Lay Report 005 – The French Banker

She was very similar to this stock image of a “businesswoman”

TL;DR: I banged a black French girl who I called The Banker. Long philosophical and romantic rant mixed in between the lay report.

Philosophical Précis

The post is more a philosophical musing session than pure lay report and fuckfest. There was plenty of fucking and dirty moments – but interlaced with romance and longing. Gammas , Twitter trolls and cardboard Alphas please leave now!

Nash from Days of Game ( had posted recently about his servicing of a young Korean girl whom he had met a number of times. I found the post poignant and timely – both the Swede Peach and now this French Banker had reached out to me even when I was not feeling particularly in a fuckery mood.

RP Musicology, a wing of mine and an upcoming star in the philosophy of seduction in Sydney (in my opinion), decided recently he would not go online to meet women as the ones he met brought an “overtone of sadness” to the date.

That phrase echoed with me – what is it that women long for apart from a good fucking session? Why do they bring this energy with them if they “have it all”?

I mused on this topic post-fuck with the French Banker as she gave me all the clues about what she really longed for in life.

And strangely, this Lay brought back a haunting memory of the deep longing for happiness that Miss Bumblebee has been pursuing all her life, without mentors or support from men or women. Her longing still haunts me.

The Set Up

It was Saturday. I had spent lunchtime with an Indonesian girl in Hyde Park drinking coffee and sizing up whether I liked her. I had opened her some weeks back in Darling Harbour, a very hot set that was very dominant towards the end as our faces stood inches from each other.

Fresh from this date, I made my way to Circular Quay to take some photos a la Goldmund’s Camera Game ( I started out learning photography as a snake seduction effort to meet women – yet it turned into a passion of mine and I started enjoying it for the photography itself.

The camera became my prop for Daygame. When I approached a girl I could either go direct with a compliment or indicate I was after a portrait. It allowed me to roam the streets with a plausible backstory as to what I was doing.

I met two lovely British Indian girls, one of whom had checked me out at the lights. I took a photo of them both and wished them well.

Another, an Argentinian girl in white pants, was wandering aimlessly around the Opera House and so I opened her direct. She had a boyfriend, was not interested in going for a coffee, and THEN she hooked. I came in for another landing due to the missed approach however she was not interested in giving out her number.

The day had been satisfying and I made my way to the bus stop when my attention was arrested by a black girl applying make up on the street.

The French Banker

She was wearing an elegant body suit, straight black hair, and red lipstick. I opened her by asking for a portrait as she looked impeccable (using a Latin root word instead of a Saxon word so that she would understand) and threw out the assumption that she must have been French.

She was – a French girl from Paris and leaving on Friday. I asked her out for a drink that night (credit to Good Looking Loser) however she said she was meeting her brother who lived in Australia and was then travelling to New Zealand.

She asked for a photo. We hailed a person nearby and he fumbled through the DSLR process. As she stood next to me, I felt her breast push into my chest. Subconsciously, it was clear to me that I would eventually fuck this girl.

We exchanged numbers, parted and I later sent her the photos. A date was scheduled for Thursday at 6pm.

The Date

Texting was brief. Mostly logistics and complimenting her on her photo.

We met at the Potts Point Hotel at 6pm and she had gone to the rooftop bar to order a Chardonnay as I was running a few minutes late.

I had left the house tired and low sex energy, Tweeting that I would honour the reach out a la Nash’s post. Thrashing in my mind was whether I would be hard enough to fuck her.

I sent a post to the Daygame group I am part of with the challenge that would have one drink with her and then bring her back to mine.

Arriving at the bar, she was there at the table with glass of wine in hand. She looked wonderful. We sat opposite each other under candlelight and I ordered gin on the rocks.

Within about thirty seconds I started touching her hand and the caressing between us escalated quickly. The conversation was simply flirty small talk – she thought I was a spy, I was different, she was a banker for BNP Paribas so I teased her about that.

About Men and Emotions

We talked about men – she liked men who emoted freely and were not the strong, silent type. This resonated with me as I was tired of the cliched cardboard cutout Red Pill guys who were scared of expressing emotions freely.

To me, a full expression of emotion is the final challenge for a man. Not only can he be a warrior, but he can also be an artist and not fear free emotional expression because some Twitter warrior wants to shame him and call him a “cuck”. I had tolerated abuse on Twitter before – one guy even had the temerity to tell me to throw my son off a cliff because I let him cry. Real fuckwits encapsulated in 120 characters.

Men shame men – but the strong man stands before his peers presenting his chest fearlessly to them and telling them he is what he is – himself.

The Grab

Soon our drinks were close to completion and she took my hand and put it behind her neck. It was a sweet gesture and I called it light energy. What is dark? she asked. I turned my hand and put it around her neck in a mock choking hold. She looked at me and smiled: “That is also light”.

I kissed her on the neck and we soon left the bar. Arm in arm, we walked up to the El Alamein fountain and asked a person passing by to take a photo of us. It was a sweet pose – she sat on my lap and we held each other like lovers.

We made our way down to Elizabeth Bay House where there was a lovely park overlooking the harbour. I had rolled out a blanket there years ago and played with my son as he formed himself in a parachute position and smiling at me at eight months. God I miss him.

My favourite park and a place of longing for my son

At the park we made out and I pulled her top down to suck on her breasts. One of the most exciting moments for me sexually is when a woman slides her hand down my pants for the first time. We reciprocated and I started playing with her clitoris. She was a trembler.

I put out my hand: “I am going to do whatever I want from now on and if you don’t like it, slap my hand”.

We left and made out again on a little bridge overlooking the pond. As we walked up the hill back to the main road, I threw her against a wall and started making out again.

This time, more aggressively, I licked my hand in front of her and put it down her jeans and started to finger her. We were stuck under a bright light in front of a building. She moaned and was very wet and juicy. Soon a gay couple were walking past so I pulled out my hand and sucked on my fingers for her to see.

The Bounce

We jumped in a taxi and went back to mine. Crossing the six lanes, I grabbed her had and ran her across in between traffic. We stood at the door and I invited her in.

She took off her shoes and sat quietly on the lounge as I pottered around, put away Krauser’s Daygame Infinite that was lying on the bed, and poured two glasses of white wine.

I had promised to sing her a song on the piano – Chet Baker’s Time After Time – yet as we sat on the lounge, she was motionless. I felt a signal – she was ready. I took the glass from her, stood her up and started to undress her. (Roy Walker’s recent lay report talks about this – the moment where she signals “can you just get on with it and fuck me?!)

DTF – Downtown Frenchie

We undressed each other and her breasts popped out, plump and ripe. Her body was fantastic – curvy, narrow waist, and with a delicate belly button piercing. She took my jeans off and knelt down and starting giving me a blow job – one of those wonderful moments when a girl knows how to suck your cock from tip to root … and then glances up at you with lusty eyes.

I was never a BJ man and got her on her feet, turning her around and starting to take off her jeans. I pushed her on the lounge and pulled at them. I got her up again and started fingering her while my dick was teasing her from behind. She mentioned a condom – she came prepared – and I took her to the bedroom.

I picked her up and threw her on the bed, opening her legs and giving her head. She was sweaty and a tad smelly – but what did I care when this hot, fantastic black girl was on my bed? She was a trembler and kept shaking as I chomped on her and eventually made her cum – deep trembling followed by a crash and then comfort pose.

I was soft. As I kneeled in front of her, ready to penetrate, I reached for a Sagami and then before I was ready … she just lustily pulled me in. My dick, after 38 years, was inside a black girl. I remember years ago fantasising about this while looking at JPEG porn on the internet in old dial-up days.

We fucked and we fucked and we fucked. I took her from behind standing while she rested her body on the bed. She continued to tremble and she orgasmed as I pounded her and played with her clit, often pulling her hair and shoving her head into the pillow. I leant forward and whispered in her ear dirty things. She muttered many times “J’e taime” and spoke French softly.

We rested for a bit as she was cold. I snuggled with her and held her in a strong bear hug pose to give her comfort. The blanket and nakedness had started for me that old teenage feeling of horniness and I put her on her side, scissors style, and started fucking her heavily. It was deep penetration and ball rubbing.

I pulled out, pushed her back down, and blew all over her, a reckless mess of créam semen over a black backdrop.

She lay there peacefully as she had also cum again. As I looked down at her, she reached around and took some semen in her hand and then licked it. I asked if she wanted a towel and a shower. She declined: “No – I want to keep this as a souvenir”.

Time After Time

From meet to fuck only two hours had transpired. It was 9pm. I had promised her a song so we made our way to a music jazz jam I liked to frequent on a Thursday night. There we ordered drinks and a mixed plate and made out like lovers on a cheap lounge. The host asked me to get up and sing – I chose Time After Time.

Chet Baker’s Time After Time

I am a romantic and I see no fear in creating a romantic bubble for a woman. After the semen swipe, I realised the full range of human expression – from dark and dirty, to sweet and saccharine.

The Truth

As I dropped her home, she shared with me some truth – a few funny and sexy, and others which haunt me about women:

1. She told me that her breast push when we met was deliberate. I laughed and told her I knew. She was surprised.

2. She wanted a photo of me, hence the reason why she asked someone to take a photo the day we met.

3. She knew we would have sex from the moment I touched her hand early in the date.

But the haunting thing came after as we talked deep rapport about our lives and hopes. Bumblebee came to mind.

The Haunting

She told me that she planned to work for another five years so that she could purchase a house without debt, have children and be a hard working and dutiful wife to her husband, pottering around the garden and taking care of the family.

I had heard this before – from Bumblebee. Future plans of loyalty and relationship success – yet what saddened me was that these dreams are rarely realised – it just “never happened”.

Both the Banker and Bumblebee were high value women – well-formed, educated, successful, and attractive. Yet the narrative they have been given is often in contrast to what women truly want of their lives – masculine direction, drive and purpose.

When I used to talk to Bumblebee about her life, I sensed that she really wanted a mentor to help and guide her along the path of being a woman. Now, at 43, she has a huge amount of regret for not being with her family, and talks about the curse of none of her brothers or her having children.

I once offered to have a child with her but not in the usual Disney romantic manner. She rejected the idea. I realised then why we have White Knights – men sometimes really do want to rescue women from their directionlessness. It’s a form of empathy.

My deep sadness is that the Red Pill teaches us how women lose their Sexual Market Value in their late twenties and thirties. Their fertility window declines and they increasingly struggle to find men to meet their biological needs.

Both the Banker and Bumblebee face the prospect of never meeting their needs for family, simply because society has co-opted them into a corporate market structure that delay its until they are too late. Coupled with female indecision, it makes for a haunting, sad mix.

The Red Pill is obsessed with power over women, fears of hypergamy, and in my experience lacks real empathy for women. I might be labelled Purple Pill – it slides off. But how did we get to this point where we learn to seduce women yet we cannot show any emotion or sympathy for their lives. We all need hand holding, to quote Ron Paul.

Who are we as seducers? And what do we really want to feel with women?

The Farewell

She was giddy and excited at the thought that we could perhaps meet in Paris during my trip to Europe. I hesitated and then told her – yes, I would see her. I liked her and wanted a mini-romance.

We said goodbye and then she was gone.

Lay Report 004 – Peach

Above: her arse in emoji

Seeking Game

My colleague Coach Kondo had encouraged me some months back to try a sugar daddy site that a mutual colleague – SG – had been successful with. SG had made his way through 34 girls in little over four months – a preposterous figure backed up by photographic evidence and testimonials. Kondo and I called it Seeking Game.

Kondo did not believe I was “all-in” and had failed to materialise the prize of laying young hot birds as I was more interested in ego service through blogging and weak attempts at night game.

He wanted me to be like Roger Federer – a steady hand, churning through matches and getting results.

The Set Up

I joined the site and chose my best professional photos including a few pictures of me singing and playing the piano. Like many curious men on dating sites, I scrolled through the male profiles to scan the competition and saw a selection of dreadful images – men with half-eaten heads in the pic, bathroom selfies, and late night shots over a glowing laptop. I would have hated to be a chick cutting through the crap to get to a top quality guy.

I came across an young 21 year old Asian girl who appeared to be photoshopped looking quite exquisite in designer clothes, impeccably made up and with cheeky eyes underneath tattooed eyebrows. We matched and started chatting over the app Kik – essentially a chat program where you cannot see the person’s phone number.

I had a lapsed Kik account from a failed attempt at Ashley Madison and so my profile was “200 days on Kik”. You could filter the gold diggers from the curious girls by the day count – some ambitious chicks had 1000 days or more.

The Chat

The chat over Kik descended into one of the strangest exchanges I have ever had with a girl. We started with pet names – “Peach” for her, “Coco” for me. She was Swedish, originally adopted from Korea, and in Australia for a year on a working holiday visa.

I asked her what she liked about my profile. “Well, firstly, you have photos. And you are handsome”.

Soon our chat was in the form of rhyming couplets. We started writing long form poetry to each other, interspersed with sexual comments, our respective fruit names, and jokes about other sugar daddies she had.

Peach and I had planned to meet each other on the Sunday for dinner and drinks. I was using the date to scope out what kind of Frame I needed to get her without making any kind of financial arrangement – to be a Salt Daddy of sorts. My plan was to end the date if she suggested an arrangement at any time.

I had signed up to Snapchat just after I fucked the Brazilian and still had an active account. Peach and I had been texting via a number after transitioning out of Kik. Snap was a step further and allowed me to sexualise the interaction a bit more.

I sent her a picture of some Shibari rope – she asked whether we were going sailing.

I sent her a picture of a vibrator – she asked whether it was lipstick.

I sent her a picture of two butt plugs – she asked them if they were bubble bath containers.

I liked this girl. She seemed fun and dirty for her age.

Our Sunday date fell through due to the spurious claim that she had thought she was working in the morning and not the evening. Seemed like bullshit but I let it roll off. We scheduled for the following Sunday.

She sent out a follow up text for a Tuesday night meet up. I was already committed to a Freemasonry meeting and could not meet her.

On the Tuesday she sent me a message asking what this formal occasion was all about, signing off with “fuck that, I’m horny”.

The Date

I arranged to go to the Freemasonry meeting and left precisely at 9pm to get back home and then to Kings Cross by 9:45pm. As I left the meeting, the Master of the Lodge looked at me with a tiny glimmer in his eye and knew what was up.

I knew the lay was assured but held reservations about the lack of seduction and whether I would like her. I consulted my Red Pill neighbour and he told me one of his guiding principles for laying girls – “honour the reach out”:

“It’s a free kick from a girl. Even if you don’t feel like fucking – honour it. Strike while the iron is hot”, he said wryly.

I spoke to RP Musicology as well. He told me to just run the date as if it were a normal date and to go Mode One (his pet love and a strong acolyte of Alan Roger Currie) early on in with strong sexual intent.

Kondo had described me as more Nick Kyrgios, the upcoming Australian player – temperamental, prone to outbursts, and lacking nerves of steel when push came to shove.

I calmed my nerves and made my way up to Kings Cross, channeling Federer.

Peach turned up on time and was smartly dressed. She seemed like a designer girl, a little overdressed for the average Australian evening, and strangely a little plump in her outfit. I was beginning to worry she was not as tight as my due diligence investigations on Facebook had found her (in bikini on Ibiza with girlfriends).

We went to a cocktail bar in a former stripclub and began to get to know each other. The average guy would have been happy to fuck this chick within minutes but I felt that the direct booty call reach out was running against my instincts as I genuinely wanted to seduce this girl … so I started gaming her in the normal way – and it worked. I felt like I could have seduced her under different circumstances.

At one point she remarked how many thought she was Brazilian as she was tanned and Asian. I mentioned that she reminded me of a Japanese Brazilian girl I had dated. She was offended and said that she did not like to be compared to other women.

“Why?” I demanded. “Why? Tell me why.” She was silent. “To be honest, I don’t really fucking care whether you like that or not. This is me and this is how I talk. Now, this is my arsehole moment in the date – you like that, don’t you?” She nodded. “It turns you on just a little”. She nodded. “Now, where were we?”

I asked her about Sweden. She found the guys boring, the country safe, and wanted a change and some freedom. But what about younger guys? I asked. She returned it quickly: “I don’t date puppies. I date men”.

The date went well and we soon came to the end of our drinks. I made an observation: “You know what this means? I say ‘lets go’ and you come back to my house so I can fuck the shit out of you.”

The Bounce

We left and I grabbed a taxi for the house. She was safe and put on her belt – very Scandinavian. Jumping out, we had to cross six lanes to get to my place. In usual fashion, I spiked the moment by running her across the road with cars coming. We were safe – obviously – but it always gives a girl a jolt before a fuck.

I had just set up my mini bar and she poured us both a drink. We made out – her lips were soft although I did not sense she was a big kisser. I took her to the bedroom and she lamented not having a matching bra and underwear.

“Try this.” I offered her a Japanese dressing gown. “Get naked and wear this. I mean – what kind of girl comes for a booty call without matching underwear?”

When I returned to the room she had let her hair down and looked breathtaking. I undressed her and asked her to jump on the bed for a massage. She was …. the hottest girl I had ever seen in my bed – tanned, perfect skin, great figure, and with incredible hair. She was my ideal woman.

I gave her a full body massage while we drank and smoked. Complaining of tight shoulders, I made her get up and then get on her knees and give me a blowjob while I massaged her. Vanity before dignity, she complained the oil would get in her hair and so we tied it back.

The blow job was good – but as a man I wanted to fuck so got up, picked her up and just threw her on the bed.

The underwear came off and I ate her out – ass and all. I tested a finger in her ass and got a not-so-interested response. She was a vagina girl.

Turning her onto her belly, she had a half-burnt cigarette in her hands and was flickering it out the window. I had had enough by this stage and just took her from behind and started fucking her while we passed the cigarette to each other.

I always like to test for penetration by putting a girl on her side scissors-style and seeing how far I can go before I get a jolt out of her. She jolted – my job was done. It was like a dick-measuring test to see what had entered before me; and an ego test to see whether I could make her feel like my cock was big enough for her.

Soon I had her in a standing doggy and started fucking her rhythmically and in a trance state. I remember seeing Rocco Siffredi, the porn star, fuck in this position, with a delicate hand crossover at the base of her spine – thanks Rocco. Handing her a vibrator, she made good use of it and came hard – in total two or three times.

When I fuck there is a like a switching gears moment when you go from fucking mode to cumming mode – I had her on her side and fucked her until I blew my load all over her side and back. It just kept coming – 38 years of sexual frustration and player envy meted out on the back of a young svelte Sverige girl.

Post Smash

We cuddled and eventually settled into sleep. Two hours later I got up for work – unwashed, unkempt, and fucked up. I made coffee, gave her head, and left the house with pussy juice on my beard, black coffee taste in my mouth, and the thought that I had just smashed the hottest girl in my life.


1. Always honour the reach out from a girl. It’s a free kick.

2. Sugar Daddy sites are, in my opinion, a platform where 50% of girls are looking for money and the other 50% are looking for experiences with older. I know there may be some disagreement about “Salt Daddy” game which is why I have documented it here. This girl was looking for experiences and I only had to offer what I would normally offer on a date – drinks and perhaps dinner.

3. Online dating creates a disconnect between the woman and the man from the outset as they have yet to trade DNA compatibility, sexual desire, etc. I sat on the date generating desire by gaming her in the usual manner.

4. Young girls rarely, if ever, ask for a condom. Women in general don’t seem to care as much for STIs as they do for pregnancy. TIP: if a girl insists on using a condom, give her head and make her cum hard. She will then more likely pull your penis in raw as she wants to feel you inside. Not an advocate for/against – just citing my experiences.

Lay Report 003 – Cinderella: A Same Day Lay Story

Not at all like this girl – this is what Google captured under “Japanese Cinderella”.

Set Up

JJ Rousseau, my wing, had returned from the USA armed with stories of lays, near lays and potential lays. We spent a few hours marauding through the city and harbour, JJ suffering from a phone full of dead leads he hoped to resurrect before Easter, and me on a high from a great daygame session on Monday with Tom.

Yon, another wing, had agreed to meet up at 5pm at the Strand Arcade. As we approached the Strand, JJ encouraged me to throw myself into a set of a girl who went into a shop – but which shop? I lost her. As I returned, JJ had gone and Yon was there.

A small, petite Asian girl stood some three metres in front of us against a wall. She had given me a short Indicator of Interest and then looked away. I commented to Yon about her: “This one – IOI – naughty girl. I couldn’t be bothered to approach her”. Yon, ever encouraging, sent me in.


I front stopped her after letting her walk away from me for about thirty metres. She was small, petite, Asian, smartly presented and with big brown eyes that could only be made through contact lenses. I surmised she was Japanese.

She was – and she hooked. The banter was light yet strained due to the language barrier. She had been studying English for six months and planned to go home to Japan in May. Osaka girl.

I touched her a lot and she was receptive. She was doing nothing, like me, so sensed an instant date was in order. She said Yes – which could have been anything between a Yes and a No – and I slapped her hands and jokingly demanded a Yes or No.

“Yes”, she said. I ruminated on whether it was a pleasing Yes … and then decided that I didn’t care – I was going to lead this girl anyway.

Instant Date

We made our way to the State Theatre bar presided over by a clownish looking doorkeeper with a lock motif hung around her neck. (Ghostbusters came to mind). Upstairs, the bar was quite stylish and we sat on high stools at the bar. I picked an order of two glasses of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, a safe bet. She remarked that she was a bartender at a Japanese restaurant in a nearby suburb and loved my wine choice.

She described herself as 90% bad which in my opinion was even a % higher than the vast majority of women or men. I imagined that I had picked up a girl who was a nasty mix of all things shibari, bukkake and schoolgirl/maid dresser. I threw an assumption in that she was a nurse … and she was! The mix of death and decay along with large amounts of empathy and Japanese mindfulness seemed to create orgasmic sexpots in nurses from that country – Bumblebee was a nurse as well.

I noticed at one point some micro glances to my lips and then I knew that it ON between us.

She left at 5:45pm to meet her roommate and friends for dinner. I pointed to her as we left the bar and jokingly demanded that we would see each other later in the evening.

Evening Date

She agreed to meet at 9:15pm at Kings Cross Station. She was punctual and we walked to my car so I could choose a venue close to home.

We went for wine at a large bar near the house, this time ordering red for myself and white for her (immaterial but anyway). Questions Game ensued and I was able to glean some hard facts about her sex life and time in Australia:

1. She had had six boyfriends in Japan, all Japanese. This seemed like a lot for a Japanese girl of 25.

2. She had been in Australia for six months yet had never dated an Australian.

3. She had been in a “love motel” a number of times but did not like them as they are dirty.

An reasonable man on a Clapham tram would surmise from those three points that she had not been fucked in at least six months yet loved to fuck.

She tested me and asked if I was a “playboy” and had lots of girlfriends; why I had the app Line; and why I had spoken to her. I buffered myself against the tests and brushed them off.

I looked at my watch – it was 10pm. She mentioned she needed to be home by midnight and I gave her the moniker Cinderella. I drank the rest of her wine and asked her to come back to mine to play a song on the piano. Plausible deniability ensued.

At Home

She took her shoes off and sat down on the lounge. I offered her peppermint tea and she softly held one of my mohair pillows against her chest as protection.

A piece of music came to mind and I played her Dvorak’s theme from the Ninth Symphony:

I went to the bathroom and grabbed some massage oil and began giving her a foot massage. (Most girls are surprised when I do this as they have rarely received one from a man or lover). Small, cute feet.

The pillow had to go. I threw it away and picked her up off the lounge to test her weight. She was light, around 45-50kgs – the kind of weight where you really could carry a girl on your shoulder and throw them on the bed.

Standing face to face, I went for the kiss and pulled her head in, stopping just short of kissing her until we had completed the little final seduction dance of who would kiss first. We kissed – soft lips – and a surprisingly good kisser. I let her hair down and started kissing her neck, sending a soft moan and shudder through her. This proved to be her Achilles Nape and I used it to good effect to get her clothes off.

She initiated Operational Order Last Minute Resistance (OPORD LMR) and I countermanded it with my Tactical Plan Nape (TACPLAN Nape) of using each kiss of the neck as a forebrain distraction to get each piece of clothing off. She kept on gently joking “No” and “bad boy” which I happily agreed to and kept going.

I took my shirt off and then later my pants in a tactical push. We stood there as she gave me a handjob. I started on her bra and shirt, both requiring serious levels of patience and forebrain distraction to get off. She had pert, little breasts and a nice belly button ring.

I had remembered sitting on the date with an erection admiring her tight figure and jeans. She softly mentioned it was her Ladies Day. This did not worry me as I had already cured myself of the fear of coagulated blood and gore on my penis at the tender age of 21. In the words of a colleague: “when you are stuck in the sexual desert, it doesn’t matter whether the oasis is red or clear”.

The jeans came off slowly but surely until, at one point, I just pulled them off and threw them on the ground. She had green lingerie on and I suspected the period story might not have been true … yet there was a pad in place.

The undies were the easiest piece of clothing to remove – they fell to the ground with a pad covered in blood. I took no chances and drew on a piece of advice that I had found floating on the Internet – fingering almost invariably leads to penetrative sex.

I fingered her for some time as she moaned and warmed up to the idea of sex. Pulling out my fingers, I looked down and was reminded of the scene in Macbeth where Lady Macbeth could not remove the blood stains from her hand:

I picked her up and carried her on my side to the cupboard to get a red towel. Throwing it on the bed, I was reminded of a contestant in a recent dating reality show in Australia who had advised the other men of the group that women just wanted to be “thrown on the bed”. It was true – I loved doing this, and so did the girls.

I pulled out a Sagami and started to fuck her. She was petite, curvy and soft, yet inside her I was surprised at the depth I could go. (I remember a girl I fucked in Thailand where the experience could only be described as “hitting the back wall”).

I felt selfish and after a couple of minutes of missionary – you know, where you hold the girl’s legs against your chest and bear hug her into submission – I came hard. And yet I stayed hard and continued fucking her. The squelching and writhing went on and she eventually came and went into an odd comatose position where we both held an extended kiss for about two minutes.

I let her rest for a bit and looked down on her – the fetal, comatose, collapsed wreck of a woman surrounded by pussy juices and blood and sweat. It was a beautiful sight to behold and one of the great experiences in life (up there with the top-down view of a girl as you fuck her from behind and ask yourself Talking Heads-wise “how did I get here?”)

I offered her tea and started another round of fucking, this time standing doggy pulling her hair and slapping her arse. She jumped in pain – sometimes the penetration is just too deep. We fucked for about twenty minutes in a few positions more before she softly panted: “give up, give up, Coco”.

A Dream Is What You Wish For

Cinderella was supposed to be home at midnight and I got her dressed and packed in the car. We talked a little about Disney and my trip to Disneyland Paris. Contrasting the blood and gore and fucking of only twenty minutes before, we sat in the car singing Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo before getting starry-eyed with the music of a A Dream Is What You Wish For.

I gave myself the moniker Pinocchio and we laughed before saying goodbye to each other. No kiss, no hug, no handholding. Just a friendly goodbye. She bobbed off into the distance happy and cheerful.

(Above – RedCoco the day after fucking a random Japanese girl within two hours).

As I drove home, it occurred to me that I had met this girl at 5:10pm, spent 35 minutes on an instant date, then another 45 minutes on a second date before getting her back to the house. LMR took 30 minutes before my penis ended up in her vagina. How on earth did this happen so quickly?!

I started thinking – the Secret Society really is just about certain males expressing specific qualities to females that demonstrates a r-selected mating strategy – and all under the noses of a world of K-selected males. It was like a world had opened up to me which was previously invisible – and now I was part of it. I had fucked this girl fast and then quietly and sweetly put her back on the shelf, with the world none the wiser.

I had achieved my very first Same Day D-Lay.

Lay Report 002 – The Girl On The Train aka The Masseuse

Sagami 0.01

A surprise awaited me on Thursday morning. Amazon Prime had delivered the goods in record time – an order of Japanese Sagami 0.001 condoms. It was portentous – I was meeting a Japanese girl for a date I had met on Monday. She was the Girl on the Train I would later call the Masseuse.

The Masseuse – Set Up

She eyed me on the train, in PUA parlance, giving me an Indicator of Interest. I was on the phone talking to Mum about my sister’s wedding preparations and other inane topics.

She was short, dark skin, Asian and well put-together with jewelry, stylish clothes and makeup – her style could only suggest one nation: Japan.

Later I got off in the city to meet with a Daygame coach for some corrective coaching.

I went to buy some sunglasses; flirted with the shopkeeper there; and was approached by a stunning Australian girl who mistook me for the shopkeeper.

Later, meeting with Coach, we talked about Brazilian Jujitsu, my pending trip to Europe, and his flailing 9-to-5 work efforts.

Coach opened a MILF and as I crossed the road to the Mall, I saw her again – the Masseuse – with mini IPad in hand and a focused look. She reminded me of that Roald Dahl short story where everybody walked around reading books and bumping into each other.

I opened her with a standard variant – “I saw you on the train earlier and missed the opportunity to talk to you. Then I saw you here and had to come and say hello. You’re very cute. You must be Japanese”. A stop is a stop is a stop. No point sprucing it up.

She looked up totally confused. On her tablet was the Find My Phone app. She explained she had lost her phone on Sunday night after a tipsy night out. I gave her a Hotspot and we went in search of the phone, weaving through shoppers and entering stores demanding the phone. I called her phone a number of times – no answer. (It was a number close, I suppose.)

Soon we stopped and I told her I was no White Knight and that I was hitting on her. She hooked and we chatted innocently for a bit before I let her go. I asked her, in the manner of Good Looking Loser, if she would like to have a drink with me (one of the two acceptable ways of sub-communicating sexual interest). She did.

Later that night she thanked me for the help and told me she had found the phone!

The Date

Texting was breezy – she was free on Thursday night. I planned to meet her at 6:30pm and had alternative plans if she flaked or if we did not connect.

I had also planned an (absurd) midnight second date with another Japanese girl (The Hostess) I had met in the park a few weeks back.

TIP: I never plan back-to-back dates as it seems to lose the focus on the first date while thinking about the second. To deal with flakes I plan something else – like a music jam, going out to dance, or seeing a comedy show.

Daygame is special in that you see the woman in the flesh before the date. The magic is when she turns up on the date and is ever more beautiful than when you met her. Yet for me it was a case of monoface – the blurring of multiple faces after numerous sets which reminded me of Michael Jackson’s Black or White video. She was totally unrecognisable to me until she turned up for the date.

She arrived at the Yacht Club on time – my go-to venue for sunset drinks over the Harbour. She was lovelier than expected: shoulderless black top, jeans, silver bracelet and drop earrings.

At the bar we were given the option of a small or large wine serving – she opted for the large. Signal #1.

“Choose the best seat”, I told her a la Krauser. She found a spot away from the crowd, sitting across from one another at a picnic-style table.

The Questions game ensued – nothing too fancy. She asked me a hypothetical – if my whole house was white, what part would I change? Black bedsheets, I told her. Her eyes popped – the proverbial eye spazz. This happened a number of times over the night and felt like signposts on the road. Signal #2.

I had no other venue to go to so used the break in drinks to move to a side-by-side seating arrangement and get piccolo wines. The idea was improvised. She went to the bathroom and I texted TodayGame Tom, my wing from Tuesday: “might close this girl.” Like a rugby coach at half-time brooding over a possible loss, he replied: “go get it my man!”

The great Twitter seduction writers began circling through my mind: Nash ( was telling me to escalate, Today Game Tom ( was telling me to change venue, and a chorus of Following Twitterers clouded my head.

She came back, and I escalated on the jewellery, then the earrings, and finally the nails. Predictable. Workable. Pedestrian.

Drinks gone, I told her to come with me. The next venue was across the park and up the hill – absurd. Red Quest ( came to mind: “make out with her from Venue One to Two”.

We ended up in front of a large ornate Georgian era house overlooking the Harbour and super moon. I pulled the trigger – she refused the kiss, one, twice, three times.

Tom Torero appeared – “I’m a man, you’re a woman, it’s my job to try, your job to resist”. This was getting schizophrenic. It felt like sideline coaching.

And then I saw an eye spazz and tried again but was deflected. Girl, Interrupted. She said she was trying to be “polite” by thanking me for the help with the phone. I was unconvinced and challenged her, telling her that no woman would ever be so polite as to end up in a dark park late at night watching a super moon.

We went up to the main street and I found an abandoned lounge where we sat for a minute. We wanted a drink so I grabbed her hand, dashed to the bottle shop and bought some wine and plastic glasses. Adventure Bubble. We moved to the main park near the fountain and found a spot.

There, we sat side-by-side on a bench while she tested me with the usual Counter-Player insurgency – Why me? How many women do you talk to? This is too fast for me.

I paused, sat back, and told her a story about what kind of person she saw in the mirror and whether she liked that person. It reminded me of a moving scene in the film Angel-A where the protagonist struggles to express the phrase “Je t’aime” while looking at himself. He is guided on the path by a tall angel who helps him.

I told her that sometimes I struggled to look in the mirror and find self-love. It was true – we all have doubts of self-love. We talked about my father’s “failure to feel”, that Anglo Saxon defect where we deflect emotions rather than express them. On a trip to Italy once, he and I stood in front of the Tower of Pisa, which he dismissed with an “it’s okay”. Pushing him, I demanded that he express something real for the first time in his life and get rid of the flippancy. His eyes watered up and said: “It’s incredible”.

Signal #3. Comfort completed. She came to my emotional aid and I slowly kissed her shoulders and neck. Then, after a small wrestle, I forced the kiss and she responded. Not strong but sensual.

I pulled the trigger and asked her to come back to my house for a drink, three hours after we had met. She fretted over getting home so I said I’d call an Uber. Then, unexpectedly, she mounted me and gave me a long, passionate kiss while grinding herself into me.

We left and walked home; a glass of red wine had spilled on to her jeans; she tipsily navigated the thorny roots of the fig trees that had lifted the footpath; we breezily passed the 24 hour cafe that was normally used as my last venue before bouncing home.

At Home

Inside, she took her shoes off – actually I asked her to take her shoes off (TIP) – and I poured her some water and also wine. She played Chopsticks on the piano quietly while I tidied up the house.

The piano was unveiled and I played her an Amy Winehouse song Love is a Losing Game and then an old jazz classic called Time After Time. She sat on the lounge purring like a cat and waiting for me to pounce. I started giving her a foot massage and thumbing nerve endings like an interrogator to reveal her secrets. She squealed and writhed. She was ready.

I picked her up and made her sit on my legs while on the piano stool, undressing her slowly. I make it a rule to undress myself first – the shirt – and then take her top off. She was soft to touch and smelt like sandalwood. Her bra came off and I sucked her nipples, commenting on how I loved small breasts.

There was no Last Minute Resistance and we stood up to take our pants off. There, she sat down again in front of me on the lounge while I stood there hard, much harder than usual. She hinted at a condom for a blowjob. Sensing overkill, I just picked her up and carried her to the bedroom and threw her on the bed, just threw her.

I gave her head while she gently tried to push me off with faint cries of “no, no”. She was clean shaven and petite. I overindulge in head and often get carried away, drunk on pussy juices and rimming.

Sagami on, it had been awhile since I wore 0.01s. We fucked, first to get a sense of ourselves together, then to look for pleasure spots for the two of us. I always enjoyed the Four Pillars of Sex – missionary, standing doggy, her lying on her side while I entered from on top in a scissor position, and her lying on her stomach with me behind. Enough variation, enough dominance, all highly penetrative.

She didn’t like to kiss while fucking, but here and there would reach in to kiss me. I held her down, pulled her hair, and fucked her from behind before she complained it was too deep. We switched and I put her on her side and fucked her, holding her tight with both arms until I came.

She snuggled under the sheets and I went to fetch some dark chocolate a neighbor had given me. We hugged as we ate and sipped wine. I looked down and admired her body, the kind of look you give when you are fucking a girl from behind and asking yourself: “how did I end up here?!”

Soon we went another round, this time more sensuous and playful. She loved to ride me and needed to be guided a little to find the right spot to grind her clitoris against me. Again, I dominated her, and the fucking her from behind and cumming a second time in short space.

We admired a pot plant I had purchased and looked in the cracked mirror for any bad omens. There were none – only the two of us naked and comparing our bodies.

Desire overtook and we had sex again, but this time I came up dry. I turned her over and started fingering her heavily until I felt her walls squeeze and a faint cry and then physical crash as she came. She was cathartic. I knew she had not been fucked properly in a long time.

Maroon Five

She snuck out of the house early as I was searching for the car keys to drop her home. I found her up the street trying to walk the distance home! She had mentioned that she had overwhelming desire for Adam Levine of Maroon Five so we put on What Lovers Do on the way back, following on with Sugar. Cheesy (but then again, I could live in a dairy bar). A short goodbye and a future projection (TIP) that I would feed her next time I see her.

First Daygame Lay Open-to-Close

I came home content – no, exhilarated – at the thought that I had just had my very first Daygame lay from open-to-close within three days and on the first date!


1. Escalation – this was the first Daygame date where I properly escalated both verbally and physically. When I felt that tension between us, I took the risk and went in for the kiss despite being rebuffed a number of times.

2. Comfort – the story about my father shifted her mood and she started positively qualifying me. She also found great comfort in the fact I would get her home safely in an Uber so she could walk her dog in the morning.

3. Adventure Bubble – running around town checking out the super moon, buying wine and drinking in the park

4. Pulling the Trigger – I knew I had to ask her to come back with me at some point and took the risk to pull the trigger.

5. Condoms – Sagami 0.01s. Almost as good as condomless sex. Psychological barrier broken.

6. Green/Amber/Red – I remembered this technique when she was rebuffing my advances but not leaving or moving away.

7. Player Tests – the usual questions which I rebuffed with the standard answers.

Lay Report 001 – Miss Doritos

Let’s call her Miss Doritos. Brazilian, 21.

We met at a local cafe at the beach where I swim. Like most lays I have had, there was a sense of the vibe being “on” from the moment we met. A lingering handshake. A stronger-than-usual eye contact. Needless laughing at my jokes. I took her name and we became friends on Facebook. (N.B. I still don’t have her number).

There were a few pings here and there – a scuttled coffee date near my place, a “private drink”, yet nothing eventuated. We saw each other regularly at the beach cafe, exchanging glances and chatting. She met my son who was in town and described him as “lindinho”. We had lunch at the cafe and I teased her about her poorly drawn tattoo and Bernaise sauce dripping off her Eggs Benedict.

Girls of that age – 21, social media savvy – appear to invest more in indirect signalling to someone they are attracted to by liking posts on multiple social platforms. Whenever I would post a portrait photo on Instagram it would be liked, even the obscure ones. I had offered her a photo shoot – a seed that would prove useful.

She disappeared from the cafe after some weeks. I pinged her after a long 1.5km swim, expecting her to be “busy”. She was. I had planned a quiet night and a big dinner to rest and recuperate. I followed up with another ping, this time, related to adventure and excitement and how she was working so much and needed to reward herself. I drew on Tom Torero’s “good girl for Christmas” meme and it worked a treat.

I then sent her a photo (with idea credit to Goldmund) of a bottle of gin and a camera. Both mixed nicely together.

She sent me her address and I went to hers and picked her up. She was dressed casually and it was hard to predict what was to come … until I suggested a bar and she, surprised, thought she was coming to my house for a drink. Only a Gameless loser could lose this one.

At mine we relaxed – I had set up the futon as a bed rather than a lounge so there really was no other place to sit. My idea seed to get her to the house was to take some photos, but an older seed had been planted: I wanted to play her a few tunes on the piano. A colleague had remarked that this would eventually become a “leg-opener” in time … and this had been proved right twice.

I played a few tunes – some soul ballads, a favourite jazz song and then some electronic dance music I had transcribed for the piano. Sitting there comfortably eating Pringles, she didn’t offer me any, so when she finally did, she broke off two pieces and placed them on her breasts, inviting me to eat.

I ate greedily and said we would make out at some point:

“What makes you think that? We are just friends,” she grinned.

“What kind of friend comes over at 9pm and makes him eat Pringles off her breasts? CAUGHT!” I replied and out-grinned her.

I gave her a foot massage and proceeded from there: first legs, then arms, back and finally, her chest. She had big, gorgeous breasts and she was bronzed all over. I think at this point we made out and I remember the kiss – it was a long, continuous hold over the lips, very sensual, and different to other girls, most of whom kiss in waves of feeling.

Her shorts came off, showing a nice green and lean pair of knickers. I sat her head on my lap and gave her a face massage and posed a question – shall I continue all over? She agreed, much to my delight.

I slid my hand through her knickers and then took them off. I couldn’t help myself and just opened her legs and started giving her head. Some girls you struggle to find the clitoris – this was not a problem and it shone brightly like a beacon. She tasted good and later came. I sat her up then I stood up and led her into a blowjob.

I had jokingly heard the Brazilians learn how to give a blowjob at school – it proved true. I had received plenty yet hers had tongue along the shaft and was slow from base to tip.

I later stood her up and in her post-orgasm daze she just stood there waiting to be led with a “where are we going?” vibe. It was a gentle reminder of how easily a girl can be led.

I took her into the bedroom. I was tired after the swim so a little flat. A polite request to her to sit on my face revived my spirits. There’s a great sensation for a man when a girl is sitting on his face and she starts to grind so hard into you that you could suffocate. Eating girls out is intoxicating and I get into a drunk state.

She came two more times that night and I didn’t blow … but what a great experience. There’s that wonderful sensation when you are looking down on a woman as you take her from behind and say to yourself – how did I get here? How on earth did this happen?

And God bless that ripple when you slap a Brazilian butt!


1. Despite her being free that night, I presented no “excitement” to her until I pinged a few messages and photos to create some tension. Simply meeting up was not enough.

2. The initial attraction and “on” feeling when you meet a woman counts for something regardless of the length of the lead-to-close.

3. Long distance exercise and not enough calories can smash your erection.