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Tremendous Neg

If your girl is sick (the Chateau has doubled as an infirmary this week), you have at your disposal a neg so sublime, so devastating, that you would be remiss not to use it.

GIRL: Hey baby, I’m starting to feel better. Give me a kiss.

YOU: Mmm, ooookaaaay, not sure about this…

[You hug her tight and lovingly and give her a kiss with your lips so pursed you couldn’t squeeze a sheet of paper between them. After a second of this red hot passion, lean back, smile warmly, then wipe your mouth on your sleeve and make little spitting noises away from her,… ptui ptui ptui…, like you’re spitting out girl germs.]

GIRL: Really?

YOU: Better safe than sorry. Here, I got you an orange. You need vitamin C.

Another version is to grab her chin with your hand and gently push her mouth away when she goes in for the kiss, then plant your lips all over her cheeks, ears and neck, assiduously avoiding her lips. Afterwards, step back and loudly proclaim “God you are SO kissable.” Say this sincerely. Sarcasm will ruin the effect.

Let’s say you’re like me and you forgot to call back in a timely manner one of the leads you number closed. Don’t worry, be happy. You can turn that cold lead around. How? It’s best to illustrate by example. Here follows an actual text exchange (syntax verbatim) between me and a lead that I had allowed to go cold.

******

ME: hey XXX it’s [x] we met at XXXX. i was the incredibly suave guy hi! [I sent this text at 1 am on a Saturday night, eight days after I got her number.]

GIRL: [After five minute delay] Hey, nice to hear from you! How are you?

ME: Life is good. i got a fish today. handsome devil. what’s up w you?

GIRL: A fish? Cool. Does it have a name?

ME: It does have a name. “stud” he’s a ladykiller. Just like his dad. hey when are u free? We’re getting together for a drink.

GIRL: That would be great. we could meet up this weekend or during the week.

[I arrange a time to meet during the week, and tell her to meet me at a lounge conveniently located near my place.]

GIRL: Ok sounds good. So to avoid a potentially awkward situation I need to tell you I am a little younger than you probably think I am. I’m four months to turning 21.

ME: Hm i thought you were mid or late 20s. Ok to avoid carding let’s meet at [non-alchohol serving coffee bar in same location] which is on the corner of XXX.

GIRL: Ok I know exactly where that is. So if you don’t mind me asking are you mid to late 20s then?

ME: 85. Ever since i quit smoking i’ve shaved off the years. I’m probably too mature for you.

GIRL: Probably. So do you still want to meet?

ME: Yes. You don’t strike me as a ditz. You seem smart. I prefer to keep an open mind.

GIRL: Ok, well I’ll meet you at [X] on [X] then.

******

Maxim #12: If you are comfortable with your game being splashed across a JumboTron for thousands of people to read, then you are doing it right.

Do you feel confident enough to put your communication with chicks on this blog? Before you send that text or make that phone call, ask yourself, “Would this pass muster as a blog post entry for millions of knife-sharpening hardcore womanizers and beta haters to read?” If you suspect the answer is “No”, you need to STOP DROP and ROLL off that chick until your senses return.

Which brings me to a new project idea. I call it: Alpha Assessment Monday. Every other Monday (after a long weekend of collecting digits), you the reader will submit your texts, voicemails, or other stabs at communication with women for me to post on the blog. The readers (and myself) will then analyze it to determine if it is adequately alpha. This is the way to grow as a man. You may submit conversations that you have already sent to the girl, or conversations you are planning to send.

*PS: It is acceptable to communicate solely via text with especially young women. I’m generally anti-text because I think it betrays timidity, but the under-25 crowd, and lately even the under 30 crowd, treat texting like phone calling — it’s their default mode. Younger women — the best kind – won’t subtract points like they used to if you arrange dates through text.

Flowers Of Death

Every so often I see floral arrangements resting on the ground or tied to a street sign along the DC metro region’s busiest roads — Rockville Pike, Connecticut Ave, Rt 66, the hallway leading to my bedroom. People have died in horrible, mangled car accidents at these spots (excepting my hallway). Some of the impromptu memorials, presumably left by family and friends, have teddy bears or dolls among the flowers.

I wonder if these reminders of instant death from car crash cause people to drive more carefully? I bet they do. I certainly notice them, and the first thing that goes through my mind is how exactly the accident went down. Did the driver’s head cave upon impact with the windshield? Did a child fly out of the vehicle into oncoming traffic? Did the southbound car have a split second to apply the brakes and swerve over the median to avoid a head-on collision?

Someone should do a study to see if the increase of these roadside memorials over the past decade is having an effect on traffic fatalities. Unfortunately, like most things which are effective at influencing human behavior, there is probably a point of diminishing returns with the flowers of death. Maybe flowers every ten miles works well, but more than that and people become inured to them, and resume their normal tailgating/speeding/driving while texting habits.

There is a group of SWPLs outside on the balcony right now discussing the finer points of wine. They are mocking some mutual friend they know for being pretentious about wine by… being pretentious about wine.

“Oh, like, so X says she had dinner with Napa Valley’s best sommelier.”

“She’s such a wine snob. I swear she brought table wine last month to X’s party.”

Their insipid blather has ruined my pleasant evening of pipe smoking and single malt drinking. I loathe SWPLs. If hypocrisy and status whoring were hellfire their screams of torment would echo through the ages.

Scar Game

Reader Powers left the following comment:

I knew I looked my best when I broke my nose and looked like a boxer. I predict makeup that mimics scars will become popular among men.

This is a brilliant business idea. It’s true; chicks dig the scar. As long as the scar is something cool, like one caused by a knifing, instead of the pockmarked landscape of acne vulgaris.

I propose stick-on scars for the timid betas, and actual scarification shops for the impulsively brave. Ye Olde Scar Shoppe would feature a licensed thug swiping a butterfly knife just across the eyebrow ridge and halfway down the cheek, which is the perfect kind of scar to tingle ginas far and wide. You would be fully anesthetized of course, unless you want the “authentic” scarification package, where the only pain relief you are offered is a jigger of whiskey and a stick to bite down on. Sure, it’ll hurt like hell, but you’ll walk out of there feeling like a man. As blood oozes through your bandage, girls will gather round in a mass proximity IOI.

Stick-on scars could act like Mystery’s black nail polish – ready to wear for a night on the town and easily removed the next morning before heading into the office. (For a couple of weeks I tried black nail polish. One morning I neglected to completely remove it from all fingers and spent the day explaining to people I had slammed a door on my pinky. The next day it had miraculously healed.)

Some cool stick-on scar ideas:

  • Bullet holes (Not to be mistaken for laparoscopic holes.)
  • Burn marks on the arm or shoulder (Imagine the DHV potential. “Yeah, I ran into that burning house. Who wouldn’t? A baby was crying.”)
  • Cig burns (Only the baddest of badboys would dare cross the mafia. Or cigstache.)
  • An exotic branding (You were captured by Tamil Tigers who adopted you as one of their own. During the initiation ceremony you were branded with the mark of the Shadow Order. Now you roam the earth solitary, a deadly killer with a vague memory of a long lost love.)
  • Missing tooth (“It was five against one. I held them off as long as I could so my ex [Sarah] could run for safety.”)
  • Bite marks in the shape of a great white shark’s jaws (“I punched the damn thing in the nose and fought it off, but not before he took a good chunk outta me.”)
  • Decapitation (If you can pull this off you are a bigger alpha than I.)

Scar game is a subject in which I have intimate knowledge. You see, I have a secret — most of my life I have carried with me a facial scar. I don’t talk about it much because… the memory is too painful… the wound… too deep…

 

Even now, years later, it’s hard for me to confront the horrible past that gave me this scar as a permanent symbol of my suffering. But the time is right for closure… (deep breath)… It’s a scar from when I was stricken with chicken pox at the age of 9.

Mmm, I can smell your pussy juices from here, ladies. The line starts at the left.

Sick Game

I’ve stumbled (literally) across a school of game that is even more effective than hangover game: Sick game.

I met up with a buddy at a bar even though I was deep under the influence of a viral load. Cabin fever and the call of the wild coaxed me off my sofa. I warned him ahead of time that I would be absent as a wingman that night.

Coughing, sniffling, and hacking up loogies on the walk over, I dragged myself up to the roof deck and propped myself against the bar, or rather, leaned heavily against the bar to support my weakened body. Three girls situated themselves nearby. Even in my fuzzy mental state I knew a proximity indicator of interest when I saw one.

One of the girls was decent looking, but naturally I was in no mood to attempt her seduction. I just wanted to take in the spectacle, sip my ginger ale, and infect everyone with my contagious joy. But this girl moved closer and it would have been criminal of me to deny her the satisfaction of a proper gaming. So I opened her. Angrily.

“So what’s your deal?”

“My deal? This is my first time at this place.”

“Are those your friends over there?”

“Yes.” She waved at them and they wanly smiled back.

I growled. “Just make sure they don’t cockblock. I need space to sweep you off your feet.”

The seduction continued for fifteen minutes. My body language was… aloof. Sickly aloof. I don’t think I turned my head more than once to give her a sidelong glance. My mouth hung open taking in oxygen. My eyes were watery. My voice sounded muffled ricocheting off my phlegmy sinuses. I barely spoke, prefering to nod or give one word answers when she asked me questions. I didn’t smile once, not even when she tried to be funny. When she laughed, I didn’t laugh with her. When she thrust her impressive bosom in my face, I didn’t take notice. More than a few times I interrupted her conversation by coughing loudly into my hand. I allowed long, uncomfortable silences to linger when she ran out of things to say. Invariably, she would be the one to fumble frenetically for a topic to restart the conversation.

And after fifteen minutes? I number closed her. More precisely, I opened my phone and she grabbed it and punched in her number before I could even finish asking her for it.

Women are always saying they want men to “be themselves”. They want sincerity and candor. Well, nothing brings out the sincerity like sickness. I was truly “being myself”, my glorious, uncaring, indifferent, asshole self. And that’s the man that women love.

The Woman Source

I’ve found day game nirvana. The Paper Source, on M Street in Georgetown, is swimming in snapper. Swimming, Jerry! I couldn’t believe the wall to wall babes in this place, browsing, of all things, paper and paper accessories.

As one Yelp reviewer wrote:

What is it about women and stationary? If a girl ever looked at me with the same look of anticipation, excitement, longing, and joy that you see on the faces of the many ladies walking into this store, I think my heart would explode.

Gentlemen pay attention, should you ever have the urge to be surrounded by a crowd of attractive, giddy women head over to this store on a Saturday afternoon. Loudly announce to the clerk that you would really love some “letter pressed personalized stationary” and whether there is a large selection of styles you can patiently browse through.  Women standing around you will raise one eyebrow appreciatively and check you out.

I have been dragged here a couple of times over the years. What can I say; It sells paper. In a bewildering amount of sizes and functions.  This store proves that women are just more thoughtful and caring then us guys, for they sell a cute little card for every possible occasion.  There is an upstairs, but before having to go up there to see what it was about, I was able to negotiate an early exit from the store by promising to buy the girl I was with dinner; there may be a bar and dumpling store up there for all I know.  Point being, if you come here with your girlfriend, you will have to drag her out kicking and screaming. And probably drop at least $20 on paper. Otherwise, Mie n Yu is close by so you can pop over there for some drinks and wait it out.  

I really could care less about stationery, but because women love this store, and I love women, I dedicate 4 stars on their behalf.

I went upstairs. There was a $112 photo album in a bin. (Photos not included.) Was it laminated in gold leaf? I couldn’t tell. The man-cession deepens while the frivolous woman economy rolls on. For now. Helpful tip: Two floors means consecutive number closes mere yards apart are possible.

Why do women love froo froo stationery? I know why.

  1. Paper is lightweight. Women are lightweight.
  2. Paper is insubstantial. Women are insubstantial.
  3. Paper is a medium upon which trivial thoughts are transcribed. Women are a medium from which trivial thoughts issue.
  4. Paper comes in many soft pastel colors. Women can identify more soft pastel colors than men.
  5. Paper contains an element of danger (paper cuts). Women tingle in the gina region for hidden danger.
  6. Hand-written love notes on high gauge paper harken back to a romantic era. Women love fantasizing about long-gone romantic eras when raw sewage would run freely down cobblestone streets.
  7. Personalized lace-fringed paper, calligraphy, and wax seals show you care. Except that you shouldn’t show you care. Because chicks will ignore you if you show you care. Which is why chicks love things that show you care. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

So there you have it. A day game den of estrogen situated in the heart of a day game neighborhood. Bonus day game locale: City Bikes in Adams Morgan. Chicks dig the fixed gear.

Herb Attack!

First there was this. Then this herb poked his fat head up from his burrow. Then a magnificent specimen of herb was spotted on the concrete plains of a SWPL savannah. Suddenly herbs started springing up everywhere, wearing frontal papooses, inexplicably carrying satchels into nightclubs, and laying their bulbous heads in the laps of girlfriends to be stroked like a pet cat. But none of these squishy shuffling beasts in khaki could inspire the kind of awe, and gag reflex, that the latest discovery has provoked among the world’s top anthropological researchers. Behold… the Mother of All Herbs… the UBER HERB:

herblovesasian

When I first saw this pic, I thought… Will Wilkinson! I mean, just look at their relationship exactness and complementarity. But no, I have been informed that Will does not have an Asian girlfriend. Then I thought… Hope! White and nerdy boyfriend? Check. Wearing healing crystals of Buddharrific transcendence? Nope, not Hope.

A close examination of this blurry photo reveals the embodiment of herbitude – perfect in presentation, flawless in composure, virtuous in cross-legged effeminacy, he is the archetype of the schlumpy herb whose feeble beta posturings are thrown into stark relief (fortuitously for the ninja photographer who risked his serum testosterone level to capture this herb on film) by the annoyed girlfriend stiffly rebuffing his tender ministrations.

The reader who sent this in provides the backstory:

Red Line, Wednesday evening.

This guy was so obviously beta he might as well have had a neon sign on him. He kept looking at her, smiling occasionally. He put his arm around her. He touched her leg the way some shy teenage boy might. He did the talking. He leaned into her. She might as well have been sitting next to a stranger. Her arms were crossed the whole time. Checking BlackBerry. No emotion on her face. When they got up, she got up first, and led the way. She wasn’t even cute; 4-5 at best. The thing was…they were married.

Married! This is what an equalist concept of relationships earns a man — crossed arms and clamped pussies. And this schmendrick looks so shit-eating happy to surrender any shred of manly dominance. I could carve a better man out of a purple saguaro.

OK, you say, instead of pointing and laughing how about some solutions to help this guy? Hey, I aim to please.

I’d begin with the easiest and quickest improvements and work my way up to the more difficult herb-cleansing tasks.

First, style and presentation.

  • I’d have him shave his head. If you’ve got hair like that it’s the only way to go. If his wife protests, even better.
  • NO GODDAMN KHAKI. Ever. Only guys who already possess an understanding of style should attempt khaki. Not herbs wearing high waters.
  • Unbotton the top button on his shirt.
  • Even though this photo is blurry, I can tell his shoes suck. New shoes.
  • Glasses dropped for contacts. Or at least more fashionable eyewear.
  • Perhaps a soul patch to add a hint of edginess. Or a hint of “I’m not a doormat, really.”
  • Tanning booth.
  • Gym membership. Of course, he’d probably gravitate to the treadmill or hip abductor machine. I’d make sure he found his way to the heavy iron.

Next, body language.

  • Uncross your legs, nancyboy. Old men and fruitcups sit like that. Spread em and display the goods. An alpha male loves the thought of impolitely shoving the contours of his mighty package into the viewing angle of scandalized Metro riders.
  • Lean *away from*, not *into*, your woman. A healthy relationship always features the girl cozying up to the man. Egalitarian libertarians like Will Wilkinson who live and breathe in the world of abstraction will never understand this, but women WANT their men to be dominant, despite their claims to the contrary. They WANT to be the ones leaning into him.
  • Stop smiling like an idiot at your girl, especially when she’s not returning your joy. Do you know what your face says? “Oh, I’m wetting myself that I have YOU, my precious flower. Thank you, Asian girlfriend, for blessing me with the exquisite pleasure of your company and tightness of your Oriental vagina. This love we share… wait… excuse me, getting a little choked up… a lone tear pregnant with possibility shouts my love for you. PS You are permitted to walk all over me.”

Finally, we’d move on to LTR game.

  • I’d tell him to pay attention to his wife’s behaviors, and stop feeding her revulsion with counterproductive betaness. So, when wifey folds her arms, scowls, refuses to touch you IN PUBLIC, and generally acts like a bitch, you STOP, DROP, and ROLL the fuck off from her. Pawing at her like a needy puppy isn’t going to help. You know what would help? Flirting with another woman in front of her.
  • Once you’ve figured out how to read your wife’s “you disgust me” body language, you will be tempted in all your glorious betaness to inquire “What’s the matter, honey?”. Resist this urge. You would only be digging the hole deeper.
  • Hey, guess what, it’s OK to tease your wife for being a bitch. “Try not to look so happy, babe. I’m just a man, not a god.”
  • When your marriage is this arid, it’s a good idea to disappear for a week. When you return, act like nothing is wrong.
  • Lead, don’t follow, and don’t “complement”. Your wife wants to step in place behind you, not next to you and not in front of you; stop denying her this fulfillment.
  • Read this blog for relationship game. It may be the only thing that can save you from a brutal divorce theft ass raping.

As I’ve written before, the Asian woman is a white beta male’s dream. Asian girls are guided less by their primitive gina tingles than women of other races, and are more susceptible to the herbly charms of the provider beta, as long as the provider beta in question is a white dude. The white beta male can wallow like a pig-shaped puffed pastry in his desperate, needy, cloying betaness with the Asian girlfriend without worrying so much that she’ll dump him for the nearest bartender. The white beta male would have to settle for a fat white chick to enjoy the same treatment.

But when you’ve become a caricature of a herb, and so beta that your Asian wife is repulsed by you and showing it in public, you’ve got serious problems. You’re one short step down to omegatude and midnight masturbation marathons to Caucasian-eyed anime.

Safeway Siren

Standing in the mixed nuts section of Safeway, a blur of blonde caught my peripheral vision. Turning, I saw a gorgeous girl following a middle-aged man around the fruit bins. She looked about 18 years old, at the peak of her womanly ripeness. She was wearing velvet athletic shorts so small that the underside of her ass barely poked through the bottom, a divine demarcation between legs and buttocks. Her breasts were perfection — round, firm C cups that pulled her t-shirt taut. She walked with the bouncy, playful, slightly self-conscious gait of a younger girl swathed in the fleshy encumbrances of an older developed woman. She was a solid 9.

The man was pasty, dumpy, 45-ish, and smiling like a goof; a very happy herb, indeed. His body language was animated and he talked rapidly, cheerfully. Something about this duo was peculiar. This wasn’t a father-daughter team. I gathered my nuts and left the two behind. We rendezvoused again in aisle 9, next to the sardines and canned tuna. This time, the girl glanced at me with big eyes and parted lips, and if it wasn’t a trick of store lighting, her face blushed a pink hue. I matched her glance while the herb continued chattering in her ear, oblivious to our silent flirtation.

I lingered a bit around them to gather valuable information. She had an accent. She looked northern european; I suspected she was Dane or Norwegian, perhaps of Baltic descent. She had a limited grasp of English and, presumably, American culture, as the herb, who looked like he was about to die of a heart attack from swelling happiness, spent a lot of time slowly explaining the foodstuffs for sale and the pricing convention to her.

It didn’t take long for me to assess the situation; she was either an au pair or a foreign exchange student and the herb was the host family herbiarch. This was the most likely scenario. The three of us passed each other a few more times in aisles 7, 4 and 1. Each time she met my eyes with tender, yearning lust.

What grabbed my attention wasn’t so much that an au pair was flirting with me, but the behavior of the herb. I’ve never seen a more joyous middle-aged man. He was practically skipping down the aisles, his gums flapping a million miles an hour, his jowly cheeks inflamed a crimson hue, his voice a confident baritone of manly vigor. This was a man who clearly felt infused with new life. The physically close company of this young woman, who it should be noted smiled warmly at the herb and listened attentively when he spoke, shaved 20 years of age off his life. No windfall of riches, no business success, no winning home sports team can inspirit a man as vitally as a young, pretty woman in his thrall.

Naturally, the herb imagined more thrall than there was, if his au pair’s surreptitious flirting with me was any indication. But picture the likely contours of this herb’s life: A fat and dumpy sow wife, ingrate kids, crippling mortgage on an oversized house, sensible sedan, shit job, depressing neighbors, and a gloomy sunken aging face that young American women no longer seriously entertain with their flirtations staring back at him apathetically in the mirror every morning. One can understand why a herb of this caliber would spring to life inhaling the meagerest estrogenic perfumes of an 18 year old vixen.

At the cash register, herb and hottie rolled up behind me. As I placed my selection of delicious fruits and almond butter on the conveyor the girl nervously fidgeted with her shirt and peered down at her feet. A wave of shyness contorted her face and body. She pulled out a pack of gum which she fumbled and dropped to the floor. It landed on my shoe, so I bent over and retrieved it for her, never letting my eyes waver from hers. The herb must have noticed this change in her countenance because he stopped chattering about the great items one can find in an American supermarket and took his first look at me. Perhaps he pieced it together, but probably not. I smiled at them both and left the store.

My future. It won’t be that herb’s. Hookers, game and, if need be, expatriation to cash in on my Americanness with a much younger loving, sexy East European or South Asian woman. Anything less would be… uncivilized.

Email #1: “It’s a part of my rock and roll fantasy”

 I absolutely love your blog. I have a question that maybe you can answer, but first let me point out, I am currently a corporate slave.
My question is, what is the best type of job to have to allow one to go out from 10-2 a.m. four days a week? I work a 8:30-5 job like most hacks, and am not able to do to stay out those hours and function at work; so, I usually go home at 11. Lame huh?
I don’t want to be a bartender because of the pay, and the fact that I like to go to 2-3 bars in a given night–I would not want to be confined to a single bar. Being a rock and roll musician can get one a lot of tale, but there are only a few that reach the level where they can have a comfortable life. I have thought about possibly becoming a realtor because then I could sleep in until 11, which would allow me to pursue fresh game until 2-3 a.m., since I could set my own work schedule. Other self-employment ideas would allow that as well, I just cannot think of other ideas.
Being on tv or radio can get one laid because it allows for fame; however, I find these options unrealistic because of the few slots open and all the competition.
(As a side-note, I have been considering setting up a nude photography business to attract girls which will do just about anything (note: not hardcore)).

In the culture,

S.

Any kind of job involving international travel, embassies, and diplomats should score you tons of poon. Bonus points if you can’t talk about your job in detail. Forget the 10-2 a.m. target acquisition window; that’s limited thinking. Your hunting grounds are everywhere and all the time. Going home at 11 p.m. is a non-issue. You should be doing most of your womanizing before 11 anyhow, when you aren’t competing with the late night sausage hordes.

International stays in a corporate or governmental context automatically give you a massive DHV inasmuch as you will be seen as the “expert from afar” or the exotic “other”.

Learn a language or two. Knowing how to speak the native tongue of your preferred foreign hottie is worth $50K in pickup workshops. I suggest Russian and Czech.

Some corporate careers are better than others at infusing you with a PUA attitude. Publishing, corporate law partnership, and Hill lobbyist come to mind. Real estate is good, too, because it puts you in contact with lots of gina tingly housewives and single yuppie lawyer cunts.

By the way, some bartenders in DC make very good money. I know one who just bought a $400K condo with his fiancee.

Setting up a photography studio in your home is gold. Try to get a side job freelancing for a local rag. Submit your photos to art shows. Put ads on craigslist seeking models to pose for “avant-garde Parisian photographer in the US for a major gallery exhibit.” Never underestimate the vanity or the gullibility of America’s urban sluts.

Email #2: “Cause she’s cold-blooded, check it and see”

LMR ever?

The other night I had this 18yo on the back of my car, we had made out a few time. She was naked on the back seat with her legs spread open and her back against the window, I was naked and had just put a condom on, and just when I my dick touched her pussy and I was finding her glourious hole she said ‘Not gonna happen’ to which I replied ‘Well, it is happening’.
She then got dressed, said something to the effect of ‘I lost my virginity 2 nights ago (other guy not me) and im not gonna do it in the back of a car’ and I kept my usual aloofness but inside I was confused as hell.
WTF happened and wtf did I do wrong? Was it just LMR and I didn’t know how to get through it?

V.

Your retort was unacceptable. “Well, it is happening” forced the issue on her. You boxed her in, so no wonder she clamped up. A better response would have been to keep your cool, get dressed, and drive her home silently. She would have gotten confused and asked what was up, at which point you would say “I have to get up early.”

Look, dude, you’re dealing with a Class A skank whore. She lost her virginity two nights ago (if she’s telling the truth) to another dude and now she’s in the car fooling around with you. Chicks like this are master manipulators of male egos. They love the validation they get from hard cocks being pushed up in their faces, and then they power trip by denying those cocks sweet release. You need to play advanced aloof and indifferent game with these types. They are what are known as “primative women” and won’t respond to anything but glorious asshole game.

Email #3: “Edwina Scissorlegs”

Been reading your blog. Not gonna comment on some of your philosophy, but 99% of your tips seem right on.

I’ve been dating typical dykes for a while, which is getting boring. Straight girls seem hotter, more femme, and easier to just fuck for a while without having to move in on the second date. (I’m not even gonna talk about the bi ones.)

What’s your take on chicks who want to pick up other chicks? Any special tips for us butch bitches looking to break down the great straight barrier?

T. (woman’s name)

99%? Damn, I must be losing my edge. My take on lez chicks picking up straight chicks: Probably not much different than dudes picking up chicks. Not that I have much experience as a lesbian picking up chicks, but I’d imagine that whatever turns on a straight girl isn’t going to be much different depending on whether the game is coming from a lesbian suitor or a male suitor. In other words, if you’re a needy, desperate, cloying, awkward, ugly beta lesbian you’ll do about as well as a beta male. One exception might be that a straight girl contemplating sexual delights with another woman would be likely to emphasize the looks of her female suitor and de-emphasize her suitor’s social status. Why do I say this? Because in my observation, every experimental female bisexual couple I’ve known were hot, while the true blue dedicated lesbian couples I see around town all the time are usually quite ugly and mannish. My conclusion is that full-time lesbians are less concerned about looks in a long term partner (and in themselves). They probably respond well to 100% rapport game. So my advice for picking up bicurious babes is to make yourself look as good as possible, wear something trendily sexy (but not slutty), and give the girl a few sincere compliments about her style or the way she carries herself. Try to isolate her away from her friends as soon as possible, and spend a good hour or two in a dark lounge having deep profound conversation on a vinyl sofa.

In related news you can use, what is the ratio of gay men to lesbians in Dupont Circle and Logan Circle? It’s gotta be 50 to 1.

Email #4: “Get in now! Only a few spots left!”

I found your blog on the advice of a very smart guy.  I read up on Game several years ago w/ the usual suspects, Mystery, Strauss, DeAngelo.  Have definitely lost my way over the years as I become more obsessed with new things (mostly poker and some career related projects).  Your blog is the best I’ve seen, and has really reinvigorated my belief in the benefits of it.  I’ll cut to the chase, I am a big believer in professional services, I’ve hired people to teach me lots of things.  I haven’t really seen a business component to your site but am inquiring if you offer customized analysis beyond the blog.

Regards,

N.

I’ve gotten a few emails like this guy’s lately. While I’m flattered, I doubt I will be offering any professional services, for a couple of reasons. One, while I’m quite good at observing flaws in a man’s game and general presentation, and giving him advice on what to fix, I’m a lackadaisical motivator. I don’t have it in me to “push you into sets” or “pump up your state”. Two, there a lot of businesses out there that provide pickup tutelage, game theory, and style advice. Some are good, some not so good. My impression is that the market for these services is currently saturated.

But I might consider doing one-on-one personal consultations for a small fee, or a beer, or maybe even free of charge, just for fun. I think I would get a kick out of helping a guy get positive reactions from women.

PS: Unless you are making beaucoup bucks off it, or you only play occasionally for fun, drop the poker. It’s a pointless timesuck. It’s World of Warcraft minus an avatar.

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