Date Report 003 and 004 – The English Patient; and Workshop Girl

The English Patient

“Let’s be honest – you have just never been fucked properly!”

English girl, 25, and a good example of a pickup using skills I had obtained on the street applied to one of my music jams. I suppose it could be called Music Game.

She was a budding – but dreadful – jazz singer and I accompanied her on an out-of-tune rendition of Summertime. I had been playing for three hours and as the night ended, I noticed her moving out of the venue. I stopped her – like a daygame front stop – and very directly handed over my phone for her number and an offer to go out for a drink.

We met that Thursday night at a bar near her work. It was happy hour and we got drinks with minutes to spare. She took off her coat to discover a smashing figure and leopard skin top.

The date proceeded – a little dull although I knew she liked me so pushed ahead. When we started the Question Game I could see that she was going to ask lowball questions about favourite pizza toppings and the like. I sensed innocence – whatever happened to dirty, grubby English girls?

She was an accountant and, like many English girls, tended to hide her full expression of emotions through alcohol. Combined with accountancy, she was dull.

I bounced her to a second venue and we – I mean I – ordered drinks and dinner. There, at the venue, I sexualised the conversation as it really wasn’t going anywhere:

“Listen: we are going to make out before you finish that glass of wine”.

She looked at the wine glass like it was a prop in a Hitchcock movie – once it got to empty a bomb would explode. She glanced at it over and over again – I finally had her attention.

“Ahh, now you get it, you’ve realised that I’m here to decide whether I’m going to seduce you.”

I pushed her to sexualise the Questions Game – she had a vibrator, used it three times/week, never came during sex, had last had sex in October 2018, and had sucked off some guy when she was 18 and then told her boyfriend at the time. Ahh – now that’s the English girl I expected.

So I threw in a grenade to shake things up:

“Let’s be honest – you have just never been fucked properly!

She agreed.

We moved to another bar where I dragged her into a hallway and made out with her. It was dreadful. She was one of the worst kissers I have ever experienced – small, baby kisses like a child. No – strike that – my son is four and he has given me better kisses.

God – what was this girl going to be like in bed?

I put her in an Uber and sent her home. Haven’t seen her since.

Workshop Girl

“Look, I am a good guy. I really want to make sure that I can be the best man … for my son”.

Japanese girl, 33, and a good example of slow K-selected game.

We had met at one of the coffee shops in the city and I had sneakily grabbed her Line contact out of site of her colleagues.

One day, before meeting a new Daygamer, she came to meet me and trailed me around the city in a huge act of compliance. After the Daygamer arrived, I said goodbye and muttered to him: “I am going to fuck the shit out of that girl. It will be the best fuck of her life”.

She and I scheduled a coffee date and we went up to Hyde Park to talk. It was a lovely afternoon and we sat by the fountain where many Daygamers had done their first sets.

She was wary of me and could smell Player from a distance. She asked about whether I had a girlfriend, whether I had other women, my past relationships, etc. She told me about an old Taiwanese boyfriend of hers who had cheated on her so she left.

At this point I realised she was very K-selected and needed 2-3 dates at least to be ready to fuck.

So I softened, told her I had a fear of clowns, was learning how to tap dance, was a nice guy and did charity work in my spare time. She seemed unfazed.

Then I dropped the Joker on her:

“Look, I am a good guy. I really want to make sure that I can be the best man … for my son”.

She melted. I could visibly see that she had changed her image of me. The pendulum had swung in my favour.

We finished our coffee and she joined me to find a microphone for my camera as I was planning to film a piano/vocal session I was arranging. She ran around the city following me – yet another exercise in compliance – and we later said goodbye in front of Town Hall.

I resisted the kiss. I wanted to save it for later. When she does finally kiss me, I will ask her back to the house and give her the biggest fuckfest she has ever experienced.

Date Report 002 – The Italian Waitress

My dream girl from the eighties – Valeria Golino

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.

Date Report 001 – Dutch Girl

I met her in Martin Place as part of my boot camp with Paul and Zac.

She was dreamy and I had seen her a number of times while walking up Pitt St. I front stopped her and had the sun in my face; her eyes were brown and bright; her face a little ruddy; and her tan likely the product of a day’s tanning at a local beach.

The stack was silly – dreamy walk, tan, etc. I picked her as Northern European, called her Polish, and then she told me she was Dutch. My heart dropped – Dutch girls were beautiful but their energy is drab and direct. I contained myself, stacked further about my work, and then closed strong and got her number.

We arranged a date for the next Thursday and met at the Glenmore Hotel in Sydney. Great rooftop bar but crowded with Christmas parties. She turned up in a red jumpsuit, surprised me by covering my eyes…and when I opened them I inadvertently redirected my eyes to her breasts. Poor start.

She was a drinker, a smoker and a vegan. One of them was a vice in my opinion. Good open, about an hour on the rooftop, and she mentioned a liking for Billie Holliday. I moved venue after about 45 min, my voice croaky after sharing (socially) five menthol cigarettes.

We ended up at Cafe Lounge in Surry Hills. She and I shared hamburgers and I spiked with the usual questions about telling me a secret, sexual escapade, etc. She had unusual eyes, the kind that would follow you around when you moved your head, like holes in the eyes of a painting portrait scanning you as you strolled around a gallery.

Dutch females are direct – too direct and have it as part of their strong identity – and this in my opinion skews sexual polarity to a point where a man really has to dominate to achieve some kind of sexual tension; or let her do the work. A Dutch man I met near Amsterdam confided that he never went back to Dutch women after his Dutch girl at the time just stopped having sex with him mid-coitus – later that week he met a Brazilian and never went back.

I had shared a sexual adventure story with her to see if she would offer the same – she did. A nameless French guy (“I can’t remember now – it’s in the past”) she fucked in some rose bushes while her colleagues looked on. Incredulously, she said to me that if she ever fell in love with someone she would tell them 100% the truth about her past, including stories like these, because she valued the truth. I admonished her and said no guy investing in a girl ever wanted to hear a story of his girl being railed like that. She demanded to know: “why? It’s the truth.” I knew the date was done at this point.

There was a jazz band playing and I got up to sing. A few cigarettes, some awkward moments, and a few smashed shot glasses. We wrapped up and she suddenly panicked about missing her bus so I gave her a warm hug and said goodbye.

I reached out to her later if she wanted to see me and she said she was too busy before her trip to Melbourne. (Despite her directness, most women don’t seem to be able to overtly reject a guy and so let them fade away – men ought to do the same.) So I called out the elephant in the room and said I knew she wasn’t attracted to me and wished her well, with the warning that she should never tell a guy she loves that she was smashed by some nameless French guy in a rose bush while colleagues looked on…