Adventure Sex – Miss Boulder

Coach Kondo provided me with an insight into one of the three planks of Storytelling – namely Adventure. Specifically, he talked about an Adventure story a woman can share with her friends (or keep for herself and replay in her mind).

Miss Boulder comes to mind immediately, a German girl I met on holidays in Berlin in July 2018.

The Meet

I met Miss Boulder at a rockclimbing gym in Berlin. Eager to escape the cramped conditions of my brother’s house, my son and I went to a local bouldering gym. He was almost four and made a great wing (possibly my best).

There, as we walked in, a long set of stairs faced us and a German girl came down in black tights to pick up something from the stairs. She turned sideways and stared at both of us. The look she gave – the “on” sensation – was something that I felt immediately (and still feel to this day). It wasn’t apparent to me in my pre-Game state what this meant, but having experienced it a number of times now, I count the “on” feeling as a reference experience – a matter of when, not if, we would fuck.

We went upstairs and I started climbing while my son clambered up the walls and fell on the mats. I was lightly dismissive of her, focusing on my climb, as she sat in the corner sorting leftover clothes. She kept asking questions about my life, about my son, about the trip to Berlin. It was apparent in that exchange, even to my pre-Game mind, that she was attracted to me.

As we left, oddly for a German, she gave me a big hug. My little wing, one of the most effusive and sweet boys I have ever met, gave her a love attack of kisses. She gifted him with a LEGO brand hat and a big squeeze hug.

We dropped in a few times to the gym, coinciding with her shifts there. Her interest was high and we eventually exchanged numbers over a cigarette. It was an awkward number exchange, the kind that implicitly knew what was to come.

The Date

We were to meet for a drink about a week later, just before I planned to go on a ten day trip to London and Paris.

Logistics were shaky – I had rented an AirBNB apartment near my brother’s house where I was staying solo … yet the owner was one a fifty-something lesbianish German woman who kept her door open all night and would turn her light off once I came home.

She planned to meet me after a yoga class she was attending with a friend. Ready for the date, she sent me a text telling me she had gone home after fighting with the friend over some trivial issue while they had a drink after the class. Since when did yoga produce such anger?!

The date was cancelled and she was relegated to flake territory. She planned to meet me on my return to Berlin but I was not confident it would go anywhere.

The Trip

My son and I went on a ten-day trip to London and Paris. I forgot about her and did my best to take advantage of the very limited logistics and opportunities to meet women. I tried with a Russian AirBNB host but she resisted the kiss at least five times and I did not have the stamina to win her over.

Berlin Redux

In the afternoon, on the way back on the train, and as my son slept draped over a cheap Deutsche Bahn second-class chair, I sent her a text saying that I wanted to see her that night as it was my last available night in Berlin.

She sent an apology, telling me that her best friend’s father had died suddenly. The friend had sent her an SOS message asking for her company. She could not make the date.

So I responded:

“Take care of your friend and send her my commiserations. She needs your support and love. Before I go, now that we won’t see each other, I wanted to tell you that I found you sexy, charming and alluring from the moment we first met; and I really wish we had had more time to get to know each other. Best wishes and take care of yourself and your friend”.

She was very grateful to hear this and replied: “It is really wonderful to hear this!!!”

We returned to Berlin late in the afternoon, settled in to my brother’s apartment, and the usual domestic routine set in – bath time for my son, pyjamas, dinner and bed.

Late, around 8:30pm, I received a text from her saying that she was free to meet up for a drink. I asked my brother for the most hipster-head-exploding bar in town and he recommended the Monkey Bar in Ku’damm. There, at 9:30pm, we agreed to meet.

The (Rescheduled) Date

The Monkey Bar queue stretched out the door – hipsters lined up with groomed beards and lensless glasses to await the craft beers and smoked meats of ultra-Hipsterism. Berlin got to me sometimes.

She was there and the first thing she did was to drag me away from this tourist spot. This was the first date she had ever been on with a foreigner, she said.

She lived on Uhlandstrasse and knew a cocktail bar nearby. She had already had a few beers before seeing me, likely in preparation for the date.

We sat and enjoyed a cocktail, sharing trivial conversation about the trip and her life. I brushed her leg and then gently rubbed it from knee to hip. It was too much for her and she lunged in for the kiss: the kind of pushy, tongue-y kiss indicative of a looong time in the wilderness. We made out for a bit before one of the strangest exchanges I have ever experienced with a woman:

She: “Look, we have a problem. You are staying with your parents, brother and son. I am staying with my two brothers who are cock-blocks. And I really, really want you to put your penis into my vagina.

Me: “Thankyou. That would be a delight. In return I would like to put my head between your legs and suck on your breasts and fuck you silly”.

She: “I like that. Agreed.”

I was equivocating about logistics and mentioned hotels, parks, etc. She then paused herself and held up a set of keys: “I have the keys to the bouldering gym”.

The Gym

We rushed to an Uber and arrived at the gym. It was located in an eerie open courtyard (where you’d find Peter Lorre lurking in the shadows stalking children) and we went inside. The owner was cheap and had neither alarms or CCTV.

Up, on a ledge, there was a small bouldering area with a climbing route on the roof – and to protect the fall, a mattress. There we undressed – I gave her sex eyes – I sucked on her breasts – I pulled out my cockand then I pushed her on to the mattress.

Hungry women have two tells: 1. heavy kissing and 2. the urge to put you inside them as quickly as possible. She had lunged herself at me at the bar; and on the mattress she barely let me kneel before she pulled me inside of her. There was a sigh of relief; for me always it was a feeling of coming home.

I gave her head, discovering huge labias; turned her over and fucked her from behind; tried to doggy her but the bouncing foam mats did not help; and kept her in a missionary fuck trance until she came a couple of times. She looked at me with her hazel eyes and then told me she wanted me to cum while looking at her.

We moved back into a missionary fuck trance and she held me tight and looked at me with an intensity and a hunger I had rarely experienced (except for perhaps Miss Bumblebee). I pulled out and came all over her chest with an emotional crest – and then the crash. She rode me after I had cum but there wasn’t a drop left in me.

We held each other for some time, about an hour (post-coital credit to The Red Quest, before we dressed and stole a Magnum from the ice cream for the journey home.


As we strolled along Uhlanstrasse on the way home, both in a glow from coitus and blood sugar high, we held each other and talked about how naughty we had been. I asked her about whether she risked her job for doing what we did tonight – she didn’t care.

She dropped me at my brother’s and I pushed her against the wall for one more serious makeout. As she left, I wished her well and told her to pass on my condolences to her friend for her father’s death.

She grinned: “Thankyou. She gave me the idea for the rockclimbing gym and wants to know how we went.”

Storytelling: A Tale of Two Students

Coach Kondo

Let’s call my colleague Coach Kondo (or Kondo for short).

In October last year, a colleague of mine – Kondo – moved into my team. In casual conversation I mentioned that I was single again, had my own apartment, and had recently expressed an interest in Game.

Kondo spoke the language of Game without having ever studied it. In his words, he said that at the age of twenty-one he would enjoy himself as much as possible. This continued until his early thirties when he married and eventually had kids.

Kondo’s notch count were very impressive, even for the Game community. He was a natural – attractive, good talker, and at the time of his notch harvest, he had impeccable logistics only minutes from a major beachside nightclub in Sydney.

Student Red Coco

Next to our desks was a large wall map. Kondo challenged me to date 24 women by the 24th of December with a 50% conversation rate. Each date would be a number; and each conversion an asterisk.

At the time I was mixing online dating with a nascent interest in daygame. I also had a number of old leads including Miss Play Date and The Receptionist.

During the period I went on:

1. twelve dates

2. five conversions

3. Two Blue Balls

4. Two no-further-interest cuts from my side

My successes were mixed: fool’s gold of three conversions within a period of five days, then a prolonged drought of Blue Balls, followed by two more successes and the re-emergence of Miss Bumblebee.

Kondo was disappointed in my progress during the 12 Week Challenge and felt that it had been bogged down by an unhealthy interest in Daygame, ego service (through this blog) and a lack of storytelling.

Student SG

SG was a mutual colleague of ours in a rival rogue team who had separated from his wife after she had an “emotional affair” with a colleague of hers – that was code for fucking.

SG was shorter, unkempt, and appeared clueless with women after his marriage blowup. He shared his story of trying to bring a Thai girl to Australia he met. He also blew up a set I had opened at a work party with two Irish girls because he lingered too long and they walked away.

Kondo had also been coaching SG on how to get women. SG had shared with Kondo his recent membership to a site called Seeking (known as Seeking Arrangements). Kondo had never heard of it and researched it – there were something like 8000 women in the Sydney basin using this app.

Kondo set to work to craft a story for SG – something that would lift him from:

(A) about a 5 in looks, unionised public sector worker, zero interests, lack of physicality; to

(B) a self-employed architect earning $400K a year designing eco-friendly women’s shelters across the South Coast; former football player who suffered a back injury; and real estate tzar.

Soon SG’s mailbox was flooded with offers and he met a nurse at Bondi for a few drinks before going back to her house to fuck. More stories followed: a Canadian hotel worker, a Thai girl, a handful of Australian girls.

Photos were shared – they were attractive women (7s and 8s) and, according to SG, did not ask for any financial commitments or anything in return. There WERE running costs, of course, but no specific request for money.


So what is Storytelling?

According to Coach Kondo, a “woman can outdo a friend in the attention stakes with one or more elements”:

1. Money – investment banker

2. Power – CEO, celebrity, senior official

3. Adventureexcitement

Adventure can also be a private story for the woman to replay in her head – fast seduction, public sex, fear of getting caught, cheating, etc. While she will probably keep most Adventures private, there are times where she will share with her friends.

Dark Female Psychology

SG had none of these elements when he started using Seeking, however the story he crafted for himself included Money and Adventure.

Why Adventure? Well, some of the women he was sleeping with were in long-term relationships and just felt bored. Joining Seeking and setting up a meetup with a rich, successful man (although fake) was enough excitement to get over the threshold.

SG’s success with Storytelling raised him from a 5 in the eyes of a woman to about an 8. The elements of the Story included Money and Adventure.

All of it was fiction – yet it was accepted by the women and aroused them to the point of having sex with SG, sometimes repeatedly.

SG, to his credit, developed his Story into a piece of verbal wizardry. He described visualising the girl undressing herself with each milestone in the Story. His Frame was rock solid which is required for this kind of Game.

What does SG’s situation tell us about the arousal triggers in women particularly given the whole story was fake?

It’s a dark element of female psychology – proof of the impact on women of the Dark Triad characteristics (Narcissism, Machiavellianism, Psychopathy), in this particular case, Machiavellianism.


Most men are unable to consolidate on Money and Power so it remains for the average guy to:

(A) create a fake unprovable back story on Money and/or Power; or

(B) be the short-term guy that gives them a thrill and emotional rollercoaster, providing them with the Adventure that they crave.

Retrospective on Storytelling

Looking back on my life with women, I never had any of the elements that make for a good Story.

Only recently has Game has given me the Adventure element:

1. Making out with and receiving a handjob during a date

2. Fucking a girl in a rockclimbing gym

3. Fucking a girl while our kids played in the front room

4. Outdoor sex in a park

5. Fast sex in a private room at a party

6. Making out with a married woman

I now try and incorporate one of the three elements – Adventure – into every interaction I have with women.

I do not have the Frame yet to concoct a fake story of Money and Power just to lay women.

Date Report 002 – The Italian Waitress

I met a girl at Museum Station – an Italian – who made strong eye contact with me as I walked past. Strolling up the street on my way home, I decided to turn back and speak to her. She seemed Brazilian, with a pair of filigrain silver earrings, a birthmark on her face which looked like a tattoo, curly brown hair and dark brown eyes which kept contact with mine.

She said she was Italian, not Brazilian. “Better”, I responded. “Nothing more Latin than the home of the Latins”.

I got her number, exchanged a few texts as to why I was all in white (she suggested baker or gelato maker), and I agreed to call her the next day. We talked and set up a date at a place in Kings Cross.

I arrived late; she arrived later; took the endless stairs to a rooftop bar and ordered drinks. I liked her banter, her talk, like a game of tennis (or even faster – badminton) where every comment would be countered. Jokingly, she said she would be exhausted for a week after the date because of the banter and need to sleep it off.

The vibe was on, we chatted freely, she joked about running a pensione brothel in Italy, compared our “best stories”, and I asked her if she had ever been in a strip club. She was categorical in her answer – no.

I regaled her with a story of travelling in the back of a truck with paramilitaries in Colombia; she returned the challenge with a story about being harassed and harangued at an airport and accused of being a drug dealer.

She was 30, talked about her “bad days”, and said she’d be resigned to the Inferno (or Hell) because, well, Dante’s Purgatory or Paradiso were just boring books. I was surprised, a woman who read as thoroughly as me. We talked about Umberto Eco (boring), Harry Potter (I have never read it so it was a -1 point for me) and how the ending of Game of Thrones would disappoint everybody.

I never really felt she was open to me making out with her except for one small moment (which I missed). Time after time I have felt a crackling sensation in the body when I knew it was on – a signal to make a move … but I faltered and kept to myself.

She later went into a deep rant about the state of men in Australia, a beautiful picture but without passion, skin deep, and she had to be pulled out of these dark thoughts by me. The window to escalate had passed. I think the date was to test her theory as I sensed she had never been with an Australian guy.

I shared with her one insight about Anglo-Saxon culture – it suffered from a failure to feel. When we feel something deeply, we deflect it with humour or a stoic outlook. It was an attempt at deep rapport, genuine connection, but felt the vibe was going and did not know how to save it.

Ordering the last round of drinks, the Italian bartender recognised her and asked whether she was the same girl who had worked at one of the strip joints up the road. She seemed miffed after that, the bubble had burst, and she had been caught out as a liar. She was a waitress there.

I didn’t care – the purpose of my life now is to be non-judgemental and let women feel free with me – but it bothered her.

As we walked up the street – her to go home, me to go to a music jam – she made fun of a man in a cardboard box and called it camping. I challenged her and told her to be more empathetic to suffering. Weird comment but a person’s values shine in those moments.

I had given her an imaginary card – one which gave her a free pass to ask me any question to which I would tell the whole truth. I told her it would expire at the end of the night and she would need to return it if she didn’t want to see me again (lest it be sold on the Dark Web).

As we got to the intersection, we saw a billboard of Positano with a large Aperol Spritz. I told her I had been there and she called me a liar. I challenged her and said she needed to kiss me if it were true. She balked and said she didn’t agree with the challenge! I knew it was off from then.

Then she returned the imaginary card with an apology, telling me she had had a good night and she didn’t want to see me again. And that was it. She left.

Later I sent her a photo of my son and I in Positano …. she responded “So it was the truth!”

Ah the irony.


1. Take advantage of the tingly sense in the body as an indicator of when to make a move.

2. The bubble was burst when she was made out to be a liar to hide her past. I truly didn’t care … yet my respond to her was to gently chide her for not telling the truth. I don’t think she genuinely believed it and may have gone into auto-rejection mode from there on in. There was no way to re-inflate the bubble.

3. A strong identity does not need to hide the truth. While I think men should be calibrated to not completely share their story at once, I feel that a proper and unabashed frame requires complete acceptance of your life – warts and all.

4. The faster you get to a rejection, the better. While there are lessons learnt about women during each stage of the seduction process, it can be infuriating when it comes after spending your valuable time with a woman.

Miss Bumblebee

In short – this is a long post about love happening at just the time I applied Red Pill truths to my life, my deep dive into Game and seducing women.


I met Miss Bumblebee (Miss B) at a music gig run by a friend of mine. She and I met on the dance floor. This mutual friend and I had sung a song together – a bolero – and Miss B had seen the video and jokingly asked for an autograph.

“Only in blood” I joked.

“That’s great because I am a nurse – let’s withdraw the blood now!” She replied.

A electric jolt went through me, the kind that said – I like this girl. (These jolts are usually sexual, some primitive charge that runs through us.)

As we left the party, her friend had encouraged me to get Miss B’s number. She was busy that night and didn’t want to join my friend and I for a coffee at a local 24 hour coffee shop.

We later texted and met some weeks later on a Saturday night. It was a standard date – a drink at a local bookshop, hamburger and chips for dinner, a drink at a local music bar, and then some ice cream at a local coffee shop. A Nice Guy date but very enjoyable. (I remember my biggest escalation was touching her hair and head while we sat and had a drink – in retrospect she remembers that as an escalation point although in my current Game state that’s just an aperitif).

Some things trigger curiosity and excitement within me, where a person presents a perspective or idea that is unexpected. As we enjoyed our first drink that night she shared that she was reading Brene Brown’s Daring Greatly and expressed one of her vulnerabilities as being “a pleaser”. (Her home country, within Asia, would win the award for the world’s greatest pleasers).

We went on a second date – rockclimbing – and had dinner afterwards. Despite the Nice Guyism of it all, she was the right person to be with when enjoying dates like this. In retrospect, had I applied current Game to her, I would have not bothered with her due to delays in getting to sex.

A third date – a picnic at the beach and then a seductive kiss as I dropped her off. She pushed back from me coming into the house as she wanted to “take things slowly”. I rolled off, saying I was happy to wait and was leaving. Quickly, she said: “are you free tomorrow night?” I was.

A fourth date – I came for dinner and we had a lengthy exchange of food, talk, salsa dancing and a makeout on the lounge. Finally, after much buildup and the thought of her housemate seeing us on the lounge with Miss B mounted on my lap, we went to the bedroom. I took her clothes off to some music (last minute idea) and then threw her on the bed.

While the whole buildup seemed structured, it was actually a VERY good first time sex, perhaps the best first time I’ve ever had with a girl. In retrospect I realise that my forebrain and hindbrain were connected – I found her attractive, had no worries or concerns, and wanted to fuck her like an animal.

She was very sensitive, very orgasmic, and from what I have learnt, entirely unused to the idea of dominant, forceful and well-paced sex. I thought the high sensitivity was just stored horniness on her part but it seemed in-built. Lucky her. Women like her should not share their high orgasmicness with girlfriends – it will just make them jealous.

I had been seeing an American chef at the time – plump, full of sass, and not particularly attractive to me physically – and soon distanced myself from her. Miss B had trumped her and was my kind of woman. (Curiously, the Receptionist also initially appeared at this time and was subsequently excluded by my “exclusive relationship”).

Miss B and I began dating, so-to-speak, moving quickly into boyfriend/girlfriend mode. We were seeing each other regularly – very strong and intense sexual connection. We both had a public holiday off and I gave it to her in the best kind of way – her post-coital face was noticeable for all to see at a musical soirée we attended afterwards – flushed, puffy, relaxed. A friend of mine – gay – remarked that Miss B was curvaceous and very sexy and even he would have fucked her.

Soon after, I shared with her that I had a son. She was surprised yet pleased – at a picnic we went to, she had noticed how competent I was playing with a baby soon to turn one. I had held a lot of shame since my separation that I could never meet new women due to having a son. Now, Game-deep, I know that it doesn’t matter.

On my birthday in February, I told her that I was falling in love with her. It was true – I was being emotionally true to how I felt. She responded with a shocked look as the smoke of a table Japanese BBQ permeated the area. Lust ensued and she dragged me to a local park for a heavy sex session, a first for her.

We were in the New Relationship Energy bubble: lusty, passionate, positive, hopeful.

I had originally planned a trip to South America in May – solo – with the express purpose of learning to dance tango and to take a side trip to Brazil to meet and sleep with Brazilian girls. I thought it was a nice balance of activities. Miss B, one night, after a deep sex session, asked to come along. I agreed – happily due to having company for four weeks, yet internally something gnawed at me about missing out on the Brazil opportunity.

We went on holidays, had a great time, went to lots of tango classes and milongas, and spent four days at the Iguazú Falls admiring what I consider the greatest sight in Latin America. Towards the end of the trip, as we strolled the streets of Foz do Iguazú, I was reminded of my lust, dipping into clothes stores and shoe shops and seeing a bevy of gorgeous Brazilian shop assistants. I became moody and eventually told Miss B that I was sick of her.

What soured? The thought that my Game journey had been denied by a monogamous relationship (of my own doing) driven by intense emotions and hormones at the start of the relationship.

I escaped for five weeks to Europe in June/July to go to my brother’s wedding. I needed the respite. On return, the relationship did not feel the same and the New Relationship Energy had waned a little.


Finally, in late September, after I had dropped my son off to live with his mother, I closed the book on my Beta life and became emotionally true in a way I had never lived. I spent the five hour road trip listening to Tom Torero’s podcast (I had developed an interest in Daygame around this time) and formed my thoughts on the road back to Sydney.

I met Miss B at a local venue of mine and, in the smoking room, told her that I was in love with her … and wanted to see other women. She, melodramatically, told me she never wanted to see me or my son again, and left.

I didn’t hear from her for weeks and weeks. I was glad. I needed the breathing space. I had lost the Frame in the relationship by arbitrarily placing limits on my behaviour for her benefit rather than doing what I wanted.

I had fumbled through my Game journey at this time:

1. The local girl who felt pressured for sex after three dates

2. The Brazilian girl felt it was an “ambush” to come over on a third date and wanted to go out

3. The Thai girl who didn’t want to come over for a second round despite getting her rocks off during the first round – a selfish lover who Gamed me

4. The Receptionist who deserved a blog post of her own

5. The Colombian who described herself as “loyal” despite eyeing off every guy in the bar where we had a drink, then flirted with one of the musicians on stage – “loyal” indeed. (I am shameless but at least I stay in the bubble when I am on a date.)

It was satisfying, silly, and very uneven. Sex was sporadic and I liked the thrill.


Miss B is a dancer, a great dancer, one of the best I have ever seen. A few months after the split, I was on a date with a local girl and we went to a bar hosting a salsa night. As we waited for the floor show, I looked through a doorway with a window and saw Miss B there – with a mortified look on her face. Mortified (as I later found) because I was with another woman. (Little did she know that nothing happened with this local girl – 37, dry fish, structured thinking, felt pressured for sex after three dates, predictable rubbish.) Miss B came out and was one of the lead dancers for a rumba/salsa choreography – dressed in red, glorious, elegant, sensual. I found her intoxicating.

Miss B reappeared again the following Wednesday at a dance event. I walked straight into her yet she didn’t see me as she was dancing with her back to me. A mutual friend of ours was there – I told her I was leaving as I didn’t want Miss B to be uncomfortable again. Strolling to a local bar, I ordered a drink – and received a phone call from the Receptionist (see the blog post).

The following day I texted Miss B and told her it was coincidental that we had bumped into each other twice in three days. We agreed to meet for one drink, one venue, one hour. As I entered the venue she told me that she was about to arrive … in an Uber. Hmm… she liked to drive.

She appeared in a shoulderless orange top, tight jeans and heels. God I loved that combination. She was always happy to expose her shoulders, often to her detriment when she was sweaty after a night of dancing. I liked the sweat – she was no fatty with odour issues. I ordered a drink and eyed her from a distance while she sat at the table. I wanted her.

We spent an hour skirting around the real issue, a surge of hormonal bliss induced in us. We stood to go after some time and, at the pole near the door, she said to me that I had been honest with her … so she would be honest with me. “I want to sleep with you”, she whispered as she grabbed the rim of my T-shirt. It was intoxicating, seductive, and I took her hand and said to her: “Let’s go”.

We went home, admiring the terrace houses of the local area, in a vain attempt to break the tension building in us. Inside the building, we went to my apartment in the dark and I shocked her with a bright light that powered up in the hallway – a proverbial jump scare Hollywood had overused (and I had too with other girls).

Like any rekindling, the door had barely closed before we got naked and I threw her on the bed in a safe missionary position. There’s an inherent comfort in the first penetration, where you both express a sigh of relief at “coming back home” after a long sojourn in the wild.

She stayed the night and went home by Uber. There were a few reach outs that week – very sexual messages and thoughts from her – but I blocked it for fear that she was attempting to enmesh me into the same relationship as before.

We continued to see each other but she knew intuitively that the terms of the relationship have changed. I did not expect Miss B to accept this for the long term as her plan is a “long term monogamous relationship with one person”. Her plan was as temporary as mine – enjoy each other for now until we find more compatible people to be with. In the words of Saint Augustine: “Give me chastity and continence, but not yet”.

The sex spiked: more dominant, harder, faster, sharper, and very passionate. She was and remains the most sensual person I have ever been with.

She became very generous with my family and I, far more than I could ever return to her. I felt in a way that she was trying to “prove herself” but she already was good enough. We always had this meme in our relationship – “you are enough” – and she was. We spent Christmas and New Year’s Eve together, as we both wanted to.


In early January I received a testosterone reading – very low – and it startled me a little. I texted her, asking whether she thought I had erectile issues in comparison to other ex-boyfriends of hers. I regret asking her as the responses did not help. I sulked and carried on a little, embarrassed at my behaviour, and I cut contact for a few days.

Finally, after dropping off my son again to his mother after caring for him for four weeks, I decided to meet her and talk. I was moody and chose a quiet spot by the harbour near her house. It was ominous – she had felt this before when I had last presented my “lover scenario” to her (note: women don’t want to work backwards in relationships).

It was clear to me that her plan was not my plan – she wanted a monogamous relationship, a baby, to live together and eventually get married. I wanted none of those things in the short or medium term. My plan was to remain single, live on my own, learn to Game, and enjoy a variety of sexual escapades, but most importantly take control of what I wanted in relationships. To hold the Frame.

I soon left her at her house and, before she left, she put her head in the car in a panic to ask me whether I was sure that I could let her go. I looked at her squarely and said yes. It shocked her.


In retrospect I failed to convey signals of what I wanted from the relationship – if this is my greatest sin, then so be it. It’s the curse of “bait-and-switch” – playing the boyfriend but losing feelings months or years in. It also establishes the importance of Frame and defining the relationship early on so there are no misleading signals and misdirections.

I love Miss B: my feelings have not changed. In a greedy, selfish kind of way, no amount of loving will change my core belief that I come first – my plan, my trajectory, my life. It does not change my love for her. I light up when I see her, I feel at peace with her, I love her company. There were other women in my life but I never developed any strong love attachment or bond with them like I did with her.

Red Pill/Blue Pill Twins

Let’s call my neighbour Red Pill Brother (RP) and his twin Blue Pill Brother (BP).

RP, referenced in the post Former Beta Male Benefits (and skillfully deconstructed by Nash of Days of Game fame), confided in me that his BP, born sixteen minutes ahead of him, had only had two sexual partners in his life – one, a relationship of nine years, and the other, a liaison with one of her best friends after the relationship ended.

RP, from my few long conversations with him, was clearly Red Pill in the best sense of the word. While he described himself as a natural, he was aware that others were not – particularly his brother. Women described RP as having “it”, “Mr Charisma” and often “creepy”. When I listened to him, I could hear the Game that I was learning – strong identity, negs, false takeaways, freeze outs, expressing desire freely, frame, setting expectations, abundance mentality (which is really the skill to get a new woman quickly) and a good understanding of female psychology. He would describe giving girls “spice”, a thrill, adventures they would not forget. Women would fly to see him in other countries; describe sex as the best they have ever had; and cry when he ended the adventure and cut the interaction. I shared some of my Applied Game (so-to-speak) experiences, and in me he could see himself.

RP had travelled the world, slept with hundreds of women, knew the value of Game, and more so the value of adventures. He was nomadic in attitude yet a combination of looks, charm and lip (ie. good banter). In Australia we use the term “larrikin” – an all-round good “bloke” or guy yet with an edge that women knew to be “it”. His next journey, to Africa, planned to last six months and would end in Barcelona, the city of his current – and only – live-in girlfriend.

RP and his brother were equally naturals at the time of their late teens, both attractive in appearance, yet BP’s early reference experience – his first woman – ended up being a long-term relationship of nine years. RP describes her as a woman that his brother didn’t really like and desire yet stayed with her. They were both boring, according to RP, sufficiently exciting in their own bubble but boring by RP’s standards. Eventually, BP ended the relationship and the girl was devastated.

BP came to Sydney from Melbourne for the weekend. I saw a photo of them both and BP’s attractiveness was striking – how could this man only have had two lovers in his lifetime? BP claimed he was “healing” since his separation last June – code for not wanting to meet women. They both attended a concert in Sydney and BP had been approached by a young girl – 19 or 20 – who was clearly keen on him. It was quite clear to RP to take advantage of the opportunity in a bold kind of way … yet BP went home sexless.

RP and I reflected on his brother’s situation. RP told me that his brother thought his “womanising” was “disrespectful”; that he “ought” to find someone and settle down; that it was just a “phase”. A curious topic formed: RP believed that due to his brother’s lack of reference experience, a woman would sense BP’s greenness, either during 1. the pickup, 2. in the bedroom, or 3. due to his mindset.

A formula came to mind:

Mindset + Game + Sexual Skills = women

Deficiencies in any of these areas RP seemed to notice – he talked about a recent German backpacker friend who was staying with me who appeared to lack some of the Game required to pick up women consistently. I knew the Sexual Skills were there – the German and I had discussed techniques, dark energy, dominance – yet RP sensed a lack of Game in getting to the bedroom.

RP left; I put my son (from my “Beta days”) to bed; and sat down with a cup of tea. It occurred to me that genetics was only a part factor in what makes a man fit into these abstract categories we know as Alpha/Beta.

How is it that a reference experience of one women could have led BP down a path of a nine-year relationship with someone he did not really want?

What distinguished RP’s from BP’s sexual development and growth?

What does this mean concerning the “genetic” nature of Alphas and Betas?

What are the internal characteristics of each brother that drove BP to lead this kind of life while his RP brother became nomadic and travelled the world sleeping with women and creating adventure and excitement for all of them?

I had some thoughts regarding the first relationship BP had had – my son’s mother was that kind of woman to me – first deeply wanted by me and then a millstone around my neck as I sought to shake off the guilt of just getting rid of her. I tried to get rid of her twice but relented and kept her. It was my conscience trying to “be good”. We had a child and then, after I realised she had had the child to “strengthen the relationship”, I ended it. I panicked, tried to get her back, and then finally dumped her and told her to leave. I had had a child to a woman who did not really want me.

But more interestingly, I also had had a relationship of nine years – also my first – which eventually ended when my ex partner took the first step to open it up – for me. She gave me a certificate on my birthday with permission to do what I wanted with women. Even in this she was leading the interaction as the feeling of guilt weighed down on me that I wanted to fuck other women.

For me, two sexual reference experiences in 14 years from 21 to 35, yet eight reference experiences since December 2017, each one informing my understanding of women and game. This is what drives me now.

So for BP I started to feel a lot of empathy, the kind that knows what it is like to be truly Blue Pill, be blinded to Red Pill ideas and experiences, attempt to shame and guilt men who are Red Pill, and then feel hopeless and zeroed out when the whole facade crashes.


1. One of the key commonalities between BP and I is a strong early reference experience that guides thinking through the crucial years of when many peers are engaged in casual sex and promiscuity.

2. BP is highly intelligent, settled and “boring” – yet likely to have a large ego and fighting against the idea of needing to change. This change would be described as an “ego crush”. I was that guy – and employed coaches in various aspects of my life to break my ego, saying to the coach: “Be directive – whatever you ask me to do, I will do it. I’m here to break my ego”.

3. Formula – Mindset + Game + Sexual Skills = women

Former Beta Male Benefits

It occurred to me that the pickup community denigrates Beta males for their providership, chodey, weak behaviour – and how it creates a soft relationship dynamic that peters out at the sign of trouble. Betas get girls – I did a number of times – but they cannot sustain the dynamic.

On a timeline, I would argue it is better to start off as a Beta and then grow into a learnt Alpha. When you come from a bad place – like being a fat kid – then you hope to never return there. And when you do inadvertently return there, you know the surrounds, the vibe, the feeling of being there – like a trip to Los Angeles and feeling you have already been there from years of TV abuse and detective shows.

I built a lot of value as a Beta:

1. Extensive literary understanding – with my favourite writer being Somerset Maugham

2. Three languages – Spanish, Portuguese, Thai

3. A host of artistic interests – piano, singing, hosting music jams, learning a number of dance styles

4. Knowledge acquisition on a variety of fronts – I mean, who reads these days?

5. Two long-term relationships, a number of girlfriends, and a son

6. Being fat and then losing weight and gaining strength – very important to me now as I know the dark side of fattiness, inflammation, and weakness

The same gains could be made as a proverbial Alpha, yet the tail I chase these days uses up much of my energy and focus. How would I have achieved the above as a natural? The sexual effort/reward cycle is short enough now to lose focus on other aspects of self-development.

I write this because my neighbour is a natural Gamer, more like a Sigma – a nomadic traveller, adventurer, lover. He recently embarked on a relationship with a Spanish girl and has the face of a man who does not know how to navigate the polarity required to keep her in orbit but not lose his own trajectory. He doesn’t know what it’s like to slip into a long-term relationship, how to deal with frame weakening, and what it’s like banging the same chick over and over again. Where is his reference experience?

The reference experience is all – pickup accentuates the Same Day Lay, the counterintuitive Game techniques that work (negs, false time constraints), the fast pulls and ovulatory stares. How about the natural guy who has never had a long term relationship and does not know the signs of decline? Where is the Krauser of Long-Term Relationships, replete with full-colour tomes?

The pickup community writes about the Beta Days in much the same way the born-again Christians talk about their lurid pre-born-again days – a competition of Betas telling their stories about who was the biggest loser prior to the Game awakening.

I liked the Beta days – I use those qualities right now when I game – it gives me many more tools in the Game as you can draw on unexpected qualities and break pattern with women. Not just the Artistic Game, but a broad range of qualities that give the appearance you are a Beta chode, but then break rapport and shock her with some smug, offhand comment that she never expected.

I love being exceptionally polite and then breaking pattern by exquisitely asking for her to sit on my face; or “would you ever be so kind to bend over so I can fuck you from behind”.

I love telling stories about Michel de Montaigne’s struggle with erectile dysfunction as I fumble around flaccidly in the bedroom.

I love playing piano and singing, slipping a few improvised lyrics in to suggest we should fuck on the piano a la that tawdry scene from Pretty Woman.

I love the female vignettes of Maugham, long meandering paragraphs as he describes the intimate psychology of a woman in a book like Of Human Bondage or The Razor’s Edge. Likely a closet homosexual, he was earthy and lusty and knew a lot about women and their internal lives.

I love being a former Beta.

Blue Balls Report 001 – The Receptionist

If it were only about the physical notch, then “blue balls” – proverbially speaking, leaving a man deliberately unejaculated – would be just transactional. But it cuts to the core of a man’s hunting spirit and it leaves him deflated like a kid’s balloon post-birthday party.

Here is a story of where a fetish of mine met with blue ball failure. The high and then subsequent low requires it own account on this blog.

The Receptionist

Let’s call her this because she was a brothel receptionist as I found out the night she sat on my futon). We had met some nine months before at a bar, where I had generously bought her and her friend a drink. I was not after anything – the friend had been fuming from being abandoned mid-date by a woman who claimed she “wasn’t feeling it”. Drinks bought, I let them go.

The Receptionist came up later and confidently grabbed me to dance as she had seen me dancing with a number of other girls. It was a close dance, a jazz ballad, and she remarked that she “definitely needed a drink”. A few drinks, a few dances, later a sojourn to a coffee shop for ice cream, a makeout, and an odd scene in front of a lingerie shop commenting on her favourite brands. At the drop-off she initiated some resistance as she had just moved into the new apartment and didn’t want to upset the landlord.

She surfaced and resurfaced over the months. I had rejected her by saying I was “seeing someone exclusively” (pre-non-monogamous days). The relationship I was in (Miss Nippon) had ended some nine months later as I was pursuing being a “lover”. I initiated contacted with her and we traded strange gold-diggerish texts and Beta tests about buying her watches and jewellery. One night, after sharing my number on Instagram, she called me – as I sat in a bar talking to a Spanish bar maid and pondering the direction of my Game and where it would take me. I picked The Receptionist up; we went for tea and cake; and she came back to mine for some honey-infused bourbon.

It was a strange, early-Game encounter. We did not make out at all through the evening – I couldn’t focus clearly on her face due to a thin revulsion for the ridiculous eyelashes and Rasta wig she was wearing. (I had tried to convince myself that I liked trashy women, but the hindbrain could not follow suit). At one point, sharing a story about her Christian upbringing, we broke into song – What A Friend We Have in Jesus. This girl, despite her unendearing gold-diggery, had some wit and banter.

I got her naked, not sure how, and asked her to lie on a towel on the ground for a full body massage. This I gave, willingly, and again I had an unconscious reaction to her oversized D-cup breasts, the kind a man would kill for, yet for me were just too much. She had a great figure, lovely skin, and I went down on her for a bit before fingering her clitoris. By this stage the honey-infused bourbon (a present swept up by accident from my Dad after Father’s Day) was dry and she was drunk.

And as I squatted over her, erection in tow, a mere inch from her vagina, she put up a wall of Last Minute Resistance which was to be expected. “I don’t like sex”, she mumbled. By that time the interaction had lasted hours and any thought of pushing through and notching my first black girl had subsided. I wanted this girl out of my house.

I told her to get dressed, she fumbled around and pleaded with me, asking if I was angry. I was cold, distant, and ready for bed. She then dragged her feet, didn’t want to leave the apartment and took some twenty minutes to get out the door. Her voice rose in the hall – I was mindful of the Hungarian woman down the end who left Soviet Bloc-ish oddity Christmas messages which included references to closing doors softly – and I knew the exchange with the Receptionist would build to a crescendo once on the street.

I got her outside, her partly stumbling, me partly carrying her like a potato sack. We stood there in the rain waiting for the Uber as she tested, tested, tested me with every comment, slur, complaint, and insult she could muster. I put her in the Uber – a patient Arab driver who read the situation immediately as I opened the car door – and she finally demanded a kiss. I said no.

“Are you breaking up with me?!” She shouted like a pterodactyl.

“Yes”, I shouted. I turned and left her in the Uber. Some minutes later the driver called me, asking me if I was happy for her to be redirected to the Casino. “Take her home!” And I went to bed.


1. Don’t date brothel receptionists.

2. No amount of forebrain commitment can block the hindbrain’s revulsion to fakery.

3. Christian hymns have a place in the Game toolkit.