Bewbs

Girls with big boobs (D cup or bigger) love to talk about them. Their girl friends love to talk about their big boobs for them. They think men fall over themselves to nestle in the glory of big boobs. What these girls don’t understand is that big boobs mean nothing out of context. The body to which the boobs are attached is what completes the picture.

Let’s cut to the quick. Big boobs are only — and I mean ONLY — attractive when they are firm and popping out of the chest of a slender woman. (I’m looking at you, Caitlin! ;))

They should point almost straight out, even upturned a bit at the tip, with little to no droop. None of the underboob should be pressed against the chest; there should be no more than a finger’s width crease between the boob ballast and the torso. You may wedge a toothpick in there, but anything larger and the boob has crossed the line from pert to saggy.

A mighty rack on a slender woman is a sight to behold. A woman with this blessing can incite instant wood walking down the street.

Regrettably, most mighty racks are attached to behemoths. Big boobs are the sort of thing fat chicks love to crow about, not realizing that the D cup boob loses all attractiveness if it is a bloated pendulous udder with the consistency of lumpy gravy resting like a flapjack against a bulging stomach.

Since the majority of big boobs are actually fattened teats perched on porcine figures, it’s safe to say the most attractive boobs are the sets belonging to thin chicks, which means they are typically in the B to C cup range.

If this isn’t getting through to the fatties, allow me to elaborate.

An A cup on a hot slender babe is way sexier than a double D on a fat cow. HTH.

Nothing Compares 2 The Wall

So sad, so tragic, the inevitable slide into sexual worthlessness that accompanies women, the withering tick tock of the cosmic clock stripping their beauty in flayed bits of soulletting mignons like psychological ling chi. A sadistic thief in the night etching, billowing, draping and sagging a new affront to her most preciously guarded asset. The comfort of her children, if she has them, acting as meager respite from the awful realization that she has been sucked dry of her whimsy and power.

But enough of that merriment. Sinead O’Connor, the Irish singer who ripped up a picture of the Pope and sweetly sang a remake of a Prince ballad, and who was, not so long ago despite the shock of her change in appearance, cute enough to bang even with her boyishly short hairstyle, has hit the wall hard enough to cause even Wile E. Coyote to wince in pain. The evidence:

Then:

And now (20 years later):

Pixie? No. Not anymore. BIXIE.

Some of you tenderhearted sorts might be tempted to ask why I am torturing a poor woman who has to endure pain enough ensconced in her deteriorating shell. Steady on, bugle boys. I might have a sadistic streak, but I don’t select my targets without some justification which makes the torture that much more pleasurable to inflict. Good old Sinead, fat and unhappy, has an internet blog, of all things!, wherein she laments her lack of a sex life and basically puts out a personal ad for a man to come rescue her from her celibate dreariness. The incomprehensible catch? She makes a list of demands for the type of man she wants.

Complaining of a lack of intimacy in recent times, O’Connor writes on her blog: “My shit-uation sexually/affectionately speaking is so dire that inanimate objects are starting to look good as are inappropriate and/or unavailable men and/or inappropriate and/or unavailable fruits and vegetables. I tell you yams are looking like the winners.”

“Needless to say what I do for a living makes it hard for me to find men that only want me cuz they like my (legendary) arse. Yet I am in the peak of my sexual prime [Ed: No, you’re not.] and way too lovely [Ed: No, you’re not.] to be living like a nun. and it’s VERY depressing.” [Ed: Yes, it is.]

So she’s taken action but O’Connor is not looking for just any man. She specifically wants a middle-aged, sweet, sex-starved man – who doesn’t use hair product, lives in Ireland, loves his mother… There’s a host of stipulations for O’Connor’s would-be sex partners.

Sinead, spinhead, spinster, Irish Lassie, lumpentits… have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re in no position to make ANY kind of demands on men. You should thank your LUCKY FUCKING STARS if you get a homeless, piss-stained BUM to stick it in your distended flabby sowhole.

It’s this sort of insistently aggressive delusion, so common amongst the aging cougar crowd, fat harpies and single moms, that pings my target designation flaydar. This is the kind of bullheaded clown steeped in pretty lies who serves as an excellent test case to be made example of for the benefit of younger, more sensible women who might be teetering on the brink of bad life decisions. You could almost… almost… say I’m a humanitarian.

Let me be clear, if I haven’t already. Ladeeeeez, listen up. When you look more like post-wall Sinead and less like pre-wall Sinead (see above), it’s time for you to ratchet down your lists of demands in men. Any man you manage to get, if you get any, won’t meet them. They won’t even come close to meeting them. I understand it gives you some psychological comfort to pretend you have standards in the face of your horrible disfigurement at the cruel hands of father time, but actually living by those ridiculous standards instead of just hypocritically mouthing them to rock yourself to sleep at night is NOT going to land you a man of any semi-respectable character, intelligence, wit or looks. If anything, such strict adherence will consign you to lifelong celibacy. The men you will find attractive, quite bluntly, won’t find you attractive. At all. You will be worse than invisible to them. You will be repulsive. A monster to avoid or mock.

The time for women to nurse a list of exorbitant demands in the men they date is when they are young, slender and cute. By young, I mean under 25. By slender, I mean BMI 17-23. By cute, I mean the top half of the women in this post. If any of those ingredients are missing, women need to slacken their demands in accordance with the degree to which they veer from the feminine ideal. So if you are old, fat and ugly, the only demand you can make of men and reasonably hope to achieve is that he isn’t a corpse. Even then, it’s a tough sell.

Sinead is an especially illustrative wall splat, as her entitlement complex, rivaling that of kings and queens, is a classic case of projection. She is attracted to men with fame and power, and so she thinks men will be attracted to women with fame and power. She has fame (loosely defined) and thinks that men will love her for it. This is the worst life station that can befall the single cougar: to have the trappings of male attractiveness with none of the trappings of female attractiveness. On paper and in thrall to their hamsters, these powerful older women think they deserve the best. In the reality of the sexual marketplace, they are the forgotten femmes of yesteryear, cavalierly shoved aside by men with options for the younger, prettier girls of their fervid dreams.

But it gets better:

And further posts [from Sinead] brought more. Prospective lovers can be lesbian; may even, she conceded, be christened Brian or Nigel; but anal sex is non-negotiable.

“Any man I contemplate has to be into anal sex …  let me now take time to make VERY clear that yes I ‘do anal’ and in fact I would be deeply unhappy if ‘doing anal’ wasn’t on the menu, amongst everything else$ So if u don’t like ‘the difficult brown’.. Don’t apply.”

When I think of the joys of anal, it’s a cute, young chick whose silky smooth back passage I’m violating. If I wanted to trek through a dank forest and hack away at thick underbrush with a machete while the stench of rotting carcass meat singed my nostril hairs, I’d sooner travel to the Amazon than Sinead O’Connor’s ass.

But I can understand why Sinead has highlighted this demand of hers. Naturally, as women age, they become more willing to experiment with all manner of sexual kink. It’s totally predictable. When you don’t have your cute looks to trade in on anymore, you have to make up the shortfall with some other, usually less intriguing, enticement, like a willingness to lodge your ass into a bottomless hammock and swing onto a dildo machine for the amusement of your loser lover.

I do wonder, though, if the Chateau message is starting to infiltrate the borg collective; if perhaps a great cougar awakening is upon us. An aging single mom writes a blog honestly appraising her low SMV and the Darwinian brutality of the dating market for women like herself.

‘I always had boyfriends when I was younger and assumed I would again after James was born,’ she says. ‘When he  was three, I started chatting online. These chats were fun — and sometimes quite flirty — but if I ever suggested  we meet, the men would often back  off, saying they were not looking for a relationship.’

A dozen or so dates followed over the years, none of them quite right. When she last registered with an online dating site she was 44 — and few men made contact. ‘Forty is a huge cut-off point for a lot of men,’ Ruthie explains. ‘There was just one I met and we had a fantastic evening. I was surprised afterwards when he didn’t get in touch.

‘Six months later, he did contact me. It turned out he’d seen some other women when he saw me and gone on to have brief relationships with them. When those relationships failed, he came back to me and I just felt, “He’ll be off again”, so I didn’t pursue it.’

Youch. This is the kind of crappy male behavior a woman on the downslope of her attractiveness and saddled with bastard spawn can expect from the men she wants to date. It won’t get better if she insists on only dating men she finds attractive. It will only get worse. Men with options simply won’t treat has-been single moms as well as they will treat already-is hot young childless babes. That is, if they deign to treat them with anything but callous indifference. More younger women need to hear stories like hers. It could save a lot of potential heartache.

And then there’s this online evidence for an awakening among older women.

Katie Sheppard, the director of relationships at Match.com, said online dating was now the second most common way couples met across the UK – behind being introduced by friends or family – and for older people it can be a perfect way to “dip a toe back into dating”.

Its research shows that dating is, especially for divorced women, fraught with complication, anxiety and worry. Looking for second-time love when children are a first priority is a challenge. Nicola Lamond, Netmums spokeswoman and mother, said: “Being a single parent can be pretty tough. Single parents describe themselves as lonely, isolated, vulnerable and worthless. There is a real sense their world has shrunk.”

There is a sense their world has shrunk… because it has.

Even Sinead has a hope of coming around to sensibility on her sexual obsolescence.

“Fire-men, rugby players, and Robert Downey-Junior will be given special consideration. As will literally anyone who applies.”

Sometimes, you just can’t give the stuff away for free.

Now is the time to take the message of this blog global. To ostracize the rigidly denialist feminists and to cajole the merely confused into the light of wisdom. To, in a word, increase the sum total of happiness in the world.

It beats listening to me gloat ‘I told ya so’.

ps:

Feigning Disapproval

A dirty little secret of chronic seduction is that girls want you to disapprove of them. Not all the time, or for everything, of course. But once in a while, women like to hear that you disapprove of something about them or something they’ve done. It comforts them to know that you have the stones to risk their indignation and possible retaliation. Why? Because a man willing to risk an unhappy woman is a man who likely has what it takes to secure a replacement woman. This knowledge is like the male version of T&A to a woman’s limbic lust lobe.

But what do you do if the girl you are seeing is pretty much all around great? Well, you rap her for minor offenses. Feign disproportionate disapproval for any petty infraction she commits. If you want a healthy relationship with a lifespan measured in months or years instead of nights, you have to set some time aside to express dissatisfaction with her. Planned drama, you could call it. If you have the talent, you should always premeditate your drama; that way, you control its intensity and resolution instead of allowing yourself to be buffeted by surprise drama.

For example, a girl I used to date once confided to me that years ago, before we met, she had had a one night stand with a dude she met while on vacation, on the advice of her girl friends who were ostensibly helping her get over a breakup. (Another reminder to never trust your girlfriend’s friends.)

In truth, I didn’t care about her off-night of sluttiness. It happened years ago, and it didn’t bother me. But that’s not how I played it.

Me, acting mildly disgusted: “You… YOU, of all people… had a dirty one night stand with some… dude?”

Her, starting to sound nervous: “Whaaaat?! It was a long time ago! I was trying to get over a bad breakup!”

Crossing my arms, looking away: “You think you know a girl.”

“I can ‘t believe you’re reacting this way. How many girls have you slept with?! It’s no contest!”

“No comparison. It’s worse when a girl screws around. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you in the same way again. Who have I been dating? You feel like a stranger to me.”

“Oh my god. Really?! This? Really???”

“Could you just sit over there on the couch. Fuck, I need some space.”

Now she’s sounding sheepish. “Is this really bothering you? If this is bothering you, can we talk about it?”

Shit, I worried that I went too far. The last thing I wanted was a “talk”. But I couldn’t stop. I was power tripping. “I thought you were different than all the other girls.”

It went back and forth like this for ten minutes, her getting progressively more agitated and regretful, me finding it harder to contain my burgeoning smirk. Finally, I relented, a little.

“Well, since it was a long time ago, I guess I’ll get over it.”

She collapsed into my arms. “You know it was nothing. I’ve never loved anyone as much as you.”

Feigning disapproval. Gentlemen and scholar seducers, this is how you stoke a woman’s love flame.

And sometimes you won’t even have to feign.

A Study In Contrasts

Me, during an evening of sitting on pea green, chocolate brown and beige boutique furniture, drinking $14/four-pack beer, and ricocheting rapid-fire witticisms about supper clubs, pop culture icons and travel mishaps with a mixed group of men, women and gay non-math-oriented professionals carousing through the twilight of our nation’s greatness:

Me, during a night of rolling solo in a dimly lit bar chatting up girls:

You’ve gotta struggle a little to feel like a free man.

Can I See Myself Saying That?

A girl buddy tells me some guy hit on her as she was leaving the gym that afternoon. She describes how he did it.

“So he comes up to me and asks me if I like horses. And then he starts talking about this girl he knew in fifth grade who ran around on a playground making horse noises? And I’m like, ooookay. He’s talking about horses and he’s all over the place. I can’t really figure out what he’s trying to say. Then he tells me I look like this girl. Weird, right?”

I ask, “Was there a love connection?”

“Haa, I don’t think so. I kept walking.”

I hear this, and it hits me: that’s Brad P’s horse opener. Hilarious. I wonder if the streets are filled with aspiring PUAs dropping routines, or if this was a rare occurrence. I didn’t mention to her that I knew about the horse routine.

The whole episode got me to thinking about pickup routines. A lot of the routines sparkle on paper (or on a monitor) but when you are out there in the real world, interacting like a human being, they sound clumsy and ridiculous coming out of your mouth.

Which brings me to a very simple formula I use for determining whether a pickup tactic would work. When I read about it, I think “Can I see myself saying that?” I imagine a real life scenario — let’s say, an approach at the supermarket by the deli meats — and I picture myself saying the exact words in a routine to a cute girl. If I can’t even imagine that happening without cringing a little on the inside, then I know it’s useless as an opener. But if I could picture myself saying it without losing any coolness points, I know it’s a winner.

No slight to Brad P, who is a smart guy and knows a lot about pickup and women, but the horse opener is one I could never see a normal man saying to a woman in most typical circumstances without looking and feeling weird, to both himself and to his target. I understand the goal of getting a girl’s interest by shocking her with something out of the ordinary, but the majority of men — normal guys who aren’t street magicians and who work 9-5 jobs — will not be able to talk about horses and playgrounds with a girl they just met without feeling like an idiot or a clown.

If an opener or routine doesn’t strike you as something you could hear a normal, cool man saying, then use it with caution. You have to be particularly talented, composed and articulate to attract a girl running a (relatively) long-winded routine like the horse opener. Most naturals who do well with women usually keep their first, introductory words short and sweet. The shorter and more normal-sounding an opener (without being banal), the likelier the average guy will succeed with it.

This is not to say that Brad P’s horse opener can’t work. In special circumstances, say at a bar or event where you have a quasi-captive audience who can sit through a lengthy routine without scuttling away for the bus or a taxi, the horse opener can shine. And, in Brad P’s defense, I could tell the girl in the above conversation was kind of intrigued by the guy, even though there was no number exchange. What probably killed his chances was his delivery, which sounded atrocious if the girl’s retelling was accurate.

This is the crux of why short and sweet openers are the way to go. If you’re new to the game, it’ll be a lot less intimidating to approach girls if you have a stock two or three openers no longer than a handful of words in length each. Memorizing long, complicated routines that require precision comedic timing is going to dishearten newbies when girls react to them with confusion, and eventually turn them into spiteful haters who write anti-PUA sites.

A good example of the kind of short n’ sweet n’ normal-sounding opener I’m talking about is one of Roosh’s day game openers, which, paraphrasing, goes something like “Where’s the nearest pet store?” It’s kind of an interesting question to ask a girl, because most single men aren’t looking for a pet store, especially if they live in the city. She’ll answer, and then you have your window of opportunity to jump into a funny routine about your cat Fluffy needing gourmet food, or something. And, more importantly, there’s little chance that even an aspie nerd will stutter or mumble while saying this opener.

Here is a list of the key ingredients of a solid opener, in descending order of importance:

1. Can you see yourself saying it? If yes, go to (2). If no, ask yourself if it would work in specific scenarios, and try it out.

2. Is it short and grammatically simple enough to memorize without struggling to remember the words in the heat of the moment? If yes, go to (3). If no, ask yourself if you are sufficiently verbally fluent and mentally dextrous to pull it off, then try it out.

3. Is it normal-sounding? If yes, use with impunity on all types of girls, including lawyers. If no, try it out on indie chicks with lots of tattoos.

Banging Outside Your Race Won’t Hurt Your Chances With Same-Race Women

Reader “Me” muses:

I’m not so sure that banging a non-white girl hurts your chances at all with quality white women. I would think that being attractive to different races/cultures could only boost your chances.

There will be no studies referenced in this post, because, let’s face it, the watery-eyed milquetoasts who run the labs would never sign off on a study examining the effect on perceptions of male attractiveness by women toward same-race men who are dating, or have dated, outside their race. Instead, I will rely on personal experience to buttress Me’s assumption.

There is no doubt, based on what I have observed, that white women will find you more alluring if you have dated outside your race. This opinion, or feeling, will be shared by flings, girlfriends, and wives. In fact, having a spotted checkered wondrously diverse dating history of occasionally banging 6s and 7s outside your race will make you seem just as, if not more, attractive than if you had dated 8s and 9s strictly within your race. The reason for this rests with that subconscious calculation — the whirring and beeping of the female limbic system — which automatically infers that a man who can bed cute girls of a different race (or, to a lesser degree, a different nationality) must be a mighty force of irresistible masculinity, indeed.

Women, and white women in particular*, being the more racist of the sexes as measured by mating preference, incorrectly presume that the obstacles the typical man faces in his pursuit of pussy are multiplied when the object of his lust is a different race. (The truth of the matter is that the difficulty of bedding the rainbow tapestry of womanhood varies depending on the specific race of the parties and the point on the masculinity/femininity nexus along which both reside.) And so women earnestly believe that a man who can overcome those race-based obstacles must have something going for him.

So too, there is the competition anxiety that a man who has sampled the world’s banquet of bush provokes in supercharged SWPLy women. On the one hand, these lily-white women live and breathe the PC zeitgeist that steers them along the pinched paths of multicult slavishness. But on the other, is the fear and envy of the pulse of raw sexual energy that good white women in their craggiest neural crevices believe that non-white women possess in spades more than they do. The cognitive dissonance drives them simply batty with sexual inferiority complexes. (Maria Shriver must have been going insane with self-reappraisal when she found out Arnold liked the Latina ass.)

I have seen it with my own eyes, and experienced it with my own glorious ego. When I casually mentioned a black lover I once had to a (non-black) girlfriend, her eyes went wide with cautious wonder, and she poked for more information, which I recounted with feigned reluctance, each tidbit of juiciness (yes, her ass defied gravity, no, she wasn’t ghetto) prompting from her expressions of amazement and half-hearted pleas to stop. She was clearly intrigued, and yet also ferociously jealous, that I had stepped across the line in the jungle to savor what was to her the rawest sexual taboo. From then forward, every time we passed a black girl on the street, I would peripherally notice my lover’s eyes darting once to the black girl, and then once back at me to gauge my reaction. This, gentlemen, is how you keep a woman on her toes in a relationship, working perpetually for your favor.

Black girls aren’t the only sore spot to the white woman. Heaven forbid the white man who has had a delicately feminine Asian girlfriend sweeping down the corridors of his past, should his white girlfriend know of it! Nothing inspires white (heh) hot jealousy in a white woman with greater fury than the Asian ex-girlfriend. This innate jealousy will explode into a supernova if you have an Asian mistress. A buddy once made the mistake of (accurately) reminding his put-upon white girlfriend that his Asian ex and she were more alike than she thought. The comparison drove her wild with sputtering indignation, for she had spent the better part of their relationship in feral cattiness denigrating his poor Asian ex whenever the subject came up. A woman does not heap that kind of fulsome hate upon those she feels are no threat to her sexual market value.

But you can bet the bank that my buddy got hand the day his girlfriend saw the pic of his cute Asian ex. His value had jumped, and would stay there barring severe beta regression.

This peculiar female presumption to imagine the best — aka lustiest — about men who date outside their race holds great benefit for the man wishing to leverage it into personal advantage. Letting it be known, in as plausibly extemporaneous a manner as possible, that you have a few black girls, Asian girls and, whoa stop the presses!, Indian girls in your timeline of ass-tapping is like catnip to the white woman’s theater of the hindmind. You can save a lot of money on travel expenses cultivating your international man of mystery pose by cheaply bedding down in your neighborhood with some flava flav every once in a while.

Preselection knows no racial boundaries. If the women you bang are cute and well-kept, the addition of a racial component will intensify a girlfriend’s jealousy instinct, which is the high voltage electricity that fuels the tingle capacitor. The greater variety of good-looking women you have ravished, the stronger will be a current fling’s libidinous intrigue.

The ONLY variable that influences a woman’s preselection algorithm for gauging male attractiveness is the beauty or ugliness of the women a man has banged. This is one of those unpalatable measuring sticks by which women judge your worth as a man — through the eyes of the women you have previously seduced. If those exes are a miss parade of has-beens, fatties and fugs, a girl will downgrade your SMV to a point lower than if you had never dated any women. If your exes are consistently cute, a girl will feel a strange compulsion to adore you.

Class factors little in the female preselection equation. If anything, class can have an inverse effect on a woman’s perception of your sexual value relative to her own. An upper middle-class SWPL chick will be inclined to question her own worth a lot more if she knows you have stepped out with some sexy hot lower class non-white chick. She’s going to wonder if she lacks the necessary spice you need to stay sexually motivated. She’ll think maybe her stiffly geometric WASP hips aren’t soulful enough to keep you glued.

Since women’s sexuality is biologically more valuable than men’s, it’s in your interest as a man to cultivate a tincture of such self-doubt in your lovers. Men who knee-jerk pedestalize women have no idea how difficult they are making the game. To pedestalize a woman is to hoist her above the penthouse in which she already reposes.

A quality white woman will be productively jealous if she knows you have had sex with girls of different races. This reaction of hers may be compounded if your exes are from distinct classes or milieus. But there is a limit to the female interest that your interracial loving will inspire. A history with trashy ghetto queens or snaggle-toothed FOBs is not gonna redound positively on you.

Before I forget, there is one more race-based preselection factor (besides objective beauty) that will shape how a woman perceives your sexual status: If you have dated NOTHING BUT girls of different races, you will be viewed with a jaundiced eye as a man who doesn’t have what it takes to win over women of his own race. Men who date other-race women to the exclusion of women of their own race are generally, and usually correctly, seen as sexual fetishists. A banal fetish for other races reveals more than it intends, and women of your own race are apt to discount you as a low value man whose limited options forced him downmarket.

It’s a simple thing to avoid this negative appraisal: restrict your outside-race dating to 40% or fewer of your sum total of lovers. Just enough to rev the ol’ hamster, but not so much that you forfeit the same-race game entirely. Of course, if you are fed up with SWPL vessels brimming with apparatchik drivel, you could flip the bird to all that and find true joy and happiness in the pleasures of hybrid vigor.

A list of lovers by race, in descending order of arousing jealousy and attraction in white women:

An extremely beautiful Russian woman. (A hot Russian/Ukrainian 10 is the worldwide gold standard.)
Asian woman. (The more petite, the better. You really want to throw that BMI discrepancy into stark relief.)
Indian woman. (So strange and exclusive, and so bothersome to the white girl ego!)
Middle Eastern woman. (White girl thinks belly dancer.)
Non-ghetto, slender black woman. (Jungle love, it’s driving me crazy.)
Non-sausagy Hispanic woman. (Selma Hayek, not Consuela.)
Eskimo woman. (Points for adventurousness.)
Aboriginal woman. (What were you thinking?)

*I imagine the forces at work in the white woman’s mind when contemplating a man’s multi-racial dating history are similar to what transpires in a black, Hispanic or Asian woman’s mind. I think we’ve all heard the stories of black women becoming absolutely incensed when a black man takes up with a white woman.

The Fake Drink Opener

A reader asks into the ether whether the following opening gambit is good enough to use regularly.

I saw on a buddy of mine’s facebook status a while ago “lol at girls who thought I bought them shots of vodka when it was actually water”. Apparently he “bought” some hot girls at a bar shots of water that they assumed was vodka. He said after doing the shots, they sort of half laughed and gave him the finger and he left pretty much after doing that because he had other places to go. Now I’m pretty sure this guy’s a natural (black, over 6 ft, does tango or some crap, and can probably bench press a car) so I doubt he even cared about their opinion of him and did it for his own amusement since he probably gets laid like a rockstar. I wasn’t there to see the girls’ reaction, so I was wondering if this would be a good opener? Completely unusable dick move? What do you think about it?

On paper, (and apparently in real life if this guy’s story about his friend is accurately retold), the fake drink opener seems like it would work very well, especially on hot girls with bitch shields in bars and clubs who will be expecting free drinks from suckers. Some of the best cocky teasing is the kind where you fool a girl into thinking you will meet her expectations of betatude, and then you pull the rug out from under her. She is left reeling in the warm juices of her arousal.

But in practice, I’m not sure this would be easy to pull off. Fake drinks have to be delivered in the same glasses that would hold real liquor for the trick to work. If you ask the bartender for a round of water shots (when the girl is far enough away from you that she can’t hear your order), the bartender will likely serve you the water in tall soda glasses, usually with a straw for added humiliation. Then the girl will know it’s not a vodka shot by the shape of the glass.

But that might be hair splitting. I’m sure you could get around that if you know the bartender and he’s happy to be in on your ruse. Or you could keep used shot glasses and fill them up with water, to hand out to any unsuspecting princess.

Regardless of the utility of this opener, props go to the reader for having the right frame of mind. That is half the battle in your quest for cheap sex.