I Give Girl Game Advice To A Girl Newly Arrived In The City

I recently received an email from an early 20s girl who just moved to a big city and wanted advice on how to avoid becoming a bitter, cock hopping lawyer chick in pursuit of the elusive commitment-oriented alpha boyfriend. Like most women, she is interested in marriage and kids with a man who also tingles her tangle, and has decided that waiting until her 30s after years climbing the corporate and grad school ladder would be a grave mistake. Smart girl. She requested I don’t post the email, so I will only post my reply to her.

Chateau,

I just recently discovered your blog, and while your theory of women is hardly flattering, my own experience has proved it to be 99.9% true. However, after browsing through your archives I found that you occasionally give advice to wayward womanly souls. I understand the mailbag is very full these days, but I hope you’ll take a moment to read this and offer your complete and unvarnished opinion.

[REDACTED]

“What can I do to make myself a more attractive candidate for a wife?”

My answer:

[Note: The girl attached photos of herself. She’s a 6, maybe 6.5. There is raw material to work with. Since 99% of girl game is looks + youth, the advice you read me giving her here is for that last thin reed of 1% of attractiveness measures that are within a woman’s control to change. An improvement in that 1% won’t allow a woman to move up from a beta to an alpha, but it could mean dating up from a 5.5 to a 5.6, or between getting unceremoniously pumped and dumped and squeezing out four months of relationship bliss. In the zero-sum soul crucible of the sexual market, a tiny upgrade from a 5.5 man to a 5.6 man might mean the difference between divorce and a white picket fence.]

Ok, this is a question that just can’t be answered succinctly in the quippy way I like to answer reader emails.  But based on what you wrote in your email I can give you a few pointers.

First, you sound like a pleasant girl, but then most girls who move to the big city start off pleasant only to be ground up by years running the dating circuit. This isn’t the suburbs. A lot of men here will pump and dump you, and from what you told me it sounds like you would be easy prey for pump and dumpers. I’m not going to tell you to suck it up and date men who don’t turn you on. That would be like me telling a man to get past a fat chick’s face and do her in the folds for the good of society. But you do need to have a solid perspective on what you can reasonably snag for the long term. So let’s start with the positives.

• You’re young. This is by far the biggest asset you have now. Leverage it to the hilt. A 21 year old 6 can compete with a 32 year old 7.5.
• You’re aware of reality. Don’t underestimate this. When you witness the wreckage of lawyer chicks’ lives piling up around you, your firm grasp of reality will help you avoid endless pain and hallucinations that your cat is a human baby.

Now the negatives.

• You moved to a big city. Yes, the city is exciting, and the opportunities are great. But you will be continually tempted by alpha swagger and charm to drop your panties, only to feel the burn of disengagement after a few months, weeks, nights. Now you may get lucky and a true alpha will fall in love with you and want marriage and babies, but the odds are not in your favor.
• You dress frumpy. Spice it up a little. You don’t have to ho out, but you should dress sexier. This is the big leagues now.

As for advice, here’s a quickie checklist:

Coy is good, but don’t be a cocktease. A greater beta, (if all things go in your favor, the best I believe you can shoot for), will quickly tire of you if your goodies aren’t parceled out on a fairly brisk timetable. So pace your makeouts. Aim for closing the deal around date #5 or 6. Any earlier than that and your dreamboat may decide you were under his maximum potential since you gave it up without much work on his part. Any later than that and he may decide you are too much work for the deal you are giving him.

Be shy. Men, especially alphas, love shy women. (Betas, because of low self confidence, tend to misinterpret female shyness as disinterest.) There is probably an evolutionary reason for this. Perhaps a shy woman subcommunicates that she will be less likely to cheat in a relationship. Smile and look down at your feet when he approaches you. Learn to blush on demand. Or apply makeup so it always looks like you’re blushing. Since you have very pale skin, this shouldn’t be too hard to do.

Play a little hard to get. Did you eye flirt with him and sweep a lock of hair behind your ear when he entered the office? Good. Now, when he approaches to say hi you smile warmly, issue a couple of pleasantries, and BE THE FIRST to walk away from the conversation, telling him you need to get back to work. You’ve gotta give the man some running room to chase down his prey. It’s in our blood.

Shy != retiring. In your high-powered career field filled with ambitious douchebags greater beta males you are likely to meet men who enjoy a bit of snappy badinage with a smart chick. If you discuss weighty topics, and feel a need to express disagreement, do so in a way that displays your sharpness but also strokes his ego. Always preface your disagreement by saying “I can see your point…”. Let him win 90% of the time, even when you are right. On those disagreements where you allow yourself to win, be sure they are inconsequential points that will not offend his pride of phallus.

DON’T come onto high value men. Yeah, you might get fucked, but you won’t get loved. Notice I said “high value” men. If you are attracted to a lower value man you may find it advantageous to drop a hint or two. Betas have a hard time screwing up the courage to approach a woman giving no signals at all.

DON’T give blowjobs before you have had sex with him. An early, pre-sex blowjob says one thing to a man — slut. And sluts don’t impress men as marriage prospects.

DON’T try to meet men while hanging out with a bachelorette party. Instead, hang your head in shame and tell any man who asks that you were bribed to go along. He will then be curious about you.

DON’T talk about sex, unless you want him to fuck you that night.

DON’T date a man better looking than what you can reasonably expect to get if you want to have any chance of impressing him in bed.

Date older men. Since you are not a heart-bursting hottie (don’t be depressed, most women aren’t), younger men are more likely to use you as a dry spell ender or entertaining diversion instead of a long term girlfriend with wifey potential. Older men are psychologically primed to settle down and commit. This generational male dynamic is especially pronounced in the big city.

Lacy lingerie. Wear it, live it, love it.

And finally, the three most important girl game tips I can give:

1. Don’t get fat.
2. Don’t be a single mom.
3. Learn to settle.

Best,

C.

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A Test Of Your Relationship Game

Background:
You’ve been dating a girl for many months. She calls you boyfriend. You call her “dirty ho get on mah cooooock.” (Please to do impersonating Fat Bastard.)

She’s an adventurous girl who likes to travel to exotic lands. She’s also a sexually voracious girl. You’re a dude who reads this blog (smart!), so you know when a girl takes a vacation overseas odds are it’s meant to be a straycation where she sluts it up with a honey-tongued Antonio. Well, your girl has announced she wants to go on a hiking excursion through the wilds of South America, holing up in hostels along the way with musky scented hippies and assorted Euroladdies. She wants you to go with her, although she tells you she has been planning this trip since before she met you and will go by herself if you don’t join her.

The trip is expensive and you’re not digging the idea of blowing free time hiking on craggy rocks in foul weather. Let’s say you have alternate plans to spend your money on a big purchase in the near future. So you think it over and decide not to go, knowing full well the implications of waving bon voyage to a girlfriend who is about to embark on a lone trek through an exotic fantasyland, where she will be irresistible Americano prey for the local Lotharios. The thought weighs heavily on you, but not too heavily as you think about the fun you will have while the cat’s away.

Two weeks later she returns and jumps into your arms. She is positively glowing. She eagerly tells you about her trip and gives you a bunch of presents she bought while down there. Then she jumps you. The sex is as good as it always is. You think she came, but the important thing here is that you came. Afterwards, she makes soup for you and generally treats you like a king. In fact, over the next few days, you notice she’s bending over backwards to please you.

Hmmm.

You wonder if her generosity of spirit and openness of heart is prompted by guilt or by joy at seeing you after a long absence.

The weeks pass and everything continues going well with her. But still… What exactly happened down there? You know better than to trust women, but if she’s continuing to sex you like you’re a god, and making you sandwiches with a smile, what do you care what did or didn’t happen? You’ve learned a few things about women over the years and one thing you know is that women don’t cheat like men do. Unlike men, women are incapable of expressing unbridled sexual lust and love for multiple men simultaneously. Women only have room in their emotional landscapes for one “main man” at a time. When a woman cheats, one of the men is going to get the short end of the stick. For example, a wifey who procures an alpha shaft on the side is likely henpecking her beta hubby and withdrawing sexual favors from him. By contrast, Tiger Woods was probably continuing to fuck the shit out of Elin even while getting his knob slobbed by twenty other women on the sly.

So you conclude that your girlfriend’s strong sexual desire and genuine affection for you means you are still number one in her heart, and that she probably did not do anything while away from you, except dream about being back in your arms. You *could* snoop around her stuff and spend mental energy trying to discover if she had a fling, or you could forget about your unfounded suspicions and just enjoy her everflowing love.

What do you do?

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A Fail-Safe Way To Get Hand

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.

WARNING!

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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A Test Of Your Game

I recently cleaned out my George Costanza wallet of two year old receipts and this crumpled cocktail napkin fell out:

I don’t recall exactly but I think Roosh was with me when we had this napkin rendezvous with three girls sitting at the bar next to us. The cute female bartender I once biblically knew acted as our courier, ferrying the napkin between us and the girls. The exchange (including both sides of napkin) reads like this —

Me/Roosh: Do you like us? (check one) Yes [big box] No [small box] Maybe [small box]

Girls: What will you do for us? [box] Aruba [box] Dinner [box] It’s my b-day. Buy us shots. I have ID to prove it.

Me/Roosh: Turn over. [Huge box with checkmark already in it] Good conversation followed by tonguedown.

Girls: [Another box with checkmark in it] No thank you.

OK, here is your mission, should you choose to accept it. Put yourself in the above scene. The giggling bartender has just returned the napkin back to you and your buddy and you read “No thank you.” You look over and the girls are making haughty faces. Two of them look like they’re having fun, but one looks a little bitchy. The girls are attractive, although as with most kitten prides one shines brighter than the others.

What’s your next move?

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Icebreakers For The SWPL Chicks In Your Neighborhood

Is your neighborhood infested with status whoring but irresistibly cute SWPL girls? Then you need an icebreaker tailor made for their fastidiously ironic sensibilities. Let’s say you and the SWPL girl of your infatuations are sifting through a selection of $10 jars of almond butter at Whole Foods. Unless you are a savvy shopper, most stuff at Whole Foods is ridiculously overpriced. Knowing this, you look across your shoulder at her and say:

“If it isn’t overpriced, I don’t feel like I’m getting my money’s worth.”

Wait for her to smile (she will, if she doesn’t take herself too seriously) and enjoy that moment when your pinkies touch reaching for the same jar of almond butter.

Now you’re at the local dog park, a place where SWPLs can feel morally upstanding for giving their dogs the opportunity to run free on a scruffy patch of 10 feet by 20 feet crabgrass (artificial grass if you’re at the Dupont dog park.) A tasty number sits down near you with her pomeranian in tow.

“The great thing about dogs is that you don’t have to worry about moving out of the city when they get old enough to go to school.”

What if you see the SWPL of your dreams at the local bike shop, where she’s purchasing enough biking accoutrements to outfit a small, fitness-oriented Central American guerilla army?

“I really recommend that aquapac. It’s good to be prepared in case you get stuck for weeks in the wilderness of Rock Creek Park.”

Close your eyes. Open them! Now you see a cute SWPL babe at a Georgetown consignment shop. She’s trying on musty old hats.

“That hat would be even cooler on you if it was a man’s hat. And it had an Olympics pin on it.”

You’re at the famed E Street Cinema in downtown DC. You’re standing in line next to a SWPL babe to see a sub-subtitled foreign flic of mega-ironic proportions. (It’s originally spoken in Czech, dubbed over in German, subtitled in French and sub-subtitled in English.) You capture her attention while waiting in line to buy a ticket.

“I hope this movie comes with 3D glasses.”

You’re at an outdoor concert, standing in line to use the Porta-John. You get her attention and say…

Well, actually, nothing. There’s nothing flirty you can say while waiting to use a Porta-John. It’s just too gross.

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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.

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The Core Principle Of Game

I was out recently with a buddy who knows of the DC blog scene and occasionally reads my blog (HIIIIIII dude!!!!). We went to a club that has a cramped basement dance floor. Very loud, very crowded, and very sweaty. This is the type of place that affords much illicit groping if that’s your bag. I didn’t go with any intention to hit on girls, or even to flirt much, so I leaned back against the bar and watched my buddy work a crowd of four chicks. As I leaned masterfully, one of the girls in the group sauntered over adjacent to me to buy herself a drink (or a timeout). I sized her up with a cocked eyebrow and a calculated frown. She was cute, early to mid 20s, long brunette hair, and short, with an ample bosom. That old notorious feeling came back again. You can’t keep the inner cad locked down for long.

I opened for the kill.

“Lemme guess. You’re with a bachelorette party.”

She winced. “Nooo! Thank god, I hate those things.”

I studied her reaction while musing to myself that perhaps a patented CH meme is getting out into general circulation. I had my opening. Finish her!

“Wow, I could have sworn you were assigned to accost men for your engaged friend. I’m relieved. Cheers.”

I suspected she was smart enough to know the word ‘accost’, and would appreciate my use of it. She stared at me blankly for a few seconds registering what I had just said. She turned her head away slowly, then whizzed right back around again to face me. I suspected correctly. She roughly grabbed my hand.

“Come out and dance with us! You do realize you’re at a dance club?”

“I don’t dance.”

“Oh, right, I forgot, men don’t like dancing.” She rolled her eyes.

“True.” She was still holding my hand. I made sure to pull away first. “You’ll have to get yourself a gay boyfriend for dancing duties.”

She laughed. “Oh, is that what they’re for?” Enough of her frame. It was time to reframe so that she was following my conversational lead.

I placed my hand on her forearm. “You don’t seem at all like the type of girl who would be happy in a place like this.” This wasn’t a line. She really wasn’t the type who normally goes to this place. Not phony enough.

“What do you mean by that?”

Reframe established. Subtle neg delivered. She was in the tingle-generating defensive crouch.

“Look around. Most of these girls are faking it. Can you fake it as well as they do? If you can, then I guess I was wrong about you.”

Remember, gentlemen, conversations with women don’t have to make logical sense. They just need to sound sexy.

She smiled and cocked her head in that way girls do when you’ve pleasantly surprised them. “Do you want a drink?”

Ah, the first real shit test. Now we were getting somewhere. Men, take note. When a girl is standing right next to you at a bar, and she asks “Do you want a drink?”, be careful! She is really asking “Will you buy us a drink?” Smart girls know how to massage this shit test so that they maintain plausible deniability.

“No, thanks.”

Passed.

“You’re not going to drink tonight??”

“No, I’m just not in the mood for a drink right now. You know, when you dance, don’t forget to twirl. Like this.” I took her hand and she happily spun around for me.

We gabbed some more while standing at the bar. Eventually, her ass gingerly found its way into my crotch and a tame simulation of bumpngrindage ensued. She liked when I moved her hair aside to kiss her neck. I liked it too. Her feminine aroma — a mix of youth, sweat, and perfume — was intoxicating. Maybe a half hour in we were making out, sometimes right in front of her friends who didn’t seem to mind at all. She must have signalled them earlier that she didn’t want or need a cockblock. But I was always sure to break it off first, and quickly, wary to ever let our lips linger locked for long. This wasn’t so much a game maneuver as a practical consideration. I didn’t want to be recognized making out with her in public.

After a short while dancing with her group, I leaned into her and told her I was going upstairs, while reaching for my coat. She looked surprised and chastened. I leaned in again and said I’d like her number, and that she should come upstairs to give it to me. I walked off.

It was a calculated move. If a girl likes you, she’ll be willing to abandon her posse to meet you at another location for continued enrapture. If this girl was on the fence even a little, she would not likely have met me upstairs like I told her to do. I only needed to wait upstairs for thirty seconds before she showed up. She smiled when she saw that I was still there.

This was a textbook seduction. It reminded me what so often makes or breaks a man’s game. It always seems to come back to this, the core principle of game, of mastery of women’s desire: Aloofness. The concept is simple, although its proper exeuction can belie its simplicity. I didn’t care that night about hooking up, or impressing girls. This cavalier nonchalance must have been exuding from my every pore, in my words and body language. Not giving a shit about the outcome — note that this is different than not giving a shit about the woman, for those of you who are too twisted in pious hate to understand the difference — is like catnip to a woman. They can’t resist it.

I realized early on that I could have pressed and taken this girl home that night. The number exchange was a mere formality. There was no need for me to stop at the number. She was into me enough for a same night close. Logistics were favorable. But I stopped myself short. It was then that I had a revelation and stumbled upon what is the greatest obstacle to a man’s success seducing women….

Guilt.

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