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It was a late night at a new grimy club in the too-cool-for-school section of DC. I was chatting up an OK-looking chick made cuter by her sexy accent, youth, perfectly round ass, and the strong possibility of pulling a same night lay. But not a girl I’d consider long-term material.
An hour later I made the requisite bounce with her to another nearby dimly lit hipster hole in the wall (venue changes = compressed dates into one night engendering false feeling of intimacy). Couples were going into the bathrooms to do bumps off keys and grope against piss-splattered walls. On the “dance”floor (more like swayfloor) I saw a girl I knew. She was shitfaced and way too happy to see me. My mind started to race. Switch targets? Make the other girl jealous? Attempt threesome?
As I’m ignoring my first girl, my wingman leans in and barks “Focus!”
I focused. Back to the original plan. With renewed purpose, I felt myself entering the zone. The Zone is when you are taking the lead on everything, being the man, enveloping the girl in the musky shroud of your masculinity, and you are not apologizing for any of it. You are a stalking leopard about to pounce. And she is following without hassle and you can see the deep attraction in her eyes. She will put up token resistance, sure, but you’ve been here before… you know it means nothing. It is the resistance of a woman who is secretly happy to surrender to forces beyond her control. The outcome is preordained.
It is the second-best feeling in the world.
The next morning all I could think was how to hustle her off without hurting her feelings. She roused herself from sleep early and, after a blowjob reveille, looked at me with a serious face.
“I’m leaving to go back home to [insert faraway foreign country here] this afternoon.”
“Wow. Wow. Well, that kinda sucks. I’ll walk you to the Metro.”
One more flag added to my flag count, and 90% of them were gotten within five blocks of my place in DC.