Krauser PUA

The Dunning Kruger Effect in PUA

February 20, 2017
krauserpua

Game involves a strong element of applied psychology, and thus it behoves the aspiring player to make a review of ‘normie’ academic psychology to plunder key concepts and get abreast of the discipline. It’s not difficult to grasp because the social sciences are – to put it mildly – not where civilisation’s finest minds go to work. [1] If you’re entirely new, I’d suggest a UK A-level textbook such as Richard Gross’s Psychology. It’s written for average IQ teenagers so my esteemed readers should have no problem whizzing through it. [2]

There are some great concepts in there, even at the A-level entry point, and one I like [3] is the Dunning Kruger effect: “a cognitive bias in which low-ability individuals suffer from illusory superiority, mistakenly assessing their ability as much higher than it really is.”

Your first reaction is likely to be a scoff, at all those stupid other people who keep falling into this trap. A few seconds later you may feel a slight wobble, a tremor from deep down, that perhaps you too could fall into this trap and not realise it. Likely, you squashed that thought and turned your mind to the more spectacular examples of Dunning Kruger on PUA YouTube [4]. Generally, the literature considers the DK effect to be a problem, because it leads to an inaccurate model of the world and encourages overconfidence.

Overconfidence? you say.

“Yeah mate, I’m gonna be banging girls like this”

Yes.

And that’s why PUAs have a unique relationship to the DK effect. If you’re trying to build a bridge over the Rio Grande, you’d better have an accurate estimation of your engineering skills. If you’re trying to smoke out globalist traitors from the highest levels of the NSA, CIA and FBI [5], you’d better have an accurate assessment of the world.

But if you’re trying to pick up women? Well, as Heartiste has so often advised us, overconfidence is king. I don’t refer to him as often as I should so let’s lavish a full quote box on his advice, from the Sixteen Commandments Of Poon:

XI. Be irrationally self-confident
No matter what your station in life, stride through the world without apology or excuse. It does not matter if objectively you are not the best man a woman can get; what matters is that you think and act like you are. Women have a dog’s instinct for uncovering weakness in men; don’t make it easy for them. Self-confidence, warranted or not, triggers submissive emotional responses in women. Irrational self-confidence will get you more pussy than rational defeatism.

Delusions of grandeur are absolutely essential for the aspiring PUA. Speaking from my own experience, if I’d known how low my SMV really was, how bad my Game was, and how difficult the road ahead was…. I’d have given up at the beginning. The quest to bang youngerhottertighter is a foolhardy one in which we are trying to beat Nature at her own game. Most aspiring players are fucking insane for even thinking they can do it.

And yet they try, and more of them succeed in rapid escalating and first-date sodomising Mother Nature than we’d ever expect. How? How is this possible? Let’s first consider the problem. The best way to have casual sex with many pretty women is to be (i) high SMV (ii) surpremely confident (iii) sure of your eventual success. Most aspiring PUAs face the following problems:

Low SMV
Low confidence
Persistent uncertainty

Fortunately the PUA industry has engineered a meta-game to keep its apprentices on the right path to learning the skills. It does this by engaging in the following tricks.

HEROinfo4

1. The Monomyth
Joseph Campbell wrote a masterwork distilling the key dramatic elements of literature into a single all-purpose monomyth. His book is The Hero With A Thousand Faces and I’ve written about it before. The key takeway is that when the aspiring player conceives of himself as the hero and the Player’s Journey [6] as a proxy to the Hero’s Journey he is leveraging a deep DNA-level semantic structure within his brain. He is no longer a bumbling fool engaged in a hopeless waste of time that’ll probably end in tears. Rather, he has heeded the call to adventure.

Consider the structure of typical novels and movies. As the Aaron Sorkin Masterclass makes beautifully clear, drama requires Intention and Obstacle. This is what distinguishes it from mere journalism. There is something the hero wants (in our case to bang hot birds) and there is something/s preventing him getting it (being shit with women, being sexually deselected, Nature itself…. this list is very long). The plot structure guides the hero in his quest to overcome the obstacles until finally he achieves his goal. Art house movies aside, he always achieves his goal. When inserting oneself into the monomyth, one gains a deep feeling of inevitability about success. Believe me, you’ll need that. (Here’s an example of the daygame monomyth in action, leading to results after a tough start)

2. The Path
I remember Tyler once saying, off-hand, in his Blueprint Decoded video seminar words to the effect of “the path is there, all you have to do is walk it”. That’s a little like saying “the mountain is there, all you have to do is climb it” but the point is in the subtext. It’s not random, it’s not a jungle wilderness. There is a path. That implies:

People have walked it before you
It is well-trodden and thus easier to walk than jungle thickets
It leads somewhere worth going
It has an end

The most powerful inner game is that which rests outside our conscious mind, our assumptions and world view that inform the decisions made consciously. By conceiving of the Player’s Journey as following a path we acquire direction, purpose, and the confidence that we’re not wasting our time on a wild goose chase. That’s powerful considering our path is just an abstraction and that running around chatting up women is fundamentally a rather random act.

3. The Secret Method
Game was originally marketed just like those scam products on how to beat the lottery or the secrets to self defence. If you’re an average man, you don’t expect to achieve above-average results on a level playing field – be it sports, business or girls. The outsize results come when you deploy a tactical advantage unavailable to your competitors such as the Mohammedan hordes using heavy cavalry to colonise Europe, or Charles Martel developing heavy infantry to finally push them back. PUA promises you access to a secret system that provides a tactical advantage over not just the girls you’re seducing, but the rival males (‘chodes’) also competing for them.

When you believe you’re bringing a gun to a knife fight, you develop confidence and a sense of inevitable victory.

So how does this tie in with the Dunning Kruger effect?

Your early dabblings in pick-up will be met with crushing failure and yet…… it won’t feel that way. An objective assessment of my first thousand sets would be: “Banged two mediocre birds. Waste of time”. Yet for all my failure, pain, and despair in that first year I never truly wavered from The Path. The PUA industry had supplied me with all kinds of rationalisations to cushion the pain of reality and to nurture the flame of hope.

“Every rejection is another brick in my palace of Awesomeness”

I truly believed I was better than I really was [7] and that my results were better than they were. I always believed the tsunami of hot pussy was just around the next corner. My Dunning Kruger effect – let’s call it the Stunning Krauser effect – led me like a carrot in front of a donkey. It was my visualisation of the new identity I was growing into. Each time my real abilities advanced (as they necessarily will when you put in the work) my delusional self-image would advance with it.

Your reality may never catch up with your delusion, but so long as both move forward in lock-step, you will get better with women.

“I fucked a six! I’m halfway up!”

It is only when you take a pause on your journey up Relativity Mountain and gaze back at what you were that you truly appreciate how far you’ve come. Looking backwards you can drop the ego and face reality. You can say “actually, that bird was a bit minging” or “that text game was awful” and it doesn’t sting, nor does it knock you off your perilously narrow path forwards.

For the aspiring PUA, the Dunning Kruger effect is a cognitive bias that keeps you afloat while you’re learning to swim. Don’t try to overcome it.

[1] Sociology in particular is a swamp of Marxist filth that makes no effort at doing real science but takes great pains to pretend it does.
[2] A general rule when dealing with social sciences is to avoid anything written in the last twenty years, as unlike the hard sciences, the social sciences usually move backwards over time because they are so pozzed. The best work in the entire field was conducted in the fifty years leading up to 1960. I read the 1991 edition so I’ve no idea if later editions have become pozzed.
[3] By “like” I mean “recently accused of personifying, by Jimmy”
[4] I feel like Deepak Wayne deserves a nod here.
[5] Obligatory pro-Trump reference.
[6] It’s no coincidence that I coined this phrase to describe our efforts to get better with women.
[7] Still do. No reason to dismantle a successful delusion mechanism.

If you like the idea of inserting yourself into a monomyth in order to chart your progress upon the Player’s Journey, you might well like my book. It’s the most detailed map of The Path ever written.

A Deplorable Cad

February 12, 2017
krauserpua

THE BACKDROP

Three years ago I embarked upon a wildly ambitious project. As an aspiring player I’d read Neil Strauss’s famous memoir The Game in which he describes his entry into the underground world of pick up artists. Reading those pages I felt like I was along for the ride, living the successes and failures with Neil. It’s a good book.

Unfortunately, it’s also a bit light. In order to squeeze everything into a single volume to sit on a bookstore shelf, Neil packed a long timescale into few pages. By necessity, he skips over so many things that I had wanted to read about in detail. It felt like eating a chocolate bar when my stomach rumbled for a three course meal. FRUSTRATING!

What I would have liked was more detail.

– How exactly did he meet these girls and how did the dates go?

– What was it like to deal with anxiety and self-doubt on a daily basis?

– How did he deal with women he actually succeeded with?

It’s one thing to simply tell a good story. I also wanted to learn. I looked around and tried many books but none were able to walk me through the Player’s Journey in real live detail, red in tooth and claw.

Fortunately for you scamps – Enter the Nick Krauser Memoirs!

THE BOOK

By mid-2014 I’d achieved all my goals in Game. I’d been hitting on girls for six years straight, learning, improving and ultimately writing best-in-class material on how to daygame. Now I wanted to tell my story. I didn’t want to perform a victory lap, telling everyone how awesome I am (though I’ll admit that’s highly tempting….)

..I wanted to write a memoir that would help my fellow players improve.

..I wanted to write a book rich with detail, depth and above all wisdom.

..I wanted to chart the Player’s Journey so every man following in my steps knew exactly where to go and exactly what to expect.

This was a wildly ambitious project, to write however much needed to be written to convey my knowledge. To write until it was done – however many pages it took to get there. The Nick Krauser memoir is neither a cash-in nor a victory lap. My vision was to plant my flag, to blaze a trail and leave a map for other men to follow.

Because it’s not all fun and games. It’s a tough path to follow.

WHY YOU NEED TO READ THIS BOOK

From my many years coaching students I’ve been shocked at how many men fall by the wayside. It’s no exaggeration to say over 90% of men give up, having cracked under the pressure and fallen short of their goals. NINETY PERCENT!

Those of you who’ve daygamed understand why. You know how it is to trudge through the rainy streets, your mind racing with anxiety and self-doubt, wondering if you’ll ever really make it. You know how it feels to have four dates lined up and then three cancel at short notice. You know how hard the downside hits you. It can sap you of the will to continue.

Believe me, I know how this feels. I lived it.

I know how important it was to have my friends around me, riding the same waves up and down. I could look at their experiences to be inspired by their successes and commiserated by their failures. It was so very important to have someone next to me, taking the same blows, and we pulled each other forwards.

AN ENTERTAINING INNER GAME BIBLE

A Deplorable Cad isn’t just a story. It isn’t just an entertaining recounting of my sexual escapades. This book is LOADED with heartfelt emotion and deep introspection. At every stage of my journey, at every key event, I explore how it made me FEEL and how I summoned the willpower to proceed.

Yes, I just said this book is full of FEELZ.

“How gay”, you laugh.

That’s the problem we face as men. You can’t talk about it with your mates. It feels weird, right? And Youtube and websites are full of coaches puffing themselves up like supermen who never suffer self-doubt or fear of failure.

Let’s put that shit to rest right now.

I’m a successful player yet self-doubt and fear of failure kept me company throughout the entirety of my journey. Denying it to your audience doesn’t make it go away. If anything, it hurts your audience, makes them wonder if they are the only people who doubt themselves.

A Deplorable Cad is an inner game book. The next time you struggle – the next time a girl cancels a hot date with no explanation. The next time you see your dream girl glide by, but you just CANNOT approach her no matter what – you will recall that I’ve been through this EXACT experience, and overcome it. You’ll feel the comfort of knowing you’re not the only one. The self doubt will dissipate and you will find the will to push forward.

And you won’t need to have embarrassing confessional sessions with your mates to do it!

I lived this life. My friends lived this life. And now I can take you along for the ride.

thanks for listening,

Nick Krauser

Buy my new book A Deplorable Cad in paperback here. Enter codes FWD15 and SHIPFEB17 at checkout for 15% discount and free shipping.

A Deplorable Cad – Quick View

January 20, 2017
krauserpua

I know, I know!

“Just release the bloody book, will you” my readership cries. Well, here’s an update.

Volume Two of my ~~epic vanity project~~ daygame memoir is ready and has been for some time. I finished the final rewrite while sitting in a Bali coffee shop in the first week of December then sent it off to my layout designer. It takes a surprising amount of work to move from manuscript to final book. There’s layout, custom artwork, cover design and…..

“Just shut up and take my money!” you shout.

Okay. Sorry! I’m stuck out in Bangkok until the end of the month so I arranged to have a test copy sent to a ~~hanger-on~~ friend in Europe who promised to look through it for printing errors. If he gives the thumbs up (that should come within a week) the book will be released. However, if Lulu fucked up the printing, it’ll be delayed another two weeks to fix any issues and order another test copy. I’ve lavished extreme care on this project so I’m not shoving it out the door half-arsed.

In the meantime, here’s the very first section from the book to whet your appetite.

Oooooh yeeeeessssss!

Introduction
In the spring of 2011 I was thirty-six years old and life was good. I was living in a huge house in the nicest part of North London with ten of my best friends. Every day I’d sleep in till late, wander down into the communal areas and ‘shoot the shit’ (as Americans would say) without any job, commitment, or entanglement interfering with my day. When the weather was nice we’d lie on hammocks in the tree-lined back garden, soaking up the sun, and reading pulp fiction. Sometimes we’d take the Number 13 bus into Central London and hit on girls.

We were “daygamers.” Pick-up artists. Each of us had developed an obsession with chasing skirt, treating it as a skill to be learned, honed, and eventually mastered. We’d moved into our Hampstead mansion to create the best possible environment to focus on this goal. There were the old hands who’d been rattling new girls for years – Tony and Jimmy – and also the new kids who were still flush with excitement at the endless potential our quest seemed to offer. Together we called ourselves Rock Solid Game and made money on the side teaching other men what we’d learned so far.

Two years earlier I’d been a completely different man; socially awkward, bitter, and lonely. My wife had left me after a nine-year relationship, and I’d turned to the underground art of “game” to try to find a new girlfriend. Volume One of this memoir, Balls Deep, charts my path in those first two years. It’s mostly a story of misery and desperate hope. Judging from book reviews, readers liked the sheer bleakness of it all.

By 2011, after multiple mental breakdowns and an ungodly amount of time on the streets approaching pretty women, I’d had a year of consistent success. I was a long way from banging supermodels, but I’d been laid with a pretty new girl every month for almost a year and had just slotted a bona fide Russian catwalk model who was now angling to become my girlfriend. My life was changing. I felt like I was on the cusp of a new chapter – I no longer merely fantasised about becoming a “player.” The fantasy had taken shape and was now a realistic goal.

This volume is the story of the next two years. It’s the story of ten men with nothing better to do than chase skirt, each with his own personality quirks and with different demons chasing him away from the normal life of office, wife, and mortgage. You’ll see the beginnings of “daygame” as a way of life soon to be practiced by hundreds of other men not dissimilar from yourself. You’ll read of close friendships and unexpected betrayals as each man tried to balance his moral code against his own personal quest, all the time struggling under the immense emotional pressure exerted by the “players journey.”

We moved into “Château RSG” because we’d become tired of reading adventure stories. We wanted our own adventures. We wanted to travel the world, drink the bars dry, and bang the hottest girls we could get in front of.

This is how I became an International Man Of Mystery. This is how I came to Live The Dream. It’s rather more squalid than you may expect. I hope you like it because there’s plenty more where this came from!

Nick Krauser
Moscow, September 2016

Another Potemkin Club

January 19, 2017
krauserpua

[I’ve already told this story but I decided to rewrite it in the context of a similar fake club experience in Thailand]

It’s late spring 2016 and I’m a little bored after a week in Warsaw. My good friend El Commandante messages me on WhatsApp, “let’s do a trip Big Bro”. I’m not really in the mood for more travel but he talks enthusiastically about Odessa, Ukraine.

“I’ve heard it’s good, bro. There’s a big nightclub complex on the beach called Arcadia”

I’d quite liked Kiev so I wondered if the coastal old resort town of Odessa might be a hidden gem. I only knew one daygamer who’d ever been and he’d given an inconclusive report. There were short direct flights out of Warsaw airport so I allowed my arm to be twisted. It would be the first new city I’d explore that year.
Coming out of the ramshackle airport I find the shuttle bus station and it’s literally – I shit you not – a corrugated iron shed. There’s one bus every half hour and it’s a battered old mini-bus. That bus ride through the outskirts of Odessa made me appreciate just how poor and backward much of Ukraine is. No wonder the Russians look down on them.

Only Moldova is worse

That’s not to say they are bad people. I’ve met a lot of Ukrainians I like. But fucking hell, it was barely a step up from Africa. As soon as I dumped my bag at a swanky Old Town hotel it started to rain. That rain only stopped for brief intervals over the next five days. Fuck.

It was Friday so El Commandante and I took a walk around the main tourist street. It was deadsville. All the foot traffic was families on holiday or unattractive locals. I saw literally one set in two hours. Kiev this wasn’t.

“Let’s get a taxi to the club, bro” said my friend.

It was quite a hike to Arcadia but as we rolled in around midnight it was pretty clear that every attractive girl in town was there. Strolling down the central plaza we passed small mixed groups sitting on benches eating ice cream and gaggles of high-heeled girls stumbling towards the nightclubs at the far end. We tried some club whose name I forget. It was pleasant. The rain had stopped so dozens of people lounged around tables in the open air and what looked like a hen party danced to cheesy music. There were a few hot girls but it was somewhat underwhelming given Odessa’s reputation.

“Let’s try next door” I offered. We walked into Ibiza club.

Nighttime is same girls in better clothes

“Fucking hell!” we both shouted. “This is pussy paradise!”

I have never – before or since – seen so many beautiful women in one place. The club had space for several hundred patrons and it was full. I quickly did a count of all the eights and stopped after five minutes when I reached 25. There were actually enough nines to make it worth counting. It’s no joke to say it was like the Victoria Secrets catwalk was a nightclub. Absolute stunners in abundance, all dolled up to the max.

“I don’t think I’ll ever leave this place” I said. And yet I’ve never been back. Why?

El Commandante and I started opening. The girls were friendly but we just couldn’t get any compliance. Laughs and chat were easy but trying to bounce them anywhere was impossible. They just stood in the same spot forever. After eight or nine sets I ran out of steam, sensing the futility. We posted up at a bar towards the beach which offered good sight lines of the outdoor dance floor and it’s surrounding areas. We watched.

“At least a third of these girls came in with their boyfriends” I noticed. The couples and groups were having great fun but completely insular, just sequestering themselves away from the crowd on pool chairs. All the other girls were in groups of three or more.

“Have you seen a single girl move from her spot?” I asked my Turkish friend. “It’s like they are mannequins in a shop window.”

Shortly after 1am the PUAs came in. There were five of them and each seemed aware of the other’s presence without actually being friends. We then watched as each of the five opened literally every girl in the nightclub who wasn’t with a boyfriend. Literally every girl had her turn with each PUA. There were also a few non-community guys trying to get laid. One Turk caught my eye because he looked like Dwayne Johnson. Big, jacked, handsome, and very well dressed he’d dance near girls and start trying to get their attention. After a few minutes he’d say a few words.

There was a quartet of foreign guys wearing t-shirts of the same surf shop who I assume live there as instructors. One was pretty cool, looking like James Franco in Pineapple Express and with a good outgoing vibe. He clearly led his gang, who deferred to him. I first picked them out when I saw them on the edge of the dance floor talking to two low-eights. My head also turned when a huge American guy ordered a drink next to me. Imagine Zach Galfianakas from The Hangover but jacked like He-Man and very good looking – pretty close to a male ten and with physical presence.

Add many points

For the next five hours, until sun-up and closing time, I watched these men try to get laid. This is what I saw.

None of the five PUAs got anything. Nothing at all. They never once kissed a girl or even moved her from one part of the club to another. Zero compliance.
The Rock didn’t get a thing. He ended the night propped against the bar with a whiskey in his hand and a defeated look in his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe a man of his value could work so hard and get so little. The next night when I returned to Ibiza he’d bought a VIP table and bottle service, looking glassy eyed as an obvious hooker kept him company.
The surfers spent literally all night working the same two set and then around 4am the girls waved goodbye and went home alone. The surfers spent the next hour muttering darkly amongst themselves.
A drunk unattractive blonde – quite possibly the ugliest girl in the nightclub – threw herself at Zach so he made out with her and then took her home. She was four points below him.
El Commandante and myself got nothing either.

Insufficient value to get it for free

A couple of months later I received a message from my enthusiastic Danish friend who looks like Jason Statham. “I’m in Odessa. Arcadia is pussy paradise!” he enthused.

“Watch carefully and tell me if anyone pulls in that club” I replied.

Four hours later he messaged. “Nothing. Nobody is getting laid here.”

On my last day in rain-soaked Odessa the sun had poked through the clouds and I had a mid-afternoon date with a Ukrainian girl I’d met in Warsaw the week before who’d coincidentally been planning an Odessa trip to see family. We spent a few hours drinking coffee and walking around but it wasn’t going anywhere. I inquired into the dating culture there.

“I don’t like it” she said. “Warsaw is more real. In Odessa there are lots of girls who’s job is to be a girlfriend. They don’t work. They spend all day in the gym or the salon or clothes shopping. Then they go to the club and advertise. They all compete to date the man with the most expensive car.”

Female rivalry aside, this smacked of truth. Ibiza nightclub isn’t real. Girls don’t go there to dance, have fun, and maybe hook up. It’s a shop window for tarts to find sugar daddies. Such a shame because the quality is phenomenal.

Why Do Women Hate Game?

January 18, 2017
krauserpua

Jimmy Jambone recently put a post on his blog [1] about why women hate the very idea of Game. It’s an interesting post in his own rambling secretly-DHVing way and focuses mostly on the idea of control. Women don’t like the idea that men can reclaim some control over their dating lives by using Game.

As Heartiste once wrote, “the goal of feminism is to remove all constraints on female sexuality while maximally restricting male sexuality”. It’s much the same as Rollo [2] writing that for the feminine imperative to succeed, the masculine imperative must be frustrated. One wag – I forget who – suggested the Western world is what happens when the feminine imperative runs amok and the Arab world is the converse, of the male imperative running amok.

Not for the first time, I think Jimmy is wrong [3]

Jimmy’s bird gets angry

The deep-seated visceral fear women have of Game is that it makes them unsure of their ability to discern value. And make no mistake their hatred of Game is borne of fear. Allow me to explain.

In biology, we learn that animals throw out signals of their mate value. Because all is fair in love and war, animals have evolved to exaggerate their mate value by throwing out fake signals. An arms race developed where animals compete to develop sneakier fake signals while learning to see through the fake signals of others. It’s a war of deception.

Women have been faking signals for centuries, such as rouge on their cheeks, corsets, push up bras and high heels. In modern times they’ve gotten fake tits. What all these signals have in common is they are not part of the DNA package being passed on through mating. They are not part of the core SMV proposition [4]. We all know that sinking feeling of meeting a pretty girl in a nightclub, taking her home, and then seeing what she really looks like in the morning [5]. The girl successfully faked signals of her SMV to get her victory.

Women know full well men will also fake signals, whether it’s puffing out their chest and sucking in their stomachs, or fronting about a lifestyle they don’t really lead. For most of the time in the male-female arms race there is detente. It’s the same old tricks and each side knows the other’s capability. Game changes it all. It’s a Trump-esque upending of the established order.

Higher value

Game, at it’s heart, is about emulating the signalling of high SMV men. Sure, do it enough and you’ll eventually become higher value. Nonetheless, for as long as you’re doing game, you are throwing off fake signals [6]. Girls are hard-wired to sniff out the difference between real and fake signalling (PUAs call that “congruence”) and to probe for key information in reaching such a determination (PUAs call that “shit testing”).

The fact it’s hard-wired is the problem. It means they are great at doing it against untrained men. However, it’s like one side of the arms race standing still while the other speeds off with higher technology. Game is that technology.

Girls fear Game because it shakes their confidence in their ability to weed out low value men. They fear getting knocked up by fakers.

[1] Yes, he actually has a blog. It surprised me too.
[2] Now that I’m booted off Twitter I couldn’t thank you personally for that Deep Conversion post a month ago referencing me. Thanks!
[3] It’s more accurate to say he doesn’t give sufficient weight to another aspect of the case, but that way of writing is less likely to trigger him.
[4] Not that I dislike fake tits or heels, mind.
[5] I’ve never been to bed with an ugly woman, but I’ve woken up with quite a few
[6] Feel free to discuss the issue of to what degree the signals themselves constitute value to the woman, such as how there isn’t much difference between “signalling” charisma and “real” charisma itself

Potemkin Clubs

January 17, 2017
krauserpua

I was standing in Levels nightclub in Bangkok with Steve and Jason at around 1am. We’d just finished drinking at Oskars bar down the road, a rather nice place that seemed to attract lots of local women who seemed exceptionally pleased to see us. Having already run the gauntlet of semi-pro hordes in Patong we had their number immediately.

“Fuck this nonsense. Let’s try a club” Steve had declared. So here we were.

The initial signs were good. Nice decor, wide open area, and a quieter outside rooftop bar where the balmy night air blew in. Lots of girls, mostly Thai with a smattering of white girls. Some strong IOIs.

“This doesn’t feel right” I commented. “It feels more like a nightclub scene from a TV show than an actual nightclub”

Steve knows clubs considerably better than I and he agreed. “Probably hookers. Let’s see”. He turned to a trio of girls spilling out of their nice dresses. “Excuse me, are you a whore?” (or words to that effect).

Just imagine his rep points on RooshV Forum

Yes, she was. We noticed another pair of girls at the bar IOIing almost ever man, occasionally even reaching out to touch them as they walked past. Over by the DJ I saw a rather pretty Russian girl showing extreme interest in the conversation of a chubby Indian man who looked like he could star in Big Bang Theory.

“There’s two normal girls” said Jason, pointing out a mediocre blonde girl and her trashy tattooed brunette friend. A seven and a six respectively, if you’re drunk and in a dark club. Both white and not hot enough to be whores.

A big fat Turk came out of the elevator and past security. Middle-aged and sweaty, he looked like Kojak after a decade living rough. The kind of man who has never had free sex in his life. He stood in the middle of the room scanning then made a beeline to the trio of Thai whores Steve had interrogated. A minute later he was back.

Couldn’t help making connection to this great book

I turned my back for less than a minute and when I glanced over again he was talking to the two white girls. Literally three minutes later he led them both out of the club with the “gonna have a threesome” smirk. Needless to say, I did not attribute his success to tight game.

A Russian ex-girlfriend who’d lived in Thailand recently was chatting to me on Facebook. Asking how I was getting on in Bangkok she sent me a listicle of the Thirteen Girls You Date In Thailand. Standing in Levels nightclub I scan the list and when it covers the “sideline girl” (i.e. semi pro) it specifically identifies Levels nightclub.

“Let’s get out of this shit hole” I said. Did I mention there were hardly any Thai men in this club?

We’d been recommended Sugar nightclub down the road [1]. That was 300 baht entry including a free bottle of beer. Early signs where bad as hip hop blasted out of the speakers and I felt like I was living in a mud hut surrounded by African savages. The elevator dumped us in a dark room with strobe lighting. Several rows of small high tables ringed the dancefloor and a line of young white men with hunted eyes stood frozen still watching the Thai girls gyrate clumsily.

Got me looking so crazy right now. Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh, oh no no

“Lots of two sets flashing their little eyes” said Steve, referring to a half dozen different pairs of girls standing at the tables slowly drinking beer. A large wrap-around sofa booth in the corner was hosting a fat white man, his bottle service, and four thai girls. They were dressed quite nice. Before long a drunk girl from the booth IOId me and I waved her over. She chatted a while but was fucked off her nut and playing the usual attention whore club games. She did tell me a few interesting things.

“I don’t work here” she proclaimed. “I do office job. It’s my friend birthday, she work here” and pointed to one of the girls indulging the fat white guy as he held court around his expensive vodka bottle. My new drunk friend flitted off and started chatting to two girls at a table who she clearly knew.

I began to look around the club with a new eye. Let’s assume every single thai girl here is on the club payroll, even the “patrons”. Within minutes my theory was confirmed. As the glass collector did his rounds these girls would hug him, or slap his arse, or talk freely in exactly the same manner you’d expect if they were there five nights a week because it’s their job.

“This is a Potemkin Club” I told Jason. “It’s all an illusion. The entire business is a carefully staged environment to give men like us the illusion that we are attractive and a grey area to pay for the privilege without feeling like we are just whoring.”

Suddenly half of what I’d seen in Phuket and Bangkok made sense. This wasn’t whoring in the Western model where you strike up a price then bang the pro. Thailand was offering the “girlfriend experience” on a wider level – it wasn’t just the girl bullshitting you that “you handsome man”. The entire nightclub was bullshitting you.

Not bullshit, Patong.

Steve left in disgust and Jason and I left a quarter hour later. Further down the squalid street that is Soi 11, I waited outside a 7/11 while Jason went inside to buy water. A twenty-something Eurochode walked up with his very pretty brown “girlfriend”. As he waited outside, she went inside and flashed me three massive IOIs. [2] The eurochode didn’t seem to notice, fumbling in his beige shorts for a cigarette.

I followed inside thirty seconds later and caught the girl perusing the tuna spread prepared sandwiches in the refrigerator. I waved a hand in front of her face to get attention.

“You speak English? Your boyfriend – boring!” I said, gesturing thumbs down. “Me, cool. Let’s get a drink.”

She gently pulled me further out of her sponsor’s line of site then we swapped Line ID contact info. Then I sidled up to Jason at the checkout and completed my exfiltration unnoticed. In Hitman it would be a S-ranked Silent Assassin score.

I banged the girl the next night. For free.

[1] If I ever remember who recommended it, I’ll murder them.
[2] I call these UpgradeOIs because it’s semi-pros trying to upgrade the quality of their sugar daddy.

If you liked this anecdote, just wait till you read me when I actually take time and effort to make it good. A Deplorable Cad coming soon!

The Upa Drill – Bedroom Edition

December 31, 2016
krauserpua

Sitting over a morning coffee in Thailand with a couple of friends our conversation turned towards the previous evening’s events in the UFC. Before long we discussed the application of MMA techniques to the bedroom. Let me show you a very easy trick to employ with a lucky lady. It has a 100% satisfaction rate.

Pure porn

Do you know the “upa drill” in Brazilian Ju Jitsu? It’s a warm-up / conditioning drill in which you lay on your back and then buck your hips up and to one side, then reach an arm over your head to touch the mat on the other side. Here’s a video.

You can practice that on your living room floor until it’s burned into your muscle memory. It’s application is to bridge an opponent out of mount position. There are several YouTube videos demonstrating it, so let’s pick one what has two slim women making only a token effort to pretend it’s not a wank-stash vid:

The key is to conceive of the top girl’s balance as like a table with four legs. If you remove the legs on two sides it will tip over. Watch the video again and note how the bottom ~~bitch~~ girl traps her opponent’s ankle with her own foot, and the same-side arm with her arm, bringing it tight into her body. This removes the two “table legs” and makes her tip over in that direction with only the lightest upa movement.

If you haven’t figured out why this move works great in the bedroom, I’m afraid there’s no hope for you. And on another note, here’s some art from my almost-ready next book:

screen-cap-chapter-flash

If you liked that, you’re gonna like my book. It’s just not on sale yet.

Early Thoughts On South East Asia

December 16, 2016
krauserpua

Regular readers will be aware that I like my hibernations. I consider my style of daygame to be seasonal in that my moods, appetite for skirt, and the weather in Europe means that going full-on all year around is just….. not much fun. So I divide up the year into the following chunks:

December to February – Hibernation. Forget daygame, focus on non-game interests, get work done, try not to get fat [1]
March – Excited to start daygame again and willing to tolerate iffy weather in one of the cities that has reliable flow of girls despite such weather.
April to June – Living the dream in Europe with visits back home between trips.
July and August – Some difficult decision making due to extreme heat and girl’s summer holidays halving the number of cities with good daygame.
September and October – Living the dream again but starting to get tired [2]
November – A last chance to try squeezing a bit more mileage out of the Euro-season in a race against time with the cold, rain and snow coming on.

This pattern suited me but over the past few years an idea has grown until it’s begun gnawing at me. A little voice has been whispering in my ear, like a mischievous squirrel trying to bullshit a bear out of his favourite cave, do you really need to spend Winter in Newcastle? There may be a better place to hibernate.

A siren song, yesterday

I could be escaping the zero degree Newcastle weather, the fat horrible women, the stodgy food, and the depressing multiculturalism of my city centre. Why not spend that time on a beach?

Well, I tried that. I went to Cancun and Chiang Mai in early 2011. I had fun but don’t care to repeat the experience. Crappy girls, third world boring shit. I tried Sao Paulo and Rio De Janiero in early 2012 but came away decided that I hate Brazilians and Brazil [3]. My key learning point from two winters in the third world is that Europe is much much better.

But there’s another reason, whispers Mid-Life Crisis Future Regret Avoidance Planner Squirrel [4], You need to take a closer look at the End Game.
“What End Game?” I reply
You are 41 years old, quite literally middle-aged says MLCFRAPS. Even though you’ll always be able to get young girls, it’ll get harder. Maybe your knees will go after all that walking. Your testosterone will drop and you just won’t have the same enthusiasm to keep chasing skirt. You need to look to the future, at Old Man Game.

Regular readers are no doubt aware of all the various Ex Pat and “Galt Game” forums on teh interwebs. There’s the likes of Naughty Nomad and Roosh V forums. Now, I don’t want to say bad things about these places because there are plenty of good straight-shooting men on there trying to share information and help each other out. Just because I personally dislike forums doesn’t make them a bad thing [5]. I’ve noticed there’s lots of talk on there from men camped out in South East Asia who are using a variety of ways to plunder the local women (allegedly).

As a general rule I don’t believe anything I read on the internet [6]. Nonetheless, it sets me thinking about if there’s anything in that lifestyle. Can a fifty-year old man go out and live in SEA and clack a bunch of hot girls? Can I add another ten years onto my player lifespan this way?

So I headed out to Asia. Bali and then Phuket. Here are my initial thoughts.

I think these are banned from South East Asia

BALI
A waste of time. I was in the Seminyak resort and also spent time in nearby Kuta. In the ten days I was there I didn’t see a single eight. Not one. The western girls were either (i) gross chubby Aussies with bad tattoos and guts, (ii) pretty Europeans with their long term boyfriends. I only saw five or six of the latter. I got a ton of matches on Tinder [7] but after filtering out the hookers and ladyboys there were just grumpy 5s and 6s. I got one of them on a date and in my bed but after molesting her for a while she said she was constipated, hadn’t had a poo in five days, and her body hurt too much to have sex.

That’s just gross. Can you imagine a Moscow girl saying that?

Bali itself is a shithole. Nature is beautiful but everything is broken and dirty, the humidity is oppressive, and there’s nothing to do.

PHUKET
I binned Bali and took a flight to Thailand. After dropping my stuff off at the hotel and showering I went out to a nightclub with Jabba. Well, it’s more like a bar/club and really it’s just a brothel for semi-pros. I grabbed a girl, chatted five minutes and took her down the street to my hotel. On my bed she asked for 1,000 baht so I threw her out. I went back to the club and pulled another girl out. She asked for 1,000 baht on the way, so I went back to club. Then Steve was smooching on with a girl and I noticed her friend was one I’d been chatting to earlier. We all went down to the beach for twenty minutes then they made excuses about having to go home because of work the next day. I took a number. Back to the club and then a fourth girl pretty much jumped me. Five minutes later I took her home. She never asked for money so I fucked her.

Next day we were dead. Hungover.

Day three I had a first date with the girl I’d taken to the beach. Halfway through the first drink I took her to the hotel and fucked her. She never asked for money. Day four an Aussie guy I know SDLd a local from Starbucks. We agreed to go to the cinema to watch the new Underworld movie. The girl invited her friend to join, who showed up midway through the movie and sat down next to me. We had a quick drink in a bar afterwards, the friend was gagging for it, so I took her home and fucked her. She didn’t ask for money.

Four days, three notches. No money paid. Barely even did any game. UPDATE: Make that 5 days, 4 notches.

So my initial impression is that Phuket is a bit better than Bali. I see plenty of hot Euro girls, especially Russians, walking around but they are always – without exception – with their boyfriends. I’m surprised how pretty some of the Thai girls are, especially the best go-go girls, but the Russians put them absolutely to shame.

I still can’t conclude on whether Phuket is a good place for the End Game. It’s a bit Disneyland and doesn’t feel like a real place. Having girls gyrating and shouting at you constantly is rather unnerving. I think it’s just not healthy to know that for 1,000 baht you can fuck almost any girl you see even if they are sitting reading a book in a cafe [8]

My guess is I’ll be sick of this place within a couple of weeks and rather glad that I put all that time into figuring out how to pull Euro girls. In the meantime, I’m having quite a lot of fun.

Difficult to stay interested in this kind of thing

[1] Or more correctly since 2015, fatter.
[2] This is when my blog flips schizophrenically between high enthusiasm and Daygame Mediocrity.
[3] Except for my very good friend and fellow daygame blogger Suave who is as Brazilian as Romario.
[4] I wonder who that phrase sounds like….
[5] Although RVF is pure comedy in an unintentional way
[6] In fact, now that I think about it, how do I know that this blog post wasn’t just made up by someone on the internet?
[7] In itself quite a strange feeling because I never get matches in Europe.
[8] Aussie dude didn’t pay, but girl later revealed she actually has a sponsor.

If you enjoyed reading about my no-game successes in Thailand, you probably won’t want to bother with my book. That’s all game. And game is difficult.

Book Update – A Deplorable Cad

December 11, 2016
krauserpua

“Nick doesn’t seem to update his blog anymore. He only did three podcasts this year. I think he’s done with the Game” says a regular reader.

It certainly looks that way but let me reassure you all I’m most definitely not done with the Game. I have, however, had amended priorities in 2016 over and above regular blogging or doing in-field recordings.

I have a tendency to bite off more than I can chew. Fortunately, I also have the tenacity to push forwards and the completionist’s obsession with finishing everything he starts. Two years ago I started writing my daygame memoir Balls Deep. It quickly became obvious that I couldn’t tell the stories I wanted in the way I wanted to tell them and still keep it down to one volume.

By the time Balls Deep was finished in late 2014 it had only covered the first quarter of my Player’s Journey. “I’d best do this across four volumes” I mused. So I added three more volumes to my To Do list and got cracking writing all three simultaneously, as if I was filming Lord Of The Rings.

What a silly idea!

Two years later and I’m still at it. Back in November 2015 when my winter hibernation began I resolved that I must get these bloody memoirs out! I spent the whole winter writing volume four, Adventure Sex, which was released this summer (to good reviews too, check here and here). While writing these books I came to a realisation that game was no longer my obsession – writing had replaced it. Here was a highly technical, wonderfully expressive art form in which you can keep improving for literally decades! I’d sit down at the local Costa Coffee with a grande americano and just disappear into the book. Love it!

So let me update you on the status of the quadrilogy.

Volume One: Balls Deep is on sale in both paperback and PDF here
Volume Two: A Deplorable Cad has just been finished. It’s now with the layout designer.
Volume Three: Younger Hotter Tighter is currently a 75k-word draft. It needs a lot of rewriting.
Volume Four: Adventure Sex is on sale in paperback here.

Mock cover. Will change a lot.

So the big news is A Deplorable Cad. I’ve literally just finished the seventh and final re-write this morning, polishing its mammoth 161k words to a fine sparkle. I’ve already received most of the commissioned artwork and now I need to go through instructing my layout designer and then reviewing test prints. My best guess is it’ll be on sale in January, just in time to motivate you fellow daygamers to follow through on your New Year Resolutions to do more sets.

A Deplorable Cad is my best writing. I’ve lavished extreme care on it because writing is my big obsession now. It picks up right where Balls Deep ends. And that is why I haven’t been blogging so regularly in 2016, especially lately. All my creative energies have been poured into this albatross. I’ve written 320,000 words of my memoir this year. Unbelievable, really.

If you like hearing me witter on, come find me on Gab – the only social media company that has yet to lock my account. Find me at https://gab.ai/NickKrauser

The Hemingway Suite

December 6, 2016
krauserpua

I’m hibernating in Bali, Indonesia for the next month or so in an attempt to slow my brain down and get away from the terribly distracting impact of hot women [1]. A key goal while here is to complete my next book, volume two of the memoir. It was already good to go last month but I decided I’d like to do another rewrite to get it into the best possible state. So now I’m incorporating feedback from two editors and my test readers. Here’s a section from chapter sixteen:

Shitsville for women

We were nothing if not grandiose. If Rock Solid Game had a larger budget we’d have carved our faces into Mount Rushmore or bought ourselves an island and declared independence. We’d then take great joy in attending United Nations assemblies and trolling the shit out of them.

“Could the ambassador for Trollistan please leave the chamber,” would become a common refrain in such a future.

We were determined to build ourselves up both in reality and within our own imaginations. This was something Jimmy had become world-class at. When you met him he had a rock-star vibe and would regal you with some tales that seemed eminently plausible to hear but preposterous should you ever write a bullet-point list of the information they conveyed. He had some established favourites but was quite capable of spinning such yarns on the fly.

“I’ve only been to Malta once. It’s the last of the Mediterranean islands I needed to tick off the list,” Jimmy would drop in to a conversation with a girl. “I’ve heard it’s great for scuba diving – crystal clear water and underwater wrecks from World War Two – but unfortunately I never really got a chance to try it. I’d taken my band there as a celebration for finishing our demo, so we could all hang out, try the local foods, and try scuba.”

“You can scuba?” asks the girl.

“No, that’s why I took us there. To learn. It must be fantastic to glide through the water, totally weightless, hearing shoals of colourful fish swim by while you’re investigating sunken warships. I’m sure that’s how freedom feels.”

The girl grips her drink, and her eyes go wide at the imagery.

“But my nephew had a motorbike accident on his holiday in Cyprus the same evening I arrived in Malta. His friends had rung me up, frantic. Jimmy! Jimmy! Dave is in hospital with a broken leg, and the police are sniffing around because he had no motorbike insurance.”

“Oh my god!” the girl gasps.

“I know. We were all sitting in a Maltese restaurant built into the fort walls of Valletta harbour, drinking wine and looking out over the water. A bunch of local girls we’d just met were going to take us nightclubbing, and then my phone is ringing.”

“What did you do?” asks the girl, leaning forwards, hanging on his every word.

“I had no choice – he’s my nephew. So I booked a flight that night and rushed over to Cyprus. Once the doctors assured me his cast was solid and he could be moved, I took him back to Manchester. I must admit, once we got back, he was safe, and his mum stopped crying, I lost my temper a bit and bawled him out for being so careless and putting us all through so much worry.”

Just stop and think of the impression that kind of story makes on you. It’s basically a story about a group of mates who went on a cheap holiday to Malta, got drunk, and had to abort on the first night. A cluster-fuck and yet somehow Jimmy emerges looking like an international traveller, rock star, and adventure sport enthusiast who is king of his gang yet loves and protects his family.

That’s the power of DHVs, and I learned it from him. When we first met, he was a low-level project manager living in a squalid flat by Elephant & Castle. That’s all. And yet sitting, listening to him in a bar you’d think George Clooney felt lucky at the chance to buy him a drink.

Château Hampstead was itself an exercise in grandiosity, taking a battered Jewish care home and rebranding it as a hotbed of rebellious adventure. No stone was left unturned, and when we finally got done redecorating the ground floor common rooms our attention turned to a small office room on the top floor.

“We could create our own member’s lodge, like Milk & Honey,” I suggested to Mick as we lay in hammocks in the garden on a warm spring day earlier in the year. We convened a house meeting and made the proposal.

We asked the house to chip in money and labour towards the project, but they all declined. So Jimmy, Mick, and I pooled £500 and set to work. Or rather, Mick and I set to work. Jimmy bumbled around making a great show of interest but did almost nothing until we’d already finished repainting the entire room.

The walls were split horizontally at hip-height by a runner, so we painted the upper section and the ceiling dark brown and the lower walls dark green. Heavy velvet blackout curtains covered the windows and both inner door and fire exit to give a permanent late-evening mood. I found two deep green leather Chesterfield sofas on Gumtree and had them delivered. The room was finished off with 1940s style furniture – a low table with a world map underneath the glass surface, a chest of drawers with an art deco lamp perched on top, and then Jimmy finally made himself useful discovering a portable drinks cabinet disguised as a globe. We filled that with bottles of rum, vodka, and whiskey. Discreet lighting tucked behind the sofas completed the classy, speak-easy vibe.

The next day Mick came knocking on my bedroom door.

“Nick, put your shoes on! Someone has left a cabinet on the road outside. It’s perfect for the room.”

So Mick and I ran across Finchley Road, each took one end of the abandoned cabinet, and hefted it two hundred metres and up the fire escape stairs into the room. We’d claimed it literally one minute before another pair of locals who’d also meant to nab the free furniture and instead stood on the pavement bemused, scratching their heads.

Despite us feeling like a pair of gypsies, Mick had found a gem. The hip-height thick oak cabinet was fronted by two glass doors and perfectly suited the room.

We’d created a time capsule of the 1940s, our very own Red Room from Milk & Honey.

“What are we going to call it?” we mused, the three of us standing in the middle of the room absolutely amazed at how much better than expected it had turned out to be. Various names were mooted, each trying to capture something of our philosophical or aesthetic spirit.

“The Roark Room,” suggested Jimmy, who’d just finished reading The Fountainhead and was very much enamoured with Ayn Rand.

“The Atlas Library,” I thought, blending the twin influences of Atlas Shrugged and the Bioshock video game we all played.

“But there’s no books,” said Mick. We fixed that by putting up a small bookshelf in the corner and filling it with the Penguin Classics series of Tolstoy, Dumas, and Dickens that none of us read.

Finally one of us – I forget which – uttered “The Hemingway Suite,” and we immediately seized on it. It captured the time period, the manliness of Hemingway’s writing, and the upgrading of our mere “room” to the grander “suite”. I had a brass nameplate engraved and superglued to the outside of the door to the corridor.

“We’ll need some rules. Member’s Clubs always have rules.”

We quickly settled on a list that made us laugh and also feel so very important and sophisticated.

Non members are only allowed in when invited by a member.
No music recorded later than 1959.
No television or YouTube.
Women may be invited in, but they must never express an opinion on any topic whatsoever.
No member may raise his voice or use profanities.

The rule that created the most fun was this: All insults must be delivered from a seated position. It was intended to minimise the chance of fisticuffs and ensure gentlemanly discourse. What actually happened is we’d wait until someone stood up to mix some drinks at the bar, then we’d brutalise him with insults. To respond, they’d have to run back over to a seat, sit down, hit back, then return to the drinks.

We had a grand old time. We’d suit up and hang out there every evening for weeks on end, drinking whisky and smoking Cuban cigars while listening to jazz greats like Django Reinhardt in the dank atmospheric surroundings. We’d tell stories or debate issues, the end result of which always seemed to demonstrate that we were cooler than everyone else in the world. We each felt like the Most Interesting Man In The World from the Dos Equis beer commercials.

We also consumed great quantities of liquor.

It was during our Hemingway Suite reveries that we’d develop various theories about women, lifestyle, and how to achieve the financial and geographical freedom we aspired to. We felt completely unplugged. We weren’t even in the same decade as all the traffic whizzing by outside on Finchley Road.

We were James Bond. All three of us.

Predictably, the Suite was a tremendous aid in seducing girls. We’d be sitting in the bright, airy, tumultuous environment of the common rooms downstairs and then whisper confidentially, “Let’s go up to the Hemingway Suite.”

“What’s that?” the girl would ask.

“It’s our own special members room. Like a whiskey and jazz room. Come on, let’s walk up.”

The girl would be led through the maze of corridors up to a thick wooden door with the brass nameplate on it. The door opens, and she’s led into a time-warp. We’d already arranged a deal in advance where the player could text one of the other members to set the room up in advance once he was about to pull the trigger. More than once, Mick would have a girl in the lounge and message me so I’d run upstairs, turn on the lamps, set the music playing, then squeeze out the fire exit a moment before Mick rolled in with his girl.

Once inside, it was game over. They’d fall in with the rules, accept a drink, and ease into the languid atmosphere. It was the Lust Bubble expressed in architecture, an escape from reality for just two people.

It was also a thirty second’s walk from our bedrooms.

The finished suite

If this section of masterful writing caught your attention, you’ll probably want to buy Volume One of the memoir to bring yourself up to date. Just a tenner for the PDF or £20 for a reassuringly heavy paperback

[1] Bali is absolute shit for women. I’m more likely to see a hot girl in Newcastle. I’ll keep my eyes open but my current opinion is that no-one is banging hotties in Bali no matter how many rep points they have on RooshV forum. I haven’t even seen a girl above a high six here.