Archive for the ‘Closing the Deal’ Category

Men (and lately women too, thanks to the endless sex denialist propaganda stream) underestimate the vast difference in physical strength between the sexes, and as a consequence also underestimate the psychological impact men’s size and strength has on women’s emotional state when in the company of men. The strongest woman would be no match for the average soyboy, and this fact of life has implications for how women have evolved to behave around men. Specifically, women are evolved to be both aroused and scared of male physical strength, and particularly so when alone with a man and no nearby white knights to aid her in case the man she’s with turns out to be a psychokiller.

Women have evolved this way because a dominant, potentially dangerous man is both a benefit and a risk to her. His benefit is obvious: in a harsh environment filled with predators human and animal, he can protect her. His cost is obvious as well, but maybe less so to the muff-struck girl: a dominant man may turn his ire on her if she crosses him or his entitlement or rage escape his self-control.

Thankfully for you readers, years in the wench trenches and a compilation of personal experience from hundreds if not thousands of aspiring womanizers who told their stories in online forums have revealed some extraordinarily potent pre-bedroom maneuvers to heighten a woman’s sexual arousal and consequently lower her inhibition.

The goal is to walk that fine line between a display of dominance which excites women and a menacing threat which scares women. Foreplay is maximally inflamed with a quick, yet unmistakable, hint of your manly power.

The move is simple. Grab a woman’s wrist HARD in the heat of the moment. Pin it against the wall, or against her shoulder or hip. This motion is AC/DC electricity, and as segue to sex it’s both boner and beaver fuel. You see, your dominance display will not only arouse her, it will arouse yourself seeing her submit so deliriously to your entitled whim and overwhelming physicality. Dominance is the limbic lube that both men and women secretly crave, the former for its powerful alpha penumbra, and the latter for its submission summoning sexiness.

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I’ve noticed a faddishness among so-called “red pill” men lately to assert with the cynical glee of a conspiracy theorist stumbling across doubleplussecret knowledge that only men with 8-10% body fat and Hollywood good looks are capable of pulling girls cold, and that any man who falls short of those physical dimensions ought to console himself with internet porn or drop out of the mating race to “go his own way”.

Men who think like this believe that the only achievable pickup is one that starts with the woman initiating an “approach invitation”, i.e., a flirty nonverbal signal that lets a man know she will accept his approach. They believe that it is exceedingly rare to find examples of men successfully approaching inattentive or indifferent girls and earning the notch.

Rubbish. Anyone who’s lived a day in his life has witnessed (or executed) a pickup attempt that began with the man making an unsolicited approach and progressed to the woman gradually warming up with romantic interest. Not only does it happen all the time in real life, but our literature is replete with caddish, not-particularly-handsome characters who not only cold approached and defiled initially indifferent women, but often took up the challenge of seducing actively hostile women.

The female “approach invitation” doubtless adds a layer of efficiency to the mating market, (a phenomenon that in theory would be more frequent in r-selection societies), but it by no means is a prerequisite for love, or lust, to bloom. If anything, women have traditionally sought to suppress their approach invitations so that only the boldest, and hence most desirable, men would solicit them. Chicks dig an entitled jerkboy who doesn’t need an air traffic controller to wave him onto a woman’s landing strip.

Two kinds of men are zealous followers of the “8-10% body fat seduction” religion: Very good-looking but socially shy and/or lazy men who have spent a lifetime relying on female approach invitations to get laid, and shut-ins with a persecution complex who have a strong psychological need to blame their romantic inertia on external forces beyond their ability to control or shape.

Blaming failure, or attributing success, with women on one’s looks is a classic case of psychological projection of innate male desire. Men desire a woman’s looks first and foremost, and so men get trapped into thinking women desire the same thing to the same degree of exclusion. Women certainly value male looks, but not nearly with the same intensity or single-mindedness that men value female looks. Evidence for this sex disparity abounds: The ugly man with a hot girlfriend is a far more common occurrence than the ugly woman with the dashing, successful man. Furthermore, we can find emanations and penumbras of the lower value women place on male looks in how women react to men who are excessively preoccupied with their superficial appearance: Simply, it repulses women.

(Excessively preening women can mildly annoy some men, but most men won’t complain because the payoff of female attention to beautification is too great.)

The strange male inverse bravado that accompanies proselytization of the “8-10% body fat seduction” religion is nothing more than rationalizing fearfulness. Men who, for whatever reasons, are fearful of boldly introducing themselves to women to start a conversation with the intent of sparking an eventual sexual flame will soothe their egos with a litany of palatable excuses for their failure to launch. And one such handy excuse that seems to work with urgent plausibility is the “I don’t look like Hugh Jackman on HGH and that’s why I can’t get a cute girlfriend.”

This particular male hamster is an endurance athlete. He spins in his wheel for a long time without needing rest because it’s easier to focus the rodent’s eye on the men with top 1% looks who get a lot of glances from women, rather than to turn the rodent’s eye inward to take painful account of one’s own timidity.

It may be a simpler task to visually isolate the good-looking men from the charmers who got their women with the nimbleness of their tongues or the social lords who got theirs with the rule of their fiefdoms, but it’s also dangerously misleading. FACT: What women consider good-looking in men is far less inclusive than what men consider good-looking in women. FACT: Women are far less likely to solicit or passively pursue men they find good-looking than are men to pursue women they find good-looking.

This means, in practice, that very few men can rely on their looks for “fool’s mate” lays. Now, obviously, there is a much larger population of men who aren’t in the top 1% of male looks who nevertheless manage to get laid and build relationships with cute girls. How do these homely fuckers do it? It’s not such a mystery if you understand and accept that men can leverage much more than their looks to attract and woo women. The mystery is further demystified when you accept that there are men bolder and more confident than you are who didn’t allow their fear to condemn them to masturbatory inaction.

In other words…





Male “8-10% body fat” rationalization of fearfulness to approach and risk female rejection is the mirror image of a woman rationalizing her failure to get a man to commit by blaming his “issues” instead of blaming his reticence on the more distinct probability that she wasn’t pretty or caring enough for him to lavish her with long-term love and provisioning.

Both rationalizations stem from a similar psychological dynamic to avoid self-assessment that is responsive to sex-specific corrective action.

Whenever you hear a “red pill” man drone about seduction being nothing more than waiting around for a girl who likes your particular look to bat her eyes at you, know that you are reading the whiny excuse-mongering of a man who is allergic to cold approaching. He is giving you an incomplete picture because he doesn’t want to admit to himself that he shits his pants at the thought of starting conversations with women who aren’t prescreened in advance for receptivity.

None of this post should be misconstrued as support for the opposite claim that a man’s looks don’t matter at all, or that female approach invitations won’t grease the skids to sex. Quite the contrary, all else equal, a good-looking man will have an easier go of it than an ugly man, and a man who was cued to approach will have better odds than a man who approached a woman who gave no flirty cues.

Think of this post instead as a corrective to falsely dichotomous thinking like that exhibited by adherents to the “8-10% body fat seduction” religion. A corrective that appears to be more necessary than ever, because the internet disease of ego preservation at all costs is a mind virus that infects even supposedly clear-thinking, self-anointed dissidents to the blue pill orthodoxy.

To demonstrate my good faith to my readers, here is a picture of a very ugly man who will not ever be banging hard 10s:

when fupas meet

Judgment rendered? Hold on. Imagine this man without the goony accoutrement and dressed in stylish clothes that at the least don’t blatantly advertise his obesity. Now imagine he has read this blog and learned some basic game concepts and has increased his charisma roll by +2. Let’s further stipulate that he has taken the big step of actually going up to girls to talk to them, refusing to surrender to his fear. Maybe he’s even lost twenty pounds, and looks a little less hideous at first sight.

No, he still won’t bang hard 10s, nor, for that matter, soft 6s and 7s. Probably not even lumpy 4s and 5s. But he will be able to realistically trade up from a monstrous pig-faced 0 to, say, a chubby and conspicuously female 2 or 3. And that improvement in his love prospects will feel to him, a man heretofore parched of attention from recognizably human females, like an embarrassment of harem riches.

So you can swallow the “red pill” of rationalized powerlessness, or you can slap away the hands holding these pills and confront the mating market’s challenges with your vision unblurred by drug-induced hallucination.

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Approach Week has officially ended. The comments are open again. This is your opportunity to recount in the comments section your favorite approaches from the past week (you did approach during Approach Week, right?). Consider it a teachable moment. The best anecdotes will be added to this post in an update below.

So… now that you’ve approached, how do you feel? Do your testes hang heavier? I’ll tell you one of my approaches. (Some details redacted to evade GPS locators.)


Mary’s Little Clam: Wut?


Mary’s Little Clam: Oh… hi.

SHIVCALIBUR: Can’t wait for this conversation to heat up.

Mary’s Little Clam: That’s so weird. [she trots off]

OK, that came up a bit short of WINNING. But you know what? It still felt better than doing nothing.


Update: Readers submit their approach stories.

Eeyore had a George “the jerk store called” Costanza moment:

Actually said: That’s a pretty name. What do they call you [for short]?

Should have said: What’s that, Spanish for freckles?

Approach Week was not about the perfect opener. It was about approaching. Get over the fear first, then work on improving your delivery.


Martin’s approach turned out to be an accidental neg.

Well, I fell short of my goal to get a phone number, but I did learn this is probably a difficult thing to achieve. I approached an asian woman who I would guess was maybe 30 who is a receptionist at the front of a library but she was not working. I asked her if she happened to own any cats because for some reason she looked like a cat person. Well, I felt numb with anxiety as I was asking her this and especially in the pause where I waited for her response but we ended up having a brief conversation and she mentioned she had a boyfriend during the course of it. I suppose it was a subtle cue but maybe not. I have seen her before on many occasions but never talked with her so I guess I did not go up to a random woman I haven’t met before. I am not sure if there was really much of a learning experience that took place. While I don’t think she was terrified or repulsed, I can’t say I got any idea about how to be successful doing this.

A girl will curiously recall “you look like a cat [lady]” a lot more readily than she’ll remember a man asking her about her job.


Rick250 gives us his approach.

Hot woman in beginner yoga class i take had a shirt on with an artsy looking nuclear symbol.
I approached her at the end of class where people drink tea, “So your shirt has a radioactive symbol on it. Does that mean i should keep my distance?”

You certainly get points for the approach, but in future I would steer clear of self-denigrating openers like this one. (You have implied she would want you to keep your distance.) A better frame with which to use this opener would be: “Your shirt has a radioactive symbol on it. Are you toxic to men?”


stigletz writes,

approached in Edinburgh the other day (I’m from the states)

a tremendously hot girl jay-walked across the street in front of two cops so I walked up with a, “you got a lot of balls for jay-walking in front of two cops like that”

explain how it’s a whole nother offense in Europe, generally

she was giving me that smirk (or perhaps a petrified rictus?) for having the balls to approach but I could tell she was weirded out / overwhelmed

a silence fell over (I was comfortable
enough with this) and she says, ‘why are you still here?’

a haughty shit test. best thing to do was start a new thread and not acknowledge or play it against her (and did I ever fail the ‘you must be drunk for even talking to me’ shit test by that error) but instead I sort of just ‘misinterpreted’ the question and said I was just there from the states trying to get to know Edinburgh

we conversed some more and she hopped on her bus and left. didn’t bother salvaging the number scraps.

I have to say, “why are you still here?” is a tough shit test that most inexperienced betas would fail. You did well. I suggest any man who gets this shit test (or something similar) respond as they would to a child who said the same to them. For example: “Because those are the rules.”


Nyan Sandwich confesses,

Did way less approaching than I should have. That said, did more than I would have otherwise.

Went to a club and chatted and danced with cute girls. They seemed to lose interest. It was fun, but then I ran out of mojo and it stopped being fun so I went home.

Made an extra effort to chat up sales girls.

Have to actually start doing daygame yad-stops.

Awkward but improving.

You won’t approach girls unless you set aside a specific block of time or devote a compartment of mental energy to do them. That was the goal of Approach Week… to get you guys into the right head space where inaction could not be rationalized.


Troubadour puts his cards on the table.

My Approach Week was weird. I saw four girls worth approaching, but didn’t approach any of them. I have just accepted that unless I catch the right break, approaching girls while I’m working is just too much for me.

I have decided to try a completely different approach to everything. I need to get out during my time off, when I’m not representing any brand other than my own. I really hate going out alone just to try to meet girls, and given a choice between going out alone trying to find girls to meet and staying home with my wife, I have decided to just stay home with my wife 90% of the time. This is getting me nowhere.

So what if I went out with my wife, and tried to meet girls? I’ve been saying I ought to do this, and some of you have said if I actually have the balls to do that, it’s beautiful game.

Well, why the fuck not?

So here in a little bit, I’m going to put the wife in my truck and ride up to see my friend girl. We all know friend girl was just using me for attention, and I’m never going to fuck her, but this will amuse the shit out of me anyway, so I’m going to do it. I’m going to get my wife to stand there with her hand on my cock, stroking my beard, while I totally ignore her and talk to friend girl for the last time. I need closure to get over that stupid obsession, and you never know… Yeah, it’s a desperation play, but WHAT a desperation play!

Girls want what other girls want. Being married only proves my wife hasn’t taken the cash prize yet. I have a woman who will do ANYTHING to keep from being dumped, and I can prove it by making my wife stand there attending to me while I’m actively trying to fuck some other girl. (I don’t have one yet, but she has agreed to wear an “I AM A FAT PIG” t-shirt, and a dog leash. Heh heh heh.)

The last time I got laid on the side, this is actually how it happened. I used to massage that girl’s tits directly in front of my wife, and I fucked her, and then I spent 20 years feeling guilty about nothing, and never cheating again. It’s a fucked up way to get laid, but it worked once. Why won’t it work again?

My wife is fat and plain, so this won’t be as effective as it could be. It may turn out that trying to use a fat wife as social proof doesn’t get me anywhere at all.

I can terminate the experiments at any time. We’re going to see how this goes. I would enjoy having company as I go in search of pussy, and I truly don’t give a shit if she divorces me, so I have everything to gain by trying this.

After we see friend girl, I’m taking her to a titty bar, and making her pay for everything and sit there stroking my beard while I stare up some hot girl’s snatch.

This is my brand of honesty game. I’m just putting all my cards on the table; some good, some not so flattering.

Mission accomplished.

My instincts were telling me not to do this the whole way up there, and the closer you get to doing the right thing, the more last minute excuses you find not to do it, so… I did it!

I guess what I really accomplished was shattering the stupid fantasy. I didn’t succeed in communicating my message at all, and everything went over like a lead balloon. Friend girl was freaked the fuck out, and probably scared half to death.

Well, that’s better than believing there’s some extreme wild ass way to get out of the friend zone that only works for me.

I got laid three times tonight. Life could be worse.

No further comment necessary. Editorializing would distract from the brutalist poetry of Troubadour’s rendezvous.


The Supreme Gentleman drops “No Fly Zone” game.

Met a cute girl at a party this weekend. When I went to the bathroom, I hatched a great idea. I deliberately left my fly unzipped and sat next to her. The following happened after a few minutes:

Her: um, lulz, your pants are unzipped

Thief of Hearts: (nonchalantly) oh how embarrassing. at least we know where your eyes are at now *devious smirk*

She had a twinkle in her eye and her jaw dropped with a hint of a grin. I left it unzipped for the remainder of the conversation and carried on like Satriales sausage shop wasn’t open for business. I number closed her and I might be taking her out for drinks this week, depending on my schedule.

My cold approaches didn’t have much of a success rate, but this was pretty much the highlight of the week. Something tells me I’m gonna fuck close this chick next time I see her.

By the way, CH, as far as cold approaches go, one thing I’ve always seen in movies is a guy approach a chick at a bar and whisper something into her ear. Sounds kind of corny, but it looks like a good way to initiate touching. I’d like to hear your take on this. What sort of sweet nothings would you whisper into a girl’s ear during a cold approach?

No Fly Zone Game is a great contribution to the seduction literature. As for “Whisper Game”, no doubt it’s powerful, but also limited in application. Most venues, bar or otherwise, are too loud for whispers to register. Then there’s the creep factor; unless the context is just right, and your delivery honed to perfection, you’re liable to receive a retreating head jerk as soon as the first eddies of your hot breath tickle her ears.

Given the inherent limitations, I nevertheless have a nugget of experience using whisper game. Sweet temptings I’ve stitched into the ear lobes of prospective plunders:

“Do you have the time?” This works especially well if you build up to the whisper with a dramatic flourish, as if you’re about to tell her a secret.
“It’s me” or “Don’t turn around.” Then when she swivels to see who it is, affect a shocked look as you exclaim you thought she was someone else. Shrug your shoulders and start a new conversation.
And for the warm post-approaches (pre-known girls): “Now you know what a skipped heartbeat feels like.”

The key with Whisper Game is to approach the ear slowly and deliberately, if you are facing the girl, as if you are expecting nothing less than full compliance. A quick lurch for her aural cavity will startle the prey.

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A while back, Chateau proprietors urged male readers to start tracking their lovers’ menstrual cycles. The reasoning was solid: women are more prone to cheat during their ovulation with an alpha male, and, if they are on the pill, their disrupted cycles will cause them to favor the company of emotionally stunted sensitive beta providers.

Gentlemen, this is powerful stuff that science is giving us. Knowing your lover’s monthly cycle will help you identify if and when she’s likely to cheat, when she is horniest and most likely to put out with no concern for protection, and when she might grant a sexually deprived beta male with a shoulder soaked from the thousand tears of aggrieved asshole-chasing hot girls a shot at her furrow.

The problem with tracking a lover’s monthly cycle — aka fertility awareness — has always been the inconvenience. You need diligence and pluck to uncover when she is on the rag. Are you prepared to search for incriminating evidence? Can you wheedle that information out of her without creeping her out?

And once you have the coordinates for her march of the red army, are you conscientious enough to commit it to memory, and recall it when needed, month in and month out? It’s a difficult task when fertility awareness competes with other information typically stored in a man’s head, like baseball stats and experience points needed to reach the next level.

Luckily, the good nerds who write Apple apps read this blog and have taken the message to heart, devising a clever tool for easy and worry-free tracking of a lover’s cycle, cryptically named ‘I Am a Man.” You just set it, and forget it!

The app allows you to mark the calendar days when your fling, girlfriend or wife is menstruating, PMSing or ovulating. Here is a screen capture:

Think about the ramifications of using this tool. Now, every man can know:

1. when he should go to the pool hall and avoid his lover’s raging PMS

2. when he should contact his FB because his main is in full menses

3. when he should ramp up the asshole alpha treatment because his lover is ovulating and staring harder at strange men

4. when he should bring romcoms home and cook a meal or two because his lover is in the needy, weepy part of her cycle

5. when he should send a private eye to watch where she goes after work because the odds of a cuckolding are higher.

Let’s say you get back from a dinner with your girl. You go to the bathroom and quickly scan your ‘I Am a Man’ app. You see a blue diamond on today’s date. Eureka! You rush out to the bedroom naked, erect member ticking like an upside-down metronome, and she strips off excitedly, anticipating your penetration. You don’t bother with the condom, because you know she won’t put up a fuss about it. Her body wants your seed, now, and reason has jumped out the window.

But wait, you surprise her by pulling out at the last second. Foiled!

Thank you, ‘I Am a Man’ app, for the opportunity to raw dog free of consequence!

You can even use the ‘I Am a Man’ app retroactively to determine if your child is legit or the underworld bastard spawn of an alpha interloper. Was the brat conceived on a day she was ovulating and you weren’t around? Swab the cheek!

Of course, the app loses its predictive power if she’s on the pill. But you should still keep it up-to-date in case she ever goes off again. Women go off the pill for many reasons, not least of which is an empty bank account. If she goes off the pill in the middle of a relationship or marriage… watch out! Her body will scream for alpha seed as soon as that initial rush of ovulatory hormones careens through her veins. But with this app in hand, you’ll be better positioned (heh) to alphafuck the disloyalty right outta her vagina. Then you can breathe easy once the ovulation threat has passed, and go back to tenderly caressing her hair as she watches you iron her panties.

Now all the world’s men need is an app that can analyze women in the field for signals of ovulation. Perhaps a heat-signature device, or something along those lines. PUAs with a bit of muscle can hone in on ovulating targets for same night lays, while PUAs who are stronger in the comfort stage can zero in on women who are at the tail end of their menses and pining for romantic gestures.

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Apropos of yesterday’s post, there is valuable game ore to be mined from those study conclusions. For example, here is an excerpt from one of the studies:

Engaging in uncommitted sex may be one form of female-female competition. If this is so, we would predict that women attribute to other women comfort levels that are higher than they, themselves, feel; this would generate PI that would heighten women’s awareness of potential threats from female competitors and may motivate women to engage in competition.

A clever man could use this information to gain insight into female thinking, and thus improve his odds of fuck closing any one girl. He now knows, thanks to science (and his own experiences if he isn’t brainwashed by feminist agitprop), that women are likely to overestimate other women’s comfort with casual sex in order to gain a competitive advantage at securing and keeping an alpha male’s attention. A woman is, in short, more likely to sleep with a man if she thinks other women are quickly and easily putting out for him.

A man can use this knowledge of female psychology to great effect in a seduction. All he has to do is hint — suggest ever so slyly so as not to alert her poseur identification defense system — that other women have been giving themselves over to his charms with questionable rapidity.

“I don’t know about girls these days. They’re so quick to jump into bed. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”


“Sex has become so devalued. Girls hardly date anymore. They make it so easy for guys.”


“Not so fast. I’m the romantic type. The last girl I dated was a stripper who wanted to have sex on the first date. it’s crazy out there.”


This is the idea behind Female Competition Exploit (FCE) game. Commenters are free to provide other examples of hastening F closes utilizing the Pluralistic Ignorance sociosexual concept.

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9pm on a weekday night. I leaned like a pillar of masculine detachment against the edge of the bar, blessing the peasantry with my royal aloofness. I sipped a gin and tonic, surprised with myself for agreeing with a buddy to go out on a slow night for some drinks. I doubly surprised myself for being an hour early. My buddy called. He would meet me later at a different bar. I now had an hour to kill at the chic lounge filled with young women and few men. A weekday night miracle!

I surveyed the room for potential sex partners. To my right were two girls, both mid 20s, both bouncing conversationally off each other with an effortlessness that revealed their BFFness. One of the girls was extremely tall (almost my height), foreign looking, and unattractive in the face, though her body was stimulating. The other girl was shorter, olive skinned, and very attractive. She had big Bette Davis eyes, huge tits, and moist, full lips, but her outstanding feature, the one that caught my gaze and held it, was her long thick mane of raven colored hair, highlighted with iridescent streaks of indigo. She talked animatedly with her tall friend, swinging her head around and lashing nearby patrons with streamers of her midnight hair. I wanted to glide my hand through her thatch and yank hard.

Indigo Girl glanced over in that way that showed she was trying to hide that she was glancing over. I had my opening.

“You guys are making everyone else feel uncomfortable for not having as much fun. Have some consideration.” I knitted my brow in faux disapproval.

“What are *you* doing out tonight, Mr. Cool Guy too cool to have fun?” Indigo Girl smiled to flaunt an impressive rack of pearly white teeth, then stood up on tippy toes and did a ballerina twirl for me. I felt movement in my pants.

“I’m waiting for a friend, but plans changed. Now I’m here to support local business.”

Tall Girl laughed. “That’s very noble of you.” She spoke with an exotic Eastern European accent, and I could tell from her first words that she was smarter than the average chick. It is something in the cadence, the articulation. She took a step toward me, presumably to ask me a question.

Indigo Girl dodged in front of her advancing friend and looked up adorably at my alpha nostrils. “We just got back from a show.”

The more I looked at her the more it dawned on me how sexy she was. “The way you’re dressed I’d guess you saw a show at [X].”

“Good guess! Do you hang out there? I’ve never seen you before. But take that as a good thing. I get bored of that clique-y scene over there.” Though she was a little tipsier than Tall Girl, Indigo Girl also spoke with the electric snap of someone sporting a big brain.

“I’m a clique of one. Very exclusive.”

The girls laughed. Well, technically Indigo Girl laughed, openly and without affect. Tall girl, clearly the level-headed one of the two, grinned demurely and circled the rim of her cocktail glass with a long spidery finger. We talked amongst ourselves for twenty minutes. In that time I was able to piece together the scenario unfolding before me, and to then use my new knowledge to properly game these two chicks.

Best friends. Indigo Girl is the classic Eternal Ingenue. She is accustomed to getting her way with men, and she fumes when she doesn’t. She will shamelessly clamblock her girl friends if she notices them enjoying male attention. She is whip smart and Machiavellian, given to breaking hearts and wallowing like a happy sexy sow in the ups and downs of her own heart. Tall Girl is the Amazonian Alpha (literally as well as figuratively). She is used to surrendering the spotlight to her more attractive friends, but this constant indignity doesn’t stop her from being a fiercely loyal friend. She would be a world class maneater if she were prettier. I think she knows this.

It would be very easy for me to play these two girls off each other into a jealousy triangle of the ages. And I did.

We bounced to a two floor social venue a block down the street. It was crowded. The girls bought me a drink and we chatted for a while. I made sure to divide my chat time equally between the two, addressing one and then the other in turn. Suddenly, like a butterfly with ADD, Indigo Girl rushed to greet one of the bartenders, a handsome hipster she knew from her social circle. The greet became a long-ish conversation. Stepping up to Tall Girl, I moved my body so that she was forced to reposition herself with her back to Indigo Girl and Hipster Bartender. I knew Indigo Girl would look over at us if she saw me talking intimately with her friend, and I wanted her to see my hand on her friend’s back and my mouth whispering in her friend’s ear.

It worked. Indigo girl hopped over after only five minutes of watching me talk with Tall Girl. Shit test passed. But I knew that with a girl like her the shit tests were only beginning. Tall Girl, for her part, suspected that my desire was focused on her friend, but my calculated conversation sharing probably nursed a belief in her that she could rob me from Indigo Girl.

It is a great thrill to have two women vie for your attention, but it is an exquisite pleasure to puppeteer two *smart* girls.

I will spare some of the details of the actual gaming. Suffice to say, it was my usual schtick, except smartened up in deference to the targets. By smartened up, I mean palm reading with an occasional three syllable word thrown in.

Two hours later, we walked to Tall Girl’s apartment. I had called my buddy earlier to tell him I would cut the night short to pursue a worthier goal than drinking with him. He understood and informed me he would call in the morning for details. Bro code, you see. At Tall Girl’s place, we all collapsed on her sofa and flipped through her collection of artsy posters. Indigo Girl got up and flounced to the bathroom. I had to be careful. The two of them had surely been signaling the whole night to decide who would be the one to tame this magnificent beast with a chest full of peach vellus. My worst move would be to accidentally insinuate that Tall Girl was the one I wanted to bang. I looked at Tall Girl sitting next to me on the couch, her eyelids sensuously hoisted at half mast. Uh oh. I sprang up from the couch and pretended to read some books on the mantle.

When I turned around, still musing facetiously about the book I was holding, I saw that Tall Girl was sliding languorously down the couch, her dress hiked up mid-thigh and her legs splayed open. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. My eyes locked in on her shorn cunt, unable to tear away from the sight of labia and mons. It took an exceedingly strong dose of willpower to look away and up toward her homely face to remind myself that she wasn’t the one I wanted to bed. When I did, I saw that she was staring at me with sex in her eyes. Her mouth hung partly open. If she had been hotter, it would have counted as one of the sexiest motherfucking vignettes of my life.

As expected, her homely face jolted me back to reality. I put the prop book down and walked to the bathroom. Indigo Girl was rummaging through a box of ornamental scarves on Tall Girl’s bed. She was barking requests at Tall Girl from the bedroom. “I need a scarf that says professional, yet dangerous. What do you have, [Tall Girl]?”

I peered backward into the living room. Though my line of sight was partially obstructed, it looked to me that Tall Girl was stroking her pussy underneath her dress with her left hand. She arched her neck and gazed up at the ceiling.

I addressed Indigo Girl. “Hey, I’m gonna head out.”


I continued. “Let’s go.”

It was a risky move. I had to get out of there before Tall Girl lunged at me and claimed me for herself. But I didn’t want to leave heavy-balled. There is always a point in the seduction when a bold move is required; when intentions must be demonstrated clearly and unambiguously. This time was no different.

Indigo Girl’s eyes glittered for a split second as she processed my words. Then she grabbed my hand and we headed out into the mild night.

We talked the whole time on the half hour walk to her place. Words flowed effortlessly. My boner never relaxed, not even when she did what I’m about to tell you.

“Hey, sexy boy I just met tonight, I’ve got something to show you.”

I thought please show me your incredible tits.

She reached a hand up to her head and pulled off her hair. Her beautiful, thick, lusciously long, raven colored hair, indigo highlights and all. Underneath was a head of matted, thin, mousy brown hair, cut short to just beyond the ears.

What the hell was this? Wig game? Was this her last ditch ultimate shit test to screen men just before she surrenders her body to them?

I managed the most poker-y face I could muster. “Wow, you had me fooled. Good thing you’re still sexy with short hair.”

I wasn’t lying. She was still sexy. Well, maybe not quite as sexy, but the drop in sexiness was only a half point. Nothing the god of gonadal stimulation wouldn’t let us into nirvana for.

“Yeah, I like to roleplay. Tonight was wig night. Wheee wigs!” She spun and jumped into my arms, wrapping her legs around my torso. My crotch bulged angrily. This was a girl going to NYU Stern for her MBA.

We made love… no, scratch that… we fucked four times through the night. Her tits were as stupendously squeezeable as I imagined. Her style of fucking was not out of character; creatively flexible, liberally lubed, risk-taking, and impassioned. Also a little slutty. Like purple saguaro girl, she had toys. Lots of them. And not some dimestore, brown paper over the windows low class shit. Her toys were the highest grade. She was a Type A++ personality and leapt out of bed at 8am for a spin class. I showed myself out the door, briefly greeting her gay roommate on the way out.

We dated… no, scratch that… we fucked for three months. The week before she left town, she called at 1am and invited me to her place. I walked over in the still night air instead of cabbing it. I wanted to enjoy the anticipation. Inside, she was stooped over on the bare concrete floor now stripped of furniture, snorting a line of coke with her gay roommate. She motioned for me to join them. The coke line laid out for me on the cold floor was mixed with dust and debris. I watched her be alive, though I was beset with a heaviness I knew would soon be alleviated.

Afterward, we laid on the floor like flower petals. She took my hand, held it, then let it go.

In the morning, on my way out, I noticed her wig was poking out of the kitchen trashcan. I walked silently over and gave it a quick stroke.

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I’ve written before about the utmost importance of getting the upper hand with a woman, whether in a relationship or out of it. The partner with hand is the partner who governs the direction of the relationship. Would you rather be the ruler or the ruled? And don’t bother clinging like a baby chimp to comforting but nebulous concepts like “relationship exactness and complementarity” that are dear to the equalist nancyboy brigade. There is no such thing as even hand in relationships. Sexual equilibrium is an unstable state that lures women to push the relationship into chaos. This helps explain why 70-80% of divorces are initiated by the wives.

Let’s say you’ve gamed a girl who is conventionally out of your league straight into bed. Your game established your power over her and your sexual prowess helped buttress her initial positive impression of you. But now, there you are, lying in bed in sweaty post-coital bliss, and you look over at a ravishingly beautiful girl you know has nearly limitless options in the sexual market, and who might even be banging another man and is just using you to tickle a tingle, and you wonder to yourself “What can I do RIGHT NOW to guarantee hand over this woman?”

Well, here’s a little something I learned in grade school.

After sex, most likely she will want to cuddle (DC lawyer chicks and MBA grads excluded). When she is rolling over to you for that expected warm embrace, you gently stop her and move her arms back over to her side of the bed. Then you say:

“Could you sleep on your side of the bed tonight? I don’t have those feelings right now.”

Pause for effect. If her lip quivers, but she makes no sound, you struck gold.

Now, soften the blow.

“Don’t take it personally. I just met you and I usually don’t warm up to someone right away. It takes time. You understand.”

For further softening, you may want to yawn heavily, smile, and add: “Plus, I need space when I sleep.”

The above is guaranteed to give you the upper hand with your amour for at least six months, or your money back. You will now be free to fart loudly in her company and eat hoagies while she blows you without repercussion.


This is the hydrogen bomb of hand maneuvers. Use sparingly, and only use on women who are above your league. If you drop this ego-blasting, pussy-busting, heart-palpitating bomb on a girl who already cherishes you and looks up to you in wide-eyed awe, you risk having her burst into tears. Have you ever tried to maintain an alpha frame with a girl who is wracked in heaving sobs? Lemme tell ya, it ain’t easy.

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