My time here had been shit – a lesion in my back and flu symptoms, apart from the interminable heat.
This was supposed to be a Jaunt and felt more like a Taunt. Still, I pushed through and came out on the street to meet Hungarian women.
The trip felt like a reconnaissance in case I ever get sent to Europe for work and needed to pick the cities I’d like to visit the most on a cheap Easyjet flight.
I went to a local cafe in Budapest for a late breakfast. There the wide-eyed waitress served me a coffee and a Hungarian goulash.
I looked over and there was a young, lovely woman in red standing and preening herself in front of the mirror while her portly husband sat eating his lunch. She put so much effort into dressing, grooming, makeup – and here she was correcting, patting down, and shaping herself to be picture of beauty.
They ate in silence.
He was sitting on one side of the table with sandwich in one hand, phone in the other. I imagined him to be mid-thirties, about twenty kilos overweight, a government employee or IT worker, and comfortably middle class.
She to me was probably late twenties – and while not a trophy wife, definitely much more attractive than him and in the prime of her life.
I got to talking with the waitress and told her I had something to say about this woman in red.
They paid the bill and soon left. The waitress, curious, came back to me and asked what I wanted to say about her.
“She is totally bored in that relationship. Did you see them?” I remarked.
“Of course I did. I used to be that woman in red,” she replied.
She went on to tell me about her former boyfriend – how she was with him for three years, how they got engaged and how in the end she broke it off because, well, he was just so BORING.
I got her number and we agreed to go for a drink.
“Don’t worry. With me you will never be that woman in the red dress,” I assured her.
I had known the Colombian through my ex. She was a flirty, fun girl who had been in an abusive relationship with a Persian for many years until they eventually split. Abusive in the sense that he loved hard, dominant sex and loved to fuck her in the arse.
The Colombian and I went on a date to test the untapped sexual tension between us. At the time I thought things would just magically come together and I never escalated – a mixture of not knowing whether I really wanted her.
She soon moved on, we remained friends, and one night she invited me out to a salsa night at one of the large bars in Sydney.
She had invited some friends – a consular worker from Costa Rica and another South American girl.
The thing I liked about the Colombian was that we would talk Spanish and it was the equivalent of banter in English – something I would normally experience with an Australian or an Irish girl. Foreigners did banter, too.
We entered the bar and scanned the room, looking for a place to eyegawk the crowd. The usual suspects of the salsa scene were there – nasty looking Latinas, blow-in businessmen from the area, try hard Asian guys who learnt to dance REALLY well.
The Colombian went pale and she confided in her girlfriends that we had to go now. Men are usually excluded from these kinds of feminine crises and this was no exception. The Colombian was adept at dramatising a situation for full effect.
We ducked out and made our way to a German bar nearby to have a drink.
“Colombiana – what was that drama about?” I chided her.
“Well, I’m waiting for a new guy and I can’t be seen there. So we decided to move here,” she replied palely.
Her drama had the edge of something strange and I probed about the guy.
“He is someone I met recently. Real nice guy. He’s coming to meet us right now”.
The guy – let’s call him the Nephew – turned up and he seemed … nice.
He was a pleasant guy in a sweater, very affectionate towards her … and chodey. (So was I at the time so who’s judging?)
Knowing the Colombian, she was sizing him up for boyfriend material in the vain hope she could eventually get married and have kids and perhaps even stay in the country.
I asked the Costa Rican about the Colombian’s look of horror at the bar. She seemed quite open about it for a diplomat.
“She hooked up with his uncle. He was there at the bar and we had to make an escape”.
The Colombian soon disappeared from the scene – she was one of those girls who would enter a relationship and not be seen for months or years only to resurface when things were bad or had ended.
That Christmas, I had gone with friends to a winery area outside of Sydney where we stayed at the airfield where a pilot friend had a propellor plane. The Colombian and the Nephew had – coincidentally – stayed in the area and were umming and ahhing about visiting us.
Why? The Colombian was screening us about her “secret” because all of us knew about the Uncle.
They eventually turned up and stayed for morning tea. It was an awkward, fawning affair as she lavished affection on him while he sat proudly in his chair. There was a touch of conservatism about him – and his chodeyness had not dissipated.
Some six months later, I got a random text from the Colombian asking how I was and whether she could call me. I sensed that it was over between them.
She called and we talked a bit. In her usual dramatic flair, she told me that in the ensuing months they had decided to live together, purchase a house and planned to get married.
So what had happened?
“I told him about the uncle. I don’t know why I did. I was just scared that he would find out directly and so I told him”, she said tearily.
She had tried to head the uncle off at the pass.
“Yeah, so what’s the big deal?” I asked innocently.
“Well, I told him about the uncle and he thought he could deal with it – but he couldn’t. He just told me he kept on imagining the two of us together and couldn’t get the image out of his head.”
“What happened with the uncle?” I continued.
“It was nothing, nothing happened. We just met and had a good time. He’s just the usual Latin guy. Nothing happened. A bit of a creep.”
She ruminated on these “nada pasó” words a number of times. Her face filled with disgust as she described him to me. I couldn’t cut through the BS so just speared her with an assumption.
“So you fucked the Uncle and then you told the Nephew about it? Good move”.
She had this cat’s bum look about her when I got to the truth.
Red Pill Coaching for Women
By that time I was fully immersed in Red Pill theory and I thought I’d give it a shot to try and coach her into making the right decision as a woman. I liked the girl and I did not want her trapped with a chodey Beta.
It wasn’t the first time she had fucked someone I knew. She had fucked a friend of the pilot’s at the pilot’s house after a night out – and yet “HE has issues as he texts ten girls at once on Tinder looking for a hookup”. Lovely projection coming from her.
“Colombiana – let me tell you – he will never get rid of that image from his head of you fucking the Uncle. He will use it against you for the rest of your relationship and you’ll be shamed for it every time. Guys like that don’t understand women are just as human as guys.”
Imagine you are this Blue Pill Nephew. You’ve met a girl, felt attraction for her, and eventually slept with her. Affection and love follows. You assess her as a prospect for a long term relationship and then – WHAM! She tells you about hooking up with the Uncle.
The thing about sex is – what did the Uncle do to her? Did he fuck her in a bathroom? Cum on her face? Fuck her up the arse? Was it quick, dirty sex? Did he facefuck her? (Perhaps he was reading https://rivsdiary.wordpress.com)
It’s the Male Hamster Wheel in action. Did he taint my Pure Chaste Woman?
Soon she started asking for my help to find a place to live and start a new life. I found a spot for her … but then suddenly she told me she was “giving it (the relationship) a go”.
Yesterday I saw some lovely glossy photos of their wedding – the Nephew and the Colombiana. It was a match made in heaven.
I am in Berlin at the moment, supposedly on a Eurojaunt … yet my leads (French Banker, Miss Boulder, The Neighbour) are drying up rapidly so more like a Eurotaunt. In the meantime I will write about some of the highlights of my Red Pill existence in the form of vignettes, or small character studies.
The idea of vignettes came from a book I read many years ago – A Writer’s Notebook by W. Somerset Maugham. He would compile short anecdotes, stories and draft short character studies of people he met in his life. Some of these would form characters in his novels.
Enter Somerset Maugham
Maugham is one of my favourite writers. I read him in my earlier and more vulnerable years when I was an overweight, friendless nerd in need of some sexing to break my virginity. There was a collection of his works at the local library that I devoured and I ended up purchasing the ones I liked the most:
1. Of Human Bondage
2. The Razor’s Edge
3. The Moon and Sixpence
4. Collected Short Stories
What each of these had in common were strong female characters written by a man who was likely homosexual and who had a true understanding of female sexuality.
The Moon and Sixpence is a fictionalised account of the life of Paul Gauguin (in the book known as Strickland) and contains a story early on in the book that summarises for me Maugham’s true understanding of women:
“(Strickland) is helped and supported by a commercially successful but hackneyed Dutch painter, Dirk Stroeve (coincidentally, also an old friend of the narrator’s), who recognises Strickland’s genius as a painter. After helping Strickland recover from a life-threatening illness, Stroeve is repaid by having his wife, Blanche, abandon him for Strickland. Strickland later discards the wife; all he really sought from Blanche was a model to paint, not serious companionship, and it is hinted in the novel’s dialogue that he indicated this to her and she took the risk anyway. Blanche then commits suicide – yet another human casualty in Strickland’s single-minded pursuit of art and beauty“.
(Wikipedia entry on Maugham, accessed 29 May 2019)
To me, Strickland’s dark energy as a man – his Alphaness and dominance – inexorably draws Blanche to him. She abandons Stroeve – a helpless Beta – and is used by Strickland, presumably both as a model and sex partner. Her loss of Strickland – her Alpha widow status – leads her to commit suicide.
Maugham’s work was my first exposure to Red Pill theory and the art of vignettes.
One Tuesday night, some months back, I decided to go out for a dance at a common establishment in Sydney. It was known for being a combination of a place to dance and a place to pick up.
I arrived early and struck up a conversation with a dapper looking Maugham-esque chap at the bar who was a wedding MC and had, in a previous job, financed the construction of the bar.
He and I chatted about approaching women and he gave me a classic textbook approach:
“Look for women who are looking at you. Smile at them. When they look away, come back in and smile at them a second time. If they return the smile, go approach them as soon as possible.”
I watched him approach around ten women that night – in groups, on their own, next to him at the bar. He was an expert at it – well-dressed, charming, and warm. And married.
The Czech Woman
I made my way around the bar, talking to women and making a comment about their dress: “I like your (insert details). Let’s dance a little later. I will come and find you”. And then I would point at them.It seemed to work.
As I passed through one of the thoroughfares, a woman stepped into my path. She appeared to be Eastern European, in her mid thirties, and with a shaved undercut morereminiscent of a lesbian Instagram fitness model. We chatted and danced for a bit – she was from Czech Republic and was here with work colleagues as they had all lost their job that day so were celebrating!
I let her go and scanned the room for interest. I danced with an Italian girl as well as an attention-seeking Argentinian girl whom I knew was there for the dance. You could tell who wanted to dance and who wanted to be seduced.
I made my way back round and the Czech Woman was again in my path. Let’s call this Orbit Theory.
Magnum (http://magnumlivelarge.blog) and I have been discussing this concept where a woman will subconsciously or consciously put herself within orbit of a situation where a high-value guy will try to seduce her.
I am sure this has been given many names within the community but I just wanted to define it for myself.
1. Dance classes – where a woman will join a salsa class to fall into orbit with a high-value guy, generally the teacher who is fit, attractive and Latin. Some women will go further and travel to the teacher’s country to learn more “dance”. Cuba is a good example of Thailand in reverse – white women looking to have a holiday romance with some black Cuban guy.
2. Boot camps – where a woman will join a bootcamp presumably to get into shape but more as a validation exercise where she is being led by a fit guy who could potentially become the object of a sexual dalliance.
Both of these above have solid real life examples of women who were seduced by the dance teacher or the gym instructor. It’s so common to the point of being a cliche.
As the Czech Woman and I met again – with her standing in my path – I decided to dance with her andchat about her haircut. She was proud of the look and I jokingly told her she looked like a lesbian: “Oh really, my husband cuts my hair.”
I think at this moment I looked at my watch and realised that an hour or so had passed since I met her to when she told me about the husband.
She was wearing a green/emerald dress. I must have been attracted to her as I am a lover of emeralds. I asked her about the brand and she showed me the label: “SEDUCTION“.
I moved to the bar and invited her to have a drinkwith me. It was a tease and I joked that she would buy drinks for the both of us. In the end I bought drinks for her.
We sat down on high stools and I remember her facing me and being positioned between my legs, hers closed and mine open. She had seen a screenshot of my son as I ordered the drinks and we got on to the topic of children:
“I have been seven years married and we are trying for a baby. Soon we will be going to IVF as nothing is happening.” She spoke with some lamentation in her voice.
“Let me suggest something that will make you pregnant”. I innocently suggested.
“What?! Sex?” She replied indignantly.
“No … competition“. I paused and looked at her intently, channeling every last ounce of seductive energy to pierce her mind with pure sexing – the kind of look where at the top of your mind is the thought of you fucking her from behind and blowing inside her.
We locked eyes and I felt in my being that she deeply understood what I was suggesting.
The silence was all.
Tea For Two
I signalled to her that I was planning to leave. She said she would come with me outside. I cautioned her and asked whether her friends would be concerned. She did not care and came outside with me.
As we stood outside the bar, her phone began to ring and she answered it. It was her husband. She had a brief conversation with him and then endedthe call. Her first reaction was to slightly belittle him and she harped on about how he had scolded her for (a) going out and (b) wearing a cocktail dress.
I asked whether she wanted to join me for tea. “Tea or ‘tea’?” I countered her concern with even more plausible deniability and looked at her with a micro-smirk: “Tea”.
My car was parked some distance away and she told me that she would accompany me to the car. As we got to the car, she relented and said that she had to go.
I stood above her and put my hand around her back. I could feel the charge was building and said to her: “you’re not going anyway“, pulling her in and making out with her and pushing her against the car. I pulled back and I could see she was impressed with the make out.
“Let’s go right now”.
She paused – and paused – and paused – and then finally said with a heavy heart: “I have to go”.
We exchanged details and I asked her whether she would like piano lessons at my house. She balked and said: “Private lessons? Just piano lessons and nothing else“.
“Come for tea … and piano lessons”. Again a micro-smirk. Again silence.
I was discussing with Magnum (http://magnumlivelarge.blog) over Twitter those Red Pill vignettes – brief, evocative episodes of Red Pill truth – which I had felt in the past with women but could not understand.
One of my dearest friends is gay – let’s call him the Pilot. He invited me, along with some friends, to an inner city gay pub called the Imperial to join him for a drink and a bit of partying.
He and I are close – and closely resemble a gay couple in appearance and affection. It’s strange – we just love each other as friends. There is no fear of affection, hugging, kissing on the cheek or anything that could be labelled “gay” – we are deeply bonded … even if he sucks cock and I eat pussy.
The Polish Girl
A opera singer friend of the Pilot’s turned up, along with some random camp dude and an ordinary looking Polish girl. She was also an opera singer and was in Australia on a holiday.
We took to talking and briefly discussed the usual about an overseas holiday – what have you seen? What do you think of the people? etc. The usual chitchat.
The Pilot and I are usually pretty energetic, bouncing jokes off each other and enjoying each other’s company. He and I got to the discussion about how the hotel had been used in the film Priscilla: Queen of the Desert and that there was a drag show later – basically a transvestite miming some power ballad while standing on the bar.
The Polish girl and I got back into conversation about men and she proudly told me that she had joined Tinder while in Australia – “I mean, I’m on holidays, right?”
I was inquisitive – Tinder had always been a cesspool for me – so I asked her about it as if I did not know anything about it.
“Yes, it has been very good”. She showed me an assortment of guys that had matched with her … and they proceeded to tell me that she had FUCKED SEVEN GUYS SINCE SHE HAD ARRIVED TWO WEEKS AGO … and that she intended to maximise her time here as she only had a few days left.
She was a dreadful-looking girl, beefy and bloated. No doubt she could sing coloratura in addition to sucking random cock. I might have thrown her a rose while on stage as Aida but that would be it.
She showed me some of the guys she had fucked – a mixed bag. The faces looked equally hungry.
We got on to the topic of my son and I showed her a few pics. She warmed – briefly – before asking about his mother and the arrangements between us.
“Well, we share the child equally. It’s the best arrangement at the moment”, I replied drily.
“Yes, but, how does it work legally in this country between the two of you? … I want to say, what is the legal agreement?” She looked at me puzzled.
“Well, you sit down and make an agreement”. I couldn’t understand the line of questioning.
“Yes, but you are gay … so how does it work?”
I went quiet and looked at her. “Umm, well, we have an agreement to share custody. I’m not gay by the way”.
She stiffened considerably and I saw the briefest flash in her eyes of ‘what have I done?’
“Yeah, I take care of him. It’s just me at the moment – single Dad. I don’t really want to introduce new women to him”.
I remember a coldness entering the room and her conversation dried up to next to nothing. She was a few paces away from our friends so could not bridge the gap. I threw in a bomb.
“So, have you lined up a guy for tonight? You haven’t got much time left”.