LR: Rewind: My First Daygame Lay

I’ve been working some tiring hours this week. And with it being cold and rainy outside, I’ve been heading home straight afterwards. Sounds boring, right? Well, yes and no. This has given me the perfect opportunity to hole up and type up the LR of my first ever daygame lay. After all, momentous occasions such as these shouldn’t go unreported. Right, let’s go!

11 May 2018

Rewind back to earlier this year in Spring. Back when the sun was still making appearances and nighttime didn’t fall at 4.30pm. It was Friday evening and I’d just met my buddy outside his office in the City. The days were really lengthening now, and so we leisurely strolled in to central London, shooting the shit and looking to open any girls that took our fancy.

For the first time since I started daygaming I didn’t feel nervous travelling in to central London. After spending two weeks finding my daygame groove, I’d finally found some consistency. I’d done 40 sets in the last seven days–I’d finally caught the bug and was hitting the streets with regularity.

In addition to that, just the night before (on the Thursday) I’d been on a date with a legit 8.5. I’m pretty sure she’s the hottest girl I’ve ever been on a date with, even to this day. How my newbie daygame ability ever got her out, I’ll never know! Even though she didn’t accept the bounce-back to mine after two venues, I was still feeling pretty abundant.

Back to the Friday itself with my wing, and we’ve pretty much reached the end of Carnaby street now, opening one or two sets each up to this point. We’re now outside Pret a Manger. All of a sudden, to my right I spy a studenty-looking girl, wearing a black leather jacket and black skinny jeans, complete with black backpack. She’s a brunette and she’s a few inches shorter than me. I cut-off what I’m saying to my wing, spin around and front-stop her [1] before she can get away. I deliver my opener, directly and confidently, James Tusk-style (at least in my head it was).

Just add a daygamer, and tourist-with-backpack

She’s initially overwhelmed, but boy! is she holding eye contact well. Grinning and with eyes lit-up, she looks very in-the-moment and she gives every indication that talking to strangers is normal for her: a daygamer’s dream. She hits me with a sexy Spanish accent, and I vibe off that with some standard stacking and assumption-making. She seems content standing there with me, in the middle of Carnaby Street, with the busy Friday evening crowd passing by.

As I learn more about her, I imagine she would have been the hot alternative girl at college, who didn’t have many girl friends and instead hung out with the skater boys. I become more badass and ramp up the sub-communications. She seems unperturbed by my proximity and sexual undertones. She accepts the minor compliance of me moving in, and she’s holding my lusting eye contact.

Another minute together and she opens up verbally. This includes her becoming quite testy, which makes sense when I discover she’s a student lawyer, studying back in Spain. I also find out she’s only 20; she doesn’t bother asking my age. A promising sign. She goes on to explain that she’s been in London for a few days while on a break from uni. She decided to travel solo and explore London. Right now she’s going to attempt to find a place to eat in Chinatown, but apart from that doesn’t have any plans. Ding ding ding!!

At this point in the set, every man and his dog knows what to do: just stay with her, preferably leading, and then just don’t fuck up! Unfortunately, during the newbie stage of my daygame journey, I had success barriers, and would inexplicably make things hard for myself. So instead of doing the right thing, I take the easy way out: I number-close her and go back to my wing, even describing to him how “on” she seemed, but that “I didn’t want to join her for dinner in Chinatown“. DURRRRRR!!!! [2] I look back at this error now and hang my head in shame. “But I was just trying to get the sets in! I didn’t want to eat with her” I rationalised to myself afterwards. Damn, I must be gay or something… 

Four good-energy sets later, and I find myself sat in Subway at Charing Cross with my wing, trying not to make eye contact with him as he’s chomping away on a footlong. I begin to scroll through my WhatsApp contacts, searching for the two new numbers I’ve collected this evening. Up to this point I’m pretty much settled on making my way home, lying in bed, and reading, possibly with some Pornhub first. Then I locate the Spanish student lawyer in my contacts list. I see a small thumbnail pic and I have to do a double take. Wait…that can’t be… I view it full size. And my eyes nearly pop out.

It seems the corny black ninja line can work!

Well well well… what doooo we have here? There’s an awful lot of flesh showing in her profile pic. I’m taken aback. On one hand I’m immediately very horny, but on the other I’m thinking very logically through the social consequences of having this type of a profile pic: is her father on WhatsApp–can he see this picture? Is her grandma on WhatsApp? I show my wing, who first looks down at the picture, then up, and then back down again. We turn our heads towards each other and lock eyes in silence. My wing rests his eyelids and nods to me. I understand. And so I take my phone, and I begin typing a message. So many green lights from this girl already. I’ve really had the blinders on here. Can I claw my way back from the Island of Ignorance? Well, I have to at least try. And now. No more waiting. I also recall her saying in the set that she was leaving tomorrow. Why are you only realising the significance of this now?? Wake up FFS Jamie!! After pressing Send I sit there stewing, kicking myself for not manning up and idating her, while my wing teases relentlessly. Shit. Opportunities like this don’t come around every day. And this is an opportunity that has surely gone now.

Less than 15 minutes later I see a double message preview in my notifications:

“Im like”

“Super lost”

I read it outside of the app on my notifications screen. A smile slowly creeps across my lips. Back in the game…perhaps? I decide to wait a few mins before replying. Not too eager-beaver, now, Jamie. Then, before I get the chance to reply, she sends another:

“Nice to meet you too”

Soon after this one, I reply, attempting to find out where in the city she is on a buzzing Friday night. When she replies “Waterloo Station“, I realise she’s just the other side of the Thames from me, only two Tube stops away. Bingo. My wing prompts me to call her for efficiency. I go for it, but the signal is poor and all I can hear is a muffled voice on the other end.

I realise the window of opportunity has reopened, but it likely won’t remain that way for long. At this point I try to encourage her via WhatsApp to come to me at Charing Cross. There follows a very confused back-and-forth. She’s messaging in a frenzy and soon sucker-punches me with “I have to go to hostel“. At this point I open up the profile picture again. Not only the raw sexuality of her naked flesh, but also the fact that she’s willing to overstep social boundaries and post this picture for the world to see, spurs me on to pursue her and to not give up. I decide to travel to her. And immediately. This is my only chance. My wing wishes me good luck, and I start to move. To make sure I don’t lose Internet/4G connection, I decide to run across the Golden Jubilee footbridge to Waterloo. No Tube for this dashing Romeo, how romantic! [3]

I was frantically running across Golden Jubilee Bridge typing some of this

At Waterloo, she’s waiting for me under the giant clock in the middle, as requested. I’m out of breath and hardly bother hiding it–all that matters to me right now is that I’ve found her. She’s smiling but she seems in a bit of a state. I treat it like a re-approach, reminding myself that these things are never smooth, and I do the lion’s share of the talking.

Soon she’s at ease again, appearing more comfortable. And I’ve caught my breath. But we’re still stood under the clock in the middle of the concourse. And I still haven’t formulated a gameplan. Soon I’m forced to though, as she prompts: “So where are we going?” Her hostel is in Greenwich and I’m staying in a box room in a council estate flat in Shadwell. She’s mentioned about having to go back to her hostel to pack her bag a few times now. The good news is that Shadwell and Greenwich look close to each another on the Tube map. Both are on the DLR line. Given the green flags so far, and that she has to leave early in the morning, I decide on a Hail Mary:

“Since we’re both in South East London, let’s head in that direction for a drink. We can do my area or yours, but let’s do mine since it’s closer and it’s on the way anyway.”

The Waterloo & City line is still open and we first head to Bank, and then change for Shadwell on the DLR. In the train carriage she checks the tube map above my head to make sure I’m taking her to where I said I was. I casually ignore this and allow her to do her investigatory work. 

We get off at Shadwell DLR station and, with her appearing compliant and comfortable enough, I decide for the most direct strategy: straight back to mine. The pubs in the area are pretty dodgy, and on top of that I’m wearing a suit, which will make me stand out like a sore thumb. I grab wine from the corner shop, and am sure to be social with the chatty Bangladeshi guy behind the counter (I’ll take any opportunity to social-proof myself).

She’s still calm as we walk from the shop to my flat. My instincts appear to be on point so far: that a calibrated insta-pull can work with her. A few times I get the standard “How far is it?” and similar, but she’s not dragging her feet, and she’s keeping pace with me fine. During the walk back, through the forbidding back streets of East London, I reach for her hand and she accepts. These days I would be unlikely to hold hands en route during the pull, but looking back on the context (the dark, quiet streets in an unfamiliar neighbourhood), it may have actually been the “right move”.

Back at mine, a shared council estate flat in Shadwell, there’s a kitchen but no other communal rooms. In the kitchen I pour out two glasses wine. This turns out to be a pointless exercise as she decides to inform me (only at this point) that she doesn’t drink [4]. We then climb the stairs to my box room. Still no freaking out from her.

Up until this point, minus my initial errors of ejecting from the original set and also not messaging her sooner, it had been relatively smooth-sailing. I had her pegged as DTF and I really couldn’t believe my luck.  However, my fortunes were about to change.

Not your typical Venue One. My box room in Shadwell

In the close quarters of my room, which was barely wide enough to fit the small double bed in, we sit on the bed and she wriggles her bum to the opposite end and sits there cross-legged. I play music on my laptop, which helps the vibe, but unfortunately there’s no mood lighting–the main ceiling light is very bright and sobering. Okay, I can work with this I think. She’s just getting acquainted. Then comes something I can’t work with: she takes her phone out of her bag…and it’s blowing up with notifications.

Her face comes alive with excitement and she giggles away. She’s working through a backlog of 50-minutes-worth of missed messages and notifications. Every now and then she releases a shrill of laughter as something really tickles her. I had forgotten for a moment that she was a hot girl, who of course would have friends and wannabe lovers hitting her up on a Friday night.

She pays me minimal attention as she types messages, sends (and receives) voice notes (in Spanish), and watches her friends’ IG and Snapchat stories. Occasionally she fills me in with some small commentary about who the friend is and what is just so interesting about their conversation.

From what I could gather, I was dealing with three remote cockblocks:

  • her best girl friend–who was back in Spain. They were sending voice notes back-and-forth without delay, and my beginner Spanish told me they were discussing the-girl’s-and-my situation, as well as the-friend-and-her-boyfriend’s situation. Both of them found everything hilarious, tittering away in their voice notes.
  • an orbiter from Spain who she was messaging. She took great delight in telling me about him and how he had been pining over her.
  • a guy staying at her hostel in London who she’d met only that morning. He was messaging and trying to get her out. She told me that he was offering to pay for her taxi and club entrance. Shit! I desperately prayed he was a chode.

For one hour I had been feigning indifference and pretending to be busy on my laptop while engaging with her every now and then. Patience is usually a good Plan A in these situations, and I’d had plenty of experience playing waiting games before. Putting myself in her shoes, I figured she still wasn’t ready to give herself to me just yet–she had so much abundance at that moment and had been reaching astronomical levels of validation. She would surely want to hold on to the hot-girl-high for as possible.

One high-risk solution

A couple of times I tested the water, by gently sliding over, prodding her leg and teasing, or similar. Not much success with that though. She refused to comply with other minor requests, such as “come here, I want to see that” (*pats bed position for her to move to*). With each failed request my social capital fell. Also working against me was the lack of kino up till this point. She wasn’t a particularly touchy-feely person. She was very comfortable around me, but not so comfortable touching me. I didn’t have much of a launchpad to work off.

To get an alternative viewpoint in these kind of situations, I often ask myself: what would Derek do? I’ve met RSD Derek four times now, and he’s quite simply the frame master. Whatever he says, goes. He wouldn’t let a girl get away with this “disrespectful” behaviour, and she would know it. However, I wasn’t Derek. I was too invested. I could try to go nuclear on her, but I wanted this first daygame lay so badly. And so, perhaps predictably, I discounted the nuclear option!

Just as my patience was truly starting to wear thin (and I was considering throwing her phone out the window), she exclaimed to me that her best friend (the one she’d been sending voice notes to) had just just gone to bed. Hallelujah!! Praise the Lord! She acted mock-sad, and then all at once she diverted her attention back to me.

Eye contact was back. Full spoken sentences were back. And even some kino was back. We were sat closer together on the bed. After a little time I tested for the kiss. Playful tease rejection from her as she turns her head. Should have seen that one coming–too predictable Jamie! At this point I realise that two can play at this game, and with her phone now out of sight (and out of mind) I go into full seduction and tease mode. I move in for the ear. Whisper up close: “I just wanted to tell you a secret“. Nibble earlobe. Kiss the neck softly. Then bite it gently. I “drive-by” the lips and try to encourage her to escalate on me too. She’s definitely interested again and eventually we give up the game and kiss.

Soon after this, and with our time-since-entering-my-flat approaching three hours, the sexual tug-of-war is over, and I’m putting a condom on [5] before entering her. And at that point I realise that my first daygame lay is in the books. We only have one round–she’s not bothered about cumming and says she needs to get back to her hostel to pack her bag. I’m fine with that and order her an Uber. 

Uber driver’s game: “You’re beautiful”

As usual after any lay, I’m buzzing and replaying all the steps back in my mind. I write out a skeleton outline of a lay report (which became this post) and smile to myself. I was right to enjoy this one, because for the next month or so I was cursed with LMR!

Jamie.

[1] Undoubtedly at this stage my front-stop would’ve been jerky and uncalibrated. Even to this day, I haven’t mastered it.

[2] I really should have been punished for this mis-step. A simple-but-excellent nightgame rule is to just stay in set. However, it took me a while till I was applying it to daygame.

[3] Or desperate.

[4] No wonder she turned her nose up at the various alcohol options available at the corner shop.

[5] This little madam seemed more than happy to do it raw. But probably best to wrap up for this one, I thought.

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The Forgotten Girl, Part II: Date Roulette

Who are you again?

I often have trouble remembering new girls’ faces. It gets me into all sorts of trouble. Like when meeting for a first date in a busy place. Or when inadvertently re-approaching a girl in a club. Or when joining a girl at the hostel breakfast table, thinking she’s the girl I had sex with the night before (true story). And apparently I also find it difficult to remember who a girl is from her WhatsApp profile picture, when she messages out of the blue and I didn’t note down her name after the initial set.

In my previous post, I said I was 95% sure who my date was with this evening (Sunday). I knew her name, I knew I’d approached her two weeks earlier, and I knew that in her picture she really looked like the girl I thought (and hoped!) she was. Well, I was right to be only part-sure… because she turned out to be someone completely different! I ended up turning up to the date and meeting a different girl I’d also number-closed two weeks ago, and who I’d also completely forgotten about…

The date was originally scheduled for 4pm. It was now 4.30pm, and we were both behind schedule. I finesse the last-minute messaging and ensure I arrive two minutes after her. Rolling up to the meeting point, I always try to call the girl and get her on the phone. As I stroll up to find her, she gets to hear my voice. And I get to hear her voice…

And so it was at this point, 20 metres away from the Tube station, that I don’t hear an Irish fashion student’s voice on the other end of the phone at all. I suddenly hear a familiar South African girl’s voice answer the phone. My mind started to scramble. So who was this?? Fortunately my voice didn’t betray me as I continued walking and carrying the conversation to meet this currently-unknown, likely-South African girl. Then I saw her, holding the phone to her ear. Five-foot-four, curvy body but tight waist, big bright eyes, brunette hair, cheeks with dimples. Looking directly at me with a big, beaming smile as we continued talking on the phone. Very cute appearance.

Oh shit! It all came back to me in that moment. It was the smart-ass South African au pair living in South West London. I’d met her on the Strand, with Mr S watching from across the street. She’d had great verbal wit for a girl with limited life experience (she was only 19), but she seemed to follow the social norm a bit too much. She also wasn’t very compliant in the original set, and she had immediately labelled me as a player, as well as exhibiting K-selected traits and judgements [1].

But it appeared that perhaps I’d left more of an impression on her than I had initially thought. After all, she’d broken convention and had messaged me first, totally out of the blue. And she’d ventured out of her way to meet me in Angel. And she sure was looking chirpy this evening. Was this unlikely girl actually on?

I had my answer 30 seconds later. And unfortunately it wasn’t the answer I was hoping for.

“So I only have until 6pm and then I need to head to Wembley arena for a Christmas Carol concert.” Big expectant smile.

Me: “Errrm…okay.” Deadpan poker face.

Anyway, it was still a fun date–all dates are. And I’m sure there were some lessons I took from it. For one, I got to practise my under-escalate-and-disqualify strategy for when I know the lay isn’t on. I’ve sure messed up in the past, over-heating the girl and not focusing on the main goal: which is to set up strong foundations for a Day 3.

So after 90 minutes or so, we say our goodbyes at the station. At this point I’m not sure whether I want to see her again or not–on one hand she’s girly and attractive, but on the other I stick to my initial impression that she’d be a pain in the arse over many dates. Or maybe she’s seen enough of me anyway, and is ready to move on herself. But whatever the case, 30 seconds later I’ve put all this to the back of my mind and am busy opening a Colombian girl who has her legs on show in the pouring rain [2], for my fourteenth and final set of the week.

As a last remark, I was actually quite close to having this date filmed at very late notice. It didn’t happen though, which wasn’t the end of the world given the short duration of the date. But I would like to get an extended date on camera–I think the learning points would be massive [3]. Maybe next time… 

Jamie.

[1] It was probably these K-selected traits which put me off messaging her, because I certainly found her attractive. I’m pretty lazy at following up with leads when my gut tells me they won’t go anywhere.

[2] Coincidently, I ended up number-closing her at a bus stop just 20 seconds from where I’d previously met another Colombian girl four months ago. And with that one I went on to get my Colombian flag–a good omen!

[3] Plus I’d have a cool trophy if it were a sexcess.

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The Forgotten Girl

I hope it’s not too good to be true

I’m too relaxed with leads. I must’ve assumed that this one, a flirty set with a fashion student two weeks ago, was too high energy and that she would flake. That, or my poor memory was just cock-blocking me. Either way, I’m ashamed to say I didn’t follow up.

Anyway, she messaged me yesterday out of the blue. The DTF-o-meter rang out a shrill alarm. But first I had to do a deep dive into my memory to remember exactly who she was. I was 95% sure I knew, which was exciting because the girl was hot, young, and cheeky.

However, her asking to meet up last night was terrible timing. First, I’d arranged to meet ex-colleagues for our annual catch-up and Xmas meal, and, second, a regular was supposed to be popping over later for a booty call. The booty call was flakeable, but the Xmas meal wasn’t…

A true degenerate would’ve cleared his schedule whatever the plans, but apparently I still have some work to do in that department. Fortunately though, the Daygame Gods have given me another chance. I’ve set up what appears to be a decent opportunity for some Sunday seduction. So let’s see what tomorrow will bring.

Jamie.

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LR: Redhead Takes The Reins

Like this but dorkier–she didn’t know she was hot

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 [1] 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” [2]. 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 [3], and try to NLP-myself into a sexual vibe.

Imagine having Derren Brown to help put you into the right state

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.

’Scuse me

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”.

There’s such a thing as too good logistics; at least it seems that way for me. But this time I was looking to chalk up a rare victory for my bogey pub

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 [4], 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.

Jamie.

[1] 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.

[2] A reference to The War on Art–a great book, which Krauser reviewed in a recent post.

[3] These include Boney M – Rasputin and other songs with sexually-deviant-esque lyrics.

[4] 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!

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The Beginning, Part I: Daygame Avoidance

I’m obsessed. And have been for some time. By girls. By the sexual marketplace. By what girls respond to. By the guys who get the girls (no homo). By becoming more attractive in a girl’s eyes. By leading a girl to my loins. By it all.

I used to be pretty average with girls: kissing the odd girl in the playground at school. Losing my virginity at 17. Two LTRs: one in my uni years and one when I was 24. The occasional hook-up when on a boozy night out. But never getting with the hottest girls in the group. I was the leaf in the wind, and didn’t consider that I had much of a say in the girl department.

Then in 2011, at the I-should-know-better age of 26, and with a laycount of 10, I stumbled across The Game (I just checked my Amazon orders history to confirm the year – shit, time flies!). From there, I moved on to absorbing Heartiste and Krauser blogs religiously, learning the theory. When on boozy nights out with uni and college mates, I’d approach girls, and even convert a 6 or a 7 every now and then.

I still haven’t read The Power of Eye Contact

Throughout 2013 and 2014 I began to ramp up the approaches in clubs at weekends, albeit while still drinking. I began to see less of my non-game mates, and more of my PUA/game mates. I was binge-watching RSD vids (and anything else game-related), attending RSD HotSeats, FreeTours, and meeting other PUAs. Before I knew it, I was up to 50 notches without really breaking a sweat. But I still wasn’t having it away with the hotties–not by any stretch of the imagination.

Then came the game-changer (heh). Mid-2015 I moved into a two-bedroom flat in Zone 1 of London with a guy I’d met from the RSD Inner Circle London Facebook group–let’s call him Mr A. When I met Mr A, I was taken aback my his intensity. This was one serious-about-self-improvement Mofo. He was Tim Ferriss on heat. And he also liked to approach a lot of girls. Sober. Not only in the clubs either, but also… DURING THE DAY.

Anyway, to keep it brief for now [1], living with Mr A really made me step up my nightgame. My excuses and rationalisations had to take a back seat and–during the nighttime at least–I fully committed. I went from incidentally approaching five girls a night (booze-assisted), to proactively approaching about 20 while sober. It was a great year, and the nine lays from Vegas, Helsinki, and Stockholm trips took me to over 20 lays for the year that we were living together. Still no approaches in the daylight though.

Ok, I admit it. I miss nightgame.

As 2017 came to a close, I realised I had been consistently getting 15-20 new lays per year [2] through hitting the clubs at weekends. I’d even broken the century barrier. But something didn’t feel right… I still hadn’t scored a proper daygame lay.

So roll on Spring 2018, and I decided to commit. I burned the boats. No more clubs. Tinder wasn’t allowed either. I made a vow that I would either meet and seduce girls during the day, or have no sex life at all. To make matters worse, I was at ground zero, coming off the back of a 15-month unemployed stint (albeit voluntary). I had no solid roots and I was living in a box room in a run-down council estate in East London. I was feeling introverted and anti-social as hell, but it was time to face my daygame demons.

So, welcome to my blog. Here I’ll be recounting salacious stories from my first eight months of daygame, musing on related game topics, and keeping you a-breast (heh) of my current indiscretions and scandals.

Jamie.

[1] In the future, I plan to do a deep-dive of just how influential Mr A was for me.

[2] Not all of them were 10s 😉

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