Krauser PUA

The Badass Buddha – Uniting the contradictions of game

November 15, 2013
krauserpua

For regular readers, Tom Torero needs no introduction. So I shan’t give him one. Take it away, fella……

The amount of cognitive dissonance for someone new to Game is seemingly overwhelming. It’s a nightmarish clashing of conflicting ideas from so many sources where you can’t see the wood for the trees.

This confusion does nothing to help a guy who’s getting into the swing of things and doing his first cold approaches trying to get the reference experiences under his belt. He’s probably watched dozens of online infields, browsed hundreds of forum posts and amassed an impressive collection of books, PDFs and products that he hopes will make his journey easier.

And then the mind-fuck begins: should he be doing day or night game? Is indirect or direct better? Should he try pre-prepared material or attempt to be natural? Should he approach as much as possible or wait for the girls he really likes? Is verbal or non-verbal more important? Is it essential to be the bad boy or the good guy? Should he make girls laugh or keep a poker face? Is attraction or comfort more important? Should he go for Same Day / Night Lays or master dating? When should he pull the trigger – quickly or slowly? Is it better to immerse himself in Game for a long period or balance it with other interests? Should he take up kick-boxing or meditation to help him on his quest? Should he buy Krauser’s “Daygame Nitro” or Tom Torero’s “Daygame” book?!

It all comes down to being confused about knowing how to reconcile wanting the girl (the “pull”) with not needing the girl (the “push”). How to walk the fine line between persistence and neediness. This forwards and backwards seductive dance is clumsy to begin with, but over time with massive amounts of repetition and practice, a balance begins to be struck. Conscious incompetency becomes conscious competency. The infield action taken internalises the theory, and out of structure comes freedom. Finally a Flow State is reached (unconscious competency) as the skillset is mastered. The sweet spot between pull (Badass) and push (Buddha) has been found. It’s a razor’s edge between the two that only a few will strike consistently, a narrow road between the traps of either extreme.

This table shows the components of both sides of the Badass Buddha:

BADASS (pull)	BUDDHA (push)
Persistence, pulling the trigger	Backing off, non-neediness
Direct	Indirect
Verbal	Non-verbal
Fast (SDL / SNL)	Slow (Dating model)
Bad boy (seduction) traits	Nice guy (rapport) traits
A sexual threat	Master of comfort
Punishing bad behaviour (maintaining “the hand”)	Non-reactive (losing the battle to win the war)
Cockiness, arrogance, solipsism	Connection, dropping the ego, vulnerability
Logistics, planning, detail	In the moment, letting go
Hedonistic, hitting it hard	Reflective, balanced life
Open everything, don’t be picky	Open the 9s and 10s
Full immersion.	Other pursuits and hobbies

Finding that sweet spot into a Flow State is what musicians call “freedom in the groove.” It’s what mountaineers talk about when they’re climbing on the razor’s edge between life and death. It’s what Ayrton Senna meant when he described his “tunnel vision” in Formula One. Having such a sensitivity to the sweet spot is what is meant by calibration, achieved through thousands of hours of refinement of the skill set through errors and corrections.

The Badass Buddha might sound like some New Age, Self-Help, Life Coaching bullshit but it’s quite the opposite. In fact, my aim with the concept is to ridicule and spotlight such mumbo-jumbo bollocks, internet marketing scams and chakra cleansing nonsense. I’m making the point that it’s ACTION that has to come first to achieve any kind of personal / psychological change. Not just action, but relentless action*. You can’t have the Buddha before the Badass. It’s like trying to put the cart before the horse. Therein lies the spiritualist crap. A fluffy motivational quote you post on Facebook means nothing. Logging off, leaving your house and facing your fears (such as talking to girls through cold approach) is everything.

To a beginner or an intermediate daygamer reading this, I’d therefore stress that you need to go through the Badass stage first, taking on all the alpha-like traits that feel alien right now. Go too far, be massively persistent, be direct, be sexual, escalate fast, pull the trigger hard. Over time you’ll calibrate yourself back towards the Buddha, with abundance in your dating life giving you the freedom from outcome that is so key. You’ll learn the importance of non-verbal game, of slowing down, of mastering dating, of letting go in the wider sense.

Karmic rebalancing, yesterday

Fuck self help. Get help from the girls right in front of you that will show you the way much faster than any Tony Robbins seminar.

Earlier this year I reached 150 lays (144 of them in the last four years). An egotistical “notch count hyena” statistic on one level, but massive deep level personal changes on another level. In the last month alone I’ve had 5 new lays with the top-tier of girls around the world from London, Spain, the Baltics and Russia. 2013 was the year of really leaning into my edge, finding flow and hitting that sweet spot consistently. I know Krauser’s had an outstanding year too, as I’ve had to listen to a lot of his escapades through rattling apartment walls we’ve shared.

With dedication and practice, the cognitive dissonance becomes clarity, the conflicting ideas distill into essences. The narrow road is there, hidden underneath the brambles and weeds of procrastination and confusion. Cut a path for yourself using the razor sharp blade of action, which alone will provide the answers you’re looking for.

* Could those of you planning to take relentless action please not do so anywhere along the route from Primark at Marble Arch, along Oxford Street down Regent Street and ending at Trafalgar Square. Thanks – K.

Failure stories #3 – The African minx

November 13, 2013
krauserpua

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.

The journey is the destination

November 11, 2013
krauserpua

I recently likened the Player’s Journey to a tiger raised in captivity being released from his cage into the wild. When an animal is raised in a zoo a routine and structure is imposed upon it by the zookeeper which removes risk such as through regular feeding (starvation risk) and controlled lodgings (exposure and predation risk) while also severely constraining the normal development of the animal. The animal’s socialisation is retarded. The tiger doesn’t get to roam the wilds, engage with it’s fellows, absorb the sights, sounds and fauna of it’s natural habitat. It’s a house cat. It reminds me of a quote I heard on a boxing telecast twenty years ago. To paraphrase:

There’s no such thing as a good boxer I don’t know about. To get good you must fight good opposition and if you’re fighting those guys, I’ll have heard about you.

The idea that there’s a talented well-developed fighter hidden Kung-Fu Panda-like deep inside an unknown prodigy is ridiculous. It’s the very process of building a career against diverse progressively stiffer opposition that creates the fighter. Without the process, there is no fighter. The journey can’t be skipped. The zoo-bound tiger is denied that process of growth and then suddenly released into the wild without the seasoning to compete. Freedom combined with skills is liberating. Freedom without skills is terrifying.

The Saturday Sarge

Prisoners and long-term hospital patients can suffer from institutionalisation. Humanity’s greatest evolutionary advantage is our ability to adapt to new environments and modify our behaviours, thoughts and emotions to fit in. This becomes dysfunctional in periods of lifestyle upheaval as we clutch at lifelines of the old routine. The daily grind of an institution, be it prison, an LTR or the office, conditions us with certain expectations, partitions off other potential thoughts and behaviours and puts us into a comfortable well-worn rut. The normal pattern of modern social life functions precisely this way because modern city life is atomising. If you spend your whole live aboard the Blue Pill Express you have no control over the destination. Your life is merely passing each station in turn until the end of the line. Work, relationships, entertainment, socialising…. it’s easy to passively accept the artificially narrow bounds upon which society has mapped out your life and to surrender decision-making.

This is why I call the Player’s Journey an emotional rollercoaster – you break out of the zoo. A chode’s life is constrained by social conventions and office routine. Usually his day is planned quite literally to the minute.

7:00 – Alarm goes off.
7:10 – Put on coffee pot, eat Quakers Porridge with semi-skimmed milk
7:20 – Shower
7:35 – Open closet, pull out shirt, suit, shoes in that order. Hang them on back of door-frame.

I’ll stop there. Most people’s lives are extremely routinised. It’s efficient and psychologically comforting. There’s a spot for the long term girlfriend in that safe routine and by following social conventions we are deluding ourselves we have escaped the rigours of the sexual marketplace. Just because you ignore a risk, doesn’t mean the environment isn’t risky. Routine is a buffer.

Destination: 7 lifetime lays

So you step out of your gilded cage and into the wilds of Game. What happens then?

You realise your whole life is your responsibility. The zoo-keeper isn’t feeding you or temperature-controlling your cage. It’s all on you now. Sex is something you have to go out and get. The nature of the relationship is for you to determine. Pretty quickly you realise girls are only part of the picture. Everything else is yours to determine:

your fashion
your body
your work path
you friends

Your life is a project to be managed not a series of orders to follow. Your happiness is your own responsibility. It’s both liberating and a psychological burden. Like the tiger released into the wild you must catch-up and learn all those coping strategies that you should’ve learned as a cub. You can only learn by doing.

It’s the very process of following the Player’s Journey, with its myriad highs and lows, that builds character. Adversity makes the man.

You must go out and live the life. This is why you can’t hide yourself behind internet forums and manosphere chatter. You can’t just buy some cool clothes and VIP tickets. You can’t just inject TRT/HGH and call it confidence. You can’t just reality-weave yourself to strong inner-game. Unless you’ve actually gone out and done the real work the house is built on sand. Your ego will push you back into the gilded cage. Be ready for it. It’s a natural response to the extreme emotional duress that Game places you under. Common traps include:

Lionise a long term relationship with a “quality woman” and announce your exit from the Game. Fall back into the feminine imperative’s frame and assume all the old chode-risks while telling yourself you have “won”.
Delusional ramblings about having become alpha / self-actualised, above the mere minions around you.
Disappear into “value-building” hobbies that require no compliance from the world but give the illusion of moving forwards.

All three of the above are both buffers to patch up a delusional reality and ease away from the psychological rigours of the Game, and also (in rare cases) potentially pleasant end-states for men who have actually arrived there at the end of the rainbow. You really have to know the man to know which it is. Usually it’s a buffer. The lady doth protest too much.

You’ll become a better man by enduring the hardships, the introspection, the identity change and forming the mindsets and habits to cope in the Wild. It’s tough. You must learn your lessons the hard way. The temptation to return to your gilded cage will be strong.

I bang my first 30 year old Sri Lankan student

November 9, 2013
krauserpua

The player lifestyle is an emotional rollercoaster that throws up all kinds of unusual experiences. The typical chode has a love-life something like this, with some adjustment depending on how high his value is:

Grind away with job, fashion, hobbies and gym until some girl chooses you
Date girl in her frame until she gives up the sex and secures monogamous commitment from you
Change Facebook status to “in a relationship”. Go to Adele concerts together, shopping malls, birthday parties and bore your co-workers with stories that begin with “we” and end with a damp squib of anti-climax.
Get dumped. Come off the rails a while. Message some fatties on OkCupid. Stare with terror into the abyss of a long dry spell.
Repeat once a year until married.

Perhaps I exaggerate but the chodes I know all have drearily predictable lives. Once you board the emotional rollercoaster that is Game it’s like a tiger raised in capitivity being released into the wild.

Beginners bootcamp, Covent Garden

The buffers are gone, the safe societally-sanctioned routine is gone and now you are confronted with the many opportunities and threats of the wildnerness. It’s exciting times. It’s a rollercoaster because you are now putting yourself into position to experience the extremes of success and failure. This is not a flat straight motorway with a car on cruise control. You are constantly forcing yourself into (relatively) high stakes situations where the difference between roaring success and shattering failure is razor thin. Just ask any player who has pulled off an SDL with a young hottie. Hence the old saying “emotional control is the foundation of Game.”

One such unusual experience is sex with girls you don’t like. In ChodeWorld it’s weird to have sex with a girl whose personality grates on him because he (i) believes the Disney romance myth and (ii) is chosen by girls partly on his agreeability to them. Players, however, have relentless notch-count hyena to feed and also far more stringent standards on who they like. It’s just that we’ll still fuck her anyway. Making a habit of enduring unpleasant women’s jibber-jabber just to get into their pants is a soul-destroying foolish errand but once in a while the grotty shamefullness of it is fun. So it was with this girl.

It begins normally enough at 10pm on Regent Street as I’m walking to the bus stop after a drink with friends. The streets have emptied out and from about twenty metres away I see a girl with exactly the silhouette I want – tall, leggy, wide hips, breasts, long hair. As I see the whites of her eyes I see she’s from the sub-continent and walks nice. So I open. My assumption story is dead-on that she’s a student from Sri Lanka. She’s surprised by my accuracy and she’s a fairly smart girl so the banter is good (at first). She’s loving it but a bit guarded and challenging. I take the number and she’s keen in the texts. It goes downhill from there.

Perm the hair a bit

Every new fact I find out about her is either a red flag or an irritation. Over the course of a short Day 2 (one drink on a Friday night) and a longer Day 3 in a blues bar I discover the following:

Her university course is a do-gooder socialist PC money pit.
She’s sexually experienced and “knows what she wants”
She frequently spouts femthink to belittle and dismiss masculinity (in the abstract – she gets off on my masculinity in the specific)
She has a large tattoo on her lower back
She thinks she knows alot about politics, geography, history and psychology and yet every single assertion is gibberish.

I figure she’s quite a slut so I shouldn’t have to endure much before I get my notch and smoothly disappear from her life. The Day 3 is just a technical challenge of my ability to run the model and move things along against her resistance while suppressing my desire to dress her down and next her. I can deal with her obstructionism by the usual push-pull and dominance. I can deal with her femthink by holding my frame and not engaging. She’s so set on keeping her frame that it’s tough to break her down. She’s desperately clinging on to the “I’m a girl. I’m the value. I’m choosing” script but I won’t budge an inch and she grudgingly plays along, plotting and scheming ways to snatch back some frame.

It’s quite a chore. I probably shouldn’t bother but I want the Sri Lanka flag.

Day 4 is back at my house but she’s getting off on stringing things out and denying the sex. I get her rather generous breasts out but not much more. She’s gagging for it but the script matters more to her. Day 5 is in my house again and I’m decided that I’ll next her if she doesn’t put out. She doesn’t put out. Next!

She’s chasing hard by text. I give one-word answers, take hours to respond, don’t take her bait to invite her out. I’m just sick of it. I cannot face the idea of rebuilding momentum just to spend another four hours on my sofa of her saying “no”. She seems to get the message. She invites herself over one final time and then I fuck her within the hour. She makes a face-saving show of banter and reluctance but her eyes and mouth are a dead giveaway that she’s come to fuck. It’s actually a great lay. High energy, very physical, noisy. I put her into a taxi and delete her number.

Girls really ought to learn that how they act before the lay determines if they get called back. This one was just so precious, so inane, so poor at banter that I shut myself down and by Day 4 getting interest and affection from me was like blood from a stone. She’s not a bad person, just a case of drinking every bottle of PC/feminist Kool Aid and wrecking her ability to inspire care and affection from a man. Poor girl.

+1. New flag.

Learning points

Masculine girls are extremely annoying
Obstructionism is not a strong frame. It’s just obstructionism. Don’t be in awe of it.
Don’t feel guilty about pumping and dumping a girl who has failed to earn your affections.

Teasing the unique snowflake

November 8, 2013
krauserpua

While on a recent trip I formularised a new little frame/tease to throw into sets. Nothing groundbreaking or conclusive, just nice spiking and framing. Allow me to share. One girl I’m working on long game has bright purple hair. Rid all images of face-pierced shaved-temple tattooed feminists from your mind. This is a delightful slim beautiful young Russian art student who is feminine in every respect….. she just happens to dye her long hair purple for aesthetic reasons. While on a short first coffee date:

Me: You know, I’ve just realised [chuckling to self]…. when you walked in I knew you reminded me of someone famous but I couldn’t remember who. Now I’ve got it!

…. tap tap tap into google image search on my phone….she’s in rapt anticipation…

Her: aaaaahahahahhahahhahaaahahaaaa!

A bit later on she’s telling me about her art college in a different town.

Me: I imagine it’s a very different atmosphere over there having all those art students in one place. Here in Krakow it’s quite traditional. Probably when you walk down the street with that purple hair old grannies tut and little children point. But I’ll bet that in Lodz girls like you are ten-a-penny.

Her: Haha etc

Me: In Lodz you probably feel like when a girl who goes to a party and sees another girl in the same dress. There’ll be all these purple-haired girls walking past and you’re thinking “bitch”. You don’t feel like a special unique snowflake anymore. You’re just common.

Thinking about this gave me an idea that this is a repeatable routine on any girl’s deliberately affected quirks.

Step 1: Identify a quirk. Perhaps it’s her hair, or subculture fashion (punk, metalhead, goth etc), or other affectation.
Step 2: Compliment her that it’s nice
Step 3: Playfully sympathise that it must be hard in tradtionally-minded towns. Use the tutting of grannies and pointing of small children.
Step 4: Contrast it with how utterly common and non-special it is in her imagined chosen environment (town, social group etc).

This tease works because you are bouncing from opposite sides of the spectrum – she’s both a misunderstood rebel and an utterly conformist bore – while giving her a playfully unflattering frame at both sides. You’ve got her bang to rights and women love being called on their shit in a non-angry way. You can generalise the theme further. Imagine you’re chatting to a catwalk model. Obviously it’s important not to be overawed by her job and presumed lifestyle. So run this pattern.

Me: Catwalk, eh? Hmmmmm…. interesting. I suppose it must be quite a contrast in life. Here you are on Oxford Street striding down the street like an angry cat. Very pretty and stylish. You’re the tallest girl here, like Gulliver being in Lilliput. All these other girls seem like oompa loompas and you’re a giant, having to duck when you walk through shop doorways…. and then you go off to a casting and suddenly the whole room is full of giants. You’re just another tall girl in a whole sea of tall girls, all scratching and biting to get the contract. That must be really difficult to get used to, going from being a unique snowflake to just another pretty girl.

You can always find a way to use a girl’s unique high-value attributes as a playfully-framed negative, whether it’s her large breasts, long legs, thick hair, big eyes, great fashion. Creatively invent dual scenarios where the attribute begins as a blessing and ends up as a curse.

I bang my first 28 year old Russian Miss Fitness competitor

November 6, 2013
krauserpua

Back when I was a ~~normal person~~ super-chode my life was a fairly unadventurous affair, something I still see in the dead-eyed shambling of all my coupled-up old friends. Monday to Friday is the corporate cubicle grind then a few drinks after work with other blue-shirted finance/programmer chodes in an All Bar One until each of my friends’ “weekend passes” expired and Her Indoors summoned them home. Saturday and Sunday were mostly recovery from the week with a little shopping and cafe-dwelling mixed in.

A pretty boring life. I escaped that gulag four years ago and the Blue Pill Gestapo will never take me back alive.

Confined to solitary

Then an hour in the exercise yard

So I’ve been living the Euro-jaunt lifestyle. Every month or so I’ll take a week or two’s trip facilitated by budget airlines and airbnb. I’ll number-farm, pick the low-hanging fruit and add the tougher, chaster and prettier girls to Facebook and Skype to work them ready for a return trip. When you’re a fan of the Euro-jaunt lifestyle, Long Game is indispensable. You have to learn your mistakes the hard way and few things are more depressing than working a girl over social media for two months, agreeing to meet in her country and then she doesn’t put out. It’s only happened to me twice and it’s very unpleasant… an “I suck” moment to beat all I suck moments. So I developed a Long Game checklist to be ticked off before booking flights and it’s served me well. It’s in the new book.

I wouldn’t be an aspiring player if I didn’t sometimes push the envelope, take a risk, and put myself into stupid situations. With this girl I decide to fly over to Estonia for a weekend with her when she hasn’t ticked off a single item on the checklist. That’s trouble. But before we get to the end let’s go back to the beginning…..

It’s late July and the sun is beating down on the paved streets around Trafalgar Square. Crowds of slim Euro-tourist girls amble around with cameras, guidebooks and Primark bags while Tom and I run amok. He opens some bint outside the National Gallery and hooks well so I go sit over on a nearby wall. He’s got his girl laughing and tittering so I’m looking around for something to throw myself at….. and I see her. A diminutive little Russian strutting across the square in high heels and tight skirt. Imagine the bitchiest coldest-looking Russian catwalk model and then shrink her six inches and inflate her curves. She’s got the severe makeup, cold eyes, high cheekbones and dark clipped fashion that you’d expect on Victoria Beckham but she’s only 5’2″ tall bless her with hips and calves like a porno actress. Her features are like a blow-up doll. I open.

I genuinely expect to get blown out hard. She seems so severe.

In diminutive low-8 form

But no, she hooks easily and before bouncing her into the National Gallery cafe “for an English tea like an English lady” I see Tom glide past with his phone camera sneakily flashing. Later he shows up in the cafe after I text asking him to record a little idate footage.

After tea I walk her along the lakeside at St James Park and we sit on the grass. She deftly avoids being in kiss-close range but she’s verbally IOIing me and there’s no danger of her failing to understand my intent. But this is a Russian: you don’t expect much from the first two dates. She’s only in town a few more days as her three-week English course wraps up but I manage to get her on a Day 2 for a couple of hours. We have a beer in Waxy O’Connors and she rebuffs my kiss-close in a “too soon” kind of manner. I move it to Facebook.

Back in Trotskygrad reality hits her like homebrewed vodka and she’s loving the mysterious Englishman schtick. I run the usual Long Game in comparing her to a hamster and KGB agent. She sends me a two-page bio giving me a fantasy backstory (that’s great investment and mythologising) and it all goes nicely. September rolls around and I’m in Latvia teaching a residential with Tom. I get my usual local lays and squeezed between them is a Sunday afternoon when my Russian buses into Riga for a daytrip. It’s a delightful afternoon sitting in the sunshine by the river, taking photos around the Old Town and I get her semi-naked on my sofa. There’s makin’-out aplenty but she’s got rigid forebrain control to refuse the sex. I try everything. At one point I’m chasing her around the kitchen table and she tries to crawl away through my legs.

Another month of Facebook chat ensues then we agree to meet for a weekend in Tallinn. I know it’s not a done deal not only because the checklist isn’t ticked off but my whole gut feel is telling me it’s a 50/50 bet she’ll play the “I’m not that kind of girl game”. She’s clearly angling for commitment. However I’m on 25 of 26 targeted lays for the year, fancy getting out of London, and haven’t been approaching for over a month so have no London leads. I take a punt.

Predictably she gives me the runaround. On paper it’s a lovely evening – we stroll around the Old Town, take photos, eat in a medieval restaurant, have a few drinks and then roll around on my bed in the apartment but…. it’s just one long ordeal for me. It’s a very straightforward powerplay, conducted covertly.

I want to bang her. She wants to get commitment first.

As I’m walking her back to my place towards 10pm she tells me “I should be going back to my hotel”. She comes inside “for a minute only”. She won’t take her coat or shoes off for the first hour. Every babystep forward is a grind. I try everything over three hours on my bed before finally giving up. She stays the night but never takes her tights off and in the morning I’m able to get a blowjob off her. It’s so obvious she’s gagging for it but her forebrain is truly impressive. There’s a reason Russians like chess (and yes, she plays).

I get rid of her on Saturday afternoon because I need my own time and space. A couple of hours later she returns and the battle recommences. I sense a change this time. I’ve very consciously reminded myself to get back into the Now and make myself present, rather than my previously weird outcome-dependent distant vibe. She’s also a little more broken-down than yesterday, her hindbrain having dissolved a few more layers of resistance. So we eat again and have another drink. The vibe has shifted noticeably. Her eyes are more sparkly, she feels closer, and I’m starting to sense the “fuck me” decision being made behind her eyes. The spider sense is tingling.

I take her home again and the same palaver ensues but in only a quarter of the time. Finally I decide for the big escalation push. I’m pretty brutal with her. Moving her body around, ripping her clothes off, giving her stern looks, holding her down. She resists mightily but everytime I release her she gives a mildly disappointed look. Twice I do the Fire Escape routine of going into the bathroom, closing the door and offering her an escape route should she really wish to leave. Both times I come back to find her still lying on the bed in exactly the state of undress in which I left her. She wants it.

This Conan scene is tame in comparison

So she gets it. She’s saying “no, we shouldn’t” right up until the moment I stick it in her and then – BAM! – She loves it. The barriers come tumbling down and she transforms into a hellcat. She’s biting, scratching, moaning, screaming, begging for more. She loves it rough especially the choking. When I turn her over for doggy-style I see a tramp stamp above her ass…. “oh you deceitful dirty bitch” I think, “pretending you’re a good girl wanting commitment while having that tattoo”. So I stick it in her ass and give her a rough one-man DP. Needless to say she loves it.

Afterwards she snuggles up to me and coos “you’re such a monster”.

I’m grinning. “You look much happier now” she says. “Yes, I won” I reply.

I bang my first 23 year old Romanian street racer

October 26, 2013
krauserpua

Girls are designed to derail the train.

It’s common to project our own thoughts and values onto others and to assume they share our outlook. The manosphere is full of much chortling at female rationalisations and solipsism such as how career women think men should value them for their intelligence, status and travel stories simply because that’s what the women value in men. It’s true. We men do have our own projection too though. Men are so completely notch-centric that we don’t fully appreciate how little women care about getting a new lay. They really don’t care if an interaction doesn’t lead to sex. They can walk away at any time. It’s only with tight game that you can get them invested enough to want to see it through.

A girl’s default programming towards sex with a new man is non-neediness. She will happily toss a spanner into the works at most inopportune moments because she simply doesn’t care if it all breaks down. A young hot girl will never run out of suitors. This Romanian girl was a hardcore derailer, worse than a band of WWII Ukranian partisans. She did the full inventory of derailments:

Don’t reply to messages
Divert conversations into dead ends
Leave the country
Try to provoke arguments
Try to annoy me so much I delete her number
Cancel or reschedule dates

WWII-era cockblocks

In my new book I go into detail on what I call “playing silly buggers”. It’s not a shit test per se. She’s not testing me for my value. This Romanian girl absolutely adored me and was like a meek little kitten in person, totally under my spell. But once she had the seperation of Whatsapp between us she became a derailment machine. So this was a long battle…. full of emotional highs and lows… and then I won. Go me.

It begins on Oxford Street three months ago when the sun is shining and the streets are rammed with 7s. As I pick my way through a crowd I catch the faintest of IOIs from a slim brunette going the opposite direction. She’s separated from me by about five feet and seven people but I’m alive to it and catch that sideways flicker of her eyes. I open with something accusatory for an easy hook. We chat five minutes and it’s electric. She’s a cat (more categorisation in my book) and lapping up the sexual energy so I bounce for the idate outside a nearby pub. We are propped up against the outside wall in mid-afternoon sunshine so I can easily test kino, build rapport and within an hour I’ve kissed her. It seems so on I’m looking for the SDL. We move to a second bar and I’m seeding the extraction then…. ring ring ring. Her boss calls to demand she attend a client dinner a couple of hours later. Everything fizzles. We swap numbers.

This sort of thing

As I walk her back to Oxford Circus she begins her silly buggers by crossing the street ahead of me and stomping along the pavement with a haughty expression while I hold my line on my side of the street. I’ve seen this game before. She wants to covertly induce me to following her. Nope, not me. After a few texts I quickly figure out her psychology. She loves to rub up against a guy’s manhood. Intermediates are easily confused by this because it’s pretty rare to find a girl who proactively and consistently does it and thus they mistake it for a shit test.

Shit test: Your value is in doubt so she throws you a test and your answer allows her to better place your value.
The rub: She enjoys the feeling of masculine dominance so she pushes a button precisely to trigger a slap down, because she loves the thrill of being slapped down.

In dysfunctional form The Rub is why battered women provoke violence from abusive boyfriends. This girl wasn’t that bad, just a naughty minx. As we move to Whatsapp I see her profile picture is walking a rottweiler and she sends me a photo of her on the back of her cousin’s superbike. Yes, her psychology is clear – she likes bad boys. Curiously there’s a twist to her make-up because she’s also very intelligent and has a real job that requires real administrative skill. She lets on she’s read alot of the classics and surprises me a little with her historical and geographical knowledge.

By now I’m rubbing my hands in glee. She can only be attracted to men who have shedloads of bad boy dominance as well as well-rounded intellectual sophistication…. and how often does a girl find both in one man? My prediction turns out right – she can’t stop messaging me and is like a moth drawn to a flame. The whatsapp messages are tremendously entertaining for me with a constant stream of her poking her head up and me slapping it down. Logistics interfere horribly though and her business trip ends before we get a Day 2. She tells me she doesn’t like London and will not return. Bugger. This news comes when I’m in a run of extremely bad luck of sets collapsing due to forces beyond my control. I write her off but the banter is good enough that I’m happy to keep the text messages going.

I get a few semi-naked selfies. She tells me she’s had dirty dreams about me. I want to move things further along into authentic communication and deep rapport but part of her derailment is to hold things in a fizzy banter-ish mode. She’s constantly breaking rapport and avoiding connection. Ok, I’m not going to force it. I’ve basically reached the point where the only reason I’m chatting to her is to test out new material and to pester her for naked photos. And then she gives me the news: “I’m coming to live in London.” Game on.

Of course it was never going to be that easy. She claims her boss is constantly making her work late, and she has trouble house-hunting. Finally I get her out a week after she arrives. It goes great and she’s bubbling with sexual energy. We have a civilised tea and then a pint, make-out but she hits me with another my-boss-needs-me-back-now evasion. Two weeks pass then she tells me she’s leaving London soon. Bugger. It’s such a pain to arrange things but finally we agree on Whatsapp to meet on Friday.

Some of my recent sets

She tries one more derailment by messaging me an hour before the date along the lines of “can we postpone till next week.” I swear I nearly throw my phone at the nearest woman. I take deep breaths, compose myself, then tell her off. No, we won’t postpone and it’s too late to do so. So we meet in Camden.

And predictably, it’s completely on. I walk her around the market a bit, we have some street food then a coffee in the upstairs of a secluded souk. I have her tits in my mouth there and every fibre of her being is screaming “fuck me”. So I walk her to the bus stop. “I’m not going back to your place” she pipes up but gets on the bus anyway. Back in my house it takes about half an hour of battling until finally I fuck her. It’s not fast but it’s definitely furious. A very hot young minx. I’m pleased with this one.

Learning points

Spot the difference between a shit test and the rub.
Strong leading remains essential when going for the close. Even in the texts before the sex date you may have to push hard with your logistics.
UPDATE: A fortnight later when she’s around for sex she tells me I’m the third guy to ever fuck her. Previous two were LTRs.

Failure stories #2 – The Russian business girl

October 13, 2013
krauserpua

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.

Failure stories #1 – The New York student

October 9, 2013
krauserpua

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.

The Chosen Few

October 7, 2013
krauserpua

You are either the chooser or the chosen. This holds in life generally and also in any given interaction with a girl.

Chosen: Girl already fancies you and quite likely has already decided to sleep with you before you’ve even initiated the interaction.
Chooser: Girl doesn’t know or care about you until you make her want to sleep with you by running tight game.

So much of the apparently contradictory advice in the community straightens itself once you ask yourself “Is this Game tip for choosers or the chosen?” Let me give you some examples. My friend “Mark” is a 25 year old tall muscular good-looking guy. He’s so good-looking that he does lots of catwalk shows as a male model. He’s had a few amateur boxing bouts so he’s no Hollister Fag either, he has functional muscularity. His Game is quite simple…. dress cool and walk into a nightclub. Stand around with a chill vibe scanning the crowd, waiting for the horny girls to IOI him. Then he walks over with a cocky smile and rapid escalates each girl in turn to filter out the timewasters and figure out which girl he’s leaving with for an SNL. This works well because he’s The Chosen. There was no attraction phase.

A Hollister Fag, yesterday

Conversely consider another friend, ~~Tom Torero~~ “Bob”. He’s a 34 year old teacher of average looks and physique. His game is to hit the streets and build good vibe, usually getting a bunch of blowouts as he’s warming up until some girls hook. Then he runs the model to build attraction with teasing and challenging, rapport as a street intellectual, then takes a number. After a handful of numbers he sees what comes through the funnel and sets up a Day 2. This works well because he’s The Chooser.

It should be pretty clear that both guys are playing to their strengths and doing what they have to do to make it work. Mark isn’t much of a talker and he doesn’t need to be. ~~Tom~~ Bob isn’t much of a looker and he doesn’t need to be. They are not playing the same game. Let’s break it down further.

The Chosen is any guy who is pre-selected before he opens the girl. The top DJ who has a line of girls waiting for the afterparty, the pro wrestler with his adoring ring rats, the NBA star with his girl in every franchise city, the small-time Indie band bassist with name recognition with the local hipster crowd, the cool party guy at the university hall of residence, the well-connected fashion photographer…. these are all The Chosen. Some are chosen because of their looks, some for their social status, some for their role as gatekeeper to scarce rewards but ALL are able to get laid without Game. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Game isn’t the only way to get laid.

Building an eco-system, yesterday

Chosen One Game is by far the more efficient, assuming you enjoy the lifestyle and work required to build the little eco-system upon which it relies. Consider the rock guitarist at his concert. There may be 500 fans in the audience of whom 250 are females under thirty. Of those 250, perhaps 200 are in relationships they are happy with or simply don’t fancy him. Of the 50 who are available and fancy him, maybe only 20 are hot. Of those 20 maybe 5 are horny and slutty.

A comprehensive filtering mechanism has taken place before the rock guitarist has even looked at the girls.

Those 5 horny and slutty girls will come and find him. They’ll eye him up from the crowd and then hang around backstage waiting for him to notice them. It’s only at this point that he begins the interaction. It’s the warmest of possible opens because the only girls who enter his field of vision are girls who have already passed every filter:

Fancies him
Available
Up for it
Logistically convenient

Consider this screening mechanism for my friend Mark in a nightclub. He isn’t working an environment quite so favourable (he has competition from other men, cockblocks, crappier logistics, less pre-selection) but most of those conditions are at least partially met. So long as he is alive to the IOIs he’ll naturally filter his interactions so he only needs to open single horny girls who already fancy him.

Now let’s consider The Chooser game.

When ~~Tom~~ Bob hits the streets the girls are unfiltered. They are just normal girls engrossed in their normal daily activities. There is no natural filter so he must apply his own. Look for the girls who are walking solo, or looking dreamy, or dressed to indicate horniness. Look for isolated girls such as tourists. Ultimately there’s no reliable filter except opening itself – flip the stone and see if she’s a Yes, Maybe or No girl. Most of the girls will be filtered out at this point by not hooking, indicating they aren’t available or aren’t into him. Of those remaining there may be mild interest which can be amplified by tight game. Sometimes a girl is so hot you aren’t filtering her at all – you are putting out your best possible game and just hoping she likes it.

Chooser game is incredibly inefficient. But if you’re not The Chosen you have to become The Chooser. Or else you don’t get laid much.

Oxford Street, yesterday

I think of Chooser game like putting together an offensive drive in American Football. It’s a series of plays designed to move the ball down the field / move the girl along the courtship ritual. At every step her instinct is a defensive line. The rule of nature is the male intitiates and pushes while the women reacts and resists until she’s finally overcome. The male needs to create something out of nothing whereas the female can simple break up the plays and swat the ball out of the air. The Chooser needs Game.

In contrast The Chosen is in the “hot girl position”. The female is trying to make a play on him. This is why Chosen game can be aloof and full of assholery. You can barely invest and just let her chase because the script was flipped before you said hello. The Chooser begins from zero. He must first establish a beach head (the opener) and funnel his value through as quickly as possible (the assumption stack) until he has an anchor in the interaction. It’s only after this he can start to flip the script and become The Chosen.

Chosen

+ Easy. High lay count. Almost entirely positive responses.

– Doesn’t travel outside the eco-system. By definition your value is higher than the girl’s. Girls are banging the image of you rather than you. Not possible for most men.

Chooser

+ Travels everywhere. Choice. Quality. Authentic connection.

– Inefficient. Hard work. Flakes. LMR. Mostly negative responses (too many for most men to stick with it).

I don’t recommend one over the other, just be aware which path is being addressed when you hear pick-up advice. Realistically you can do both at the same time. When a website is telling you to get jacked to improve the raw attractiveness of your physique that’s Chosen game. When you’re scoring a table behind the DJ in a status-whore club that’s Chosen game. When you’re using social skills to move a girl’s emotions that’s Chooser game.

Even in daygame you get both paths. Most of the time you are in Chooser mode but occasionally a girl simply IOIs you – when you jump on that it’s Chosen game. Don’t waste your time building attraction and winning her over because you already have an immediate hook. Instead you can screen hard and escalate fast.