8 Dec, 7pm: It was Saturday evening. And up until that point I hadn’t had the most proactive, or uplifting, week of daygame:
- I’d been nursing a cold since Tuesday, which involved heading straight home after work each day and lying low, eating vegetables and fruit
- I’d been questioning life, the Universe, and everything. Or, more specifically, the player lifestyle I’d chosen. When I haven’t approached for a while I go into “chode-mode”. So I’d been reminding myself about the benefits of monogamy to society, and contemplating how Tinder- and hookup-culture was tarnishing the world that my grandparents had created. I had more questions than answers
- …On top of that I was feeling very sorry for myself having just broken my 95-day no-fap streak  the day before
But it was a Saturday evening, I had no plans, and the rain had stopped. And screw my doubts: I’d gone this far down the rabbit hole, no turning back now. I’d long since chosen to “turn pro” . Time to put myself out there and give myself a chance of getting laid! I thought to myself. Or at least: time to find a cheeky girl for an insta-date.
As is always the case when I leave my flat, my room is prepped and ready for the possibility of a pull. They say to begin with the end in mind, and as usual I’ve made sure to make my bed look presentable, with no visible bodily fluid stains in sight. I’ve also put a condom under my pillow, I’ve set up my music playlist, and I’ve hidden anything incriminating (!).
Soon after getting to Tottenham Court Road, I have two very short sets where each girl is obviously not digging me (re-framed “warm-up sets” of course). Even this minimal human interaction puts me into a more social vibe and open to the possibility of spending an extended period of time with a girl. I try to cultivate the Tony Hustle mindset of finding a target for an idate. I listen to the most feel-good and the most rakish songs I can think of , and try to NLP-myself into a sexual vibe.
I walk down Charing Cross Road and arrive at Leicester Square at 8pm. It’s heaving with people–as expected for a Saturday evening. I turn past the Hippodrome Casino and onto the Square itself. Almost straightaway there appears a rarity for a Saturday evening. Through the crowds of families and street performers, a long-legged redhead is walking along by herself, and smiling. She’s slim, she has red hair, and she’s bopping her head up and down listening to something on her headphones. She’s generally looking pretty damn happy with her deal in life.
She passes walking in the opposite direction to me, across the crowd. I do an about-turn and catch up.
She spins around enthusiastically, and roots her soles to the ground. She beams a wide smile. Very warm reception.
I continue: “Hey. You look like…[blah de blah; observational assumption stack]”.
I keep it light, mostly indirect, and try not to give much power away. She’s excitable and straight away shoots off on a conversational tangent. She’s rambling away in a jolly Irish accent, using any word as a pivot to associate off.
I slow down her chattering and figure out what her situation is. Turns out she’s just been out for a drink with some old girl friends in Soho, and was heading to catch the Tube home for an early night.
Then after some light vibing and banter, I qualify:
“You seem kinda fun. You’re not a serial killer are you?”
Her: “Hehe, no.” Then: “Umm…I’ve never done this before, but… do you wanna go for a drink?”
I pretend to weigh up my options for a bit. Then, casually: “We could grab a drink I guess. As long as you promise you’re not going to murder me”
Her: “C’mon let’s go!”
Me: “Ok, fuck it. Let’s do it.”
We go to The Garrick Arms, which she immediately and inexplicably suggests as a venue. I think wow, she’s got good game: she’s got logistics sorted, she’s problem solving, and she’s pretty much doing the leading. In fact, a running theme throughout this encounter is that she is sharing a lot of the workload with me. What a girl!
We banter at the bar, we get drinks, and we hover around waiting for a table to vacate. She’s very easy to vibe with: she’s Irish, chatty, and even a bit ditzy. She’s confident but also a typical sciencey over-thinker who focuses too much on her inner monologue and doesn’t yet fully realise her SMV value. Also importantly: she hasn’t yet been spoiled by London–she’s a recent pharmacology graduate who is relatively new to the city.
We sit in a corner when a space frees up, and we naturally settle into the questions game. She seems very open-minded, she’s qualifying on being an independent-thinker, and she’s not afraid of sexual topics. To guide her on what I’m looking for in a girl, I tell stories-with-a-purpose, which is something I’ve really improved on in the past two months. I used to be terrible and uncertain in my delivery but now I’m giving three-minute-long monologues that paint me in a good light and also convey my frame. Todd says that storytelling is one of the best ways to simultaneously build both attraction and comfort. From what I’ve field-tested, I’d have to agree.
One problem I do have throughout the evening is I just can’t stop farting!!! I’ve been eating so many vegetables and fibre lately that I can barely control my arse! When she goes to the bar to get the second round of drinks I use it as an excuse to let rip. For the first time in 40 mins, I’m able to unclench my arse cheeks and relax into the seat. The people on neighbouring tables are deep into their alcohol-fuelled nights and don’t seem to notice my anti-social odours.
As round two of drinks is closing, things are moving smoothly. She’s been compliant with the few light kino moves I’ve made, which, alongside the sexual conversational flow means I don’t need to take any big risks. At one point she even remarks “let’s pretend to be husband and wife for one night hehe!” I can’t believe my luck with this girl and suppress a laugh. She’s really taking the reins!
We’ve got a few sips of our drinks left and I deliver my recently-developed bounce-back monologue. This is where I rationalise why we should leave this place and slowly list out our options for where to go next, whilst gauging from her reactions whether any of the options are red flags. When I hit upon “I guess I could show you my favourite pub in Angel since it’s awesome and you haven’t been to that neighbourhood before”, she doesn’t object. And so we’re soon sliding our chairs back, assembling our belongings, and leaving for the Tube.
One interesting point of note is that en route to the Tube she seems to have the final inner battle with herself right there–of whether or not she’ll sleep with me. I’ve seen before this a few times at this early stage with a girl. In her case she was visibly excited and nervous, before finally deciding to cross the Rubicon: “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I don’t normally do this sort of thing at all!” She was already emotionally invested, and now it seemed she had logically decided too. This reaction, and the forward-planning from her forebrain, seemed excessive otherwise, given that all we’d really agreed to is a round of drinks in a different pub, but at Angel.
We jump on the Tube at Leicester Square, and head up the Charing Cross branch of the Northern Line, before changing for the Bank branch Southbound to Angel. It’s a carefree and light-hearted Tube journey and I feel relaxed. Even if I don’t get laid, I’m heading in the direction of home!
We arrive in Angel at 10.30pm and I decide to dot my i’s and cross my t’s by taking her to the pub in Angel anyway, even though I don’t think she would object over going straight back to mine. It’s 10.30pm and my first-choice pub has closed for the night. The backup pub is literally right across the road from mine. It’s not ideal: it has very sobering lighting and is an “old man” pub (this is in fact my bogie pub–I had three consecutive LMRs/bounce-back-fails from here this year). But I decide we’ll go in anyway. We take a quick drink and then, as the pub is closing, we head back to mine under the premise of “another drink at mine”.
I don’t rush things back at mine or do anything out of the blue. In fact, she is the one to suggest removing her shoes and she is the one to ask for lower lighting in the bedroom (great! I always feel it’s too cliché and obvious when I dim the lights).
Apparently she loves my music and recently saw the artist at a gig. Serendipity overdrive. I can’t do any wrong in her eyes and there’s no LMR as we naturally recline onto the bed. The sex is kinda average , but boom! a +1 and an Irish flag. The downside is that it’s the land of the nod for her soon after she’s satisfied, and for once I decide to let the girl stay over. Which means no sleep for me and a grumpy following-day.
But definitely a lay worth heading out for on an otherwise stale Saturday night.
 This streak had been no small feat for me–by far the longest stretch I’d gone since I first started fapping in my early teenage years.
 A reference to The War on Art–a great book, which Krauser reviewed in a recent post.
 These include Boney M – Rasputin and other songs with sexually-deviant-esque lyrics.
 She didn’t really let go physically, and she seemed to have one of those intense-but-not-physcially-trembling orgasms, where it’s more mental and then afterwards she’s spent. Well, either that or she was faking it!