Blue Balls Report – Munich: Brunnhilde & La Napolitana


She appeared at the hostel where I was staying – a mixed German/Turkish girl who was visiting her SJW Canadian friend (who incidentally, was a ‘broken’ woman in my opinion). I noticed a few IOIs and made some trivial conversation that night.

On the Tuesday I made my way to Marienplatz to meet with a few friends I had made in the hostel – two Canadians and an American. After climbing down one of the bell towers, I discovered her and the Canadian SJW at the bottom conversing with the group.

We made our way around Munich – the Hofbrauhaus for lunch, the English Garden, an odd surfing spot on the river and then a subsequent dip downriver.

I had made a few flirty comments about her not wearing any underwear and received the telltale punch on the shoulder – the classic Tease Punch.

Her Italian/German friend from Napoli joined us – La Napolitana. She and I immediately connected.

Later than evening we played a drinking game (I mean seriously, at 38?!) which included Never Have I Ever. The object of the game is to admit to something you have not done and if someone else in the group has done it, then then need to lower a finger.

I admitted to many more things than almost anybody else at the table. The American, observing Brunnhilde, noticed that she and I both lowered a finger when the challenge was set around “wanting to sleep with someone at the table”. It was clear.

Texting was quite hot between us after Brunnhilde left – I joked that she and I needed to come up with a new Never Have I Ever challenge just for the two of us.

We met for dinner the next day with the SJW and La Napolitana – and the vibe was quite simply DEAD between us.

Blue Balls #1.

La Napolitana

I opened my heart a little too much with La Napolitana

Given that the connection was dead between Brunnhilde and I, I then started working on La Napolitana who was sitting across from me at the table.

She was very sweet, 24, K-selected, and the product of migrant parents from Napoli. Her father was a musician and I showed her a number of videos of my performances in Sydney. She seemed like she wanted to express herself artistically, yet her father had warned to not pursue art.

To me she was K-selected and sheltered in much the same way children of ethnic parents are sheltered in Australia – some follow the rules, others rebel against them.

The conversation was warm over dinner between us. The SJW threw in a baiting comment about how difficult it was for single mothers – and much to my chagrin, I just lost it and told her she was wrong. I talked about male suicides of men who lose access to their children, of my father’s story taking care of two children on his own, and how I measured a person based on their needs and not their gender.

(The SJW irked me – she had said that most of the sex in her life was “non-consensual”. I balked and told her that was a joke – more like non-responsibility. I had interviewed women who were the subject of rape in war crime situations and this SJW was simply trying to distance herself from drunk hookups).

Oddly, at the end of my rant – citing my work, my situation and how the SJW simply was wrong – La Napolitana got up and gave me a hug. It was very unusual.

Later we went for coffee and shishas. She was curios about my short erotic fiction that I was writing (really just fictionalised accounts of women I’ve fucked with a classic arc that engages a woman’s psychological core).

She told me about an American she was dating who had one day simply told her he did not want the relationship and then disappeared. “I know he loves me,” she said. “I wanted to get married”. My thoughts were mixed – he sounded like a case of catch-and-release who made a wise decision rather than fuck with a girl’s life (I wish I had).

Her relationships had been rollercoasters and she confided that she secretly enjoyed the ride. Patterns in relationships is a tell.

Later, at the hostel, Brunnhilde and the SJW left, encouraging me to make sure La Napolitana got home safely. She and I chatted for quite awhile about preparing for marathons, Strawberry Fields (predictable), and where the life journey would take us.

I dropped her back to the main station and made my move – which she rejected. She then reached out for a hug which was like a wall of unexpected affection. She left me with a kiss on the cheek.

The next day I sent her a farewell text and wished that we had had more time to pursue the connection. She wrote back: “I did not want to pursue the connection any more than what we did”.

I was gutted.

I took the unusual step of writing back to her and asking her to delete my number – I find it difficult to stay in contact with girls with whom I have developed an affectionate connection but who do not want any more. I told her I was the sex and adventure guy and liked to feel “love, affection and sex” with girls I like. I had to CUT.

I reflected on this girl all last night and today. I think I was needing affection more than sex and she must have sensed that. I definitely know that I was not suffering from a “failure to feel”.

But in the end we are not owed sex as men. I know it’s a projection but it genuinely feels like she wasted my time as my needs were too high for what she could give.

A great Reference Experience.

Blue Balls #2


Many thanks to Nash ( for his guidance and support with La Napolitana.

Blue Balls Report – 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.