Best Feeling In The World

It was a late night at a new grimy club in the too-cool-for-school section of DC. I was chatting up an OK-looking chick made cuter by her sexy accent, youth, perfectly round ass, and the strong possibility of pulling a same night lay. But not a girl I’d consider long-term material.

An hour later I made the requisite bounce with her to another nearby dimly lit hipster hole in the wall (venue changes = compressed dates into one night engendering false feeling of intimacy). Couples were going into the bathrooms to do bumps off keys and grope against piss-splattered walls. On the “dance”floor (more like swayfloor) I saw a girl I knew. She was shitfaced and way too happy to see me. My mind started to race. Switch targets? Make the other girl jealous? Attempt threesome?

As I’m ignoring my first girl, my wingman leans in and barks “Focus!”

I focused. Back to the original plan. With renewed purpose, I felt myself entering the zone. The Zone is when you are taking the lead on everything, being the man, enveloping the girl in the musky shroud of your masculinity, and you are not apologizing for any of it. You are a stalking leopard about to pounce. And she is following without hassle and you can see the deep attraction in her eyes. She will put up token resistance, sure, but you’ve been here before… you know it means nothing. It is the resistance of a woman who is secretly happy to surrender to forces beyond her control. The outcome is preordained.

It is the second-best feeling in the world.

The next morning all I could think was how to hustle her off without hurting her feelings. She roused herself from sleep early and, after a blowjob reveille, looked at me with a serious face.

“I’m leaving to go back home to [insert faraway foreign country here] this afternoon.”

Godsend!

“Wow. Wow. Well, that kinda sucks. I’ll walk you to the Metro.”

One more flag added to my flag count, and 90% of them were gotten within five blocks of my place in DC.

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Girlfriend Or Fling? Holiday Edition

It’s a Very Special Christmas Girlfriend or Fling.

This photo looks like an advertisement for Peroni, the Miller Lite of Italian beer, but it is in fact an actual nightclub shot.

Most Northeast Asian girls (Japan, China, Korea) are good girlfriend material.  They are more monogamously inclined than other races of women, save the Finns and Irish.  Ten randomly chosen Asian girls in relationships will have fewer cheaters amongst them than ten randomly chosen girls in relationships from different geographic regions of the world.  Based on this, my initial assessment is that the Asian in this photo has solid girlfriend potential.  However, closer inspection reveals details to the contrary that give pause.  One, the hand draped effortlessly over the guy.  Two, left boob contact with his arm.  Three, forehead to forehead contact.  Four, a slightly forward-thrust pelvic area.  Five, slouching… my unquestionable opinion is that slouchy girls are sexually looser than girls with good posture.  Six, the bedroom eyes… in a nightclub.  Seven, she’s not wearing any breast support.  Those mangos are hanging low on the tree and begging to be plucked.

If this guy is not her boyfriend, (and judging by that hammy look on his face, I’d guess not), then the Asian girl is clearly a fling.

The girl on the right has too much blush on her cheeks which screams dirty little tramp.  As the wisdom of the grandmothers says:  Ladies pinch, whores rouge.  She is showing the bottom row of teeth in her smile, which is a leading indicator of sluttiness.  Her voluminous cleavage reinforces my impression.   Also, she’s allowing the guy to wedge his leg into her crotch.  She’s riding his left leg like a mechanical bull.  Total fling.  Her saving grace might be that she looks like a hapa (half-asian, half-white… wasian) which should help keep her slutty urges in check by the forces of faithfulness.  I like the fact that she is not wearing dangly earrings.  Her minimal accessorizing speaks well of her.  I’d be tempted to give a girl like this a chance to become a member of my stable of regulars except that she looks six months pregnant.  Any girl swollen with that much baby should not be in a nightclub — she should be home learning how to crochet blankets or playing Beethoven to boost her fetus’s IQ.

If she is not pregnant, then she needs to jump on a treadmill instead of going out drinking.  If that is fat, I feel bad for her.  I’ve never seen a girl put weight on like a middle-aged man with a beer gut.  Did she swallow a keg?  If she’s not pregnant, and that is not a beer belly, then the only explanation left is that she is uncomfortably arching her back so her stomach and ass protrude for maximum attention-getting.  Which brings us back to total fling.

I like the guy’s shirt.  I bet he’s saying to her “Heeeeeey, how YOU doin’?”

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Hopeless Rebels

Every time I venture to Georgetown (daygame, shopping, peeping in millionaires’ windows) I see these two characters loitering on the corner of M and Wisconsin in front of the Douche Republic selling black T-shirts printed with the words “Stop Bitching. Start a Revolution”.

A few passersby slow down to hear their sales pitch.  Mostly, people ignore them as if they were road pylons to steer around, which isn’t hard to do as they aren’t in-your-face obtrusive with their schtick. I’ve always been curious what revolution they are selling so this time I stop and talk to the blond pony-tailed guy.

Me:  What kind of revolution do you want to start?
Him:  A new way of living… saying no to society’s rat race.  Hey, it’s really busy right now, you want a T-shirt?

A reluctant capitalist.

stop showering seek an institution.

I didn’t tell him that starting a revolution is the biggest bitching a person can do.

When I got home I dogpiled (I despise google’s owners) their T-shirt slogan and found this story.

They call themselves the Zendiks and live in a small group of 30 on a commune in West Virginia, subsistence farming and selling T-shirts, CDs, and bumper stickers in the city.  A woman who escaped from the social experiment is writing a memoir about her imprisonment time there.  She said it had the hallmarks of a cult and was run by authoritarian leaders.

Translation:  A David Koresh-style guy at the top horded all the young pussy for himself while brainwashing the rest into believing they were participating in a beautiful rainbow of non-competitive, non-status seeking cooperation.

Nearly all ostensibly egalitarian cooperative communes eventually fail.  You can only bottle up innate human drives for so long.  A famous example is the Oneida Commune.  Jockeying for status among the top leaders (who were, of course, men) and sexual tensions helped undo the commune’s mission.  What’s hilarious is that the leaders encouraged the young men to refrain from ejaculating during sex because “wasting” semen was bad.  As a result, the women enjoyed many hours of prolonged sex from betas who sacrificed their own pleasure by not cumming, while the alpha males got to impregnate women whenever they wanted.

I have a theory about anti-establishment anti-social dropouts.  It’s not society they hate; it’s themselves.  They hate their own natures.  The world around them is their mirror, reflecting everything that frightens them about their own bestial id essence.  They try to escape their evolutionary heritage by retreating to the woods to resurrect the ghost of Karl Marx.  I suspect most of the members are of Northern European ancestry.

People like this are starting a revolution against human nature.  It is a battle they are doomed to lose.

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Outrage Of The Day

Ugly people canoodling in public.

It’s not cute.  It’s not charming.  It doesn’t make people go “aww” to themselves.

Please, kindly take your ugly nuzzling to the privacy of your homes and draw the shades.  Think of the beautiful people’s feelings.

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Reversing A Cold Shoulder

I hit a new club recently with a guy who runs a pickup workshop as a second job.  As soon as we entered I knew I had found paradise — the whole place was filled with East European babes.  I didn’t even need to see their round, high-cheekboned faces and pouty lips up close to know where they were born.  The classy and sophisticated, yet slightly tacky, fashion statements of the women were the tipoff.  Floor-length (real) fur coats and shiny black cocktail dresses were the norm.  The club resonated with the pleasing sounds of thick Russian accents until Gunther turned up the volume on the thumping eurotrash music and my ears began bleeding.

My buddy swooped in on two girls, a 5 and an 8.5, sitting at the bar.  I stood nearby to hear his game.  We had a code worked out so that when I saw that he had “hooked” the set (meaning, made the girls laugh) I would come in and ask if he had “seen Sarah”.  If he wanted me to wing for him he would introduce me to the girls.

As I stood nearby hidden by the crowd, I eavesdropped surreptitiously and learned that the two girls were Bulgarian.  The 8 was extremely cold, turning away to sigh and look at the dancefloor and generally make her displeasure known.  This was expected.  As I’ve written, women from the former Soviet Bloc are cold as ice on the approach and will shit test mercilessly to weed out the lesser men.  They respond well to mild insults, edgy teasing, condescension, and damning with faint praise.

My friend used the classic “Did you see the two girls fighting outside?” opener.  His game is high energy so this opener suits his style.  The hotter chick looked directly at him without cracking even the slightest smile and the following conversation ensued:

Her:  [imagine a heavy slavic accent] That sounds like a bad pickup line.
Him:  What, you don’t trust me?  If you can’t trust me how am I supposed to trust you?
Her:  I heard that line on a show about guys picking up girls.  There was no fight outside.

Now at this point most guys would have bailed, figuring that there was not only zero attraction, but in fact a negative vibe.  He plowed on.

Him:  [turning to the target’s friend]  Is she always like this?  I bet she questions everything you say just to be different.  How do you deal with her?  Let’s show her how to be fun.  [Friend laughs]
Her:  Oh, you are going to show me how to be fun?  That is very presumptuous for a guy who makes up stories.
Him:  Let me tell you what a real bad pickup line sounds like… you know, kind of like the lines you hear all the time from guys like these [motions around the room].  “Where are you from?”  “Can I buy you a drink?”  “What’s your sign?”  “You’re pretty.”  I bet you fall for those all the time.

That’s when it happened; the moment a deep, physical attraction was created.  A smile forced its way on her face and she laughed as her body turned in his direction.  The signs are always unmistakeable.

He then launched into a story about a kid on a tricycle flipping him the bird on Christmas Eve, and the girls were completely hooked.  He would focus his attention on one and the other would lean in and say to her friend “what did he just say?”  Frequently, they would interrupt him (as girls are wont to do since their minds tend to jump erratically from one topic to the next) and he used these breaks in the flow of conversation to say things like “Wow, your eyes are pretty… especially the right one.”

Women who believe game cannot create attraction, but can only amplify attraction that already exists, are wrong.  This guy, who was at least two points lower than the girl in the looks department, started in negative territory and turned it around.  That is because women’s attraction mechanisms are not the same as men’s.  To phrase it as an analogy:

As T&A is to men, personality is to women.

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300

A girl invited me to a party over the weekend.  She said the crowd would be mixed with some gay guys and trannies in attendance.  Her social scene is alternative so I know what to expect when I hang out with her.  I called Zeets and told him I was going to this party.  He offered sage advice:

Zeets:  Gay guys means lots of hot single girls.  The one is always found with the other.  Bring your best game.
Me:  What about my date?  I’m not going to number close right in front of her.
Zeets:  Listen, if she’s a nonconformist then she’s probably OK with an open dating arrangement.  Anyhow, you’ve gotten numbers before while on dates, you pig.
Me:  I’ll be discreet.
Zeet:  Oh, and wear straight clothes, not your usual metrosexual crap.  You don’t want to fend off advances from gays all night.  If you stand out as a straight guy the girls will flock to you.  Ya gotta keep two things in mind.  If a girl is surrounded by well-groomed but completely indifferent gay men she’ll crave attention from a straight guy to validate herself.  And, two, if you’re a straight guy who’s comfortable around gays, the girls will be intrigued by you.  Intrigue equals horniness.

I rummaged through my closet for non-metrosexual clothes.

Off-center design = fashion maverick.

This was the straightest shirt I could find.  I must’ve donated all my grunge-period flannels to the Salvation Army.  Girls think I am Italian because of this jacket.  Italians get laid so leaving that impression is OK with me.

I knew something was amiss when I walked up to the building entrance and saw groups of five and ten guys piling in together, some holding hands.  Inside there were at least 300 gay men.  That’s not a typo.  300 fabulous Spartans.  It wasn’t hard to tell they were gay even when they weren’t kissing and lightly touching each other’s pecs mid-conversation.  My butt cheeks clenched defensively.

I counted three girls in the entire crowd.  I saw no noticeably straight guys.  So this party was “mixed” in the sense that some of the gays were bears and some were swishy.  Quite a few looked like they dedicated their waking hours to the gym and salon.

Luckily, my date was cute and wearing a plunging neckline, so I spent most of the time with my eyes locked on her cleavage reaffirming my heterosexuality.  And also to avoid accidentally seeing anything that would give me post-traumatic stress disorder.  Once shirts began flying off I told her it was time to go.

Outside, she started laughing.

Me:  What’s so funny?
Her:  They all thought you were gay.
Me:  Yeah, well, maybe that’s because you took me to a GAY PARTY.
Her:  It wasn’t just that.  It was your shoes.
Me:  These shoes are comfortable.  That makes them straight shoes.
Her:  And your hair.  It has that perfectly disheveled bedhead look.
Me:  But it’s naturally disheveled.  No comb or products used.  Again, straight.
Her:  And the way you grabbed my ass and hung on for dear life.
Me:  Better to be safe than subtle.

Things I learned from this experience:

Zeets’ theory failed.  No girls flirted with me.  Conclusion: lesbians.

A presumption of gayness occurs when the crowd reaches the tipping point of 50% gay.  Acting super straight by frowning constantly, substituting conversation with grunting, musing about Scarlett Johansson’s killer BJ lips, and keeping my hands in my pockets did not save me from being mistaken for gay.  Also, see: clothes.

A few gay guys at a party can be good.  They bring girls and a whimsical vibe.  300 is bad.  If you are a halfway decent looking guy you will feel like you’re being eyefucked.  Similar to how a hot chick must feel when she walks into a roomful of men.  Or a thin guy at a NAAFA mixer.

The blatant flattery from gays will temporarily boost your ego.  It’s not nearly the same as flattery from cute girls, but it’s not half bad either.  They’re very creative in their compliments.  “Well aren’t you a tall drink of yum!”  “Somebody hit you hard with the hottie stick.”  As they’re walking behind me: “Who wouldn’t want to follow that in!”  Afer ten minutes of this direct game, though, it gets annoying.

I’ll never trust a girl again when she says she’s taking me to a party with “some gays”.  She can go alone.  The nookie is never that good.

PS:  I watched 16 hours of football on Sunday.

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Bartender Hush Money

I have two or three favorite bars/lounges I like to take dates.  I’d prefer to be more creative but logistics are just as important as venue atmosphere, so I always wind up asking girls to meet me at the same few bars.  I live in an area densely packed with nightlife locations so it’s easy to arrange dates within walking distance of my place.  It makes no sense for me to meet a girl at some swank new bar halfway across town because its heavy red drapes and array of candles look like it would facilitate the seduction process, when the best way to smoothly seduce her is to have her meet me at a place 20 yards from my front door.

Making return trips to the same bar with a different girl each time earns me knowing looks and smirks from the staff.  I got a high five once and an “alriiiight romeo!” prompting my date to ask what that was all about.  The bartender looked a little sheepish recognizing the bind he had put me in and quickly made up an acceptable story on the spot.  I tipped him big.

Tipping generously means either future free drinks or hush money.  It’s not necessary, of course, if you’re on friendly terms with the bar staff, but occasionally a new hire who doesn’t know you will need to have his or her palm greased to ensure their bar remains a safe haven for your player activities.  Female bartenders are more difficult to bring on board because not only do they feel a remote obligation to protect the delicacies of their fellow sisters, but they will often become intrigued by you and your parade of girls.  And female intrigue leads to jealousy leads to sabotage.  You never want to have a woman conspiring against you because their skills of sabotage are far superior to men’s.  You might leave for the bathroom for a minute and when you get back your date is interrogating you about your relationship history.

The worst thing you can do is tip poorly.  If you have alligator arms when it comes time to reach for your wallet you will never hear back from dates you bring to that bar.  Like it or not, tipping is a status marker and payola.  Tip well, and you’ll find bartenders talking up your accomplishments and coolness and your date running her finger along the lip of her glass.  Nothing beats third party endorsement.

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