student from a nice neighbourhood in Ghana and she’s constantly hammering me with the “I’m a good girl. No sex before marriage” story – which I don’t believe for a moment. African girls always give you that spiel. I move in to kiss. She rebuffs a few times then the barriers are down. I’m still thinking this one will move slowly so at about 10pm we’re leaving the last venue and I’m going to drop her off home (she lives very centrally).

Add 5kg

As we walk along the back alley by Revolution bar in Soho I push her against a wall and make-out. She’s way hornier than I expected and the hindbrain is very excited. She’s gasping, moaning, grabbing me. I put her hand on my dick and she’s rubbing it hard. This girl is gagging for it. So I walk her all the way to her front door and try to get inside. She’s holding me off on the pavement desperately trying to regain forebrain control. I get her into the hallway and there’s more frantic making out. Then we’re upstairs inside her apartment but unfortunately she shares with two flatmates so it’s not a done deal. More making out and the forebrain shutters keep slamming down. She’s genuinely torn between a raging horniness for fucking and a sensible good girl forebrain control. I get a real No and we’re back in the hallway making out again. She’s rubbing my dick so I try to get my hands down her pants for skin-on-skin. I’ll happily fuck her there and then, it’s reasonably private. The moment she feels the skin-on-skin she shuts down. I have to bid her adieur.

Next week is Day 3 and it’s the same again. A civilised date, she asks me to walk her home and the forebrain shuts down again while we’re in her hallway with her hand on my dick. It’s achingly close. The contrast between her good girl vibe and sudden wanton abandon is extreme. By Day 4 I decide I need to try a different tack – probably she needs more comfort – so we just have tea and walk through the park. I don’t escalate beyond light kissing. I’m hopeful and then outside intervention busts it all.

I have a few foreign trips, she has family visiting, and we go three weeks without meeting. I sense distraction in her texts. She’s not engaged to the same level but I get her to meet me near my house and after a couple of drinks we are on my sofa. I still sense reticence on her part but different to earlier. On the first few dates she was free to fuck but decided to slow down, this time I sense she’s conflicted by outside forces. I push anyway. She’s topless with her ample breasts in my mouth, straddling me and grinding on my dick but she’s reticent to touch it with her hands and resists all efforts to unburden her of her jeans. She tells me she’s not comfortable having sex today. Perhaps she’s on the rag.

How bizarre

Another week of indifferent texts follow then she invites me out for a coffee. That’s when I get the Speech. Her ex-boyfriend has asked if they can make it official again with proper monogamous dating. She knows I just want a casual fling so she’ll take the surer bet. I don’t have a counter-offer of monogamy, telling her instead that I like her and if she’s single again to look me up. Next day her whatsapp profile photo is updated to show her with the guy. Typical good-looking professionally-competent African nice guy. They seem a good match.

The Ghana flag must wait. I think I played it as well as I could but the real world conspired against me.

Here’s another failure story for you eager beavers.

Three months ago I’m walking through Green Park with Bodi in early evening. I’ve had a decent day and collected a few hopeful numbers and even had an idate with a very very hot Mexican tourist whose short shorts and tight halter top had my tongue hanging out when I first saw her. The Mexican subsequently disappeared onto the next leg of her Euro-trip after a bit of inconclusive Facebook chat – her interest levels and availability weren’t high enough to move things along to a Day 2. As we come out the top of the park Bodi sees an Italian girl waiting at the bus stop a micro-second before I do and he’s in. Perfect prospect for daygame: squirrely, cute, bored, dreamy….. he gets a strong hook and bounces her to a nearby cafe.

So I’m left twiddling my thumbs and it starts to rain.

I walk towards Piccadilly and run into two cute smiley girls with long term boyfriends. Nice chats but nothing doing. So I settle down into Caffe Nero and go off the clock. My session is done, I’ll just relax in a comfy chair and wait for Bodi to close out the idate. Half an hour later he shows up grumbling that she was eye-spazzing and loving it but commited to her boyfriend.

Sustaining weary daygamers since 2009

Those angry men in the “all girls are sluts” phase would do well to bear this in mind. For every girl I do fuck there’s at least five who massively fancy me and would be massively up for it…. except they will not cheat on their boyfriends. And I do test them hard. I’m one of the sharks who smells blood in the water and can pry a girl away from her man but even then it fails far more times than it works. Maybe it’s because I normally go after good girls and screen out slutty tattooed party girls. But also it’s because most girls are not on the carousel. Girls are not notch-centric so when they have a good thing going with their boyfriend they’ll turn down other offers. Carousel girls are a strangely masculinised bunch that are not representative of the wider female population.

The rain reduces to a drizzle and dusk settles over the streets of London. Black taxi cabs whizz past and office workers rush home protecting themself from the rain with a newspaper held over their heads. I have an 8pm date with an Italian horror movie starlet (which goes nowhere, I find out later) and it’s 7:50pm now. We walk outside.

Sitting at the bus stop is a lovely voluptuous girl, a Brazilian by my estimation. She seems to flash me a look but it’s very subtle, possibly nothing at all, and I remind myself I’m off the clock. Then she looks at the timetable display, gets up and walks off a few yards behind us. Oh well, might as well flip the stone….

She gives immediate spazz-eyes and beaming smile. It’s like the moment they turn on the Regent Street christmas lights. Wow, she’s into this! She tells me she’s Russian and here on business, leaving early tomorrow morning. I take a number and say we can meet later tonight for a drink. “Let’s have the drink now” she says. Gritting my teeth I have to tell her no, I’m meeting friends. I calculate my Day 2 can be done within two hours and tell her let’s meet 10pm. It’s agreed.

Actual girl, in Krauser disguise

So I meet the Italian and do a decent job but it doesn’t really click. My phone is almost dead when I text the Russian “where are you?” She waits outside a restaurant in Leicester Square until I collect her and walk to Waxy O’Connors, a dark Irish pub with some nicely secluded rooms. The checklist gets ticked off fast.

Her: I’m married.

Me: I don’t care.

Her: Neither do I. It’s not going well. He’s cheated on me and I’ve cheated on him.

She’s lovely too, about 26 and with a flat stomach and great curves. I kiss her within half an hour and run accelerated rapport as the clock ticks. Her flight back to Moscow is 6am and she says she hasn’t packed her suitcase. I give it two drinks in Waxy’s until I seem to be getting green lights. It’s now that I make a tiny mistake that causes my crucial judgement call ten minutes later to be the wrong play.

I fail to check her logistics. She tells me she’s in a hotel in Ladbroke Grove (ten minute cab ride) but I fail to ask who she’s staying with.

So when we go outside for a nightcap and taxi I tell the driver to go to her hotel. It’s a difficult decision because my place is three times the distance and with her early flight she’s more likely to protest. I figure it’s quicker to her place, she’s more comfortable there, and it’s less likely to trigger anxiety over not catching her flight.

As we arrive at her hotel I walk her to the lift and she pipes up “we can’t go to my room, I’m sharing it with a work colleague”. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. One tiny mistake has jeopardised the whole SDL. I walk her to a disabled toilet and push her inside. She’s horny and making out but giving it “No, not in a toilet”. I try forcing it but she’s giving a firm no so I have to relent.

Okay, one step back. We settled into the hotel bar for another drink. More rapport and comfort. More sex talk but the vibe is chilled as the relentless escalator to sex has been paused. I probe her further but get nothing I can use. So finally it’s past midnight and I have to make a final play. I walk her around the hotel looking for anywhere sexworthy – a conference room, closet…. anything. There’s nowhere to fuck her. I keep stopping her to make out. She’s grabbing my dick, wanking me off, I’ve got her tits out and in my mouth in the hotel corridor but there’s just nowhere to drag her. She won’t go to her room, won’t go to a bathroom, won’t do it in the corridor. It’s logistically fucked and she’s massively horny.

How it should’ve ended, yesterday

She tells me she has to sleep and get her flight. She’ll message me next time she’s back in London. So far I haven’t heard a peep. It’s a dead lead.

I’m often accosted on the street in Central London by blog readers. Originally it was a surreal experience to have people want to talk to me based entirely on my online persona. I guess even more surreal than seeing forum posts arguing about what I would probably think on a topic:

Forum Guy A: Krauser says x, y, z…. therefore a, b, c naturally follow

Forum Guy B: No. I imagine Krauser probably thinks 1, 2, 3.

There’s nothing at all wrong with this, it’s just when you’re the subject of it it feels weird. Two guys you’ve never met arguing about something you may or may not have said. It must be really weird when you’re genuinely famous like Justin Bieber and having fans set up forums to discuss you 24/7. I guess I’m glad I don’t run The Silk Road because when I cross paths with my online persona there are no SWAT teams or Russian mafia hitmen involved.

I’ve noticed the guys who accost me are of two types. The normal-looking guys politely catch my attention and apologise for interrupting me, try not to make any demands on my time and basically just say “I like your blog”. Precisely because they are so polite and value-giving I tend to give them the time of day. Conversely the weird-looking guys tend to watch my sets, follow me down the street and then do some creepy opener on me while looking for any pretext to launch into their life story and extract a free consultation. They seem to think they have some kind of right to my time and attention. So I’ve started to blank them and may go the Steve Jabba route and start dishing out wedgies.

No, Achmed. You can’t have a free 1-on-1

This long self-absorbed ramble is meandering it’s way to my main point:

Almost without exception the normal guys mention that they are really happy to hear about my failures as well as my successes.

I don’t mean they are churlish or resentful. It’s because the pick-up community literature is extremely biased towards success stories and due to the human cognitive bias of The Availability Fallacy we absorb an impression that Game is easier than it is. And thus guys who are experiencing the harsh reality of cold approach can drop into the frame of “I suck. I’m the one guy who is getting blown out alot.” So while guys like to be inspired by success stories they also take heart from knowing that the better-known guys are still suffering blowouts, LMR and the usual emotional rollercoaster. So allow me to offer a recent failure story.

Two months ago I’m out at the British Museum with Bodi. It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m feeling good. My first set is a wandering Russian tourist who looks about 25 and hooks strong giving me eye-spazzing and soft kino so naturally I take the number and try to set up a delayed idate. It’s a highly promising ten minute set but it fritters away into nothing. After a few text exchanges that weekend she agrees to a date, flakes, and is soon back in Russia. This happens alot so I don’t give it much thought. Half an hour later outside the museum I see a tall slim girl crossing the road and putting up her umbrella. My vibe is great so when I open she’s beaming. She’s from New York visiting for three weeks for a course and a definite anglophile. The set goes great with strong eyes, two-sided flirting and because she’s a native speaker I can really let loose with the full gamut of nuance and cultural references (contrary to popular mythology, verbal game works better on native speakers once you’ve hooked because you can operate at the full extent of your intelligence and charm).

Pretty close to this

It’s at the point of taking her number that I encounter the one tiny logitistical problem that eventually blows the set and costs me the lay. She doesn’t have a UK SIM, her US SIM doesn’t work in the UK, and she hasn’t unlocked her iphone to take a UK SIM. The TL:DR is we have to communicate by whatsapp and only when she has wifi (no mobile internet). I tell her to buy a UK phone knowing it’s falling on deaf ears.

First date is the next evening. We go to a blues bar behind Carnaby Street and I quickly decide it’s a great venue. There’s live music but not too loud, it’s rammed with a buzzing energy, and we stand against a wall to chat. It’s here that I develop a few tweaks to my theory of date game for my book (yes, I just plugged it again).

I run a perfect Day 2. Absolute dating mastery. I’m really proud of myself.

I do push-pull, douchebaggery, deep rapport, rapid kino escalation….. the whole time I’ve got her eating out of my hand with the tension on the fishing line at optimal levels throughout. After half an hour she’s giving me strong kiss-me signals so as the music reaches a crescendo I pull her in and she just melts. It’s an extremely hot romantic moment perfectly accentuated by the neon lighting of bar signs and the crashing blues music. I feel her go weak at the knees. Then I roll off and make her chase hard. She’s pressed up against me and I do the Ramy line:

Me: What do you like about me?

Her: I like how confident you are. Arrogant even, but still with a very sweet side.

Me: I’m modest. I only believe I’m half as good as I really am.

Her: And you are so incredibly attractive!

We’ll call that an IOI. It’s getting late so we are struggling to find another bar. I walk her up Oxford Street to get closer to a taxi rank while searching for a pub. The only place still open is Carbon bar in the basement of a hotel. It’s a chode hell but mercifully sparse. We get a booth and she’s soon on my lap taking my dirty talk. She’s boiling in her love juices so when the bar kicks out at midnight I try to put her in a taxi. She’s already been giving me the “I’m not going home with you tonight” talk so I push as hard as I can but I don’t want to snap the fishing line. We end up making out in a shop doorbar with her hands down my pants wanking me off as late-night revellers stumble by. And then she goes home.

It’s a dead cert, I think.

She’s working hard and claims tiredness but we agree to meet Friday night in Camden at 9pm. Plenty of time to reblow the love bubble, put some alcohol in her and end up in a taxi rank. The whatsapp dirty talk and logistics has already agreed this is a sex date. So I show up at 9pm, do a quick circuit of the bar (she hasn’t arrived yet) then sit at a conspicuous seat at the bar. It’s rammed. After half an hour I’m surprised and concerned she hasn’t shown up but I stay with my pint. By 9:45pm I reluctantly write off the night. I’m fuming. It was so totally on and she didn’t even show, despite reconfirming at 8:30pm.

I hate all women everywhere at this point.

So I get the bus home, tail between my legs. Around 10:15pm I’m almost home and my whatsapp buzzes.

Me: What are you doing?

Her: !!!! What happened?? I was there for like an hour… I looked everywhere for you

Me: I was at the main bar. From 9pm. Red leather jacket.

Her: Me too… I got there right on time. Then I walked around the bar a bit

Me: Where are you now?

Her: Back at my place.. where are you now?

Me: Halfway home

Her: 😦

Me: I can be back there in 20 minutes. You?

Her: I just got food with my roomies….

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Because of her stupid US SIM I couldn’t call her in the pub to find her. She couldn’t contact me until she was back on WiFi at her home. And being a girl she’s too much of a dumbass to properly search the pub for me or to ask a punter to borrow his phone for a second to make a call. This is why women should not occupy leadership positions or be allowed to vote.

I rebuild it all back over text and when in Latvia she’s chasing me hard, dirty talking and soon masturbating over sexting. She’s sending me messages like “You have no idea how badly I want to be on my knees in front of you” and “I had an amazing dream about you the other night” and “I came, but not as hard as I’m going to come when you’re railing me with that big rock hard cock” and “I can’t move right now. I want to be yours so bad, ready to do whatever you want with me.” Seems pretty on. So I set up the date:

Her: What do you want to do on Thursday?

Me: Apart from the obvious? What time are you thinking, afternoon or night?

Her: Night

Me: Meet at X station. Drink in local bar. Build unbearable tension.

Her: That won’t take very long

Me: Feel you up at the bar where no one can see. Make you go to the bathroom and bring your panties back for me to keep

Her: I like that idea

Me: I might require you to discreetly finger yourself under the table

Her: you know we’re not going to be able to stay out very long if you make me do that

Me: While maintaining conversation so as not to arouse suspicion of other patrons

Her: Good luck with that. I’m not very subtle. Or quiet

Me: Hmmm…. perhaps you can bite your lip while I outline what I intend to do to you in a more private setting

Her: I can’t wait to hear what you plan on doing to me once you have me alone

Me: That’s enough for now 😉

Her: Oh my god you are killing me. You are making me want you so bad

Me: Yes

I’ve returned from Latvia thinking it’s a dead cert. Thursday evening is set, I’m going to fuck her. And then the night before…….

Her: I have some news for you. You’re not going to like it.

Me: Ok.

Her: It seems as if I’ve acquired a boyfriend.

Me: Ok.

Her: Someone who I was dating in NYC before I left, who asked me to make it official. So needless to say, I can’t see you….

Me: No problem.

Her: Ok.

And that’s the Game. I’ve had about fifteen lays collapse on me this year where the girls were ripe for plucking and something intervened. Like Tom said to me after we’d narrowly missed a same-day foursome with two beautiful Serbian teenagers we bounced back to our apartment, “Sometimes you do everything right and it still falls apart.”

Again

When that foursome collapsed the girls were sitting on our sofa, taking the kino, showing us dirty videos on the internet and then at the moment of truth refused to cheat on their boyfriends. We let them out the door, shrugged, and turned our attention to other things. One reason Game is such an emotional rollercoaster is you constantly maneouvre yourself into positions of great expectation only to have your hopes dashed.

Like Jabba says, emotional control is the most important part of Game.