Storytelling AKA Fibbing

In the course of your conversation with a woman you want to tell a story about yourself that flips those female attraction switches which Mystery so incisively described as “pre-selection by women, leader of men, and protector of loved ones”. But, honestly, how many men have those kinds of rip roaring yarns to tell which powerfully hit all those girl buttons? If you’re like most men, you likely have not led the life of an international man of mystery.

And of those men who *do* have stories like that to tell, how many of them are able to relay their stories for maximum impact? I’ve known quite a few Marines who spent time overseas in the middle of some crazy shit inexplicably tell their tales in such a way as to render them boring and ineffectual. You have to learn to sell yourself. Sometimes even top notch goods sit moldy on the shelves for lack of marketing and salesmanship.

This is where having a story (or a routine, in old school parlance) memorized and ready for deployment is critical to a man’s success bedding women. There is nothing inherently beta or creepy about memorizing stories from your life to use over and over with different women. Alpha males, indeed, are the biggest violators of the supposed sanctity of extemporaneous jiving. If you’ve ever hung out at upper class parties and the like you’ll notice the top dogs returning to the same well again and again, telling their stories in exquisite detail and precise manner, using almost the same words and cadence each time, because they have learned how to tell their best stories to ensure smiles and squeals of delight from their rapt audience. So go ahead and commit to memory one or two great stories that feature you in a starring role. Like a good Boy Scout, you should always be prepared.

So what does the man without a great story do? Well, my friend, this is where knowledge of the fine art of fibbing will take you far. I’ll illustrate with an example from my own life. Let’s say you have just asked a girl a beaver baiting question like “If you could wake up tomorrow and be anywhere in the world, where would it be?” She gets excited by this question and answers. This allows you to segue into a DHV story like the one from my life below.

THE TRUE STORY

One of my vacations was at a tropical paradise. Sun, sand, waves, fruity cocktails. After an uneventful plane ride, I rented a scooter and rode to the villa I was staying at. I paid a taxi to take my luggage to the same spot. Upon settling in and admiring the ocean view for fifteen minutes, I slathered on suntan lotion and trundled to a small beach alcove known for its nude sunbathers, hoping to peep at boobies and snatch. Once there, a couple of fat Europeans obstructed my view with their bloated nakedness. It turned me off. I moved down the beach away from them and read “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man”. Not the whole book, just the first few pages. I’m a slow absorbent reader. Then I went in the water and bobbed like a buoy. At 4pm, I walked to the tiki stand and bought a sandwich. On the walk back to the villa, I took a photo of three locals unloading crates from a red and yellow dingy docked at a tiny, empty beach. I watched them for a bit, when one of the gentlemen bounded up the craggy hillside and stopped directly in front of me. He barked at me to “stop taking snaps of my boat, mon.” Momentarily stunned, I looked at him like he was an alien. Finally, I said “Why? It’s legal.” He repeated himself, and threatened to steal my camera. I said “Yeah, sure, whatever” and walked off. Back at the villa, the concierge told me there was a drug running problem in these parts of the island, and that I was lucky not to get knifed. Relieved by my good fortune, I lounged at the pool until I fell asleep.

The next day, I went scuba diving. I was part of an instructional group, since I never scuba dived before. When I first plunged in the water I freaked out for a few seconds before gaining my composure and relaxing enough to breathe properly through the mouthpiece. A barracuda swam by me. It wasn’t very big or threatening. I could have petted it. Later in the afternoon I lounged at the beach again and ate another sandwich. The sandwich was delicious.

Day three. I decided snorkeling was more fun than scuba diving, so I rented some snorkeling gear and floated on top of the azure waters for a few hours watching small iridescent fish swim around. I got a sunburn on my back. I went to a club that night and hit on two French girls. One was interested, but she had a kid and an expensive coke habit.

Day four. More sunbathing. Oh yeah, and I went into town to browse the electronics shops and the ridiculously overpriced French fashion boutiques. I bought some liquor. Back at the villa I made a plate of brie cheese, baguettes, and red wine. The cheese made me gassy.

Day five. I went on a deep sea fishing boat to see how it was done. The waves were huge. I got seasick. My face turned green and I chucked over the side of the boat. The tall skinny black man operating the boat laughed at me. So did the little kid sitting next to me.

Day six. Having had my fill of sunbathing, I caught a ferry to a nearby island known for its excellent and invigorating hiking. The island was a dormant volcano that shot straight up out of the ocean. The hike was exhausting. 3,000 feet up took me all day. I saw a lot of green tropical plants along the way, and a couple of small lizards. I asked someone if the lizards were biters. They weren’t. I was disappointed. On the way down, I stopped at a small store and bought a trinket made of amber from an old, fat black woman.

Day seven. I went back to the same tiki stand, because why mess with success? They had tasty sandwiches. On the plane ride home, I jammed in earphones and listened to music.

***

Now this isn’t a horrible story, but it’s not exactly a panty-dropper, is it?

THE FUDGED STORY INTENDED TO INCITE MAXIMUM GINA TINGLE

[Addressing girl]: Your ideal vacation spot reminds me of the time I went to [tropical island] and wound up with an adventure I hadn’t bargained for. I was chatting with some French girls at this supposedly exclusive nude beach — and by the way, conversations take on a whole new feel when everyone is naked — when a big fat German dude plopped down right next to us. He was blocking out our sun like an eclipse, so we decided to leave. Since they were staying at the same villa I was at, I escorted them home. On the way, I stopped to take a pic of this interesting boat docked at a quiet beach alcove. Suddenly, one of the dudes unloading boxes from the boat bounded up the hillside and yelled at me to “stop taking snaps of my boat, mon!” I said, “What’s it to you” and he lunged at me and pushed a knife to my throat. The two French girls gasped. This was pretty scary. Thinking quickly, I told him that wasn’t a good idea because a bunch of people were walking towards us right at that moment. When he turned around to look, I grabbed one of the girl’s hands and dashed around him to safety just a few hundred yards away. He didn’t chase us. I told the cops about the incident, but as far as I know nothing was done. There’s a drug running problem at that island, and I got caught in the middle of it.

The unexpected adventure didn’t end there. I went scuba diving the next day and a shark that had to be ten feet long swam by me like a torpedo. The locals told me the sharks in those waters are harmless and won’t bother humans, but when you’ve seen them up close like that you don’t really believe all that bullshit. It was thrilling, sure, but I think I prefer watching sharks on TV.

I needed a break from all this unwanted excitement, so after an evening of red wine and French cheese while relaxing in the hot tub, I planned a hiking trip to a remote volcanic island that could be reached by ferry. On the hike up the mountain through thick rainforest and heavy fog, I stumbled across an old rickety shack with a sign outside that offered psychic services. Curious, I stepped inside and was greeted by an old black woman with an incredible accent. I don’t believe in psychic stuff, but I decided to let her read my fortune. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. She stood up and said the session was over. Then she handed me an amber medallion and said it was a soulstone, which I should only give to a woman I will be with for the remainder of my life, because the woman who receives it will then have a piece of my soul. I still have the stone.

Have you ever gone deep sea fishing? If you do, take anti-seasickness pills. The waves were rocking the boat to the left and right. This boy sitting next to me was leaning over the railing trying to touch the flying fish when he got sick and started to slip over the side. I grabbed the kid before he fell into the ocean and told him to be careful. You’ve gotta wonder where this kid’s parents were just letting him take a deep sea fishing excursion by himself.

After all that, I think I would have been better off just hanging out at Ocean City. But it wasn’t all bad. I picked up some French while I was down there.

***

Pre-selected by women? Nude French girls. Check.
Protector of loved ones? Helped French girls escape drug lord. Check.
Leader of men? Rescued boy from drowning. Check.

Much improved.

Don’t feel bad about fibbing. You are doing the exact same thing a woman does when she attempts to present her mating market value in the best possible light through the use of makeup and coy mannerisms. Seduction is an intricate weave of truth and fiction, and women would have it no other way.