Sexcessful Failures Kindle Version

Read by the talented Dave Axe, the book is now available on itunes. Go to the itunes store and search “Sexcessful Failures.”

If you’re not on itunes, you can also get it from cdbaby (http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/daveglenn)

“Quite frankly, this is the greatest thing I’ve ever listened to.” -Lady Gaga

In the meantime, the retail price days have come and gone, and the book is now $9.95. Loaded with all new content, you’d be unquestionably insane to not own a copy. On a serious note, I’m not looking to make any money off all this (A teacher salary suits me just fine). Just looking to spread some entertainment and get my words circulating through the occasional bookshelf for centuries to come. Go to amazon stat and check it out here.

I want to thank you all–particularly my original MySpace and Facebook fans–for your support over the years. You help put me on the map and kept the journey alive.

D…

Not in a million years did I think typing into a two-and-a-half by five-inch device would surpass the time I spent jerking off—and ultimately become the elixir to women. Texting has turned the ever-evasive bar number into dates and lays; it’s sustained fuck buddies, revived old sex partners, salvaged middling first dates, and bred second chances. It’s restored dormant desires and attraction levels that had been in hibernation for as long as three years. Most importantly, however, texting has strengthened my connections with women, whichever type of relationship that might be.

Of course, none of this could be done without failure. Lots of it. While my texts have led to dates, hook-ups, and sex, they’ve also led to turn-offs, rejections, and aggravation. I’ve ruined my chances with countless women, even pissed a few off. I made adjustments and tried a different approach on the next girl. When that didn’t work, I tried something else. I identified and internalized what yielded a positive outcome and what didn’t. In the end, I was able to refine my texting skills into something tangible. To this day, I’m still refining—because even now, I still make mistakes. But with tens of thousands of sexts stored somewhere in my memory bank, I’ve finally been able to develop a blueprint for success.

(Please note: This blog has been in the works for some time now. All of the included conversations are verbatim, saved to a Word document at some point over the past eighteen months. I have only edited some of them for clarity purposes. To women reading this: Much of what is outlined in this blog apply to you as well. Guys appreciate girls who understand cellular lingo.)

The following is a texting exchange I had with a recently acquired Plenty of Fish phone number (She was very hot).

Me: What’s up Kayla. This is Dave from pof :) What u up to?

Her: Hi Dave. Not much, just relaxing and watching tv. You?

Me: The same. Had a long day. We on for tomorrow?

Her: Oh, sorry to hear that. Yeah :)

Me: Awesome. Only thing is I don’t know any good places in Whittier. You have any hotspots?

Her: Yeah there are lots here. There’s a place called the Havanahh house. We can meet there.

Me: Sounds good. 8:45ish cool with you?

Her: Yeah that’s good

Me: Cool I’ll shoot you a text before I leave :)

Me: Have a good rest of the night. Talk soon ;)

Her: Ok sounds good. Can’t wait! :)

Her: Thanks, you too.

I’ll let you predict the outcome:

a)      Date was awesome. So good that we ended up at her place for wild sex.

b)      Date was fun. We kissed next to her car and made plans to hang out two days later. Relationship possibility!

c)      Date was okay, but there was something…off about her.

d)      She flaked.

The correct answer is d. Her text the following day: Hey Dave, I’m sorry but I’m gonna have to cancel :(

So what went wrong?

For starters, this conversation was too predictable and way too robotic. I didn’t make a single attempt to tease, banter, or even converse, which subsequently fizzled her spark, causing her to lose interest and flake.

In analyzing my side of the conversation line by line, my first text was solid. It’s always best to start off with some sort of inside joke to be playful, but our online messages were rather brief, so this “what u up to” thing was the best route.

Note: Unless you’re familiar with the girl (girlfriend, fuck buddy, etc), it’s always wise to write out words–“you” rather than “u” etc. I know it’s stupid, but shortening words comes off as lazy. The little things add up.

Text #2: The same. Had a long day. We on for tomorrow?

Everything went downhill from here. I immediately asked her out on the second message, thus revealing that I didn’t really care about what she was “up to,” and it was all some sleazy ploy to get to the date, and ultimately in her pants. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s already sniffed out my bullshit. Everything from here on out is dead weight—but we’ll discuss my blunders further.

Text #3: Awesome. Only thing is I don’t know any good places in Whittier. You have any hotspots?

Another abomination. As the guy, I’m supposed to pick the places. Even though I’m more familiar with Hyrule than I am Whittier, I should have done some minimal research and at the very least suggested a place because I “heard it was cool.” Try this approach: Awesome. I hear Chotchkie’s is a good spot. You ever been?

The rest of my texts were good, but because I screwed up these two lines, particularly the we-on-for-tomorrow text, it’s irrelevant. To my defense, I was on a roll with my sexts in the two weeks prior, so I started thinking I was invincible, becoming impatient in the process. And impatient texters always get flaked on.

Another conversation under the exact same circumstances (also hot):

(Thursday)

Me: What’s up Valerie. This is Dave from match. What you up to?

Her: What’s up Dave. I’m doing good about to go swim in a bit. Life is good how are you?

Me: Doin good. Got home from work a bit ago. Perfect beach weather right now.. Any plans tonight?

Her: Yeah im going dancing with my girls. You?

Me: Not sure yet, something low key though. One more day of work til the weekend :)

Her: Yeah I just had my weekend, unfortunately I work on real weekends. When are u free?

Me: You had your real weekend? No fair. How bout we get together next time you have your weekend. When’s that? Tuesday?

Her: Yes my weekend starts Tuesday so that would be good for me

Me: K sounds good. Anything crazy going on for you this weekend besides work?

Her: Not much. I usually go up to long beach, I like the music they play. You?

Me: Having a bunch of people over Sunday for a bbq. Long beach? What kind of music they play there?

Her: Hip hop and classic rock, I won’t leave the dance floor with that mix

Me: Lol not into the oc techno hype huh

Her: Yeah I can’t stand techno, it’s just a very long song. Do you dance?

Me: If the music is right, yes of course..

Her: Good. Well I’m going to take a swim. It was nice talking to you. Talk with you later.

Me: Yeah for sure. Talk soon :)

(Saturday)

Me: Heading to long beach tonight?

Her: Yes!! It’s been so crazy at work, I need to get out! What are you doing?

[Bunch of the same banter]

(Sunday)

Her: How was your bbq?

Me: Awesome.. still going actually :) How was your night?

[More banter]

[Eventually] Her: Yeah that works. I kind of have this thing where I like to talk on the phone once before I meet someone so if you get a chance at some point.

Me: Lol yeah I’ll call you tmrw

Her: Ok thank you. After some of my experiences on match they were interesting that’s why the whole phone thing. Not that I think you are.. you know what I mean

Me: Yeah totally..

(Monday)

[I didn’t call her]

9:41 p.m. Her: Hey just wanted to see if you were still down for tomorrow.

(I’ve stated before that all phone conversations—with online girls—should be kept under five minute. These days, however, I’ve stopped calling them. Often nothing is gained from speaking to her before meeting; all you do is give her another opportunity to judge you out of her life. It’s actually way riskier to call them than to blow them off, so I’ll consent to it like I did above, but never text her again. They usually let it slide and agree to the date anyways. But trust your instincts, and if you feel the phone call request is legitimate—and not some judgmental test of hers, then go through with the call.)

So what happened this time?

a) She flaked the next day with the following text: I’m assuming that because you didn’t call me, your voice sounds raspy and gargly. Therefore, you’re ugly and I can’t see you.

b) Date was awful. She looked nothing like her pictures and was 30 pounds overweight.

c) Date was good. We made out afterwards, but she tasted like tomatoes.

d) Date was good. We made out; she tasted good; and two dates later, we fucked.

Answer is d again.

(Before I get into why this exchange was a success, let me first state that when it comes to texting, every girl is different. Some are born flakes, cynics, and time-wasters; and your texts won’t change shit. While with other girls, a Call of Duty geek with the texting literacy of a fifth grader could close a date. The majority of girls, however, Kayla and Valerie included, lie in the middle of the bell curve, where the details can make or break us; and every text matters—hence this blog.)

Notice I started off the conversation with Valerie in the same way I did Kayla. In the second line, however, Any plans tonight is completely different than asking if we’re still on. Asking about her plans doesn’t necessarily imply I’m jumping the gun and asking her out. Depending on how I continue with the convo from here, it can mean I’m just testing to see if her life is exciting.

Me: Not sure yet, something low key though. One more day of work til the weekend :)

Usually when a girl asks if you have plans (and you know she won’t be in them), either invent some fun activity to portray your exciting lifestyle—barbecues (my favorite), friends in town, road trip to San Diego, bachelor party—or just tell her you aren’t sure. Those initial texts were on a Thursday (a work night), and I was actually laying in bed watching Sportscenter, so I decided to save my fun shit for another text—a small risk. “Something low key” isn’t exactly a scene from The Hangover, but it’s safe.

Commenting on the weekend was borderline lame, but I felt I needed to say something uplifting in order to complement my “low key” thing. Also, throwing in the smiley at the end made it textable. More on smileys later :)

Me: You had your real weekend? No fair. How bout we get together next time you have your weekend. When’s that? Tuesday?

Girls hate pushy guys, and impatience oozes out through our texts like pre-cum. This text was effective because I back-handedly catered to her schedule and didn’t force the issue. I sensed Valerie was tight with her work nights, so I accommodated.

The “No fair” is also in the there for a reason. One, it boosts her up—even though she’s a moron for having the wrong fucking weekend off. Two, it simplifies the text. For example, imagine this alternate text:

Me: You had your real weekend? No way. What kind of job do you have that allows for that!? But I guess it kinda sucks you have to work Friday and Saturday :( How bout we get together next time you have your weekend. When’s that? Tuesday?

The three additions turn this text into a literary monster. “No fair” was all it took to communicate all three of those hideous sentences. The simpler the text, the better. By writing unnecessarily long texts, you’re surreptitiously communicating that you’re trying too hard and are way too excited about the possibility of dating her—all major turn-offs. If you constantly find yourself writing complete sentences, you’re doing too much. Texts should mostly consist of quick fragments, one-word confirmations, and half sentences with no subject (but periods, commas, and apostrophes are always to be used in appropriate spots).

Observe the following texts…

Me: Lol not into the oc techno hype huh

Me: If the music is right, yes of course..

Me: Yeah for sure. Talk soon :)

Me: Heading to long beach tonight?

Me: Lol yeah I’ll call you tmrw

Many of the rules of good writing parellel good texting. In the above five texts, there isn’t a single unnecessary word or character. Cut the fat, or she’ll cut you.

Moving on…

Her: Yes my weekend starts Tuesday so that would be good for me

Me: K sounds good. Anything crazy going on for you this weekend besides work?

Now that she has agreed on the date, I didn’t stop there. I continued with the conversation for a few more texts to communicate that my goal isn’t simply to “land the date,” but rather that I’m actually interested in her world. I’ve learned the hard way that these extra post-close texts (with new girls only) go a long way—even if it means having to lie about “dancing if the music is right,” which was her test to see if I was good in bed (Never tell a new girl that you dislike dancing. Wait ‘til after you’ve slept with them.).

Timing

Not mentioned in the above exchanges is the timing between messages. Always return your texts close to the rate at which she’s returning yours. For example, if you text her and it takes her anywhere from 15 to 45 minutes to get back to you, you have to wait at least 10-15 minutes before texting her back. If you text her right away she’ll think you’re some sappy chump who watches Glee with nothing better to do than sit around and wait for her text. Girls always assume the worst when it comes to texts (as do guys), so be patient; if she hasn’t texted you back, relax—she’s probably busy fiddling with her eyebrows; she’ll hit you up eventually.

If she’s one of those quick-texters who are always responding within the minute, it becomes okay to return-text her IM-like. But switch it up from time to time; throw in a delay here or there so she can ponder your whereabouts—even though you’re sprawled on the couch eating Flaming Hot Cheetohs. Make her sweat and second guess herself—be a challenge. If she sends a dull or needy text, just ignore her altogether. Often times the best text is no text. She’ll eventually realize her lameness and message you again.

E.G.

…Her: I know, I love that place. What you up to this weekend?

[three minute wait] Me: Some friends in town. Not sure what the plan is yet. You?

Her: I dunno, my married friends want to go dancing Friday. Saturday I may have to baby-sit.

[I didn’t respond]

An hour later…

Her: I can probably get out of baby-sitting. Were you going out with your friends Saturday?

Me not responding communicated that I was moving on to more exciting things (other women). Instead of hanging with me, she decided to spend her time dancing and babysitting? Ignore her; she’ll be back.

Smiley Faces

Texting without smiley faces is like a movie with no music. Smileys are the staple of all fun and playfulness in every form of messaging—emails, texts, IM, Facebook chat, Words With Friends chat. Everything. They shouldn’t be used in every text, but they must be a part of your repertoire.

There are three kinds of smileys: smileys :), frownies :(, and smiley face winks ;) (Smileys don’t need noses (hyphens)—just eyes and a mouth.) Smileys are given for pleasantries and to portray excitement. The best use for them, however, is for goodbyes. When a girl says any form of farewell—“good night,” “have a great day!” “ttyl,” “see you soon”—my return text is a lone smiley face. That’s it. Saying “you too” is too boring and predictable. A simple smiley is all it takes to end the convo on a positive note.

Frownies are to be given when sarcastically communicating that you’re in a strange situation—heading to the dentist, tired from a long weekend, hungover, feeling sick, the person standing in front of you just farted, etc. Also post frownies to show sympathy for her when she whines about something.

Ex:

Her: I’m hungry and no one will feed me!!!

Me: :( I just ate Chipotle. You missed out :)

Smiley face winks on the other hand, are the most potent thing any texter can ever use. Winks single-handedly elucidate flirting; they distinguish voice tone, clarifying the line between serious and sarcasm; and they bolster sexuality with unsequestered grace. They can be used with any girl—new, dating, girlfriend, long lost fling, or fuck buddy (though the longer you’re with the girl, the less necessary they become). But they must be placed strategically. In the above exchanges, I never used a single smiley face wink because the conversations never took a route where it became necessary. One must not dish these out carelessly; they are only to be used in appropriate spots or they’ll become cheap and lose their power.

Some recent examples that are in my phone at the moment:

-Upon receiving the final text of a long convo in which the girl said she’d text me tomorrow. The wink here communicates sarcasm and flirting.

Me: You better ;) K have a good night..

-Upon receiving a text from one of my illiterate fuck buddies who incorrectly said “your.” Again sarcasm and flirting.

Me: You’re* ;)

-Upon hearing that she was cooking. The wink initiates playfulness.

Me: Oh yeah? What are you cooking? Green bean casserole? ;)

-Upon joking with her that I was flying out to see her, to which she replied “Really???” The wink in this case is purely sexual.

Me: If I can stay w you, maybe ;)

Without the wink, all these texts fall flat.

To hammer this point home, here is an old wink-infested convo I had with a girl I brought home after blacking out at bars (I literally woke up and found this petite blonde hottie with fakies—fully-clothed—laying in my bed. No recollection whatsoever. I immediately tried making a move, but she was self-conscious about her morning breath and pushed me off. I took her to breakfast to try and piece together the night…and figure out who the hell she was. Then I dropped her off at her car a few blocks down. Two hours later, she texted me.)

Her: oh man hot tub sounds soooo good right now ;)

Me: Lol do you have one?

Her: heck yes…might have to make my way there later

Me: I’m jumping in w you ;) how does your butt feel? (she had whined earlier about ass cramps or something)

Her: LOL it hurts still but I’ll live ;)

Me: Ima take a dump but let’s hang later..

Her: Good call! K ttyl ;)

(2-3 hours later. And just kidding about the dump thing. I actually said nap.)

Me: You overslept, I can tell ;)

Her: OMG I feel sooooo much better!

Me: Same here. Awesome beach day today. You should come..

A couple hours later, she was back in my bed, naked this time. Unfortunately her vagina smelled like freshly cut toenails (a first).

Had I not thrown in the winks, would she have had the same anticipation? Perhaps. But with our sexual energy still fuming from last night, every wink fired a surge of electricity through her womanhood. I certainly had a legitimate semi after that convo.

Quick Note: Anytime a girl says something daring—hot tub sounds good right now—or something that is meant as a joke (however lame it might be), you have to throw in a “Lol” at the beginning of your response. To be an effective texter, you have to be an active listener, and “Lol” has to be in there—to make them feel as if they’re funny and entertaining.

Notice my final text: Same here. Awesome beach day today. You should come…

As mundane as it sounds, had I botched this last text, the entire exchange could have crumbled. One lame text can ruin everything.

For example, imagine if I had texted something like, “I know me too! What are you up to right now? Do you wanna come over?”

She may still have hung out, but by sounding overly excited and putting her in the power seat, I’ve exposed that I’m unsure of myself and that I’m basing my day and schedule on her. Tell. Don’t ask. This shit adds up, and in the long run all these weenie texts become embedded in her memory like parking tickets and will ultimately affect her decision of whether to hook up. He’s kinda cool, but…I dunno.

Tread carefully as the conversation comes to an end. You’ve probably picked up some momentum during the course of the convo, and it’s easy to become cocky with your closing-texts, fucking up the ones that matter most. Compare the following “asking-out” texts:

Guy 1:

-“Would you want to get a drink sometime?”

-“Do you wanna kick it tmrw? How’s 8?”

-“Wanna hang out?”

-“I’m hungry. Wanna get some food?”

-“I need new pants. Can you help me shop?”

Guy 2:

-“I got a bunch of crap tonight, but free tmrw. Let’s get a drink..”

-“I’m free after 8. Let’s get together..”

-“I’m hungry. Come eat with me..”

-“I gotta do some shopping. You should come..”

-“We’re partying over here. You should come..”

Both these guys are communicating the same things, but Guy 1 is clearly in a place of weakness, while Guy 2 is in control of the situation and himself. For one, never say the word “need,” “help,” “want,” or “wanna” in any text. To a girl, these are trigger words for neediness and dependency. Chicks want to be told what to do; they want MEN to make the decisions. You decide when is good to hang out. You pick the place. You decide whether to get a table inside or outside. You decide EVERYTHING. Girls actually resent guys who put all the decision-making on them. Also, think what is implied by saying “You should come..” as opposed to “Do you want to cruise over?” Telling her she “should come” implies that you don’t care if she does or not because you are independent and can have fun without her. You are simply inviting her into your fascinating world—even if it’s just a facade. Women want men with a life. They don’t want to be put on a pedestal, and they don’t want to be depended on for fun.

Lastly, notice the “..” at the end of all Guy 2’s texts. This dot dot (always use two dots, not three) thing is a simple way of communicating that you are expecting a reply without using a needy question mark.

Bar Numbers

Phone numbers attained from a bar or club chick are about as promising as trying to win the $10,000 sweepstakes on a Starburst wrapper (It’s actually more like 1 in 6, but it feels a lot worse.). Don’t expect much from these, but they’re still worth a shot.

I always get the number within the first five minutes (and don’t ask for the number; get the number), and then continue talking to her so she sees that the phone number wasn’t my goal. I’ll pull out my phone, say, “Let me get your number,” and then I call her so she has mine (You’d be surprised how many fresh girls will call you at 2:15 in the morning that same night for a Plan-Z hook-up.)

You have one shot of turning this bar number into a future date or fuck. And it must be done within 24 hours of getting the number—so basically the next day. I know it sounds too soon and borderline needy, but I’ve tried every time frame, and this is the best. After that first day, you are no longer fresh in her mind and your chances drop exponentially—though there are always exceptions.

Your first text must never be a generic re-introduction: Hey it’s so-and-so from last night. How are you? Lame. If you had spoken with her for more than ten minutes, you should have at least one subtle inside joke by now. If not, think of a topic that made her laugh or smile and revive those feelings of positive energy. Some “first-text” examples of mine:

- Green apples are so good ;)

- I am so much better at crossfit than you ;)

- Are you sure you didn’t strike out at your softball game? ;)

- Vodka-sodas are so deceiving ;)

- Your friend’s dress had the hugest rip in it ;)

These were all inside jokes I gave life to in the ten-plus minutes we’d spoken/made out. Remember, you’re not trying to impress her on the first text. You’re simply opening the doors to something fun, playful, and mysterious. The majority of them won’t even text you back (get used it), but some do. If she doesn’t remember you and pulls a “Who is this?” then throw some hints her way: Psh I’ll give you a hint: I can kick your butt at golf ;) Be a challenge; turn it into a game if it appears she’s looking for one. Even though most girls hand out their real number for ego purposes, there are some girls who genuinely took an interest in you at the time. It’s your job to rejuvenate those feelings of attraction. Keep teasing her until eventually she starts asking you questions. Once that happens, you’ve semi-succeeded. It’s time for an “ask-out” text as mentioned before.

Note: When asking out these bar girls, always shoot for the soonest time possible—“tonight” or “tomorrow”—all the while maintaining that you’re busy “later in the week” (to show her you have a life). “Next weekend” is way too far away; the longer it goes, the creepier you get. She’ll flake.

Lastly, if your next-day texts with that bar/club chick—or any previous fling—were falling flat, add her on facebook. It can’t hurt—she has a chance to check out your stunning looks again, and it opens the door to the almighty yet less-intrusive facebook chat. Capitalize when the timing’s right.

Second Chances

We’ve all had those girls that slipped through our fingers, or the timing wasn’t right, or the date went awry, or we just outright blew it. Some can be saved, some can’t. But if you’re looking to revive things, texting (and facebook if you still haven’t added her yet) is your best hope. Remember, she’s been out of your life for a while now, so you have nothing to lose. Sometimes I’ll text them out of the blue with one of following movie quotes:

-How are we supposed to teach children to read when they can’t even fit into the building.

-I have all your equipment in my locker. You should probably come get it cuz I can’t fit my numchucks in there anymore.

-I can’t believe what a bunch of nerds we are. We’re looking up money laundering in a dictionary.

First off, if you don’t know what movies they’re from, there is no hope for you. Second, these can actually be used for almost any situation involving neglect. It doesn’t matter what type of relationship you had—new, old, whatever. Some won’t respond at all; some will say “Who is this?” in which case you play the hint game; and some will text “hahahahaha” and piggy back off the quote. Salvage what you can and give her a hard time for being “so crappy at cell phones.” She’ll usually make up some junk about being busy and begin to banter with you. Chances are she’s lonely as hell, discouraged with all the awkward guys she’s been meeting on eharmony. In her frustrating dating/sex life, your novelty is like a fresh spray of Cherry Blossom.

Here’s one exchange between a match.com girl I went on a date with; she then ignored my texts in the days that followed. Two weeks later, I gave it another whirl:

Me: Hey haven’t heard back from you in a while, so I’m assuming your phone has fallen out of a helicopter. Hit me back when you find it ;)

Three minutes later…

Her: Hahahahaa I know sorry. I’ve just been soooo busy! What are you doing?

Me: [I attached a super hot self-picture of me eating at a sushi table—a couple friends in the background—I had taken weeks earlier to send to a different girl] Eating sushi with some friends. So yummy. You jealous?

Her: I am! You should order a California roll :) How have you been?

Me: Doing good, of course :) I may be moving to Newport next month.. Stoked… You?

Her: I’m good. Newport??? I’m so jello. What are your plans this weekend?

Me: May head to San Diego for a friend’s bday. Not sure yet. What about you? Hitting up another art gallery?

Her: LOL! Nooo not this weekend. Well let me know if you go to SD. If not let’s hang out :)

I dated this girl for close to a month following this exchange, but she became whiny and clingy—among other things—so I ended it before a Vegas weekend. Also, the helicopter lifeline is one of my most dependable. Girls usually always respond. Use it at will.

As for the “super hot picture,” this is probably the most underrated move in the texting business. I don’t do it enough—mostly because I lost that sushi pic when I switched to the Driod and have been too lazy to take another. Basically take a self picture of yourself in a semi-social setting—sushi, bbq, group lunch/dinner—and make sure it’s your hottest pic ever (there must be food somewhere in the corner of the photo to hedge your bullshit). It took me three snaps to get the one I wanted, but once I had it, it became my most prevailing card in the deck. Throw it in when she asks what you’re doing as demonstrated in the convo above.

Fuck Buddies

In all my writing and experiences, I still cannot say I’ve come remotely close to understanding women. But I can say one thing about them: they’ll always embrace a good challenge. It is our job as men to be the source of this fearless entity, constantly maintaining our ground and mystique. So easily we forget.

An exchange with an old fuck buddy after bantering all week about hanging out:

Me: Hey we still on for tonight?

Her: Yep yep.. 7:30 right?

Me: Awesome. See you soon ;)

15 minutes later, after more banter…

Her: Make sure you clean your room! Don’t be lazy

Me: Lol don’t worry. I’ll surprise you..

Silence followed. Then thirty minutes later…

Her: You’re gonna kill me. I can’t make it tonight. Patrick (her son) is puking everywhere. I need to stay home with him. So sorry. Maybe tomorrow…

I didn’t see her again for over a month. We had screwed like sixty times, had texted each other over fifty times in the two days prior, yet suddenly I had turned her off on the 55th text, causing to her fabricate some shit about her son being sick.

So what happened? It’s simple—I fell into her trap:

Her: Make sure you clean your room! Don’t be lazy

Me: Lol don’t worry. I’ll surprise you.

Her “clean your room” thing was a test to see if I’d roll over for her. The funny thing is, she didn’t even know she was testing me; it’s simply in the female genetics to do this to men to make sure we have a backbone, and most importantly, aren’t just looking for sex. Me complying to clean my room communicated that I expected to end up there—with her. Had I turned it around and busted her balls, she would have come over.

What I should have said:

Me: Lol who says you’re gonna see my room? ;)

Fifty good texts keep the boat afloat. One bad one sinks it.

Not all fuck buddies are so fickle, just make sure you don’t fuck up like I did and break one of the two cardinal rules: expecting sex, and making them out to be a whore.

Observe the following exchange initiated by a different girl:

Her: Hey dork what you got going on tonight?

Me: Workout in a bit then not sure later. You?

Her: Just finished my workout. Get with it. You’re so slow pssh… doin nothing right now.

Me: Dumb. Can you drive yet? (she recently got a DUI)

Her: Technically no, but if I’m not driving around all night places I’m fine. I drive really slooow at night

Me: K come over 9ish

Her: K

We had actually texted each other earlier in the day but I had purposely never mentioned anything about “tonight.” One of my tactics is I’ll try and get them to ask me out. I’ll tease them sometime in the morning or afternoon, then right when things are getting hot and they sense I’m about to ask them out, I’ll simply stop texting them (works great for facebook chat as well—end the conversation on a high note, and don’t ask them out). Fishing for a date or fuck is what they’re expecting, so take the opposite route—welcome the silence, and wait it out. They usually come back.

Note: Since I had slept with this particular girl just a week earlier, throwing in a smiley face at any point during this convo would have been cheesy. When it’s obvious she wants sex, there’s no need to get cute. Just get to the point and tell them when to come over for “a hang out” or “a drink” or “din din.” The sex, however, must always go unspoken.

Also, I’ve received a few emails from guys asking for tips on how to turn a girl you’re dating–and don’t really like, but wouldn’t mind banging a couple times a month–into a fuck buddy. It’s simple really: Text them less and less, until finally you’re at the point where you’re only texting her once a week. She’ll get the point, and if she’s down with it, she’ll agree to see you again. The texts don’t even have to be about logistics. Just make sure to keep her on the Bunsen burner (Words With Friends is perfect for this). Every so often send them a teasing text, crack a couple jokes, put in your work, then go another seven days without texting her. When you feel like seeing her again, text her accordingly and set it up.

Miscellaneous

-The following are strictly for girls’ use: lmfao, hehe, tee he he, rotfl, omfg, j/k. The only acronyms acceptable for guys are lol, omg, and wtf.

-Never replace words with numbers: I’m going 2 the store 4 beer. No.

-If she hasn’t returned your text, never send a follow-up text—especially one asking if she got your last text. Yes, she did—now stop thinking about it so much. Either she isn’t digging you, or she’s legitimately busy. Move on; she’ll text you when she texts you.

-Don’t include her in any group texts. No one likes those people.

-Unless she’s in the bottom 25% of your phone chicks you give a shit about, don’t drunk text. Though it’s pointless to even tell you this, because I break this rule all the time, and it’s my own rule.

-As your texting relationship builds, come up with teasing nicknames for her. “Lame ass” is my favorite (girls hate being called lame).

-If she enters PMS/psycho mode and starts calling you a player/dick/asshole, do not text her back. Wait until she texts you something normal, then respond.

-When making plans to hang out, if she ever says “maybe,” “probably,” “I think,” “We’ll see,” or “I’ll try” anywhere in the sentence, it means she either doesn’t want to hang out, or plans on flaking. Time to ignore her; eventually she’ll become aroused by your new facebook pictures and hit you up.

Final Thoughts

Let me reiterate once more that writing almost always possesses more conviction that talk. And for those who suck at texting and are not attaining their desired results, I encourage you to stop being so close-minded, test out new approaches, and at least try to understand that texting is a huge resource that can work for ANYONE–deep voice, high voice, masculine, metrosexual, good-looking, average-looking, Urkel, Tommy Lee–as long as you know what you’re doing.

Every guy should play to their strengths. While I’m good at talking on the phone, I feel my chances are higher through text messaging. It’s all about increasing your probability with each girl, and making constant assessments. I’ve had multiple girls tell me that they’d “never date a guy who asked them out through texts,” then three weeks later they’re semi-serious. Don’t believe a word out of a bitching chick’s mouth. If your in-person game is at least average, I firmly believe texting can enhance your level of attraction and bring women into your life. The only problem with talking on the phone is that if you have average game, you still have average (or even less) game when talking on the phone. Via texting, however, you can actually go from average to superior and the chick will want to date and fuck you, and she won’t even know why. I’ve had women literally tell me: “I don’t even know why I like you.” And I owe a lot of it to texting.

One more time: Writing almost always possesses more conviction than talk.

Do you think I’d be able communicate this blog through talking? No way (and I’m a high school teacher, and I talk for a living).

But through writing, everything is smooth, and people often crave more.

As do chicks–if you text them correctly…

Related articles:

Dave’s Guide to Online Dating

Dave’s Approach to Pick-up

There’s a difference between vacationing and traveling. While I’m a fan of both, each one has its own distinct personality. Vacationing is a lounge-by-the-pool, cocktail-downing laze under the sun. While traveling is a sleep-deprived, up-at-dawn, drive-for-hours, site-seeing frenzy.

I’d gotten the vacationing out of my system in Croatia. It was time for some down-and-dirty traveling—five countries in fourteen days.

Helsinki, Finland (two nights)

I arrived in Helsinki Saturday night, stoked to be back in Scandinavia. Unfortunately, the central party area was an absolute cesspool. Bums and hoodlums were double-fisting forties everywhere; the streets were littered with rubbish; even a trashcan was on fire. The place reminded me of Hill Valley in the alternate universe when Biff took over.

The bar scene was infested with minors; the of-age chicks were pasty and fat; and there was a McDonald’s around every corner. And every one was packed with blathering drunks (I know because I went inside and waited 25 minutes in that septic muddle to get a lousy chicken sandwich.).

I was so fed up with all the kiddies and bumbling scumbags that I went to a local hotel, paid a couple Euros to use the internet, and researched “quality bars in Helsinki with an older crowd.” It took a few minutes, but I found a place a couple blocks away.

It was perfect: at least eight different lurk-zones, semi-cheap drinks, even a blackjack table—and a hundred or so girls aged 25-45. Only problem was that of those, three were attractive—actually more like “acceptable.” The other 97 Big Macs were 2s, 1s, and 0.5s. I went 0 for 3 and called it a night.

I did, however, get something out of the city. While eating lunch the next day at an outdoor shopping center, I ordered the tastiest dish I’d had in months. Three huge meatballs (with reindeer meat, the best kept secret in the meat packing industry) to go with succulent mashed potatoes, juicily steamed vegetables, and savory lingonberry sauce made the Ikea cafeteria look like jail food. Absolutely delicious.

I returned to the hotel and met a few people on the tour (another one), but being a Sunday, no one was going out, which was fine by me; Helsinki’s nightlife blew chunks, and we had a long day ahead.

St. Petersburg, Russia (three nights)

When I told my friends I was going to Russia, the first thing they told me was, “Dude, be careful. The Russian mafia doesn’t fuck around. Seriously, it’s fucking scary over there.” Or: “Don’t wind up in an alley one night with your kidney missing.” I didn’t get what all the hype was about. Sure Russians don’t smile much, but everyone seemed peaceful and friendly. The entire trip I only saw one probable mafia member, and he was passively eating a sandwich at a picnic table with a blonde bimbo. And speaking of which, apparently Russian women have an affinity for fat guys. Ninety percent of the attractive, non-single women I saw were with walruses. To all you obese men reading this: STICK TO YOUR DIET—continue to passionately eat Cinnabons and Zingers, and move to Russia; pussy will flock to you like those white floaty things in Avatar.

Our first stop was St. Petersburg. Though rainy all three days, the city was well maintained, and there was a museum or historic park or building around every corner. The night scene, however, was pathetic. It didn’t help that we were there for the worst nights of the week—Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. To make matters worse, the central part of the city (where all the nightlife is) was protected by the Neva River, which drew all its bridges from 12:30-5:00 a.m. to let ships pass in and out of the Baltic. And our tour had stupidly booked our hotel a quarter mile outside of the island. So if I wasn’t in a cab by 12:15, I was stranded until five.

I stayed in the first night because we had a nine-hour sight-seeing session the following day beginning at 8:00 a.m.—Lenin, Peter the Great, Catherine the Great, etc. Usually I’d rage it up until three, get four hours of sleep, and then rally the next day for the tourist stuff. But with the obnoxious bridge factor, that wasn’t an option.

I went out the following night with Jack (a Kiwi), and an Aussie named Annette wearing a white Ed Hardy get-up (apparently things in Australia become fashionable two years after they’ve washed up in the states). When she met us in the lobby I hardly recognized her. She cleaned up so well that she went from a 4 to an 8. Annette had a solid rack—which she continuously talked about—but she was 23 and thought the world of herself, whining and cussing up a storm if someone got in her way. Whatever, if she was down to go out, she was probably cooler than the other twenty-five girls on our tour, only three of whom were attractive—two sisters with boyfriends back home and a black girl who looked strangely similar to Jada from my disastrous “Lost Night.”

The three of us had a do-or-die decision to make on whether to stay or beat the bridges and give up on the night. Things became clearer when we discovered only two bars had actual people inside (we asked everyone for advice, and this was it). Each spot had a few dozen locals circulating in and out, and both were blasting mid-nineties hits—Nirvana, Madonna, Offspring, Green Day, even a Weird Al song.

I got my first glimpse of Russian dancing. I didn’t know people could move in such ways to portray their fun. The men looked like a bunch of Vlade Divacs trying to run under water. The women nervously jumped and performed feeble half fist pumps. I spent twenty minutes sitting by myself, watching the freak show.

Once I drank enough to promote mediocre chicks into sexy, I made my move. It was awful. They were digging the whole American thing, but I found myself doing sign language in order to communicate even the most basic information. One exchange:

Me: “Who are you?”

Her: “Vut?”

Me: “You. [pointing at her] Who are you?”

Her: [nervously] “I am here at the bar.”

Me: “Nevermind. What’s up with those rocks on your necklace?” [Using my index finger and thumb, I mimicked a crab’s snapping claw to communicate “rocks”]

Her: “The bathroom?”

I eventually became impatient and fled. Fuck. If this was how it was going to be in all of Russia, I was going to masturbatingly run my laptop’s batteries to the ground—similar to my two-week trip to Spain in the summer of ’06 (the Spanish refuse to acknowledge English-speakers) when I hooked up with one local in fourteen days.

After getting salted on by Jack a couple times, then doing a quick motorboat in Annette’s tits, we were out of there just in time to make it across the bridge.

Jack and another guy on the tour went out the following night, but they were going back to the same two bars. Exhausted from ten hours of walking, seeing museums, and sitting through a folk show, I threw in the towel and returned to the hotel where I hung out with Jada, the hot black girl, and her mute roommate down in the lobby before crashing. Sleep comes at a premium when traveling. If the nightlife sucks, you get out while you can, sleep, and go hard another night at a higher energy level. Economics.

Novgorod, Russia (one measly night)

The night was freezing and only one bar was open.

Nobody was inside.

Moscow, Russia (three nights)

I don’t know what it is with these trips, but every time I go alone, I get stuck with the hugest geeks. My new roommate looked like a real-life Waldo. Sure he was nice…and sweet, but he cussed worse than a tourette’s patient, and he ended every sentence with “man.” “You gonna go out tonight, man?” “The shower’s fucking cold, man.” “What do you think about my fucking pants, man?” “Is that fucking salsa any good, man?” At least he wasn’t clingy, and above all, didn’t snore.

Of all the cities I visited in my three-and-a-half week extravaganza, Moscow was by far the most exquisite. From its history with Stalin, the statues, St. Basil’s Cathedral, the busy night scene, and the Hollywood landmarks I’d seen in movies, Moscow is a must-go. (Note: For those who played video games during the Golden Eye 007 era, I walked through the real life “Statue Park” level. Funny how seeing a Nazi tank at one of the museums didn’t come close to the awe that came with walking through the place I once shot fake assault rifles at virtual bad guys.)

I hit the town that Friday with one of the Aussie guys on the tour named Phil.  Of the 50 people on the tour, only Phil and I went out on a Friday night in Moscow. I can understand the need to save energy, or how other people don’t care as much about hooking up with foreigners like I do.

But going out isn’t always about that.

Someone recently asked me if the only reason I did these trips was for the women. Yes, girls are a big part of why I travel, but it certainly isn’t the sole purpose. While sites are cool, I’m more interested in the little things: the smells, the sounds, the mannerisms, the guessing game of deciphering what two girls are gossiping about in their native tongue, the way the supermarkets are set up, the unusual shoes the women wear, the style and speed at which people walk, the way a toddler and his mother show affection while eating lunch at a cafe, the way a college couple on a subway pet each other and wordlessly stare into each other’s eyes for five consecutive minutes, a man’s turbulent reaction after being bumped while eating a Curry Schnitzel.

Details are what make life interesting.

Traveling is less about the sites, and more about seeing and experiencing the unique ways people live, interact, and react. And, it’s also about seeing how they party. Which is why no Friday night should be wasted in foreign land.

Phil and I met two Russian sisters at a grunge bar in the heart of Moscow.  Digging our foreign roots, it wasn’t long before we were making out with them all over the place. I took the hotter one. They were 25 and 26, lived with their mom, and were too naive to realize their own horniness, which caused them to be overly protective of each other, leading to their refusal to come back to our hotel.

Russians, I’ve noticed, are very intense lovers. The wordless, staring couple on the train is the norm. While sucking face with the sister, she would kiss me passionately and then stare into my eyes for thirty seconds. Acting as a wannabe Russian, I stared back. But then I became impatient, and scared, and looked at something else.

On a side note, I was baffled how any girl in her right mind would hook up with Phil.

The guy stank.

He wore the same shirt he’d been wearing all day (he didn’t believe in pre-going-out showers), and used this spray deodorant that he continuously applied to his chest and back—never his pits. There was a perpetual scent of BO anytime he was within a six-foot radius. Every day, a group of us had to remind him, “Phil, change your shirt.” Other than the stench, however, Phil was a hell of a wingman, always down to party.

The next two nights were major busts. The bars were empty Sunday, and on Saturday our tour went to a 60-dollar club only to discover that all the guys there were middle-aged rich guys, and all the women were gold-digging, unsmiley cunts. I did manage to make out with a forty-year-old blonde local, but when we left the club and stood under a streetlamp, I noticed her teeth were rotting out of her mouth! The two front teeth looked like little pieces of wood, two of her bottom ones were missing, and her molars looked like yellow raisins. I ditched her and popped in a fresh stick of gum.

Europe should seriously incorporate Dental Hygiene courses into K-12 education. A 10-year plan should remedy the problem—or at least teach them a toothbrush is their friend.

Minsk, Belarus (one night)

This place was the hugest rip-off ever, and you can tell them I said that. Sure it’s a poor country, but those fuckers made me pay $270 for a ONE-DAY Visa, fucking me in the ass with Lex Steele’s cock in the process. This is all I shall write about Belarus.

Warsaw, Poland (two nights)

The Polish don’t fuck around when it comes to food—mainly fatty meat patties and Schnitzels with all kinds of cream sauce and mayonnaise slopped on top willy nilly. They’ve likely never heard of carbs or cholesterol, and I doubt they’re aware that sugar turns into fat. So I was amazed when I went out that Tuesday night to find not a single overweight Polish girl. Few, however, spoke English and they were visibly irritated with my inability to cater to their language. They gave me looks of disgust, and one girl became so annoyed that she called Sebastian Janikowski over to shove me eight feet across the room. Jack, Phil, and I all went 0-fer and left, eating a shit-sized schnitzel on our way home.

The following night was essentially the grand finale of the tour. The last night of these things is always the biggest. Everyone, even the behemoths, find a way to hook up.

Wednesday was VIP night at all the good spots, so we couldn’t get in anywhere worthwhile. We settled on a bougie lounge with expensive drinks and pictures of Hollywood actors everywhere. As a dozen of us sat on the couches sipping our drinks, I sensed Jada stealing looks at me. I hadn’t pursued her because I didn’t want to deal with the risk of clinginess—but things had come down to the wire tonight. Over the past few days, we’d sat next to each other on the bus for a couple long stretches and learned about each other’s life back home. At twenty-nine-years old, she was a teacher from England, but had only moved there recently, so she didn’t carry much of an accent. While I was interested in her, I had to keep my options open.

Suddenly greedy, Jack and I ditched everyone because we heard there was a casino three blocks away. We gambled for an hour, consumed free drinks, irritated the hot dealers, and won over three hundred Zloti each. They did make us write down our driver’s license and contact info before playing, so our winnings are still pending identity theft and a future beat-down from Sebastian Janikowski.

When we arrived back at the lounge, fresh couples from the tour who I thought hadn’t even met each other yet were making out in corners. The joint was now bustling with unsullied locals, so I hit on them, striking out gloriously. Closing in on two a.m., I was tired as hell, so I said my goodbyes to everyone and grabbed a cab with Phil, who took shotgun.

Night over.

I looked out the cab window. Actually. Standing on the curb with the remnants from the tour was Jada. At 5’10—6’1 in her heels—she towered over everyone like a swan. I opened the cab door. “Jada!” Her head jolted towards me. “Let’s go,” I commanded, motioning her in with my head.

She almost ran to the cab and laughingly flung herself in, obviously tipsy. I pulled her in close and positioned my hand along her inner thigh. Phil looked back at us, and, realizing the developing situation, spoke. “Alright, here’s the deal. It’s the last night. You guys are gonna go back to the hotel, have a good shag—nice and dirty—and maybe have another drink, and then shag again.”

I had to hand it to him. He may have stunk worse than my asshole after a 15-wiper, but he was hands-down the coolest guy I’d met all trip.

Jada and I laughed. “Nooo!” she squealed, unconvincingly.

“She’s not that kind of girl,” I chimed in, only to make it seem like I didn’t expect anything.

“Yeah,” said Jada. “Phil, what about you? Are you going to party in the rooms with us?”

“Me? No, I’ve got a long day ahead, and I need my sleep. But you two go ahead. This is the last time you’ll ever see each other, so Jada, I expect you to party hard tonight, and take care of my mate…and have a good shag.”

We laughed again.

We went from room party to room party, delaying the inevitable. These final nights really are quite sad. The last two weeks of our lives were intertwined in the most exuberant of circumstances, and despite all the promises to visit, you know this is the only time you’ll ever share. We sipped our drinks to celebrate time spent and the blossoming memories that only belong to travelers.

After an hour of pre-partying, Jada and I found our way back to my room. Somehow, Waldo was still out partying. I flopped on my bed, and Jada followed. When she propped herself up on her elbow, I laughed. “Come here.” I pulled her on top of me and started making out.

Having never been with a black girl (condom blowjobs in Vegas don’t count), I didn’t know what to expect. Jada’s ass wasn’t in Serena Williams’ class, but she definitely had some junk. So after maybe thirty seconds of boring missionary, I flipped her over. Even skinny girls look like their ass is big in doggie position, so Jada’s looked absolutely ghetto fabulous—jiggling, undulating, and sloshing everywhere in chocolate magnificence. I squeezed it and slapped it silly as I pounded her doggie with my non-black dick.

Suddenly, I heard a keycard at the door. Waldo! Luckily the door had a deadbolt I’d locked that prevented him from barging in. I scurried to the door to bargain for some extra time.

Waldo looked exhausted. “Hey, can you give me like twenty minutes?” I panted.

“Twenty minutes, man?”

“Okay, ten. I’ll be quick”

“Alright, man. Hurry up, man.”

“Thanks.”

I shut the door.

Back to sex.

The interruption didn’t phase Jada. She was horny as hell, a clear sign that it’d been months since her last slam. A few minutes later things were becoming stagnant. She was riding me, but my dick was slowly losing its steam. For a couple minutes, I just lay there like a piece of plywood, watching as Jada rode my marshmallowy wiener. I’d lost my motivation to work, but in a sudden rush of urgency, I decided to give it one last go. I pumped her like a jackhammer, fast and hard, rejuvenating some rigidity. Moments later, I felt a wet sensation at the base of my dick. I looked down and saw a pool around my crotch too substantial to be sweat. She had squirted! In one of the biggest comebacks in black-girl-fucking-an-average-penis history, I now had some serious confidence—like Forrest when his leg braces fell off. I put everything I had into my thrusts, and the squirts came every twenty seconds! And she was screaming. I knew from our conversations on the bus that she’d dated several black guys. Apparently my dick was right up there with them—getting the job done, ready for the Big Time.

After over fifteen squirts—which were streamlined like pee, rather than the huge sprays I’d seen in pornos—I realized I was too drunk to bust. “Well, you can use my mouth,” she told me, which sounded like a great idea. It took a while (a long while), but I was finally able to bust my lone squirt down her throat.

I walked her back to her room, told her I’d see her at breakfast, and sauntered my sweaty, squirted-on self back to my dorm. Figures—I go to Europe, the land of white people, to have sex with my first black girl.

I ran into Waldo in the elevator.

“So who was it?” he asked.

“Jada.”

“Yep. I saw that coming from a mile away.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, man,” he said, surprised, as if explaining the obvious.

Waldo’s the fuckin’ man.

Berlin, Germany (three nights)

I arrived in Berlin late on a Thursday after a grueling seven-hour drive and toured the city all day Friday and Saturday. I only went out one night—with some folks from the hostel—and struck out.

Berlin had the most chaotic night scene I’d ever seen. The sidewalks on a regular Saturday night were packed like Vegas on New Years. I’d be willing to bet that over 40% of the population was out partying, and everyone had a beer in their hand. Policemen lingered in the streets while hooligans chucked bottles at them—and the cops did nothing about it. Broken glass, blood, vomit, and unfinished schnitzels lined the gutters. College girls were curled up in balls against the walls crying into their cell phones. The subway stairs were used as urinals. Every 7-11 had at least an eight-person booze line. The bars buzzed with screams and freakish laughter. Music from a nearby club was constantly pulsing with malevolence. Girls with buzz-cuts were picking fights with people who looked at them funny. The drunkest guy in the history of drunk guys got arrested for God knows what. Even an 80-year-old couple was making out against a street fence…at midnight. Berlin’s nightlife gets what it wants.

I flew home early Sunday morning, eager to return to something more…tangible. The entire trip had cost me over eight grand. Life can take my money, but it won’t take my summers.

The defining moment of my trip—I remember it vividly—was waking up at the butt-crack of dawn just as our boat left Hvar. The first one up, I had the whole deck to myself. A gentle breeze on my back, I walked to the rail and thought about what was to come: For three and a half weeks, I’d sleep maybe five hours a night—7:30 wake-up calls every morning; I’d get stuck rooming with another freak; I’d spend five hours waiting around in airports, 20 hours on airplanes, and another 50 on buses; I’d hook up with wildabeasts who had corn for teeth; diarrhea was a certainty; I’d get stabbed by fucking sea urchins; I’d drain my bank account; and my health would go to shit. And as I leaned over the rail, I looked across the sea at a passing island, and I smiled…knowing all those things might lay ahead.

I arrived in the coastal city of Split on a Friday evening. I had actually slept on the plane, so after a quick shower I headed into town. I’d been to bars alone in the past—once in Hawaii, the other in Mammoth—but it just wasn’t the same without friends. I found myself pounding my drinks to drown the fact that I was creepily…a loner; and I used my phone as a wingman to portray my fake importance and mystique. I struck out both nights, all in sub-two-sentence exchanges.

It was the same story for my first night in Croatia. Supposedly Split was known as a big party town, but I was rather disappointed with the quality. The place was crawling with 19-year-old kids running around like sterile ostriches in heat, and the clubs (there were no quality bars) were jam-packed with high maintenance locals who were irritated with tourists like me. After striking out with fifteen of them—all of whom were taller than 5’10 and who spoke minimal English—I hit the sack.

I had never met or really seen many Croatian people until arriving in the country. In fact, the only person I knew of who was 100% Croatian was the ex-NBA player Toni Kukoc. So coming to Croatia, I expected all the girls to look like him. I was way off. One in every three Croatian girls weren’t just attractive; they belonged in a Vogue magazine. With their towering height and Slavic faces to go with unblemished skin, they made Swedish women look like Louisiana hicks. And none of them were even slightly overweight, which might have been because McDonald’s—or any American fast food chain—hadn’t yet expanded to the country yet. And if they’re smart, they’ll keep our fatty Western food out.

The next morning I met with my boat tour in the hotel lobby, and we made our way to the docks. Our fifteen-room cruiser could sleep about thirty people plus the crew. It was about two and a half bus-lengths long with some of the rooms on the bottom floor, a dining area on the main deck, and a lounge/lay-out area on the captain’s level. Most of the other travelers were Australian, with a couple Canadians and Americans in the mix. None of the girls were even remotely attractive—except for a 23-year-old Australian “beautician” who was an 8 but considered herself a 10, and she wastefully had a boyfriend back home. Not to mention she was one of those chicks who never actually laughed for real, but rather cocked her head back, closed her eyes, and forged a face that looked more painful than amused.

My roommate Brian was a nerdy college kid from Australia who looked like Jonah Hill. He wasn’t exactly fat, but he was certainly a fan of the occasional donut. He kept to himself most of the time but contributed to conversations here and there, particularly at the group meals. The only obnoxious thing about him was sometimes during our downtime in the room, he’d throw on his headphones and put his iPod on max volume, blasting some sort of Chinese hip hop (he was white). I eventually got used to it and was able to nap in peace.

Our first stop was on the slender island of Hvar, supposedly famous for its nightlife. We went to a rooftop bar to pre-party, and then took a ferry to an island club that had maybe ten attractive girls, five of whom were 19 and sucking some gump’s face. The quality of acceptable women was so poor (and it was a Saturday night) that I maybe went 0 for 8—all stupid college chicks. Eight girls.

Apparently no women over the age of twenty-five like to travel and party simultaneously anymore. You’d think that Eat Pray Love craze would at least inspire some recent divorcees to hit up exotic islands and hook up with guys like me. But no, they’d rather stay home, save money for when they’re 65, and watch Friends reruns.

But after careful thought, I think I’ve figured out why I never have any luck with the younger girls: because what comes out my mouth—and how I say it—has no effect on their attraction for me like it does with older women (believe me, I’ve tried making adjustments); so unless I’m her perfect type, I’m doomed before I’ve even asked about her bracelets. Maybe I’m being cynical, but I’ve found that a twenty-year-old will go for the tall, dopey dude with “sexy blue eyes” over a poised, intelligent guy like me who actually knows what he’s doing. The dope won’t have the slightest idea how to talk to her, and she’s too stupid to realize this, yet they’ll still make out all over the place and have sex if she’s drunk enough. I can’t compete with that, and I don’t want to. I’ll go for the older women where the products of our minds—aka human interaction—actually have value.

The next day, a Sunday, we docked at the island of Korcula, home of Marco Polo. I was still recovering from jet lag, so I accidentally napped through the final hours of sunlight. I did, however, wake up just in time to party—at midnight. I found our group raging at an empty outdoor joint in the vicinity of all the other bars. At this point, all the guys I’d partied with the previous day and night had decided to hang around the Australian beautician like flies on shit, tricked into thinking her hotness made her cool. I instead made friends with some of the Canadian-Indian guys from the boat who knew better.

When it became evident that the outdoor place was destined for nowhere, I wandered over to where all the noise was: two back-to-back bars with college kids partying out front. Inside, drunk twenty-year-olds saturated the dance floors, and a handful of fifty-year-old men clustered sporadically around the edges like human plaque (If I ever turn out like one of these guys, shoot me). Only two girls looked over the age of 25, and only one of them was hot, a 5’11 athletic-looking brunette in a white sundress.

I approached her as her friend was ordering drinks to her right. “So is this place your hotspot?”

“What? No. Why?” She had an accent.

“This place sucks. Are there any other bars on this island?”

“Not really. Where are you from?”

After answering that question, it was all over. She eventually ditched her friend—who was talking with one of the 50-year-olds—and we migrated to a table a couple buildings down to get away from the riff raff.

Her name was Brigita, a 30-year old Slovenian schoolteacher on vacation, who was also a fan of Eat Pray Love (Finally!). One thing worth pointing out is that besides the obvious features in women—face, legs, ass, stomach, tits, etc—I’m a fan of the little things as well. Some friends of mine have a fixation for well-defined shoulders, “nice necks,” big teeth, or lower back dimples, among others. As for me, I’ll always notice a woman’s hands. I like a girl with smooth, well-defined fingers and properly manicured fingernails, fake or polished—either is sexy. A girl with dry, scaly, masculine hands with chewed-up nails reminds me of dandruff and dirty silverware; and I don’t want those things anywhere near my cock (though I’m sleazy enough to make an exception on occasion if it’s just for one night).

Brigita’s hands were perfect (She was attractive, too.). She was so well groomed that I even noticed her feet were flawless—perfect shape, clean, clear, smooth, sexy white polish, no bunions. In my last blog, I recommended guys to never compliment girls. In this case, however, exceptions can be made. If I’ve been talking to a girl for long enough—20-25 minutes—I’ll usually comment on her hands (if they’re nice, otherwise I’ll just tell her I’m glad she isn’t one of those chicks who shaves her arms—which works by the way) She probably hasn’t heard it too often, it isn’t suggestive, and it separates me from all the other complimenters. Did this guy just say he likes my hands? What a fucking weirdo! But…I think I’ll continue talking to him.

Her place was a no-go because her mediocre friend had somehow blown it with her man and gone back to their room to sleep. So I took Brigita by the hand and led her towards my boat. When we arrived, I stupidly jumped the gun and asked if she wanted to see my room, almost scaring her off. Being clutch, I then suggested we go for a stroll by the water, which regenerated her juices.

We walked along the rocky shores, making out in various spots. In one particular reef, the cliffs were high enough to feel secluded from any passers-by, so Brigita suggested we go skinny-dipping, which sounded like a fantastic idea. Unfortunately, skinny-dipping is like ordering the hugest possible dessert from Claim Jumper. It looks awesome on the menu and tastes OK, but after you’re finished you feel crappier than Kobayashi after a hot dog contest.

Making out and feeling her tits pressed against my body was fun, but there was something unpleasant about our footing. We couldn’t find a comfortable place to just…stand; there seemed to be some kind of spiky shit all over the ground. After a brief two-minute dip, we trudged back to land, stupider.

We got dressed, put on our shoes (I had to remove a strange spike from my foot), and lumbered along another crag. We were up on another small cliff when Brigita suggested we take an approaching staircase back down to the rocks. I knew what she was doing: she wanted to get railed on the beach. It was obvious. As soon as we reached the bottom of the stairs, I leaned her against a semi-flat area of rock (there was no sand), and made my typical moves: Make-out, neck-kissing, more make-out, pull down her sun dress, suck on left tit, more neck-kissing (lick this time), tits, make-out, other tit, rub clit over panties, tits, make-out, neck, make-out, push fingers past panties, two-fingers in, tits, finger, faster, finger, finger, finger, finger, franticly unbuckle pants, take wallet out and remove condom (make sure she sees), put condom on, begin plowing.

That all happened, except for the plowing part. The rocks were bumpy as hell and scraping her back and my knees, so after putting on the condom and barely slipping it in, we both came to the conclusion that it couldn’t go down like this. “Come on,” I told her, getting up. “We can’t do this here. Let’s go back to the boat.” I took the condom off, tossed it in a rock hole on top of two small crabs named Lefty and Boomer, and we left.

When we arrived at my room, Brian was fast asleep. Great. The rooms were tiny, and Brigita refused to go inside with him in the room, so I told her to wait outside for a sec. I scurried over to Brian’s bed. “BRAIN! Uh, I mean, Brian!”

Brian jerked hastily towards me, eyes wide, as if he’d just woken from an alien-encounter nightmare. “Herf?” he murmured.

“Dude, I need the room for like ten minutes. The hottest Slovenian girl ever wants to fuck. Sorry, man. Drinks on me tomorrow.”

Brian sat up, realizing he was back on Earth; then he squinted at the wall, made a farty face, and let out a rumbled sigh.

Realizing he was going to leave, I thanked him like five times, and reminded him that drinks were on me.

Brian left the room with his blanket draped over him like Frodo and walked past Brigita, who gave him a sincere thank you. Fuck yeah—I love girls who are honest about their intentions and show appreciation to people who understand they just want to get slammed real quick.

We got down to business immediately. She had a substantial bush, but I didn’t care. This was Europe, and the sex here should be rough, dirty, and even a little hairy. The only problem was that my bed was so damn small, and the side wall was at a 75-degree angle, so it was tough fucking her doggie because my shoulder kept jamming. After screwing for 10-15 minutes (I did try and hurry things up for Brian, but a couple times I greedily staved off ejaculating), I made the switch to her ass. She didn’t make a sound as I tried to slowly stuff my manhood inside her hershey highway. Once it was in, it never left, and I eventually busted in the condom despite having to deal with the wall factor.

I later learned this was Brigita’s first time in the butt, which would explain why when I took the condom off, it looked like a deformed neopolitan ice cream scoop. I quickly flushed it down the toilet and tried to pretend I didn’t see anything (Note: The next day Brian told me the room smelled so bad that he almost just stayed outside, ultimately deciding to use his Cool Water cologne as Lysol. “I don’t know what you guys did in here, but I feel sorry for her,” he said.)

We emerged from the room in a sweaty mess and chilled on a bench up on the captain’s deck. Suddenly a door nearby whooshed open and a figure stomped around the corner and began barking. “Hey! What is the name of this boat!?” exclaimed the captain, a Colonel Mustard-looking dude wearing nothing but saggy Fruit of the Looms.

“Uh, Catarina.”

He paused and assessed us. “Okay, YOU can stay, but she is not from this boat! Get her off my boat!”

Brigita was already up and walking before I could even respond.

I was wide awake and somehow still horny despite the ice cream condom, so Brigita and I walked back towards the cliffs where she blew me on the rocks. Then I pounded her again on an acceptable rock bench, took down her email address, and called it a night. When I returned to the boat, the sun was rising across the bay, and the crew was already untying the ropes. We left fifteen minutes later.

When I woke the next day, I could barely walk. It felt like I was constantly stepping on glass. After careful examination, I discovered nearly twenty irremovable splinters in both feet. I showed one of the guys on the tour who owned an expensive snorkel set; he had to know what had happened to me. I told him my skinny-dipping story, and he immediately knew the problem. “Sea Urchins, mate. Yeah, it’ll hurt for a few days—just gonna have to wait it out; your body will eventually reject the splinters in time.” (Update: It has now been over seven weeks since the urchin attack, and I still have a few remaining black spots in my feet.)

That day we hit up the island of Dubrovnik for a two-night stay. Dubrovnik, with its castle walls and Gothic architecture, was also known for its partying, but it was the same shit as Split—kids everywhere.

At the tail end of the night—as I limped back to the boat, already fifteen 0-fers deep—I encountered an attractive, past-college local with emerald green eyes. In her tight white pants, she appeared to be mesmerized by two movie posters on a wall. One was the new Harry Potter flick and the other involved Tom Cruise. She was just…staring.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She glanced at me a moment, then continued to gape. “I like looking at these.”

“For that long?”

“Yes, I like it.”

Drunk and impatient, I jumped right in. “I see…well hey, I like your pants, so come sit with me as I watch all these drunk tourists stumble around.” I sat down on a bench a few feet away and sophisticatedly brought my right leg up and crossed it on top of my left.

She looked back at me, smiled, then back at the painting. But her focus was rattled. A few moments later, she moseyed over to my bench and sat down.

Her name was Marina, a 28-year-old local on her way home from drinks with friends. She seemed sweet, genuine, and sexy, so I stayed and talked with her. Not to mention she had glistening black hair and unprecedented green eyes, which was able to compensate for that one tooth on bottom that looked like a popcorn kernel. We talked for at least an hour before I gave her a kiss goodbye and made plans to meet tomorrow at “the statue” at five. I was stoked—now I didn’t have to do any tours; I had a sexy local who could show me around at my own splintery pace.

Before passing out on the boat, I masturbated to my mental sex files while Brian had his Jurassic Park nightmares just two feet away on the other side of the wall. My load plopped into the toilet with a thunderous thoip noise, but I doubt Brian heard.

After kayaking with the guys to a neighboring island and going for a swim, I met up with Marina, whose hair had amassed all sorts of split ends over the course of the last thirteen hours. The lazy-ass couldn’t even brush it? Even so, I had been looking forward to seeing her for a romantic night out in the Mediterranean sunset.

It didn’t start well. She was sober now and suddenly smoked like a chimney (Chain smokers should be sent to Tasmania or something. You guys fucking stink and are abusing everyone’s oxygen. Get out of here.). Then I learned a few interesting facts about her:

-Her last boyfriend had OD’d on heroin a year ago.

-She still wasn’t over him.

-She used to be a heroin addict herself.

-The ex before that had murdered her dog, which caused her to show up at his house with an ax in her hand, ready to kill. (He smartly didn’t open the door.)

-Her only passion in life was going for a weekly swim in the ocean.

It’s all good, I thought. That’s all in the past. She’s cool now. Nope. In our two hours of hanging out, she showed me one cool place—a scenic bar on a cliff. And in those two hours, she rambled on and on about herself, saying nothing remotely interesting or sane except for the hardships she faced during the Croatian War and the Siege of Dubrovnik in the early 90s. Other than that, it felt like I was watching a live recording of Intervention: the boring-ass Behind the Scenes edition. After two beers, I told her our crew was having dinner on the boat at 7:30 and then we were all going out together. She gave me her number and told me to “please, PLEASE” call her later. I lied to her and left.

The next morning I awoke fresh from yet another 0-for-20 college night (though I did fulfill my drink promise to Brian, who was tossed after two long islands), and I walked outside to find our boat anchored in a secluded cove. One of the best parts about the week, in addition to simply laying out on the deck, was the swim stops. Every day we’d anchor at a picturesque cove or bay, toss our floaties in the shimmering Adriatic, jump off the twenty-foot roof, snorkel, and paddle around in 75-degree water, all the while shooting the shit with each other, discussing sex and new travel destinations. And the weather was perfect, which I couldn’t quite say for the Greek Islands due to the violent wind factor. The Croatian Islands in July are unbeatable.

Our next stop was at the quaint harbor town of Trstenik. The village was a quarter mile horseshoe around its cozy harbor, and that was it. The population was maybe a few hundred. After feeding my internet addiction, I ate waterfront pizza with a couple girls from the boat, then napped until midnight. When my alarm went off, I was so tired I almost stayed in and slept. No! There would be no wasted nights in Croatia. I took a lukewarm shower to give my aching body a bitch slap, got ready and walked to an adjacent harbor, home of the lone bar in town.

It was more of a cove, and the outdoor bar, all 200 square feet of it, took up what little flat area there was. With the exception of six dancing high school girls who likely had Geometry homework due the next day, our boat crew accounted for the entire tavern. And apparently everyone had decided to dress like pirates—a handful of the guys moronically let the beautician put black eyeliner all over their faces. I knew about the pirate thing, so I wore my douchiest shirt—a grayish knock-off Affliction shirt (on sale at Nordstrom for twenty bucks) with a huge cross stitched on it, as well as some other loud junk.

Factoring in the village population, in addition to it being the middle of the week, I knew it’d be just us at the bar, so I planned on having a couple drinks with my boat mates, then hitting the sack. Halfway through my third and last drink, a sexy local with a stunning body and punky blonde hair appeared out of nowhere and stormed onto the dance floor. Okay fine, I’ll hit on her, then I’m off to bed. Unfortunately she had come with a group of six, half of them ugly chicks, the other half were bald dudes.

I waited until she was by herself. Then, finally, I found her sipping on a black drink in the darkness off to the side. I slithered up to her. “Who are you?”

“Who am I? Who are you?” Accent.

“Nope. I asked you first.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well for one, what is that thing you’re drinking?”

“Orahovica. Here, try.”

The dark fluid tasted like stale Jager. I made a face.

“This is what Croatians drink. You don’t like?”

“It’s different,” I said, trying to wrinkle my face back to normal.

She passionately explained how the drink was considered gourmet brandy in Croatia, and how great it was blah blah blah. Then the conversation resumed.

“So what else would you like to know?”

“What’s your story? Who are you, and why are you at this bar on a Wednesday night?”

Her accent was a pain in the ass, and I didn’t feel like putting in the listening work, so I ignored everything she said and instead brainstormed possible detours around the six-friend cockblock factor. I nodded my head and kept my eye contact, asking her instinctual questions at opportune breaks in the conversation. I eventually discovered her name was Tatjana, 27, and she’d moved here a few years ago from Sarajevo. When she learned I lived in California, predictably, the questions started gushing out of her.

One of my moves with foreign girls like Tatjana—and even American girls—is I’ll invite them to do a fun activity with me. I’ll say things like “If you ever visit California, call me up. I’ll take you surfing.” We never actually go surfing, or see each other ever again, but saying shit like this spawns excitement and stirs their vagina juices like minced grapefruit.

Tatjana was hooked. After a couple more drinks mixed in with some pee breaks, we found ourselves standing on a ten-foot bluff overlooking the bar. Off to our left was an uphill trail that appeared to carve around the western bank of the cove.

Tatjana motioned to the trail. “Every time I come here, someone gets lost in the woods, but we can’t do that,” she weakly asserted.

“Nope. Definitely not.” I smiled at her, giving her a playful nudge.

“We are not going to kiss tonight, so I hope you weren’t expecting things to happen.”

Perfect. “Of course not. I’m just enjoying drinking with you.”

Two minutes later, when I sensed her body leaning into mine, I pulled her in by the side of her belt and gently kissed her. She kissed me back, then stopped. “Hold on, my friends are right there.”

I looked down and noticed a couple of her bald friends glancing back at us. “I’ll be right back,” she told me.

She appeared to be arguing with one of them as I sipped on my drink from above. A couple minutes later, she abruptly got up and stormed back to me, reached for my hand, let go, and then said impatiently, “Come on.”

I followed her up the trail for at least a couple hundred feet until she stopped and faced me. “My friends say I am only talking to you to feed my ego.”

I laughed. “Well who cares what they say.” I pulled her in for a make-out. She kissed me back violently, then took me by the hand and led me up another twenty feet into an opening on the right. I let go of her hand and followed her down the steep path towards the water, branches whip-lashing my face.

The jagged trail led to a small private beach, and this one actually had sand. How many guys had she banged here? The music from the bar throbbed off to our right as we lay down on the soft earth. I got on top of her, made my typical moves, but became slightly disenchanted when I realized her nipples tasted like garlic. I’ve been with one of these before, and it wasn’t good. I kept the other one around because she was a squirter, but I always steered clear of her tits.

After all the waist-and-above stuff, Tatjana made a frustrated groan. “I can’t doing anything,” she grumbled. I knew before she even finished. “It’s my time of the month.”

“That’s cool,” I said, kissing her neck. “Do you like it in the butt?”

“Sometimes. But not tonight.” Dammit.

She eventually took my dick out, but didn’t even suck it, and gave up on the handjob after the first quarter. Realizing there was nothing in it for her, she got up and said we needed to go back. What a bust.

When we were back on the trail, she said that we couldn’t go back down because if her friends saw us “lost in the woods” together, they might kick my ass. “What? Why? Are you even dating any of them?”

“No, but they are very protective. Come on, follow me. I know a way around.”

We climbed up an impossible mountain through vineyards and heavy brush. With my feet already killing me, this had disaster written all over it. Half a mile up a car drove by on a road. “There! We must go there,” she pointed, obviously lost. There were no trails of any kind leading up, not to mention we were already on a 45-degree angle of land.

“Are you kidding? There’s no way we’re going to make it. Let’s just go back down and split up when we get back to the bar.” All I wanted to do now was avoid injury and go to sleep.

Tatjana agreed and we made our way back. She went first. I waited behind a tree in case any of her meathead friends came wildly sprinting up the trail looking for blood. After a few minutes, I made my return and skulked around the bar back to the trail from which I came.

With the exception of some site-seeing, parasailing, and a few more swim stops, the last two days were uneventful. We spent a night at the coastal town of Makarska, and even found an all-Croatian nightclub. Unfortunately, the big-town locals didn’t want anything to do with North American tourists like the villagers back at Trstenik. 0 for 50.

We returned to Split for the last night, but the five hours a night of sleep I’d been getting had finally caught up to me. I was zonked out by nine like Brian.

The following morning I said my goodbyes to the boat crew, took a bus to the airport, and caught my flight back home.

Only I didn’t fly back to California; I flew up north for a couple hours. This shit wasn’t over. Russia awaited.

To be continued…

(Continue reading Russia)

Take away the handful of months I’ve been in relationships, and I’ve been active in “the game” for about ten years. There are just over eight weekend nights—Friday and Saturday—in a given month. Of those nights, along with a random Thursday here and there, it’s safe to say I’ve hit the bar/club/party scene approximately five nights a month for the past ten years. These adventures were full of successes and failures, but let’s focus on my 0-fers. On a normal night out, I’ll get rejected by an average of 12 girls. Multiply 12 by five nights, and you get 60 girls a month that give me weird looks, tell me to fuck off, ignore me altogether, or call me creepy. Sixty girls a month multiplied by 12 months and that’s 720 girls in a year. Multiply that by 10 years, and I’m looking at the daunting figure of 7,200 rejections in my lifetime. And I’d say it’s probably more, but we’ll say 7,200 to be safe.

In his book Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell wrote that to become an expert at something, you need 10,000 hours of experience. Because 7,200+ isn’t quite that high—nor do they count as hours—I’m technically not an “expert.” But that doesn’t mean I can’t offer something to all the single men out there wondering how a guy like me is getting chicks. Once again, my fuck-ups are your gain.

The Mentality

My good friend Baba said it best: “Dave, it’s not so much your game that gets you action. You’ve simply learned how to handle rejection.” Before heading out, I have come to accept the fact that I will get turned down by numerous women. I can offer all kinds of clichés about Michael Jordan missing the most shots, and Thomas Edison inventing the light bulb on his twelve-hundredth try, but until you’re able to understand that failure is a good thing, you’ll forever remain another frustrated masturbator.

The Venue

The venue is almost as important as your mentality. I recommend only going to bars and clubs that have different sections—a hallway, a patio, a dance floor, a bathroom area, and generally a place with lots of corners where you can post up. It doesn’t have to be the biggest joint; it just has to have structure. Handling rejection here is a lot easier—because if you get turned down, you can move on to another area, and your mind has a way of convincing you that no one saw; you’re golden. If you go to those stupid bars that are one huge room (places like San Diego and Europe are unfortunately loaded with these rectangular arenas of flaccid dicks, dry vaginas, and dancing confusion), getting rejected is a huge ordeal because if a girl shoots you down, your mind annoyingly reminds you: “You just got royally shat on, and everybody saw, you loser.” There is a psychology to this one-big-room theory that probably goes back to the caveman days, but that’s just a theory (though I bet cavemen picked up more cave chicks in the woods than in the plains).

Details

I’ve heard the case for a guy’s style going a long way with women, and that’s complete bullshit. If you’re dating her, I can understand having a deep wardrobe and nice shoes, but the rules are different for a basic night out. As long as you don’t look like a medieval Star Trek character, your charisma will override all. If anything, wearing designer shit will raise your chances maybe 4% and give you the benefit of the doubt if she’s on the fence about going home with you. If you’re new at this, yes, go out and get nice clothes to get this 4% boost. Just make sure that you feel comfortable and confident in whatever it is you decide to wear. I’ve worn the wrinkliest outfits known to man and still taken home girls wearing boots with the fur (I still don’t even own an iron).

As for other miscellaneous issues, make sure you always have a condom in your wallet, and always bring gum (and start chewing it after your first or second drink). To avoid accidentally washing excess gum you left in your pants, thus fucking up your pockets along with your roommate’s dryer, I recommend having a couple sticks of gum in one of your wallet slips at all times (and don’t get the squarish chiclet kind; get the black 5-series gum—that shit is so everlastingly scrumptious that one time I passed out with it in my mouth and the next morning it still tasted good).

Timing

It’s amazing how many guys go out looking to get laid, yet don’t understand the dynamics of how the night works. They end up getting sloshed by eleven, which results in them slurring gobbledygook to a handful of girls, and then they wonder the next morning what went wrong. Time breaks down as such:

(Note: These times are for California only. +1 hour for Vegas. +3 hours for Europe)

9:00-10:00 p.m.- The place is usually empty, and everyone is sober. If you arrive in this time frame, relax, have a drink, and party with your crew. It’s very important to go through this “social warm-up” with your friends before talking to girls. It heightens your mood and prepares you for more animated interactions when you finally do begin conversing with women. Note: Unless you’re some sort of alcoholic outlier, I don’t recommend drinking until after 9 p.m.—college is over.

10:00-11:15 – The place will be full by eleven, but it’s still too early to start hitting on chicks. If you start talking to them now, you’ll have to hang out with them for over two hours before they’ll actually leave with you—plus they’re still sober and worried about being judged by their monkey-brain friends. Relax, keep drinking, blacklist girls who came with tough guys, and enjoy spending time with your entourage. Let all the douches and dorks hit on girls during this time. This way, when you talk to her later on, your awesomeness looks even more superior. It’s still okay to talk to girls at this point, but just plant seeds. Keep the conversation under three minutes, then high five them and tell them you’ll see them around.

11:15-12:30 – Primetime. This is the peak of the night, and the best window to meet girls, reconvene with any girls you’d talked with earlier, dance (if that’s your thing), get numbers, make out, and take women home. You should not be shitfaced at this point. A powerful buzz is optimal.

12:30-closing – If you’re still 0-fer at this point, you’ve probably blown it, but keep pushing. You never know; new chicks could show up. Either way, it’s perfectly acceptable to be hammered at this point—because there’s always a lurking 45-year-old hag who wants your whiskey dick in her garage.

The Scene

Let’s say that you, me, and another guy-friend are at a prototypical bar or nightclub—with good structure. We’ve come here knowing that half our time will be spent shooting the shit, the other half talking to girls. Our entourage of three isn’t needy and won’t whine if they get ditched because you’re off talking to chicks; we can all handle ourselves. The guy-girl ratio is a solid 1:1, about 200 girls, 200 guys. Even though they just started blasting Ke$ha’s latest hit, the place is the shit. We’ve been making fun of people for the past hour and a half. The time is currently 11:15. We’re all on our third and fourth drinks and a heroic buzz is dancing through our systems, feeling the music, riding the euphoria of our freedom. It’s time to begin.

Quick note: When I actually approach women, I never carry wingmen—because depending on a wingman to help your game is like bringing your private tutor into class on test day for motivation. They can’t help you; all they can do is sit there and stare. If you want a girl, go after her. Unless the situation blatantly calls for it (her friend wants your friend, or your friend wants her friend etc) the “wingman” actually hurts you in the long run, because before you realize it, you start depending on them for courage. Become a wanderer like me, and you’ll never look back.

Breaking the Seal

The first 0-fer is always the toughest, but once you get that first rejection out of the way, you’ve ignited the engine. Nothing can stop you.

From all my years of people watching at bars and clubs, I’d say that only about 15% of guys actively hit on girls. Another 15% are in committed relationships and are there solely to drink and hang with friends. Then there’s the other 70% who are single and out with their friends, yet have an underlying desire to meet women and munch some serious rug. You can see it in their eyes. Sadly, these guys never even give themselves a chance. They hang around the group all night long, become mesmerized by the gogo dancers, watch sports highlights on the bar TV, talk about depressing topics like work and money, make a couple empty rounds through the bar, and then drunkenly return to their computers to masturbate to lesbian porn, ultimately crashing out, wishing they had abs of steel—as if that’s the problem.

Fuck that. Get out there and make something happen. Get rejected! What I do is I’ll spot a girl standing/sitting by herself, or a girl riding the caboose of her six-chick train snaking through the hallway, and I’ll speak in her ear. It doesn’t matter what you say, just say it clearly. If you need to repeat yourself, you’ve lost your power. Say anything—“Where’d you get those boots?” “Is that a mini cherry hanging from your belly button ring?”* “What’s going on with that necklace?” Anything. She is going to reject you. Who cares? You’re only using her as a tool to spark the fire.

*These were my first words to a super-hottie at the Flamingo pool this last weekend. We partied all day. We fucked later that night. Unfortunately she wasn’t crazy, so I can’t write about her.

The Approach

When my naïve and inexperienced friends watch me hit on girls, for some reason they always ask me the same question: “What did you say to her?”

Not until the later part of my twenties did I realize that it doesn’t matter what you say, it’s how you say it. The cliché is true. If you talk confidently, like a man in control who doesn’t give a fuck either way of what happens, she’ll respond to you. If you speak like a seventh grader meekly asking out big-titties-Wendy to the dance, she’ll see a guy who feels unworthy, isn’t sure of himself, and has no idea how to please a woman. She’ll politely answer your question and then tell you she needs to find her friends.

But let’s assume you have your confidence, and we’re back at the Ke$ha-blasting bar. You’ve already gotten that first rejection out of the way and are about to wander from your group to talk to girls. But before doing so, picking which girls to hit on is a tricky process. I tend to stay away from girls who are in groups of three or more. Even if your dream girl is a part of that group, steer clear for the time being. Her friends are loaded with all kinds of negative energy—one of the girls is on her period, one is fat and jealous she never gets attention, one is having texting fights with her boyfriend, and one of them wants to get laid but doesn’t yet have a strategy. There are some “experts” I’ve read who have all sorts of techniques involving magic and fabricated mind games in order to engage large groups of girls like this. Fuck that; it’s way too much work.

The best girls to go after are the ones ordering drinks alone, or sitting down alone, or leaning against a post alone (if you’re in Vegas, watch out, most of these alone-girls are hookers). Basically any girl who is by herself gives you the greatest probability of success. She isn’t worried about being judged and is more inclined to be herself. Sometimes there are girls who are a part of a group but are sort of standing out of their circle of friends. Go after them as well. She’s not in the circle because she’s probably sick and tired of all the whining. You are a breath of fresh air in her world of bitchiness. Ask her, “What are your friends arguing about?” Watch her vent.

The Opener

Again, it doesn’t really matter what you say. If you’re looking for actual examples, check out my picture blog I wrote a couple years ago. Most of the time when I hit on alone-girls, my line is “Why are standing here trying to act all mysterious?” Other times I’ll simply ask, “Who are you?” Or I’ll find something unique about their outfit and tease her about it. Never compliment her. Leave that to the frustrated masturbators. Real men make fun of women.

The Conversation

The opening line isn’t your make-or-break moment. Whether you can maintain your composure and keep the conversation fun is what matters. I rarely ask a girl her name because that’s what every other nerd is asking her. Names don’t matter until you program her number into your phone.

Some gems I like to ask girls in the middle of a conversation:

“What color are your eyes? Sorry, it’s dark in here.”

- Notice I didn’t tell her I liked her eyes. I’m just asking her the color, making her prove herself to me, as well as showing that I care about details. After she tells me the color, I’ll reply with, “Oh, okay.” (She has to earn her compliments.)

“Did you used to have braces when you were little?”

-This is as close a compliment as she gets. You’re implying that she has nice teeth and a nice smile without actually saying it, yet you still leave her to wonder if you even approve. If you came out and said, “I love your smile,” congratulations, you’ve just been pigeonholed with the other 5,000 guys who told her that. Be original; be mysterious with your questions.

“Is that your natural hair color?”

-This one won’t win any awards, but it again shows you’re paying attention to details other than her tits, ass, and stomach. Girls like guys who notice and care about the little things.

“What’s up with the_______?”

-Whatever is slightly confusing or strange about her outfit/shoes/accessories, comment on it—this can be used as an opener also. Make her defend herself. Make her prove herself to you, not the other way around. And besides, girls enjoy explaining their fashion idiosyncrasies.

“Are you single?”

or

“Are you married?”

Every other moron is asking if they have a boyfriend, but you’re not like other guys. The single question also has a much more confident vibe than the boyfriend question. Asking her if she’s married is also effective, because chances are she’s not (because you’ve secretly already checked her ring finger), and she’ll be happy to inform you of her status. Plus if she has a boyfriend, the married question gives her the opportunity to hide this from you: “Nope, I’m not married (but I do have a kind-of boyfriend I’m not telling you about).” Immediately after asking this question, grab her left hand and bring it up so you can check for a wedding ring.  You’ve now broken the seal to physical contact and hereby opened the door to other advances—hand-holding, waste-grabbing, shoulder-wrapping, butt-slapping, etc.

“How old are you?”

For some reason guys have been brainwashed—by their moms most likely—that this is a bad question. And most girls will even tell guys, “Um, that’s not a question you’re supposed to ask girls.” Yeah, right. It’s one of the best questions you can ask her. One, your positive reaction to her age (always keep the reaction positive) will show her that you approve. And two, you have now communicated the following: You have nothing to prove to her because you are the evaluator, and she is the evaluatee; and she must meet your hidden criteria.

Final Note: Don’t be the one to ask all the questions or you’ll come off as needy no matter how awesome your voice tone and confidence is. After you’ve done your share of question-asking, it’s her turn. She needs to prove herself with her conversation skills, so when you feel the time is right, allow for silence, and look around as if searching for something more interesting. If she’s into you, she’ll ask you a question. If she remains silent and sort of looks the other direction, move on. You aren’t her type; she was just being nice.

Drinks

You’ve probably noticed that 90% of the time you buy a girl a drink, she’s gone within ten minutes. I’ve learned this the hard way many times, and I still flub up from time to time. This is a tough rule to follow, but an important one: Unless you’ve already made out with her, do NOT buy her a drink. If your drink is empty, don’t put yourself in the situation where you need to buy a new drink with her by your side; you’ll look like an ass if you get a drink solely for yourself. Either make her buy your drink and say you’ll get the next one, or wait ‘til she has to go to the bathroom and sneakily buy yourself a drink when she isn’t looking (if she asks where you got it, tell her a friend got it for you). Let all the desperate fartknockers buy them drinks, but not you. Buying her a drink communicates the following: I am like every other bozo trying to get into your pants, so please accept my drink as a token of my fake generosity. My balls officially belong to you; you own me.

Body Language

There are a ton of books out there on body language—none of which I’ve read. If you’re a complete buffoon, go buy one—or just read the following that I’ve learned from countless hours of real experience. It’s simple really: Act disinterested in the beginning; start showing interest 5-10 minutes in, and after that it doesn’t even matter—if she’s still talking to you, she wants you.  So when you first approach a girl, do not square your shoulders so you’re completely facing her. She might be squaring hers toward you, but you need to play it like you’re only staying temporarily, and at any second may get bored of her and leave. So keep your body facing away from hers and allow her to wow you with her answers to your absurdly intellectual questions. As the conversation progresses, gradually start to square your shoulders in her direction, but only if she’s earned it.

When either of you is speaking, always hold your eye contact. If her pupils are dilated, she’s attracted to you. If all you see is iris, she probably isn’t digging you, but don’t leave yet; there’s still hope.

Signs of interest:

-Dilated pupils.

-She plays with her hair or necklace.

-Her legs are crossed toward you.

-She’s smiling a lot.

-She squeezes/feels your arms, chest, or shoulders (she wants to feel your hot muscles).

-Her shoulders are squared toward you—even if she’s talking to someone else.

-She slightly sucks in her cheeks and purses her lips together when there’s a chance you might be looking at her.

-While talking with someone else, she frequently glances back at you and plays with her hair that’s in your line of sight.

-She does a double take (when she sees you for the first time).

-She subtly ignores her friends when they leave the area or check to see if she’s “OK.”

-You take her hand; she holds it.

Signs of disinterest:

-She hasn’t asked you a single question.

-Her body isn’t squared toward you.

-Her legs are crossed away from you.

-Folded arms.

-She continuously glances in every which direction.

-She isn’t smiling at all, or if she is, it’s forced (she’s being nice).

-She “needs to find her friends.”

There are exceptions to everything, but really stay cognizant of the disinterest signals so you don’t waste your time. It always amuses me watching clueless guys hang around girls who obviously aren’t into them, and they sort of hover there like shadows until the poor girls have to lie and tell them they have a boyfriend. If she doesn’t dig you, accept your rejection and move on.

Tests

There’s a universal rule when it comes to women: If she’s the initiator—or excitedly welcoming—of any form of sex talk, it means she wants to have sex with you. Maybe not tonight, or the next time she sees you, but it’s on her mind, and she wants to be stuffed by your bratwurst at some point in the near future. Phrases like “We’re not having sex tonight” or “We can’t make out” are all tests. So if she tells you this crap, she’s lying. Agree with her, or tell her you just want to have a drink, and wait it out. She’s testing you because she wants to know if you’re a womanizing sleazebag who sees her as a sex object; or if you’re genuinely there because you enjoy her company. Women are less physical than men, and need to know you have some substance to you.

There are other small tests women will try. For example, sometimes they’ll scan the bar and say, “You are so cute. Let’s see if we can find you a lady tonight.” In which you respond with, “I don’t want another woman. I’m talking to you.”

Other times, she’ll tell you that she hates it when guys stare at her boobs when they talk to her. To this you respond (no matter how nice her rack is): “I’m not a boob guy. I’m more of a legs and ass guy.” She must meet your criteria.

Tests like these can come at rapid fire. Just remember to be patient with her, don’t move too quickly, and choose carefully when you agree and disagree with her. It takes time, but handling her tests is like learning how to snowboard. Once you have the muscle memory, you have the skill for life.

Escalation

One of the worst things you can do is meet a girl, develop attraction, talk with her forever, and never make a single move. If you are one of these imbeciles, you are officially a “nice guy.” Time to change your ways.

Within the first ten minutes, you should have played the are-you-single card and brought her hand up to check for a ring. That first contact goes a long way. There are many ways to escalate things after the initial “touch.” One easy way is to dance with her, though I only resort to that if her friends are nearby. Do whatever it takes to get away from cockblockers.

Basically, if you sense her body language is positive toward you, she’s into you. Or if she’s still talking to you and hasn’t yet invented an excuse to ditch you, she probably likes you. At some point, grab her hand and be playful with it, or put your arm around her waist, or simply put your hand on the small of her back while she orders drinks. Depending on the girl, give her butt a nice smack or grab a chunk of hair from the back of her head—underneath and close to the scalp—and give a quick tug (Be careful with this one, and don’t try it until you’ve got some serious experience under your belt). Girls will actually get angry when they’re digging a guy, and he keeps asking her boring questions about work, never making any physical advances. Be a man. Take control.

The Make-out

Quick note: Skipping over the escalation stage is not an option. If you expect to kiss her, you need to have had some form of physical advancement beforehand.

Girls want to hook up just as much, if not more than guys. If she’s still with you, she wants it. Only problem is, it’s up to the guy to make it happen. A cheap way to get it done is on the dance floor. When your face gets close to hers and she doesn’t move, go in for the kiss.

Otherwise, if you’re simply chilling with her at the bar, or hallway, or table, or random corner, my move is as such: While she’s facing me, I’ll take her hand (or both hands) and wrap our hands around her back. Then I’ll pull her in. If her face stays in line with mine, she wants to make out. I move in. Done deal.

You don’t even need to do the hand move. Girls want the guy to take control—because she’s the woman and you’re the man. So if you know she’s into you, just grab her waist, pull her in, and start making out.

As stated in previous blogs, I have other go-to moves as well. Excerpt from Recipe for a Conscience:

“One strategy that has yet to fail me is the post-bathroom kiss. After a bathroom break, either she’ll be waiting or I’ll be waiting. If I’m waiting, I’ll lean mysteriously against a wall, and when she exits the bathroom, I’ll grab her hand, pull her face in close, smile, remain silent, and start kissing her. If she’s waiting, I’ll exit the bathroom, walk up to her, smile, remain silent, and start kissing her. One hundred percent success rate so far.” The reason this method is so effective is because if you’ve done everything right up to this point, then five minutes away from each other in bar/club time is like two days in relationship time. She misses you dearly in that little trickle break and doesn’t want to lose you, so when you see her again (especially if she was the one waiting for you), she’s going to want your tongue down her throat.

Going home with her

Excerpt from Scandinavian Rampage: “There comes a moment in every one-night-stand when you can safely grab a girl by the hand and lead her out without resistance. Often times this window is disguised in the form of ‘Buy me another drink’ or ‘My friends are talking to some guys’ or a pouty face or a swift cock grab.”

There is no way to put this in writing except that you know when you know. If you’ve already gotten her number and have been chatting and making out all night, it’s time for you to do the decision-making for her—since most girls are incapable of such a task.

If it’s a situation where hotels are involved, I’ll ask her, “Do you have any beer in your room?” If it’s a situation where her house is nearby, I’ll ask her, “Do you have any wine at your place?” Other times I’ll simply take her hand, give it a good yank, and say, “Let’s go,” and lead her out—back to my place. As long as you don’t make it obvious that sex is expected, and you don’t make her out to be a whore, they usually follow along. If they resist, then you probably made the move too early; or she just doesn’t do one-nighters. Text her within the next two days and capitalize then.

Everything I’ve written is just a slice of the night scene dynamic. And the only way to get good at this stuff is to get out there and fuck up, over and over and over. You can read every book; you can listen to the best advice, or ask your experienced friends all the questions you like, but until you’re ready to start talking to real life women, you’ll never get anywhere. Before you know it those 0-fers will start to become 1 and 2-fers. It’s not about getting laid either, it’s about making a better life for you. I’ve found that the more I learn about women, the better I am in the dating world, and the more complete of a man I’ll be to my future wife. Most won’t admit it, but girls appreciate a guy who’s been with a lot of women—because he understands them, and more importantly, he knows how to act like a man when the time arises.

It’s a fun ride, the single life. And it seems every day I learn something new about the mystical chasm between man and woman. Off to the bars for another round…

KG, Ron, their wives, and myself (the perennial fifth wheel), hit a local club late on a Saturday night. The two couples left around 12:30, but since Ron’s place (where I’d be crashing) was just a seven-dollar cab ride away, I stuck around to do more slithering.

It was a disaster: 0 for 10 became 0 for 20, then 0 for 30. I did manage to make out with a tall Czech woman, but she had dog-poop breath and lacked a deodorant application within the last twelve hours, so I didn’t count that as a success. As it was, I found myself waving down a cab in the hysteria of the club’s aftermath just before two a.m.

Ron lived in one of those obnoxious apartment complexes that make you call in at the front gate just to get into the damn parking structure (as if stalkers and robbers wouldn’t be patient enough to wait to follow someone in), so he gave me his key card just before he left. He told me some instructions also, but I have selective hearing, and I involuntarily ignore anything having to do with electronics, office jobs, or cars.

After the cab dumped my sorry ass off, I fished the key card out of my pocket and searched for the scanner. On the right wall next to the gate was a panel of buttons with speaker holes and some other crap. There were no slots or anything, so I hovered the card over the entire panel. Nothing. I continued to frantically wave the card everywhere like an Asian tourist with a camera, but was getting no results. I heard a car pull up behind me, accompanied by a quick door slam. I turned around.

As many of you know, my hook-up career is blemished with catastrophic disasters: I’ve blown multiple threesomes; I’ve been cockblocked by rabid goalies; chicks have pissed and shat my bed; and I’ve gotten head from a girl who turned out to be a guy. The list is endless. I think I’m due for something good.

My time had come. Walking toward me was an attractive 30-something brunette wearing a miniskirt and heels. Judging by the greasy Del Taco bag swinging gracefully from her left hand, this brown-haired beauty had just come from bars, where she had been hit on by a hefty supply of lushes and meatheads, which had led to bitching among her friends and subsequently sent her straight to the Del Taco drive-thru. Now here she was, fresh from a frustrating night in which every guy had failed her who-is-going-to-fuck-me sweepstakes, and she was walking directly into my domain: Post-two-a.m. Resident Parking Structures.

“I can’t get this thing to work,” I barked at her.

“Here, let me do it.” She took out the same card as mine, hovered it in a spot I had already tried (only slower and more patiently), and the door buzzed open.

“Sweet. Thanks.”

She smiled at me and walked around the corner and into a hallway towards Ron’s place. I followed her.

“So who are you?”

“Who am I? I’m Polly. Who are you?”

“Psh. Not your name. What’s your story? Why are you getting dropped off at this hour, and why aren’t you at a post party?”

I snuck a fart. She looked back at me, still walking. Then she smiled and said, “Went to bars with my girls, but it was getting late, and my friends were complaining.” Shocking.

“Do you have any wine?”

“Yes, I have wine. Why?”

“Because I want a glass.”

“You do, do you?”

“Yep. Have one with me.”

Her phone rang.

Apparently the cab was loaded with her reject friends, who had seen me follow her inside, and then appropriately judged me as outright scum. “Hi,” Polly said into her phone. “No, everything’s fine.” Brief pause. “Yeah, he just wants a glass of wine, and then he’s going home.” She looked back at me as I followed her up the stairs in an increasingly uncreepy manner. The voice on the other line became audibly louder as Polly continued to fend off the phone goalies. “Don’t worry, everything’s fine. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Pause. “Okay, I will.” She hung up.

We were now walking down the third floor hallway, one story above Ron’s place. Polly spoke. “Just one glass, okay? I need to get to bed.”

“Yep, same here.”

“Wait a minute, have you even told me your name?”

“No, but don’t worry, I will. We have a lot to talk about.”

She laughed. “Who the fuck are you? Do you even live here?”

I smiled. “No, I’m staying at my friend’s place on the second floor, but he’s sleeping and I don’t want to wake him. And I need a glass of wine.”

Polly shot me a thoughtful look, and I raised my eyebrows sarcastically back at her. She turned and unlocked her door.

I was welcomed to her pad with a huge gust of cat litter. I watched as two of her three cats weaved between her legs; the other one sat in the corner of the living room and glared at me with fluorescent eyes, reminding me of myself at a nightclub just before my first 0-fer. 

While Polly went to the kitchen counter to fire down her tacos, I went straight to the couch and flopped. Between bites she asked about my night and how I ended up alone at the gate. I diffused her suspicions by telling her the truth: I had gone to the club with my married friends; they wanted to leave early; I wanted to stay.

“What’s your friend’s room number?” she asked.

“I dunno—two something?”

“You’re not some sort of weirdo are you?”

“Depends how you define weirdo.”

Polly stared at me as she worked down her last bite. Then she violently crumpled up her taco wrappers, which for some reason gave me a semi. “I mean, you don’t go lurking around people’s apartment complexes at two in the morning every Saturday night, right?”

“No. First time.” I smiled. “And I’m hoping you aren’t one of those girls that likes white wine.”

“Oh God no.” She turned towards the cabinet and grabbed a fat bottle. Truth is, I know nothing about wine; I only use it to get laid. You could give me a thousand-dollar glass or a two-dollar glass and I couldn’t tell the difference.

But I made fun of her anyway. “That bottle looks cheap. What is it?”

“It’s all I got. So stop whining.” She winked at me.

“Nice pun. Haven’t heard that one before.”

She laughed. “Can you open this for me?”

Oh no. I just realized I hadn’t used one of those corkscrew things in years, maybe decades. If I couldn’t open it, she’d know I was a fraud.

“Sure.”

I clumsily tried to take the cork out using the top because it looked like a bottle opener; Polly gaped at me like I was a lunatic. I lost my composure, became nervous, and fumbled the bottle onto the kitchen tile where it shattered like purple vomit. “You’d better leave,” she told me.

Just kidding. I was clutch this time. I uncorked the bottle like Casanova, and poured the velvety liquid into our glasses with stunning ease. No spill.

We migrated to the couch. She laid down on one end, feet propped diagonally across the coffee table in my direction. I sat on the other end and petted the cat that was sniffing my pants. “One glass and you’re out of here. Got it?” she asserted.

“Yep, that was the agreement.”

I continued petting in silence, waiting for her to initiate things. I had done my share of question-asking; it was her turn. Finally, Polly began. “So what’s your story? Who are you and what do you do?”

Perfect. I gave it a 95% chance that my “high school math teacher” thing would seal the deal, and I was spot on. At first she didn’t believe me. She even made me show her my Teaching Association cards I had in my wallet solely for such purposes. Then the questions started to pour in: Are you a cool teacher? Do you give a lot of homework? Do you give out detentions? What’s the worst thing a student has done? Do your girls hit on you? On and on—they were the same inquiries I always got, so I was a pro at answering them.

As I gave my teacher spiel, I began rubbing her calf—which had made its way to the couch. After I felt I’d done enough talking, I asked her about her job, which I ignored, and then about her cats, which I listened to. After another couple minutes of chatter, I’d had enough of the small talk. I leaned over and went in for the kiss.

She stopped me. “Um no. We’re not hooking up,” she announced. “I don’t even know you.”

I sat back up. I guess I had to get to know her some more. “So do you have any brothers or sisters?” I asked robotically.

She began laughing hysterically. Between her laughs, she again asked, “Who the fuck are you?” Moments later she got up and went to the bathroom.

There was a time when I would have been angry with myself for making such a premature move, but at this point I was too intoxicated to be so calculated. That, and I already knew there was no way she was kicking me out after “one drink.” She wanted it bad tonight; I could sense it.

When she returned to the living room, she set her quarter-filled glass of wine on the kitchen counter and started doing the dishes or something. Then she leaned against the wall and asked me the infamous I’m-going-to-fuck-you-in-T-minus-thirty-minutes question, “Okay, so I barely even know you. Seriously, though, who are you again?”

After answering her redundant question with essentially the same response as before, I realized my glass was empty. I got up and took the glass to the sink, giving her ass a nice smack on the way back to the couch.

“Come sit down with me,” I told her.

“No, I think it’s time you leave now,” she said weakly, not a hint of finality in her voice.

Instinct took over. “NO. Sit down!” I demanded. I shot her a jokingly serious face and pointed to her old seat as if I were commanding a dog.

She appeared stupefied, gazing at me as a young girl might look at her father after getting caught in a petty lie. Then she grabbed her glass from the counter, took a long sip, and walked slowly back to the couch.

She spent the next five minutes “getting to know me”—basically asking me again about teaching, where I lived, where I went to college, brothers and sisters, etc. After I repeated myself for the twentieth time, I made a decision that I was finished talking for the night. From this point on, either we hook up, or I go home. I leaned in for the kiss again. Success.

She tasted like wine and tacos, but I didn’t care. I was monstrously horny; any flesh would do. “You’re not staying over,” she told me between kisses.

“I know,” I said, kissing her neck.

A few minutes later she got up to pee. Again? Usually it was me who did all the urinating. When she returned, I pushed her up against the wall and started making out. I put my hands up her blouse and squeezed her nipples. We were now in a mini hallway area where the rooms forked off. I noticed one room had nothing in it except newspaper all over the floor and a couple litter boxes. Her cats had their own room! “Who’s room is that?” I asked.

“It’s nothing. Come on, let’s go to my room.”

We entered her room only to find another cat sprawled out on her bed like a fourth grader watching cartoons. Polly picked the animal up and dumped it into the living room. I immediately took the cat’s spot on the bed. Polly returned, shut the door, and looked at me. “You’re staying over tonight.”

Whiskey dicked but maintaining good wood, we fucked gloriously for nearly thirty minutes. She even had a moderate bush. Though I’m usually not a fan of such laziness in the form of hair, a nicely groomed forest is delightful to look at once in a while. It makes me think of rookie year of my masturbating career when I spanked it to Penthouse Letters and old Playboy mags of Pamela Anderson and Jenny McCarthy—both with muffy mid-nineties beavers.

I awoke the next morning a little past nine. After answering some more of Polly’s mundane questions, she made the absurd claim that I was her first one-night stand ever. I laughed at her and called her a liar, but she held her ground, stating she’d always been a one-guy kind of girl. Before leaving, she told me that I had to come over and fuck her at least one more time, so she could remove the “one-night stand” label from last night. Without asking how many two-night stands she’d had, I told her she had a deal and left.

I usually don’t write actual success stories like this, but after my Salsa Debacle story, I got a lot of heat from my friends. “I’m sick of reading about fucking handjobs!” “Get it together, man!” “We need more fucking!” they told me—all valid points. But in light of my one-in-a-million gift from the hook-up Gods, I’d like to think things are starting to turn around. Could this be the beginning of an epic run of sane hottie after sane hottie? I sure hope so. I have a vacation to Croatia and Russia in about a month, and it would nice to ride this momentum into the European bedrooms. In the meantime, the next time I strike out at bars, you’ll know where to find me: at a parking structure near you. Picture me lurking…

Please note: All of the “sample profiles” I recommend towards the end are not profiles I’ve used. They’re cut and pasted—with a few revisions—from guys who I felt had effective profiles (By the way, looking through guys’ profiles made me feel incredibly homosexual, but I did it for the people.). I did not include my actual profile, only to protect my identity. Also, Jose was kind enough to let me use his pictures. Though I have placed a black stripe over his eyes to keep things professional.

Without further ado, here is the best of the worst of my emailers…

Jose (his profile was essentially the same as the following two guys, so I’ll only post his pics. There was one additional picture, but it was a newspaper clipping with his name everywhere of him winning some bike race, so I left it off.)

Garrett

Who am I?

I am self-employed, operating a manufacturing facility in South Asheville (Arden NC). I like Harleys but am not anal about them.

Whenever I grab my long shirt-sleeves (to put on a jacket) I’m reminded of my mother showing me how.

My stock broker’s the etrade baby.

I get excited when Google changes their Logo.

I clench my butt cheeks before hitting unavoidable potholes on the bike.

I get emotional during Publix commercials.

I like buying event tickets for the elderly couple behind me in line.

I can spell, so writing whole words is no problem.

I’m never a liar or cheat and insist we both play fair (unconditionally).

I’m easily impressed, but more interested in your personality than sporting a trophy girlfriend.

On weekends, I like playing outdoors at the lake or beach, riding the bike, or water skiing (any combination works).

I have a handsome Rottie/Bullmastiff named Bosco who’s a perfect judge of character. If he likes you, I probably will too.

I’m turned on by petite women 32 to 44 with common life experiences. I’m not into fakes, drama, head-games, or wasting time (so be real). Unlike Bosco, I have a soft bite.

BTW- I am 5′ 9 1/2″ and weigh 170lb with no kids. Photos are current.

What I’m doing with my life

Having good times while growing a business. I am goal-orientated, time-conscionable and immersed in my work but always find time for important things like invaluable time shared with family and friends.

I’m really good at

Snoring, singing in the shower, making funny faces, math, and not looking back!

Oh! I’m a Master Cuddler…

The first things people usually notice about me

I’m alpha-male and have all my teeth.

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food

Book-the Holy Bible
Movie-the Rock
TV show-Pinks All Out (also Survivor-but rarely admit to reality shows…)
Music-Rock, Hard Rock, Blues and more…
Food-anything off the grill!

The six things I could never do without

morning coffee, Vance & Hines, popcorn, dental floss (to get popcorn out of teeth) Pandora radio, and God

I spend a lot of time thinking about

…man stuff!

On a typical Friday night I am

…doing practically anything (sometimes, nothing…).

The most private thing I’m willing to admit

Filling the coffee maker makes me want to pee.

I’m looking for

• Girls who like guys
• Ages 32-44
• Near me
• Who are single
• For new friends

You should message me if

You’re ambitious, and spontaneous.

Wayne

About Me

My name’s Wayne and I’m a fun, laid-back person. I like fast vehicles. Of the two in my pics, I own one. :) I’m new to Austin. My subject line refers to the time I was choosing between an internship in Italy and one in Austin. :)

I travel. I bike. I run. I play volleyball. I seek out adventure. Moms love me and children want to be me. Basically, I’m awesome. :-)

The most fun I ever had was when on a quiet afternoon in an eatery, the waiter brought me food and then said “Sir, do not eat the fish”. That’s a story for later :).

–
Wayne
“Life is a succession of moments. To live each one is to succeed.”

First Date

would take you on a romantic date to burger king. You can order all the fries and shakes you want. You want a large soda? No problem. A toy with your meal? Girl, you don’t even have to ask. Haha :)

But more likely, we’ll be at a live music show but I’ll be whistling to Top Gun in my head.

Note: he also provided a link to his profile in which he had four pictures displayed—one pic was of him standing microscopically in front of an airplane. Another was of him standing boringly on the beach with a Battleship off in the distance. Then there’s a picture of just his car—he wasn’t even visible. And lastly a picture of two undistinguishable men doing a tandem skydive.

My response(s) to these poor guys…

Jose, Garrett, and Wayne-

That was one of the worst profiles I’ve ever even heard of. Holy crap.

Jose- The pictures need some work. I would only post the last one. Yes, one picture is OK. You’re too serious and unsmiley in the mirror bicycle picture. The one with you standing up high with your friends crowded around makes you look like a 13-year-old. The newspaper pic comes off as desperate, as if  you’re trying to show off (That belongs on your wall, not a dating profile.) The picture of you standing with your bike with the hill behind you makes you look fat. The picture with your parents belongs on your work desk. Putting it on a dating site makes you look like a mama’s boy geek. Only the last picture of you smiling at the marathon I like. You look buff, confident, and cheery—attractive to girls. Only use that picture. It will be enough.

Garrett- Please don’t take offense, but what girl in her right mind would want a guy who SNORES, is ”immersed in work,” is a self-proclaimed alpha male (which means you’re probably are a total weenie), is a self-proclaimed cuddler (which means you’re probably a total weenie), and who mentions urination during breakfast time as some sort of joke. I also don’t recommend mentioning God or the Holy Bible unless you’re looking for a religious girl, in which case you need to find a Christian dating website–not POF or OkCupid.

Wayne- Is this supposed to be funny?: “The most fun I ever had was when on a quiet afternoon in an eatery, the waiter brought me food and then said “Sir, do not eat the fish”. That’s a story for later :)” Dude, that is without a doubt the shittiest attempt at humor in the history of literate man. Also, delete all your battleship/airplane/car pictures. Here’s what girls will make of you: This guy is a wannabe Nam veteran, materialistic, boring, and untrustworthy (that’s probably not even him in the skydiving pic). Make sure you only post your FIVE best pictures (if you don’t have five, then post one or two). If you’re not sure which ones are your best, ask a trusted chick’s opinion. Make sure you put at least one picture of you with a group of your buddies to show that you’re socially accepted, and so girls won’t think you’re some loner creep. Also, the Burger King thing was just stupid.

But this is just the beginning of all your disasters. Here is what you three need to do:

1) Delete everything you ever typed.

When girls see a guy who’s trying too hard, they immediately label him as desperate. You do not need to sell yourself. Also, all your jokes fail miserably. I’ve tried the humorous (the good kind) profile approach; it doesn’t work. Trust me. Keep it simple. The less you write, the better.

You don’t need to fill everything out, so leave all the irrelevant stuff blank–favorite tv shows, movies, books etc. Who cares! Girls don’t give a shit about that, so only put that if you plan on being funny about it (dry humor preferably, and if you’re not sure about the joke, that means it sucks. Delete it).

Jose and Garrett- If you’re passionate about riding bikes then you need to write it in a way that is sensual. Don’t just say, “I love riding my Harley. It is my passion.” Shit like this might impress a special ed fourth grader, but real life women will immediately hit the back button.

Check out what this guy wrote: “Few things in life compare to riding my bike through the mountains, feeling the curves of the road with my woman on my back. I consider myself an enthusiast who enjoys the simple things in life, but is always up for random adventures. I know who I am and what I want and am looking for the same in a woman.”

Now, compare this guy’s awesomeness to your feeble gayness. He doesn’t just say things; he paints a powerful picture using cool words like “mountains,” “curves,” “enthusiast,” and ”adventures.” Women will go for this dude any day over you two, because he’s, well, a man.
Since most guys feel the need to write about themselves, I’ll give you a couple other ways you can do this and get away with it…

I am outgoing, love the simple things in life, grounded, genuine and try to always make the best out of every situation.

It would be nice to meet someone who is fun, easy-going, has a wicked sense of humor and loves random adventuring.

I am very open-minded, and I don’t judge people based on how they look. Besides, different is interesting.

I know who I am, and I know what I want, so I’m hoping to find people like me who understand themselves and strive for their dreams.

Another good one. It’s short and to the point. Even though you wrote about yourself, it doesn’t come off as trying to sell yourself, so it would be effective. Here is another:

I’ve been on here for only a few months and keep getting the same questions from girls. So I’ll answer them here to save us some time: YES, I have nice shoes, straight teeth, and my parents are still together. If you’d like to know more just ask. But basically, I am an awesome and fun guy looking for the same in a girl. I’m not crazy about one-night stands. I’m also not looking to jump into anything serious right away, but I would definitely consider it with the right girl. Let’s get a drink and see if we click!

If you wanna lose the humor and be a little less risky, then go with:

I am an awesome and fun guy looking for the same in a girl. I’m not crazy about one-night stands. I’m also not looking to jump into anything serious right away, but I would definitely consider it with the right girl. Let’s get a drink and see if we click!

Again, shorter is better. These are just some ideas for you. Feel free to use them.

Sorry for being so harsh, but your profiles were disturbingly bad. I hope my advice was helpful.

-Dave…

After sifting through guys’ profiles, I now see why so girls are so frustrated with men. Nine out of ten guys had shitty profiles with suspect pictures. If you know what you’re doing, you should have a distinct advantage over all these idiots. You can even use them in your favor. For example, lately I haven’t even been reading profiles; I’ve been using this cut-and-pasted message and getting a significant response…

Oh yeah, one last thing: I recently read some online dating statistics and learned that the subject line “How’s it going?” gets the most response. Get on it, and don’t wind up like Jose, Garrett, or Wayne…

It was all about timing with Maria, a 40-year-old divorcee from Columbia. While dancing at the club earlier, a pathetic string of 22 and 23-year-olds had hit on her. Most cougars don’t go for anyone under 25—guys that young don’t know how to do or say anything right. Since I’m a master with such women, and meet their age requirement, I dropped in on her at just the right time, which resulted in a couple drinks, shitty dancing, a make-out session, and a fight to break away from her clingy friend (which we temporarily won). And now we were driving raucously down Balboa Boulevard at two in the morning, noisier than a Mexican space shuttle launch.

Punchline conveniently had a guest bedroom with a king sized bed. After grabbing beers from his fridge, Maria and I retreated to the room.

We were still undressing when her phone began ringing. “Just ignore it,” I told her, biting on her lip.

“I can’t. My friends are worried about me.” She sat up and fished her phone from her purse. She didn’t even say hello. Her Columbian friend was barking on the other line, chewing out Maria in dangerously rapid Spanish.

Maria laughed. But it wasn’t a good laugh; it was a guilty I’m-acting-naughty laugh that always resulted in closed legs and suppressed passion. By the time she had finished her Latina banter, my boner had softened like a melted Snickers bar, and Maria slammed her head into her pillow, acquiescing to her friend’s desires.

Though soft, I was still devastatingly horny. I relaxed for a couple minutes to allow time for the somber halo of cockblockage to dissolve. I asked Maria about her living arrangements and plans for the upcoming week. When I decided I’d done enough nice-guy work, I made my move again. My efforts beyond kissing were thwarted with hand swipes and that same damn laugh again. It was over. I rolled over and crashed.

I awoke the next morning to noises of thunderous urination. At first I assumed it was Punchline, but I didn’t recall his trickle ever being that commanding. My friend McBride has a theory that the more powerful someone’s toilet urination sounds, the larger their pee-hole is, hence a bigger dick. He even admitted to peeing on toilet walls to avoid pee-hole judgments. (But that’s OK—sometimes I do that too.). If this theory were true for vaginas, then Maria’s vagina was the size of a baseball mitt.

She returned to the room fully-clothed and lay down. We talked for a bit, and I learned about her life back in Columbia and transition to the states. Fascinating. Caressing followed. I finally got her tits out, but she was rather shy with her cuddling. American cougars usually let their desires take control of them. Still unfamiliar with South American women, I decided to take the reins for her. I grabbed her hand and placed it on my cock over my boxers. It remained there for another ten minutes, with no escalation except gentle rubbing. I would have tried to seduce her by licking her neck, rubbing her inner thigh, and gently kissing her mouth, but my morning breath was probably kicking like Miyagi. Now that I was 100% sober, I could assess Maria’s looks, and yes, she was worth a follow up. I’d have to capitalize another time. Before throwing in the towel, I decided to test the waters. Just as I was about to whip out my cock to see where it would lead, her phone rang. It was the same friend, calling at the worst possible time for the second day in a row.

Although I took four years of Spanish in high school, I can only understand about 15% of the stuff coming out of a fluent Spanish-speaker’s mouth. Maria’s talking was so swift, however, that with her it was at 3%. The only word I understood was grande, which she said twice.

“What did you talk about?” I asked.

She laughed, a real laugh this time. “She was just making sure I was okay.” She paused, and then, “I told her you have a big dick.”

I perked up. “You did? You haven’t even seen it yet.” I smiled at her. “But thank you.” Grande!

“Yes, it’s big. I can tell.”

Coming from a 40-year-old, who had probably seen a minimum of 10-15 schlongs in her lifetime, I felt honored—especially after the debacle with the titty-fuck girl from a couple years back who told me my wiener was small. Either way, I would like to take this opportunity to give myself the award for Penis of the Week.

After texting back and forth all next week, we made plans to hang out the following Saturday. I had no intentions of taking her out. Ideally the plan would be: She comes over; we semi-cuddle on the couch and discuss each other’s aspirations with the pleasant waterfall of television in the distant background; we drink our way to a non-whiskey-dicked haze of reality, make out, and go to my room for wild drunk sex. Then I text her three weeks later, and we do it again.

Everything looked promising from the start. Over the phone she even asked if it was cool if she crashed, but then burst my cum bubbles when she announced, “It’s my time of the month. Is that okay?”

Instinctively, I answered, “Yeah, of course. Just come have a drink with me.”

Delighted with my response, she ended the call and said she’d be over around nine. I on the other hand, saw my night suddenly mutate into the likes of a middle school dance. But then I remembered her affinity for my horse cock, and I had visions of her ravenously slobbering all over it.

Things didn’t begin as planned. One, I forgot to restock the fridge with beer, and the only remaining options were three Coronas and four Coors Lights. Two, I had no limes for the Coronas, which resulted in heavy duty complaining. Maria claimed, “Corona without the lime is like a burrito without the beans,” which was the stupidest thing I’d heard since my pal Joe wrote jokes on ebay and tried to sell the punch line for 99 cents. 

As it was, I cracked open my Coors Light while Maria whined after each lime-less sip of Corona she took.

We were still in the kitchen and not even done with our first beer when the shit hit the fan. Maria had asked me a question about teaching, and in the middle of my ignored response, she blurted, “Oh! Do you know how to salsa?”

“Uh. I have some in the fridge, just a sec.”

“No! Dancing!”

“Oh. No, I haven’t taken lessons yet.”

Maria closed her eyes and made a ballerina move before speaking again. “I will teach you.” She set her beer down. “Take my hand.”

While I understand the importance of being “adventurous” and “energetic” to boost my attraction level, salsa dancing is 18,954^th on my list of life passions. I’ve been to some fine Salsa bars while traveling through Spain, but not once did I enter that war zone they call a dance floor. Whipping hair, erratic spinning, and “rhythm,” isn’t my idea of fun, unless it’s during sex. I’d much rather slow dance to Sinatra and make fun each other with sensual ear whispering than twirl around willy nilly like overgrown children whiffing at the piñata.

I took Maria’s hand, and she pulled me in close. “Okay, now watch my feet and follow my lead,” she told me. I find it laughable when people “learn to dance.” If it doesn’t come natural, there is no hope. How can dancing be fun when all the moves are manufactured because someone told you what to do? I hated the Macarena when I was little, and I steer clear of anyone who participates in the Garth Brooks’ “I got friends in lonely places” cult dance. Way to go: you learned how to have fake fun and look like you’re a member of Shredder’s Foot Clan.

With one hand around her waist and the other holding her hand, I watched Maria’s shoes and began to make movements around the music-less kitchen. It was awful. Her feet went wide, mine came together. She moved left, I stepped forward. She dipped low, I stood there like a building.

She snapped at me. “No! You have to follow me!”

“Oh. Okay.”

“[Blah blah blah]”

“Oh. Okay.” Still looking at my feet.

She finally ended it and returned to the kitchen counter where she pounded the rest of her beer. After we cracked open a new beer, Maria came up with another brilliant idea: “I have to show you some real salsa! Where’s your computer?”

“Upstairs,” I told her, defeated.

My computer was already on, but I made sure to sit down in the computer chair first. Had she plopped down before me, we would have been watching videos for years. I pulled up YouTube, and she searched some salsa-ish key words. She didn’t like the first video, but when I clicked on the next link, she began gushing like a drunken kindergartner, pointing at the screen and yelling as if I couldn’t see it. “Yes, this is the one! Watch how they move!” she shrieked.

I watched as two Columbian dancers, a black dude and a hot senorita, twisted their bodies in perilous contortions. I bobbed my head to try and believe myself into enjoying it. Then I got ahold of things and realized I was homosexual.

Ten videos later, Maria forced me to dance with her, but ended it before the clip even finished because I couldn’t hang. Now past midnight, we were on our third beer, and since I hadn’t eaten anything in a few hours, I was feeling a healthy buzz. Maria had cooled off like a four-year-old after hours at the jungle gym, and I was building up a legitimate chubby bunny in my pants. It was time to get down to business.

Maria had to borrow one of my shirts for bedtime, so I gave her a blue MXPX punk rock shirt I hadn’t worn since ’02. She went to the bathroom to freshen up and returned wearing nothing but the shirt and a pair of ugly beige panties.

We got naked almost immediately, or at least I did. She kept her panties on to shield the kool aid factor. After making out and sucking on her tits, it was my turn. She started kissing down my body, starting at my chest and ending up in my crotch area—all the classic signs of an impending blowjob. But when she got to my dick, she sat up and began giving me a fucking handjob! “Es big,” she whispered, stroking poorly.

Yeah, so start gobbling! I remained patient for a while, trying to will her mouth to my manhood, but it wasn’t happening. Screw this. I tried to come up with the best way to put it. “Do you want to taste me?”

“I only do that to boyfriends,” she said unacceptably.

“Oh.” I was a goner.

A minute later, I pathetically jerked off all over myself while she watched.

After brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed, I purposely decided not to wear my mouth guard. The dentist recommended I wear it because I grind my teeth at night—probably out of sexual frustration—but ever since I got it, I apparently snore like a fat guy when I don’t have it in because my teeth slightly separate to make up for the lost sliver of material, ultimately opening my mouth and causing a hurricane of noise to escape. Sorry, Maria.

I have distinct memories of getting shoved throughout the night. I don’t know why.

Epilogue

It’s hard to admit, especially coming from a guy who isn’t yet locked down by a girlfriend or wife, but the luster of “new pussy” is no longer what it used to be. Which isn’t necessarily a good thing. In the weeks and months following the Maria handjob incident, I started getting back in contact with some old faithful fuck buddies. They were all solid 7s and 8s, and at least with them I knew there would be no sex act involving hands.

In the past I’d fuck girls once or twice, decide I was sick of them, and delete their number. Things have changed since those days. I currently have four different girls I’m sleeping with, though only two of them I see on a consistent basis (once every other week—they switch off); the other two (maybe once a month) are more about timing—either we’re both drunk or it’s Saturday night and we both happen to have no plans.

With sex now available when I want it, I no longer have the same desire to get laid every time I go out. The only problem with this is that lately I’ve been lazy about hitting on chicks. I’ll go to a bar or club, hit on girls, get rejected, and then think, “Fuck it, I’ll just have Jess come over.” I’ll hang out with friends the rest of the night and forget about women (until I’m super drunk, in which case I’ll start hitting on wild boars). As a result of this who-cares attitude, I’m currently in one of the biggest one-night-stand droughts in recent memory. I think the last time I had a real down-and-dirty one-night-stand was around Halloween. I can’t even remember the last time I got a rimjob. (Just kidding, of course I can.)

So I ask myself: Am I happier this way? Does having a given girl I can hang with at least once a week beat having that time to myself? Is their company worth it? Is the sex so great it beats masturbating? When I explore the root of these questions, the truth is I’m indifferent. As mentioned before, spending intimate time with girls is giving me some valuable long-term experience, but at the same time my life isn’t as unpredictable as it once was. Before, not having a fall-back girl instilled in me a sense of urgency to make something happen when I hit the night scene. Now with that safety net always there to catch me when I prematurely get sick of hitting on chicks, I meet less women, and of course, it makes for shittier (and fewer) stories and causes me to write about serious stuff, like the last four paragraphs. I guess it boils down to one thing: Bringing normal girls into my life has helped me grow as a man. But I must be honest: I miss those Maria nights. I miss the psychos.