Girlfriend Or Fling?

Unlike the last edition of girlfriend or fling?, this one is at a lower difficulty level. Ignore their Sex And The City impersonation and focus on the interplay and body language of these grown women girls.

The woman on the right is obvious girlfriend material. Let’s count the ways she would make a faithful and low drama girlfriend — restrained lips-closed smile, modest dress (skirt is short but that is balanced by the lack of any cleavage), minimal makeup and accessorizing (is that a necklace or a wisp of hair?), arms close in to body, zero sexual availability displays like jutting breasts or arched lower back. This woman looks like she was born to walk down the aisle. She may in fact already be married.

The middle girl is a total fling. Not just any fling, but a wild, crazy, torrid, self-destructive, public sex, screw the condoms and press the record button kind of fling. Sure, her dress is a toga easily ripped off in one move, her eyes are in bedroom mode long before she gets to the bedroom, and her mouth is open in the shape of a cock, but what really clinches her status is the scarf around her neck waiting to be grabbed and pulled for pleasurable choking effect. She is clearly ovulating and needs the hard fucking of a dominant alpha male. She’s so horny she’s backing her ass up into her friend’s imaginary strap-on.

Strap-on girl on the left is a potential girlfriend (notice she has camera responsibility), but judging by her wicked smile showing both rows of teeth and her visible black bra under her blouse she will need to be broken and tamed like a bucking bronco before she can be considered a quality girlfriend. She looks like she has eaten men alive and left a trail of broken hearts and scrotums behind her. I sense manipulative bitch. This is just the type of woman who leads with her ego and shit tests for sport. She is practically begging for a worthy man like myself to jizz in the face of her reality and reduce her to a softly whimpering submissive love slave ready to drop to her knees at the snap of my fingers.

Once broken, enjoy her utter devotion. She will build a shrine to your cock.

*snap*.

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Urban Living Is Bad For Relationships

If you want to build a relationship with a girl you’re dating I’d suggest you move out of the big coastal cities. Either escape the city with your girl (you might have to abduct her) or find a girl in a small town, rural backwater, or suburban outpost. There is a portal of anti-love negative energy that issues rays of casual sex and polyamory from the nightlife bowels of big cities and works to tear apart any couple stumbling their way toward deeper commitment.

Think about the ways this happens:

Options = Instability

Where you have options, you have trouble sticking by one person. A man dating a girl (or girls) will feel on top of the world and suddenly all those single women traipsing around the city look like much easier targets to approach. His loins will quiver with excitement. A woman transplanted from a less populated region of the country to the big city will become enthralled with all the extra attention from men who are probably much better at playing the game than the men she left back home. Her ego will quiver with expectation.

Anonymity

How simple it is to maintain a dating carousel when hiding all the people you are banging from each other is as easy as scheduling dates on different days and in different bars, sometimes separated by only a block. When there isn’t a social network of family, friends, and people who generally give a shit about decorum to shame swingers, sexual depravity results. This truly is the golden era of genitalia.

Zero Consequences

Who’s gonna stop you from boffing your girlfriend’s hotter sister? Dad? HA. It is to laugh. Welcome to Plunderdome.

Convenience

No problem running a stable of regulars when meeting places are within walking distance of central giggity headquarters. Out in the sticks it’d be a pain to meet a second girl when she’s a 50 mile drive away.

Poland here I come. Dzien dobry!

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Rock Band Audition

Do you dream of stardom as you sit at your desk planning yet another dull event for your corporate master? Does the adulation of five drunk bar patrons millions thrill you? The rock band that Roosh and I have started — Heavy Sack — is looking for a female singer. (Male singers are kindly asked to stay home and send their girlfriends and sisters instead.)

Technically, our band is part of the Rock Band video game, but that’s OK because from a distance our fake plastic instruments look real. And we have groupies. While we want a girl with some singing skills, don’t worry if your voice isn’t up to American Idol standards — the computer that measures the pitch of your voice is more forgiving than Simon Cowell.

The audition is this Tuesday night, 9PM at Reef. (They hold a Rock Band Night every Tuesday.) Cute emo chicks with sad eyes will be judged more favorably by me, at least.

eligible

not eligible

Any agents who interfere too much with our selection process will be sweet-talked into submission by our band manager.

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Giving Girls An Excuse To Approach You

Occasionally, as you stalk your way through the great veldts of vagina, prey will put itself in your mouth. If you look good, and look sharp, and are saying all the right things with your body language, maybe one woman each night you go out will make her interest in you blatantly obvious. Such obvious signs include smiling at you from across the room, looking back at you more than once, and pointing at you then pointing at her crotch and pointing back at you while mouthing “you, me?”

On very rare occasions she will approach you. It’s hard to overestimate the rarity of the female cold approach. Unless you are famous and need cuntblockers to keep women off you, you will be able to remember every time a girl approached you. The cold approach is probably the most glaring gender difference — women simply don’t do it, and men will get nowhere without it.

You can facilitate women approaching you if you give them an excuse. Ideally, a girl who likes your style and social aura will want you to come over to her, but if that doesn’t happen and she is an unusually assertive girl, she might walk over to you as long as you have something on or around you that she can comment on. This is what I call passive game — set it and forget it.

stylish red lighting sets the mood for grabass.

I was sitting on a barstool with my camera in my back pocket and the strap dangling out. A girl walked up to me and said she had a bet with her two friends (she pointed back at two girls ten feet away who were watching us) about the identity of the thing sticking out of my back pocket. (I liked the bet angle. This girl had game.) Of course I didn’t give her a straight answer. I told her it was my thong.

Other items that serve as handy excuses for girls to approach you:

an obvious condom packet impression in a shirt or pants pocket.
better yet, a condom pendant.
a woman’s lipstick kiss on your cheek (a Mystery staple).
a colored string or piece of cloth hanging out of your pocket or waistband.
a ball.
a nude girl pen tucked behind your ear.
a t-shirt with words in a foreign language.
a ring pop.

As you can tell, none of these things make any sense (except the kiss, you player). That’s good; it means they’ll work to coax a girl to comment on them. If you don’t like wearing feather boas, you can’t go wrong with these understated accoutrements.

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Speed Dating Sucks

I went to a speed dating event here in DC with my date and one of her girlfriends. The idea was that we would have some over-the-top fun with it while practicing our flirting skills on a maximum number of targets in a minimum amount of time in order to keep our game sharp. (Lord knows this is much easier for women to do. Their game amounts to cleavage.) We would pretend not to know each other. A side benefit from surreptitiously watching each other work the magic with other speed daters would be heightened sexual arousal that would resolve itself later in the night in panty-shredding lust. Kink alert in full effect.

We devised the questions we would ask our four minute “dates”. She wanted to see how much she could get away with so these were the questions with which she was going to pepper her speed suitors:

How much do you gross per year?
What kind of car do you drive?
Where do you see yourself in five years?
Can you support me so I don’t have to work?
How many cleaning ladies do you think is reasonable?
What kind of engagement ring would you get me?
How much would you allot to spend on our wedding?
What would you like to name our first born?
What does your stock portfolio look like?
If my mother gets sick, can she come live with us?
How many cats do you think is normal?
Do you mind if I hang a portrait of my cat in the living room?
I’m a scientologist. Would you be willing to convert for me?
What were your SAT scores?
What was your standing as far as getting picked in gym class?

She even wanted to bring a Barbie and Ken, give them to the guy, and say, “now act out how we would resolve an argument.”

I admit I laughed at these. If the victims guys were smart, they’d play along and say things like “I have one whole cent in my stock portfolio!” Most likely, they’d get defensive or answer straight. Speed dating crowds are that kind of people.

Since I wanted to join in the glib fun, I made up a list of questions I would ask my dates to see how far I could push my game past its barriers:

Are you flexible? How many yoga positions can you get in? How long can you keep them?
Are you confident enough to go bra-less?
Do you like sex in public?
Are you comfortable with the idea of having yourself photographed nude?
Can you suck a thick milkshake through a straw?
Are you good a good cook? (actually, i use this one a lot)
You’re not a prude, are you?
How do you feel about housework in the nude? (Seinfeld nixes it.)
Are you cool with threesomes?
Would you consider yourself experimental in the bedroom?
Do you like to travel… to have sex in exotic locales?
Does looking at a cigar turn you on?

Unfortunately, neither of us got the chance to try out our souped-up conversational skills on unwitting speed daters. When we arrived, it was clear this was the saddest crowd of lonely hearts in all of DC. The women were mid-30s to mid-40s and older and looking every bit of it and the men, while older and, from the bits of conversation I overheard, successful professionals, made it worse for themselves by dressing in rumpled shirts like accountants on casual Friday and slumping in their chairs with the familiar drawn faces of those who have been beaten down by life. My date and her friend completely lost interest in sitting through even one second of this four minute dating of the damned, so we left as soon as we got our stick-on nametags. They should call it speed dying.

The impression I got walking by the tables of speed daters was the same I got when I first visited my grandmother at a nursing home — chamber of horrors. The rank miasma of bedraggled desperation, depression, and utter hopelessness was overbearing. It settled around me like a suffocating shroud of despair, sapping all the fun out of being alive.

There is nothing more pathetic and… alien… than a pre-menopausal aging childless woman throwing herself headlong into the chaotic vagaries of dating. When a woman doesn’t have children to nurture and raise by her early 30s she morphs rapidly into a sad and tragic creature — a shell entity of raging cynicism that can do no more than go through the motions — that no one wants to be around. Whatever is left of her innate femininity, beauty and sexiness is destroyed to dust by that point. And the men, despite their well-paying jobs as corporate lawyers, lobbyists, and policy analysts, seemed to have forgotten or never bothered to learn what it takes to attract a woman. Hint: waving a stable job and a fat paycheck ain’t it.

My advice to the guys who run these speed dating and related social events in DC: Stop charging $60 to $300 for your lameass glorified happy hours. I understand you’re all about making a buck, but when you set the price at airline ticket levels you will get those men who have nothing to offer but their money, and those women who want nothing else but those men who offer nothing but their money. End result: Older bitter women desperate for husbands and boring beta males desperate to slide comfortably into sexless soulless predictable suburban ennui. If you want to spice it up and attract a more diverse, fun crowd (read: younger), try a lower price range and more casually creative get togethers. But hey, it looks like you’ve cornered the niche market of schlubs and hags who’ll pay through the nose like clockwork every week seeing the same people over and over and hoping against hope that one more contrived event and another $100 will usher their soulmates through the door.

Tick tock and all that.

Verdict: *Shudder*

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Wild Monkey Man Beast Caught On Film!

How Zeets the Throwback Barbarian was able to hold the camera steady when encountering this mysterious and frightening creature deep in the woods is a testament to his nipples of drop-forged steel. You never saw that much hard nipple on a man.

I went on a hike trying to escape civilization and its discontents for a few hours. It’s important for a man to get away from women before he imbibes too much estrogen and loses touch with his inner ballsack. You want to retreat to places most women dare not tread.

Unfortunately, the woods of Rock Creek Park isn’t deep enough. Yes, this jogging woman is blabbing into her cell phone, probably scolding her beta boyfriend to remember to pick up cat litter. This is her on the return trip of her run. She had jogged by us going the opposite direction a half hour earlier with the cell phone glued to her ear, ruining the sounds of nature with her obnoxious voice. I’ll leave it as an exercise for the reader to determine what it says about a person who can’t put down the fucking cell for one minute while surrounded by natural beauty.

I say we reintroduce wolves to the Northeast wilds. That’ll keep the yuppie broads out.

Another nature girl with a cell in the woods. Remember this when a chick waits a day to return your call. They bring their cell phones on nature hikes because they can’t bear to miss a call; they got your message.

This woman was cool though. She had a thoroughbred horse with her that ran for three years at the Belmont racetrack. What a magnificent stallion.

Tree vagina. What I do to women after they have experienced my oak-like girth.

A tree suicide pact.

My soul is nourished. Back to Tryst to peer over laptops at cute girls.

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Girls Like Squeezable Things

At the EU Embassy tour in DC last weekend me and another aficionado of European girls culture picked up these very squeezable red balls at the Austrian embassy.
give it a good freudian squeeze ladies.

Despite getting much grief from parties who shall remain anonymous who believe that carrying around touristy crap is a very white people thing to do, I held and caressed my ball all day and never let it out of my sight. I also had a mini flag in my back pocket, and an official looking EU post-it notepad. I felt worldly and it showed in my international-style strut.

Later on, we were at the Reef roof deck enjoying mussels and fries (three random black guys had ordered the same meal. I had no idea mussels were the new hip food) when Roosh put his red ball on the bar. A girl leaned into our group and asked him about the ball.

“Why do you have a ball?”
“Because it’s mine.”
“Can I hold your ball?”
“No, it’s my ball.”

She looked at him with that slack-jawed half-grin that girls get when they’re a little bit offended but they like it. A few more words were exchanged and she left our group. One minute later she leaned back in, reached her arm across the bar, and grabbed his ball. She held it up triumphantly.

“I got it!”
“Give me back my ball. You’re not allowed to touch it.”

She relinquished the ball with a look of sexual attraction on her face. Her male friend apologized for her. Beta.

This got me thinking about props to bring to bars that would help spark flirtatious conversation. Random items that make no sense whatsoever in a bar context and are made of a material that tempts girls to stroke and squeeze them would work best. For instance, I have an Adidas runners pullover with thumbholes in the sleeves that I wear out to clubs which is not the most stylish looking yet I get girls coming up to me to feel the silky Rayon material all the time. Texture can be just as effective as the look of what you wear because girls perceive the world with all their senses equally while guys mostly use their eyes and penis.

Along these lines, I thought of the following knickknacks to carry with me and place on bars while I drink my beer:

pink teddy bear
cotton balls
nerf football
silly putty
bubble-pack
stuffed bunny rabbit
chia pet
silicone implant
pad and pen (not squeezable, but this works!)
silk scarf
play-doh
giant dustball
a rubber hot dog

Any girl who squeezes or strokes right away is likely to be sexually uninhibited, cutting my workload in half.

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