Iceland – Part II

Continued from Part I.

Note: The first several paragraphs of this blog go into detail about my hike with Naomi–which I found interesting enough to include, though it isn’t exactly my typical content. If you only read my writing for the sex-related stuff, skip down to the bolded “Weekend #2.”


At first, I was pissed Naomi had woken me up at 8 just to catch an earlier ferry. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was probably for the better. Nothing would be going on at the island during the day, and it would be nice to have a bed to sleep in to recharge for the night.

It’s no secret that partying is a big part of my traveling experience. Naomi, however, would rather read a National Geographic about Madagascar wildlife; she likes to party, but not if it gets in the way of her top priorities. And at the top of her list was the 49-mile hike we’d been planning for the past few months. The both of us had loaded up on expensive mountaineering gear, and had even gone on some practice hikes through El Morro Canyon, so this trek was easily the crux of our trip. Our journey began early Monday morning, but I still had no intentions of wasting a party night in Reykjavik. I was 5 for 10 over the past three nights, which was a better percentage than my 2003 Havasu spring break days. So taking a break from the roll I was on would be like giving up my spot at a hot craps table so I could play Keno.

As it stood, my Sunday plan was such: Arrive back in Reykjavik; eat; check into the hostel where I’d take a colossal nap until 9; hit the bars ‘til 1; fuck an Icelandic Goddess ‘til 3; sleep ‘til 8; wake up, pack, then catch the bus to Skogar to begin our hike. But when Naomi caught wind of my plans, Hippo shit hit the fan.

We were riding in the empty ferry, sitting on a couch by the exit when it happened.

“So what do you want to do today?” she asked me.

“I’m taking a big-ass nap. Tonight should be going off, so I’ll probably head out around 10.”

“You’re going out tonight?” Her voice suddenly had an edge in it.

“Yeah, no one works tomorrow. People will be out.”

“ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?” She was pissed. “Dave, we need to be rested for Monday, and you can’t be hungover. Cuz if you are, then honestly, you’re a liability, and I’m not gonna do the hike with you. I know you think ten miles a day is easy, but this isn’t like the hikes we did in El Morro. Even professional hikers struggle on this trail. Can’t you just not party for one night? Just ONE night, Dave, that’s all I ask.”

I was shell-shocked. “Okay.” Naomi had some serious conviction in her voice, and basically delivered a verbal bitch slap, which is probably what I needed. My Sunday plans were shattered like a freshly-purchased bottle of Blue Label. As heroic and outlier-ish as I think I am with my drinking, Naomi was right: I couldn’t afford to risk fucking up the next 4-5 days, and maybe the whole trip, for one night of partying.

Truth is, I’d always thought hikers were a joke. How hard could it be to just walk down a marked path for a few hours? But when I started hearing stories about people dying on this trail, I changed my perspective (A few years back, an Israeli guy got caught in some bad weather and ended up dying of hypothermia a week later). I had no idea what kind of climate to expect; and in Iceland, the weather is so volatile that you can only predict the forecast 24 hours ahead of time. Theoretically, we could leave on a crystal clear Monday morning, and get caught in a 25-degree high-altitude thunderstorm come Tuesday afternoon, and our entire hike would go to shit. Or worse, we could get stuck in the middle of a mountain, miles from the nearest shelter. Lastly, I didn’t spend over a thousand bucks on hiking gear from REI to look cool; I really wanted to experience the beauty of this country without having to worry about trivial things like hangovers, blisters, or my shivering scrotum.

So I stayed in Sunday and rested. I was so tired I never even left the room. Naomi was awesome enough to bring me a chicken kabob and salad from the downstairs restaurant, which I ate in bed, and then passed out again. I must have slept 14 hours before finally waking up Monday morning.

Our goal for the day was 15 miles, the first three of which were paradise. We walked along the green bluffs with the excitable sheep, waterfalls everywhere, crisp air, and a cool breeze at our backs. We stopped for pictures several times, our walking sticks raised in glory we hadn’t yet achieved (Thank God for these walking sticks. I’d always thought they were overkill—similar to how my friend Tele wears leg backpacks when he goes to the shooting range [see below]—but those sticks took a ton of pressure off my skinny-ass legs over the course of a few hours).

leg backpack

Things started to unravel after the fourth mile. My 32-pound backpack was destroying my shoulders. Was I even wearing it properly? And a pair of daunting glaciers we were supposed to pass between towered in the distance, constantly reminding me of how far we still had to go. Naomi was semi-pro at this stuff, so she was perpetually 50 meters ahead of me, walking in small but quick strides. Apparently, we were on a deadline, as Naomi would frequently look back at me and yell at me to hurry, which prompted me to take four super-fast steps while she was watching, only to return to my normal pace once she turned around.

After the sixth mile, the scenery had mutated from green splendor to a gray, rocky hell. My shoulders screamed in agony; we’d barely put a dent in the glacial pass; and now that we were at a higher altitude, the coldness had dropped to the thirties. Throw in a wind chill factor to go with the ever-dropping temperature as the sun sunk lower, and I suddenly felt a pang of fear. There was no way I could hike nine more miles today in these conditions. Then off in the distance we saw a triangular white hut—unless it was some sort of cruel mirage. No, it had to be real.

Though way farther than it seemed, the hut was real. It took us a good hour to finally get there. When we walked inside, it felt like we’d made it to the Icelandic Caribbean. We dumped our backpacks at the front door area and were greeted by a tall grisly man in his late forties who talked like Lyman Zerga. I hobbled across the wooden floor and collapsed into a chair. After gathering my breath and letting my body temperature stabilize, I joined Naomi at one of the tables and poured myself a coffee—only because it was something hot.* Turned out Naomi was just as physically defeated as I was (something about her ankles), so she asked Lyman about sleeping availability. The place was a steal. It was only 12 bucks to stay there, in which we got personal mattresses and an unlimited dose of Lyman’s hiking stories, weather reports, and trail info.

*I never drink coffee. It’s one of the biggest shams in human history. Why get addicted to something that temporarily rejuvenates you, only to leave you reliant on it every time you feel tired and crappy? Why can’t we all just power through those first 10-30 minutes every morning and live in equilibrium? Then you’d never be addicted to that stuff in the first place; you’d save money, be less dependent on something that takes forever to consume, and no one would ever turn into a grouchy coffee gorilla zombie if they miss out on their morning fix. Life shouldn’t be this difficult. (That being said, ask me about alcohol)

There have only been two instances when I felt my life was legitimately at risk. The first was while surfing alone when I got sucked out by a riptide and nearly drowned. The second was Day 1 of this hike. Had this hut not been here, I might have died (seriously) and/or Naomi would have had to take care of my sorry ass. I was probably acting like an outright weenie, but before I saw that hut, I was already envisioning the headline in the Icelandic Tribune: IDIOT AMERICAN THINKS HE KNOWS WHAT HE’S DOING, CAN’T HANG, DIES PATHETICALLY, UNLAID FROM THE NIGHT BEFORE.

But probably the most important thing I got from the hut, other than survival, was when Lyman showed me how to wear my backpack properly, basically saving my entire experience (apparently you’re supposed to tighten the waist straps extra snug so that all the weight of the backpack goes to your hips and legs rather than shoulders). Suddenly a new man, I conquered the next day of hiking, in which we again covered eight miles (I didn’t exactly conquer it; but I was able to go a solid six miles before starting to ail like a broke bitch, as opposed to just three miles like the day before). Day Two was a different kind of scenery than Day One—less rock and waterfalls, and more volcanoes, snow, glaciers, and mountains. It was also more of an up and down climb. At one point we had to traverse a cliff with nothing but a rickety chain to hold onto for support. Naomi nearly had a heart attack here, which made me feel manlier for being able to handle it.

By the third day, Naomi and I were starting to get on each other’s nerves. We’d spent enough time now to know what slight habits irked us—though I incessantly make noises and say the same shit over and over, so I’m sure my mannerisms were far more annoying than hers. For starters, I was burping like Barney every ten minutes (farting, too). Second, I wanted to walk at my own slow pace, which didn’t fly with Naomi. Third, my borderline Tourette’s was driving her insane. My main peeve about Naomi was her insistence on hurrying. I wanted to take breaks at least every mile to relax, eat snacks, urinate, and soak in the scenery, while Noami just wanted to reach the finish line.

Because we were more exhausted than two teenagers who just discovered how to masturbate, we decided to end our journey after the third day having hiked 29 of the 49 miles we’d originally intended. That last day, however, was by far my favorite. I was well-rested; I’d eaten a hearty breakfast; and my muscles, though strained, had impressively adjusted to the labor, like a man. The hike was flat for the most part, and because we left at 7 a.m., we had the whole trail to ourselves. The occasional breeze came in from the north, the weather was perfect; and with the rolling hills at our sides, in all my life I’ve never felt the serenity as I did on that Wednesday morning. There are countless days in my life I wouldn’t mind living again, this was one of them.

The second half of the day sucked, however. Once we reached the next campsite, we had a hideous, ashen-laden three-mile walk down a dirt road to a bus station in the middle of what suddenly looked like the Mojave Desert. We bussed it out of Barstow and ended up at a small town—where I somehow lost my ATM card, causing me to have to borrow money from Naomi the rest of the trip—then we took another bus to the eastern side of Iceland where we camped out. We spent Thursday checking out Glacier Lake, although it was rainy and windy as hell, so after taking some pictures we ran for cover and then took a six-hour bus ride back to Reykjavik.

Before I continue, I must point out how thankful I am to have done this hike with Naomi. Her optimistic attitude was unmatched; she pushed me to my physical limit—which sucked at times, but looking back I’m now forever thankful; and if it wasn’t for her, I surely would have taken a bus back after Day 2 and missed out on that extraordinary final day. More importantly, because of Naomi I now can officially call myself a “hiker”—even though had we been on Naked and Afraid, Naomi would have ditched me to increase her survival chances, and/or I would have tapped out after the second day, with my “PSR” dropping from a 3.1 to a 1.8. (It’s also worth noting that on the final day of the hike, Naomi took a shit in the dirt and buried it like a cat, which made her four times cooler. I am proud to call her my friend)

(For those who want a visual of our hike, watch this four-minute clip: Other than the northern lights and nude swimming, a lot of the images are things we saw and experienced)

Weekend #2

No one in Reykjavik was out that Thursday night, so after drinking a couple beers I headed in early and crashed around midnight.

After checking out the Blue Lagoon during the day, I was ready to party again come Friday night. This had probably been the longest stretch (six days) I’d gone on any vacation without partying. Apparently I’m getting older.

Only problem was it was Gay Pride weekend, and the homosexuals had not only taken over the street, but maybe the entire island. They were everywhere, which was fine, but no matter where Naomi and I turned there was a bar blasting either Madonna, The Village People, or that “Dancing Queen” song. The girls all had Dolph Lundgren haircuts, and the guys were either yolked and clad in all black, or awkwardly skinny and dressed like the Mad Hatter. And they all danced bouncily, arms out wide, with no regard for safety like Rocky Horror Picture Show rejects.

Naomi hung out for a couple beers but called it a night sometime before two, leaving me alone at the bar (which was a straight bar last weekend), making me fresh prey to gay men everywhere. Moments after she left, while leaning against the bar, I frighteningly made eye contact with a dude in a red tank top with feathers in his hair who was singing along to the fifth consecutive ABBA song that was on. He approached me and screamed, “This is my favorite song!” I nodded and looked away. He took the hint, picked up his two drinks and walked off.

I finished my drink and bolted. I went to a local’s bar a block off the main street hoping it was queer-free (Note: “queer” is an acceptable gay term in Iceland). That wasn’t the case. Three minutes after sitting on a bar stool, a tall fat guy who looked like Donkeylips from Salute Your Shorts sat in the chair to my right and asked what I wanted to drink. I told him I was fine, I’d already ordered a beer. He ignored me and bought us both a shot of Brennivin (Icelandic liquor similar to jager). What the fuck!? Did this guy really think he had a chance with me? I like to think I’m at least a 7, but this guy was a 2, tops; I was way out of his league. But now that he’d bought me a drink, I figured I was obligated to talk to him or something, officially making me an OC club chick. He pressed me about political crap like the terror in Israel and how he hated the world blah blah blah. Then to make matters worse, another queer sat in the open stool to my left, caressed my bicep, bought me a vodka-soda, and in the disgusting process salted poor Donkeylips. While the free drinks were nice, I had to get out of this place, stat. After another few minutes of answering their questions about world issues and my shirt, I told them I had to go to the bathroom, and then slithered out the door.

FUCK THIS! There had to be at least ONE straight bar somewhere. I strode down the hill towards Austur, the bar from last Thursday. The further I walked down, the more long-haired chicks I saw, and the guys seemed to be dressed shittier. I’m no homophobe, but never in my life have I felt so happy to see clusters of guys wearing skate shoes and wrinkly plaid shirts.

While waiting at the island festival bus stop the previous weekend, I’d briefly encountered a young punky-looking blonde with pink streaks in her hair—my perfect type. As I stood at the edge of the dance floor at Austur, this same girl brushed by me, turned around, and we made eye contact. I smiled, and her face brightened. “Hey!” she gleamed.

The music was blaring, so I had to practically yell at her. “What’s up!”

“I know you!” She left her friend who was at her side and stepped towards me.

“Yep. We met at the bus stop. I never saw you at the festival, though. Did you fall off the boat?”

She laughed. “I was there! Where is your wife?”


“The girl you were with at the bus stop.”

I chuckled. “That wasn’t my wife; that was my friend, and she’s lamely sleeping.”

“Oh! I totally thought you were together.”

“Nope. I’m single. Are you?”


I learned her name was Sera, 21, and was still in college. Her name was actually way longer, uglier, and impossible to remember, but I never provide girls’ real names on here—and I wanted to save writing space, so I nicely named her Sera. (Icelanders have the strangest female names probably anywhere in Europe. Researching S names, I found the following: “Snorra,” “Snot,” “Sigga,” “Skugga,” and “Steinborg”) Skugga and I danced for a few minutes at the edge of the dance floor, until her face got close with mine, and we started making out (Sorry, I know I named her Sera, but I just wanted to see how Skugga looked in writing).

She’d come with her roommate, and the three of us drank at a table as her friend took pictures of us making out, giggling, and acting like ninth graders. After Skugga finished her drink, she got up, took my hand, and stepped toward the exit area (that was the last time; I’ll call her Sera from here on out). Then, as if forgetting to turn off the lights, she leaned over to her friend, said a few words, and off we went, leaving her roommate in the dust. Unbelievable. (To her friend’s credit, she’d been smilingly texting all night, so I’m sure she’d made plans to get plowed by some dude)

“Where can we go?” asked Sera.

“What about your place?”

“There are five people staying the night. We can’t go there.”

“Well my roommate is asleep, so we can’t go there. C’mon, let’s find a hotel.” At this point, there was no need to get cute. Sera had already made it clear that she wanted sex. Toward the end of our footsie session at the table, she abruptly stated, “Everyone in Reykjavik is fucking right now except us.” And with her face, body, and age, she was at least an 8/8.5. There was no way I could pass this up because I couldn’t find a proper fuckstation. To Sera’s discredit, however, she was undoubtedly a huge slut. She bragged about how she liked older men because she’d banged a 37-year-old last weekend at the island festival. Plus, she was one of those stupid chicks with drawn-in eyebrows—which was apparently a mini fad in Iceland. For all girls reading this: NO GUYS FIND FAKE EYEBROWS ATTRACTIVE. I can’t speak for every man, but I can speak for every man I’ve ever met.

The cab ride was a disaster. There were no rooms available anywhere. We checked out at least five different spots, but the homosexuals—on their weekend of glory—had monopolized all the hotel rooms, leaving people like me to frantically scamper like Commodus after Maximus knocked his sword away.

Having accepted our probable fate of public sex, I had the cab drop us off back at my hostel, praying there’d be an obscure couch in the corner of the lobby we could use.

There were plenty of potential areas, but incredibly, a couple girls were still working the main desk (it was 5 a.m.), which was visible from the two couches I had in mind. I then led Sera up to my floor because I remembered there was another couch in the corner by the stairway entrance. But some frumpy whale was swashbuckling in her PJs with her laptop out. Fuck! I had no options. There was no way I could take her to my room; Naomi would rip my left teste off. Just as I was about to take Sera back downstairs to search for more options, I noticed a glass door at the end of the hallway.

It was a kitchen! Even though it was the size of a bedroom, the door was to the right of the actual room, obscuring us to anyone who might walk down the hallway.

Sera leaned me up against the sink, pulled down my pants, and started blowing me before I could even explain that this room was our best option. She didn’t care. We fooled around for the next hour, but disappointingly she failed the finger test (halibut), so I never went down on her—though I did produce a squirt. Her figure was incredible; it was the perfect shade of tan, and she literally didn’t have a single mole—or freckle even—anywhere on her body.

After sex, I was in my jeans chilling on a dining chair watching Sera get dressed when an Asian guy walked in with one of those red Korean noodle packs. Sera was sprawled on the floor in her underwear with her tits hanging out. The guy noticed her, said, “Oh! Sorry,” then hesitated like a frightened kangaroo, and retreated back towards the door.

I got up, swiftly scooped up the used condom, tossed it in the trash, then said, “No, it’s cool, man. Come on in.” Sera didn’t care; she nonchalantly grabbed my shirt and threw it around her while the guy hurried to the stove, heated up some water, and waited in a chair opposite me, occasionally stealing glances at Sera, who was crawling around the floor like an overgrown kindergartner looking for her scrunchy or something.

Moments after the guy left, Sera threw my shirt at me, proclaimed she was horny again, laid on the floor, spread her legs, and started playing with herself through her panties. Turned on, but not excited about her fishiness, I stood above her, whipped my shlong out and let her suck me off again. I hadn’t had too much to drink, so whiskey dick wasn’t a problem.

After busting in her mouth, we were both exhausted. I told Sera she couldn’t come to my room because Naomi was asleep, so she laid on the now-empty hallway couch and said she’d pass out there. I probably should have left her, but I felt guilty and semi-responsible for her since she was just three years older than my students. So I forced her to get up and summoned her to my room, reminding her multiple times not to make any noise.

It likely would have gone to plan, but our room door opened louder than Century Link Field, causing Naomi to rustle, groan, and then roll the other way. I led Sera inside, and I laid down in bed—which was adjoined to Naomi’s—leaving enough space for Sera, who put her purse on the ground and fiddled with her shoes. Ok, she’ll just quietly crawl into bed in a moment; Naomi will never find out! Nope. Sera and her eyebrows decided to walk to the other side of the room Naomi was facing and lay down on all of our luggage like airport surplus. Five…four…three…two…o—Naomi whapped me on the arm. “Dave! What the fuck!” she hissed.

“We’re not hooking up,” I whispered back.

Get her out of here!

Fuck. I got up and herded Sera downstairs. “Why did you sleep on all our crap?” I asked her.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” It was time for her to go home. I ordered a cab from the front desk, said goodbye, went back upstairs and crashed instantly. Before parting ways, Sera whined, “You’re just going to leave me?” to which I replied, “Well, if you had gotten into the covers quietly, you could have slept in my bed, but you decided to walk right in front of Naomi and sleep in the worst possible spot in the entire hostel.” She gave me a perplexed look, so I saved her the thinking trouble and told her I’d hit her up on Facebook the next day.

Naomi and I spent our final Saturday inside a volcano (Iceland is the only place in the world you can do this; they lower you down the length of two statues of liberty into the frigid bottle-neck caldera of an active volcano. If the volcano were to erupt, we were all goners). The night went about the same as the previous night.

“Are you coming out tonight?” I asked Naomi.

“No, I have to wake up early tomorrow. Plus, what’s the point? You’re just gonna meet some chick and ditch me anyways.”

Makes sense, I suppose. So Naomi stayed in, while I went out by myself…again. I hooked up with the very first girl I hit on, a tall 20-year-old blonde with an unnecessary headband, who was conveniently in a shitty relationship (these chicks always find ways to make themselves more miserable, like fucking a stranger). After leaving her indifferent friend alone at the bar, the blondie followed me outside (I’ll never get over this chick-ditch-friend thing, ever). I was starting to get greedy, however. This girl was a 6.5, and though a probable sure thing, I was on such a roll that I considered ditching her to go after hotter chicks, ultimately deciding to ride her out.

We couldn’t go back to her place because her boyfriend was asleep, so I thought of my options, and decided she wasn’t hot enough to book a hotel room. Fuck it, back to the kitchen!

It was a total bust. She was wearing some gnarly full-body outfit, which made it nearly impossible to get her naked, so after some fruitful efforts to deflect her boyfriend-since-she-was-14-guilt, all I was able to do was finger her for a bit, suck on her tits, and get half a blowjob, ending it with a piss-poor handjob. I never nutted. She was a cool girl, though, which compensated for her 20-year-old prudishness. She seemed genuinely interested in who I was and my passions, which led to some interesting conversations post-accepting-that-I-wasn’t-gonna-bust. And since I seemed like “a guy who understands the world” (her words), she wanted life advice from me, which I gladly gave her (all occurring as my pants were around my knees): First, break up with your boyfriend—you obviously don’t like him that much; two, quit your job at the aquarium and go back to school; three, have sex with me because it will be fun (she laughed, then stared at my penis, which was flopping around willy nilly); four, stop asking people for advice—you already have all the answers. We talked for another ten minutes, then I pulled my pants up and led her downstairs where I called her a cab. I crashed shortly after. I may or may not have masturbated into a toilet.

I spent my final day in Iceland shopping and relaxing. I have to hand it to Naomi, though. She took a six-hour bus (and back) to the other side of the island to go glacier climbing. She really knew how to maximize her days.

Before I end this blog, I have to touch upon the greatness of Iceland from a hook-up perspective. After careful analysis and calculation, over the course of my two-week stay, which consisted of 4.5 nights of going out (the 0.5 was for the first Thursday of the trip, which was semi-dead), I officially went 7 for 13 (with two lays, which could have easily been four if the circumstances were different). SEVEN FOR THIRTEEN! I say this not to brag, but for those who know me, know such stats are an obscene anomaly. Plus I know some of you have future travel plans and care about this stuff as much as I do, though you may not admit it. To shed more light on it, let me break down my “sex probability” at different places across the globe as of October, 2014—meaning, if I party at these places, these are the chances I will have sex that same night. The numbers are all meticulously calculated and research-based…




LOS ANGELES: 2% (fuck that place)




THAILAND: 14%***








*This used to be a lot higher, and back in my Woody’s Wharf heyday (2007-2011), was as high as 22%, but I got older, and the girls stayed the same age, which has made me creepier.

**The chances are elevated from California because it probably means I’m on vacation, which changes my attitude considerately. Plus, girls tend to fuck traveling guys more—especially those from “Cali”–because there’s no strings attached and less next-day judgments.

***This doesn’t include prostitutes you sickos, just travelers, many of whom don’t speak English, making Thailand tougher than one might think.

But as you can see, Iceland is far and away the easiest place on the planet to have free, meaningless sex. Was I just lucky? Perhaps. There are many possible lurking variables that could factor into my calculations, but from what I’ve experienced from my sample size, this is how the numbers stand.

The following Monday, Naomi and I took our bruised bodies to the airport, and thirty hours later we walked into our respective homes back in California. Will Naomi and I ever travel together again? I don’t know. Things change—attitudes, opinions, lifestyles, circumstances. Time has a funny way of unwinding.

The only sad part about these trips is leaving, because deep down you know you’ll probably never get to experience that place again. While the money may always be there, time will not. And there are too many places I still want to see and experience. And even if I go back, it won’t be the same. It never is. All I can do is share this small piece of my life with you, hoping you can live it one day, perhaps better than I did. For now, I must move on. New journeys await.



Iceland – Part I

Travelers always give the best advice. Over the years, word was spreading like wildfire: Trust me. Go to Iceland. Ask yourself what you’re looking for, and Iceland will have it.

Since I don’t trust online forums or professional travel writers—most of whom are middle-aged and married—this was all I really needed. The main thing that had hindered me from going to Iceland in the past had been the insane air prices, which averaged around $2500 for a roundtrip ticket. But when I looked it up in March, they were an unbelievable $1000. Only problem was that all of my travel buddies had become lamer than a co-ed fantasy football league. Axe had a hazy summer work schedule and couldn’t give me a straight answer; ODR had become employed to an engineering company that gave him a whopping five days off a year; and Punchline was still broke after spending thousands on his wedding a few months prior. From the looks of it, I’d be going solo.

Then one night at Woody’s, I ran into Naomi, an old college friend. She knew about my book, and had been to Havasu spring break with me a couple times back when we were undergrads, so she knew I was scum. Being a teacher, she got the same time off as me, and after ordering drinks at the bar and lightly discussing the idea of “Oh, we should travel together!” we went our separate ways as I turned in another 0-fer at Woody’s.

A few weeks later, I got extra antsy and nearly booked a solo plane ticket, when I remembered my conversation with Naomi and decided to shoot her a text: So where you gonna go this summer? She threw out some crap about camping in Africa, which I immediately vetoed, and presented my Iceland plans. She was sketchy at first, but I told her to do some research and get back to me. After discovering that National Geographic had rated Iceland as one of the top ten hiking destinations in the world, Naomi confirmed she was in, and we booked our flights.

The Naomi I knew in college was a party girl, always up for a good road trip. The current 31-year-old version of Naomi was still somewhat of a wild child, but had become more active and spiritual; she taught yoga on the side, chose reading over TV, and consistently did weekend hikes, camping trips, and the occasional triathlon. It was tough to see myself traveling with…a female, but I knew Naomi understood me enough, was cool, and any looming hook-up drama between the two of us would never be an issue (she had a boyfriend; I was after Icelandic girls; and plus, “it’s not like that”). Off we went.

We arrived in Reykjavik on a Thursday. Iceland’s capital city had a population of roughly 120,000, though the city looked a lot bigger. The buildings and houses were all white and squarish with colored roofs; and the streets were rather quiet, more buses than anything else. Apparently we’d come just in time for a national four-day weekend, which could only mean good things for the night scene. After booking some upcoming tours and events at the front desk, Naomi and I checked into our hostel and took much-needed naps.

Unlike Friday and Saturday, the bars were only open until 1. We went downstairs to the hostel bar for a drink and began our night. We learned earlier that 5% of Iceland’s population was at a huge annual music festival all weekend at the Westman islands, which meant all the fun Icelanders were probably over there (we were so sold on this event, that we even booked ferry tickets to go there Saturday night. Well, at least I was sold; Naomi was convinced it’d be all high school and college kids).

Reykjavik had been dubbed by many as the party capitol of Europe, so I was expecting seismic mobs of horny attractive people, endless bars, exquisite nightclubs, and the best music on the planet. As we finished our drinks and walked into our first Icelandic night—sort of, in summer months it doesn’t get dark in Iceland ‘til close to midnight—it was somewhat of a letdown. The good thing about the party scene here was that all of the bars and clubs were on the main street, so I never had any distractions to get cute or greedy and try to cab it somewhere twenty minutes away (we’d made it a point to book a hostel on this street). But as we barhopped, we realized that every spot was loaded with goddamn tourists. While Naomi got hit on by a middle-aged bachelor party from Toronto, I roamed the bar to find myself in one of the biggest sausagefests I’d been in since maybe 2009. There were girls, but they all grumpily sat in chairs against the wall surrounding the seedy dance floor like Napolean Dynamite’s dates. After one drink, Naomi and I took off.

We went to a few other places, but it was more of the same middle-school-dance confusion. Sometime around midnight we ended up at a place called Austur that actually had locals inside, and enough space where I could chill without having to snake my way through loud-ass Canadians.

Before I discuss my interactions with chicks, it’s worth noting that I read somewhere (some blogger named Roosh) that Icelandic women don’t like to have long conversations and make out all over the place like they do in the states. Supposedly, the city is so small that everyone knows everyone and the girls don’t want to be judged by their peers. Instead it’s optimal to have a five-minute conversation with one, give them space, and when the bars begin to close down, find those planted seeds, ask them, “Where’s the post-party?” and then take them home for a fuck. And you have the get-to-know-you conversations afterwards. Other than turbo sluts, only female baboons would ever value physical pleasure with a stranger over mental stimulation, so I didn’t take that guy’s advice too seriously. Although I did plant a few seeds with girls, I’d later find out they’d all come with a big group of friends.

There was one exception. Earlier I’d asked some brunette/redhead (I couldn’t tell) where the bathrooms were. She enthusiastically guided me around the corner and pointed to some stairs. With the bar now closing, this girl—sitting alone in a chair now–was literally my only option. She was about a 5 (though Naomi would disagree), in her thirties, and had a worried look to her. Fuck it. She was Icelandic; I was horny; and she was cute enough.

“So where’s the post party?” I asked her.

“You again?”

I smiled. “I found the bathroom.”

“Yes. I know. I took you there.” She paused for a moment. “What is your name?”

And just like that, I knew she was good to go. A few questions later she asked what hotel I was at. I didn’t want to tell her I was staying at a hostel because the chances of her thinking I was crashing in a six-person dorm might turn her off (our room was just Naomi and I), so I told her I was staying at a place “just up the street.”

As we exited the bar, Naomi appeared out of nowhere and joined us on our walk home. Naomi introduced herself to the girl, whose name we learned was Klara. There was a moment of awkwardness as we trudged down the street. Klara didn’t know what to make of the situation, so she quickly asked me, “Is this your girlfriend?”

“No, we’re just friends. She has a boyfriend back home.”

She gave me a look of confusion and continued on our stroll. Naomi has a tendency to embrace the company of strangers, so she and Klara struck up a conversation; I occasionally chimed in here and there, but Naomi provided most of the entertainment.

When we arrived at our room, I cracked open one of the Viking beers I’d bought earlier and shared it with Klara. Annoyingly, Naomi remained in the room as well, munching on an old sandwich. After ten minutes of shooting the shit with Klara, I was getting horny and impatient, and with Naomi still in the room, nothing was ever going to happen. When Klara wasn’t looking I went to the Notes app on my iPhone and wrote, Omg give me like 10 minutes. I stealthily showed it to Naomi, who nodded and proclaimed she was gonna go brush her teeth.

Klara and I made out for a bit, but she didn’t let me do much more—other than lamely suck on her right boob. Then Naomi returned from the bathroom and hung out for another few minutes until I gave her a wide-eyed look to indicate that I was viciously horny and she should leave, which she finally did.

It was all for nothing. The Naomi factor had caused Klara to feel judged. She said things like, “What did you expect was going to happen when you brought me here?” to which I lied, “Nothing, just have a beer with me, and maybe make out.” After that she claimed all foreigners think Icelandic girls are sluts. Then she told me how weird it was that there was a girl here and how she thought Naomi and I had to be hooking up. No matter what card I played, aspiring detective Klara wasn’t having it. Finally, she got a piece of paper from her purse and wrote down the name of the bar she was going to tomorrow. “Meet at 5 a.m. outside of Dillon’s Whiskey Bar tomorrow, and I promise you things will be different.” (So tomorrow I should expect sex, but tonight I shouldn’t? Makes sense…) Too bad she wasn’t cute enough to waste a Friday night on, so I told her how it was:

“Yeah. That probably isn’t happening. This is it. I’m right here. Just stay and party with me now.”

She paused a moment, looked at the wall, then back at me. “Meet me at Dillon’s…5 a.m.” She put her purse on her shoulder, leaned over to kiss me, and left.

Naomi returned shortly after. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Dave.”

Drunk, horny, and frustrated, I spoke my mind. “It would have been better if you never came into the room with us.”

Naomi got into bed. “Well this is my room, too.”

“I know. It’s just that, you being here made her feel judged. But whatever, it’s not like she was that great anyway.”

We left it at that and got ready for bed.

(To Naomi’s credit, she’s not exactly experienced at traveling with hook-up fiends like me, so she didn’t quite understand the wing-woman role. Plus, had I brought home a more attractive girl, I’m sure she would have given us space) (Also, I wrote this knowing that Naomi would read it, and don’t really forgive her as much as I say I do)

We spent Friday doing an all-day bus tour around the Golden Circle Road. It’s the most popular tourist route in all of Iceland, stopping at famous waterfalls, hot springs, craters, and churches. The ride reminded me of driving through Norway, only much flatter since the entire island was created from volcanoes. The lava-coated terrain was blanketed in a lush layer of moss that made the entire landscape look like something from Zelda’s Ocarina of Time. I’d sit there, stare out the windows, and never get bored. And the air was so clear that you could see mountains and glaciers that were dozens of miles away, yet appeared close enough to reach in a quick jog. Pure magnificence.

Naomi is apparently one of those people who gets “car sick,” so when the bus dropped us off at our hostel around dinner time, she was already talking about taking it easy that night. Since Friday and Saturday nights in Iceland follow the typical Euro schedule, I tried to explain to Naomi—who claimed to be a Europe-partying expert because she spent a week in Barcelona a hundred years ago—how the bars don’t get started until one. She disagreed with my 1 a.m. theory but somewhat went along with my eat-nap-get-ready-at-midnight plan anyway.

I still had yet to see a significant amount of attractive Icelandic girls. Thursday night no one was out, and other than a few I saw at the airport, I still couldn’t tell what all the “Icelandic girls are hot” fuss was about. That all changed Friday night. Naomi and I left our hostel shortly after one, and hit the suddenly crowded streets. It was a complete 180 from the previous night. Icelandic people were everywhere, and even though it was fifty degrees outside, the girls were still dressed like it was August in Arizona, hardly anyone wearing more than one layer (I don’t know what it is about black leggings on women, but it’s so damn sexy).

Someone once asked me what I get out of writing stories like these. First and foremost, I write to learn about myself; I never know what I actually know until I write it. Second, I feel like I’m contributing to the world in some small way. Lastly, I write because interacting with chicks, hooking up with them, getting rejected, and then writing it down is basically an unofficial way of studying women. As a man torn between monogamy and autonomy, I want to know which path will lead to a happier, more fulfilling life. So it should come as no surprise when I say that I am truly fascinated by women—the way they dress, talk, walk, smile, frown, flirt, dance, make faces, get emotionally upset, look in mirrors, react to the unusual, decide on an outfit, ogle other girl’s outfits, gawk at men, sip drinks, eat candy bars, sit on couches, fix ponytails, adjust bra straps, stare at penises, cross legs, show attraction and disgust. The list never ends.* One thing that draws me to different parts of the world is to find out what makes their women unique. And now that I finally had my first real look at Icelandic women, I still couldn’t tell culturally what set them apart, but as far as physical attributes, they for the most part had a Norwegian look to them, but with a paler and slightly cleaner complexion—which is likely due to the lack of sunlight they receive; they get a cruel two hours of sunlight certain days in winter. As far as overall beauty goes, they weren’t quite up there with Croatia or Belarus, but their perfect skin and Scandinavian features certainly put them near the top of the list.

*I still don’t understand why Universities don’t offer classes on dating and relationships. All heterosexual men should be able to take a class to learn about women, and vice versa (Psychology and Human Sexuality courses don’t count), since most people are clueless about their gender counterpart and how they operate, their body language, what leads to attraction and seduction, how to text, date, sustain healthy relationships, and basically act like a man or woman. It’s apparently required to take two years of a foreign language that will teach us how to communicate at a 20% level in a language 90% of us will never even use again. Yet we ignore educating people on the driving force behind every human being: the opposite sex.

Back to Friday. We had to catch an early-morning bus ride to reach the ferry that would take us to the island festival, so Naomi had two or three drinks, chatted up some locals, and then crashed sometime before 3. After she took off, I wandered the crowded streets alone, and entered a Texas-style bar called Lebowski’s. I was still sober, which meant I was still in my natural introvert state, which spelled disaster for picking up chicks. Truth is, without booze I’d never get laid at bars or clubs. Typically, my personality refuses to blossom until I’ve spent weeks or sometimes months knowing someone. But the beautiful thing about whatever genetics my parents bestowed upon me is the influence alcohol has on my behavior. And I’m not talking about basic liquid courage; having the balls to talk to girls doesn’t necessarily mean much. Alcohol has a much more profound effect on my system. Not only does it shrink my personality-comfort thing from weeks down to a few seconds, but it extracts all self-doubt, monotony, and fear in my voice and demeanor, and it injects me with confidence, animation, and extrovert abilities that turn me into a valiant womanizing warrior around girls with whom I’d otherwise have no chance. If I put on Jim Carrey’s mask from the movie The Mask it’d basically turn me into Drunk Dave Glenn (Alcohol also zombifies me to vagina—in addition to making me say and do stupid shit from time to time—which is a curse I’m willing to accept).  Yet as I sipped my beer alone at the bar, I was starting to fade. The girls all seemed to be in dude-saturated groups; the dance floor was an obnoxious obstacle I had to slog through to reach the bathroom I so frequently visited; Naomi casino pa natet was asleep in our room, reducing my below-the-neck hook-up probability considerately; and the early bus ride loomed heavy on my mind. I should probably just call it a night.

Fuck that! Sandbagging a Friday night in Reykjavik was completely out of the question—though I won’t lie, I was very close to throwing in the towel. Instead I downed what was left of my beer and immediately ordered a Vodka-redbull. I was going the distance tonight.

After chatting with some blotto British dudes (who were strangely obsessed with Tom Brady) and wasting 20 minutes talking to a German chickenhead who proclaimed she was gay 19 minutes into our conversation, I hit the streets in search of other options.

The main road was twice as bustling as before. Gloriously buzzed, I crossed to the right side of the street to find a group of three chicks walking and laughing (Usually I stay away from groups of three or more, but this was Iceland; anything goes). Two were fat blondies; the lone brunette had a Jennifer Connelly look to her. Very sexy. Her only downer was her outfit, a hideous puke-yellow sundress, which probably meant she had a bush. But whatever.

“So where are the good bars here?” I asked the group.

“They are down that way,” Connelly said. Conveniently, she was in outside position and closest to me. “Where are you from?”

“California. You girls aren’t Canadian, are you?” They laughed.

“No,” said Connelly. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s a long story. So you’re Icelandic, then?”


“Okay, good. I hope you guys know where you’re going.”

“Come with us. We’ll show you a good bar.”

It was a solid five-minute walk to the bar, which gave me plenty of time to chat up Connelly, whose disgusting name was actually Engla. She was 30, worked as a high-end secretary somewhere, and conveniently lived by herself in a flat that was two blocks off the main road. As far my staying-in-Reykjavik-with-a-female-roommate-who-was-asleep-in-the-room situation, I’d hit a potential jackpot.

The bar was hipster galore. It was a five-dollar cover to get in, but instead we chilled on a grassy area outside the actual bar, which was also packed with tight-jeaned people lying down, reminiscing, and smoking cigarettes.

At this point, I had known Engla maybe ten minutes, but it was already past 4, so I figured it was worth a shot to throw out my let’s-fuck line. “So do you have any beer at your place?” I asked her.

“I only have wine,” she said, smiling.

“That’s fine. I hope it’s red.”

She looked away in thought for a quick instant, then turned to one of her friends—who was suddenly eating a huge vanilla ice cream cone she’d acquired at God knows where—and spoke to her for maybe fifteen seconds. The friend nodded her head in an understanding and approving manner, then Engla turned to me, said, “Let’s go,” and we marched off.

As we walked to her place, I was baffled at what just happened. Not only did I not get cockblocked, but the level of approval from her friend was hall-of-fame worthy. She didn’t get jealous, needy, or judgmental. She didn’t try and convince her to stay, or tell her how she disapproved of me. In all my life, I’d only seen that kind of…cock-assisting a few times—mostly in Vegas and certain parts of Europe. If all girls were like that in Reykjavik, this city was an outright hook-up heaven. And I was God.

Engla’s studio apartment was L-shaped; the bedroom merged with the living room, and then there was a door to the kitchen where her two cats who, though cute, were meowing at an unacceptable rate. Jennifer fed the felines while I flopped on her bed, which was surrounded by Rastafarian bananas, voodoo-like sculptures, with colorful fabrics tacked to the walls and ceiling (Update on my Icelandic-women-culture thing: the hipsters are into Jamaican shit). It then hit me that I hadn’t even kissed her yet. Still new to Icelandic women, I hope she didn’t actually think I wanted a glass of wine. That all changed when she returned from the kitchen, took off her vomit dress, crawled onto the bed, and started making out with me.

My ugly dress theory was spot-on as I discovered Engla had a galactic bush (light brown). Remembering I was in Europe, I dove right in. She would have tasted good, but her pubic hair had a lingering scent. I didn’t care. I went to town. She eventually returned the favor, showing veteran penis experience. Then suddenly she looked up at me and smiled. “What’s my name?”

Fuck! Even though she’d told me just 15 minutes ago, I’d gone momentarily brain dead. I looked up, then right, then up again—because sometimes that helps me think. One second, two seconds, three seconds, fo—“Hengla!”

“Engla,” she said, still smiling—not as big as before though. Then she returned to my junk.

We fucked for the next two hours, both because I was whiskey-dicked, and because she was awesome in bed; and I was in no hurry to finish. After going through four of her condoms (I wanted blowjob breaks), we finally finished around 7 a.m.

Naomi and I had to catch the bus in an hour and a half, so I petted Engla’s cats, said goodbye, and made the three-minute walk back to my hostel. As I walked home, I still couldn’t believe how perfectly things had worked out. From 3 a.m. to 7 a.m. on that July morning I had gone from nearly giving up on the night to having a two-hour fuckfest with an Icelandic hottie on a comfortable bed a block from my hostel. I’ve come up clutch before, but never facing such daunting odds. Then again, things just felt different here. It was almost as if I’d found the one place on the planet that not only accepted me for who I was (a horny bastard), but also refused to let me blow it like I always do.

The night came with a price, however. I didn’t get a single minute of sleep, and we had a long day of traveling via bus and ferry, in addition to setting up camp on the island and getting situated. I dragged ass all day until finally I was able to take a two-hour nap in our tent around 4.

The beer/music festival was called “pjodhatid,” but pronounced with a “th” and with all sorts of Nordic crosses and dots on the letters. It’s been an annual Icelandic tradition since the late 1800s, and is essentially a massive four-day boozefest with the occasional performance from notable local bands. It’s the closest thing Iceland has to Burning Man or Coachella. Supposedly five percent of the national population packs onto this tiny island for nonstop partying, music, and orgies (one moronic girl I met the following morning said she hadn’t slept in four days). Two guys we talked to on our bus ride from the airport had flown out from New York solely for this event. And every travel agent at our hostel said that this was a must-go for anyone who wants to experience Icelandic culture.

The event was in the middle of a gigantic crater, cliffs on all sides with an opening to the south, exposing the endless Atlantic. We set up camp in the middle of a large cluster of tents. The area was currently mellow, with a few groups of Icelanders chilling around a bonfire drinking beers. After my nap, Noami and I went to town to share a pizza, then we loaded up on mixers for the Vodka we’d bought back in Reykjavik (Buying alcohol in Iceland is like filling up an SUV’s gas tank at Chevron. A small bottle of fucking Smirnoff was almost 70 bucks).

Sometime after 8, everyone started trickling into the concert area, and before I knew it, there were literally thousands of people—half of whom were wearing neon orange or yellow rain suits because apparently a storm was on the forecast. A slew of different bands came on and everyone would put their arms around one another and sing along. Supposedly, midnight was when the party really started, so I paced myself on the drinking, while Naomi complained about some God-awful mixed drink she’d made, ultimately tossing the thing.

The rain came in waves. The first round occurred at 11. Naomi and I hurried to our tent and chilled for 20 minutes until it died down. When we returned to the main area, the place had somehow expanded by another two thousand people, neon outfits everywhere. Unfamiliar with Icelandic music, Naomi and I didn’t really know what to do except chill on the outskirts of the concert and observe. Things were just starting to get going when another rain attack hit shortly after midnight. We again hurried to our tent where we laid on our sleeping bags and waited it out.

I jerked my head up. Fuck! Without realizing it, I’d fallen asleep. The rain now gone, I glanced over at Naomi, who was out like a light. Once I came to my senses, I heard the pulsing music and screams down the hill and was able to relax. Thank God. I didn’t come all the way to this island to catch up on sleep. I got out of the tent, grabbed a beer, threw together a mixed drink, double-fisted both, then set them on the ground, popped some gum in my mouth, picked up my drinks, and headed back down. It was party time.

The music was still pounding in the distance. The green hill people had been chilling on was now blackened with mud, and everyone had migrated down to the concrete part of the concert. The night was just getting started.

A short while later, after returning to my tent for beer, I was on my way back to the concert area when I noticed two blonde chicks huddling around something.

“What is that?” I asked, approaching the duo.

Batta poosh jood-ima!” the taller of the two replied.

“Uh. What?”

“We are trying to hide from my sister.”

“Oh, yeah? I saw her up at the tents.”

She smiled, then paused and looked me up and down. “Where are you from?”


“California? Then why are you here?”

“I heard this is the best party around. What were you guys doing over there?”

The tall one said something to her friend who brought out a small tube filled with black powder.

“The cocaine is black in Iceland?” I asked.

“No. Icelanders don’t do cocaine. This is tobacco. Here, try.”

Having never snorted anything in my life, I figured there was no harm done by snorting the equivalent of half a cigarette (I later learned this stuff is called snus, and has supposedly become big in Europe). The tall one poured a small bump onto her hand and held it out to me. I clumsily snorted using my right nostril, but missed 20% of the powder, so I had to stupidly go back in for a second go-round (This is the last time I’m snorting anything, ever. Maybe I’m a supreme retard, but I perpetually felt like I had boogers in my nose, and my right nostril irritated the fuck out of me for the next week. Snus is the equivalent of drinking whiskey through your eye—only if you have throat cancer does it make any sense).

After they took a couple hits, we talked some more. I found out the tall one’s name was Kira, and the quiet one was Dalla. Both in their early 20s, Kira had a slender face and build with hair down to her waist; Dalla was built like a cheerleader—short, slightly muscular, and a perma-smile. Too bad Dalla lamely had a broken arm (the sling kind). Stoked on hooking up with either, I asked them my typical traveling-in-a-foreign-land question:

“So when are you guys coming to California?”

“If you fly us out, we will come. And we will have a three-way with you,” said Kira.

I looked over at Dalla quickly, whose smiley expression hadn’t changed.

“Yeah, right. How ‘bout this: we have a three-way tonight, then I fly you out.” This was a risky move, but I didn’t care. Even if they turned me down, called me creepy, and ran off, there were still thousands of girls I could go after.

“I cannot promise that. But we can give you a three-way kiss.”

Kira put her arm around Dalla and brought her in. It wasn’t exactly a three-way kiss. It was more of a quick make-out with Kira, followed by getting Dalla’s slobber on my mouth area, then watching them go at it for a few seconds.

“Have you guys been with each other before?”


Kira fiddled with a purse they were sharing and started down the hill. “Come on, let’s go down,” she declared.

The concert area was a clusterfuck of dancing, singing, and shouting madness. Kira and Dalla continued to take snus hits while I sipped my beer and tried to get into the music, which was hopeless. Some God-awful Icelandic rap group was on stage making cacophony they thought was supposed to be music. Iceland is well-known for breeding musical talent, but this group had to be an exception. “These guys are terrible!” I yelled in Dalla’s ear.

Unbelievably, Dalla was bouncing and moving her head in unison with the stage-noise. She turned to me and shouted, “They are big in Iceland!” She continued to dance like a poisoned poltergeist victim.

With my beer almost gone, and the girls engrossed in the music while being thrashed around by the concert mob, I told them I was going to the bathroom, and then went up to the tent to restock on alcohol. Hanging around them in this shit-show not only wasn’t fun, but was doing nothing to increase my chances. Sure I was risking a prospective threesome, but unless a 60-year-old married couple is involved, I always fuck those up anyway.

Before returning to the concert, I made a round through the food area, then up around the tents. There wasn’t much going on there, so I returned to the noise. Kira and Dalla were in the same spot, but now some short brunette had joined them along with a tall blue-haired chick who looked just like Kira, but hotter.

Kira’s sister (I assumed) was wearing one of those stupid fake-tit Halloween things around her chest. She was in the middle of chatting with Dalla when I walked up to them and slowly squeezed one of the plastic boobs, which crumpled in my hand. The sister, clearly proud of her outfit, lurched her chest forward allowing me easy access. Dalla laughed, and I high-fived her immediately.

“Who are you?” I asked the sister. Ten minutes later we were making out. After smooching on and off for the next thirty minutes I could already tell it was going nowhere. She took me up to a white tent her group had rented, but it was loaded with couples—including some dude and Kira, who saw me making out with her sister multiple times but didn’t give a shit. Too bad Kira’s sister wasn’t nearly cool enough to simply hang out with, so I had to either capitalize or move on. Twice I asked her if she had beer at her place, then suggested we go there, and both times she said she couldn’t leave her group. I guess I should have known; only a true prude would wear a titty outfit to live vicariously through girls who actually liked their boobs felt (unless she was a tranny, which wouldn’t surprise me). I told her I was going to the bathroom and took off (In hindsight I probably should have gone after Dalla; the quiet ones of the group tend to be the wildest in bed, but she was nowhere to be found after I started hooking up with the sister)

I wandered around for the next half hour, but there wasn’t much left. The concert was over; all the leftovers seemed either too old or too young; it was windy as hell; and it was almost 5. I returned to my tent and passed out instantly.

Naomi woke me up a few hours later because she wanted to catch the 10 o’clock boat. Tired and groggy, I rolled awake and started packing. The wind was coming in hard. When I went outside, all I could hear was the flapping of the surrounding tents. Not a soul was awake. We headed into town because Naomi required coffee to get her through the next forty minutes of life. We boarded the boat shortly after and began our three-hour journey back to Reykjavik.

Sunday’s plan: Sleep all day. Party all night. Monday was a national holiday; surely the bars would be going off later.


Coming up in Part 2:

-Sunday night

-Naomi and I go on a big ass hike, things don’t go as planned.

-I go hard weekend #2—which inconveniently is Gay pride weekend—I continue to be sleazy anyway.


One last thing: I didn’t include this in the actual story because no matter where I tried to put it, it just didn’t fit anywhere and disrupted the flow, but I sent this whole thing to Naomi beforehand, and here was her text back to me: “BTW I left for a long ass time that first night…I showered and read my iPad on the staircase for at least half an hour till 3 am. That in and of itself is top notch wing woman status and needs mention.” Anyways…

Part II




Q & A: What Men Want

First of all, it has now been almost two years since my last blog post. No, I’m not married or in a relationship. I’m still professionally single and living the dream. I still love writing, but I no longer party every Friday and Saturday night like I was from 2008-2011, and I’ve taken on some new creative aspirations that don’t involve my disturbing sex life.

Anyways, one of my female Facebook friends recently sent me a message asking me some intriguing questions pertaining to a male perspective on sex and relationships. I thought I’d share it with everyone. If any girl has any additional questions, feel free to post a comment, and if it’s good enough I’ll add it to this blog.


Hi Dave. I’m just trying to understand men’s brains. Would you mind honestly answering some questions?

  1. Do guys notice boob size, sagginess, cellulite, jiggly thighs, etc., when looking at a naked woman, or do they just think, “yaaaaay! Naked woman!”?

Yes, guys notice everything—maybe not the first time, but eventually there are no secrets to your body. If something is fake, we’ll notice. If there’s cellulite or sagginess or a gnarly mole somewhere, we see it. If you’re scared about some physical shortcoming, don’t be. Some guys will like that part of you. I personally don’t care much about breasts (though I’ve never been a fan of huge areolas). But I have friends who value breasts more than a face. If your body means anything to you, exercise hard and eat right. It’s worth it.


  1. Have you ever had trouble maintaining an erection during sex? If so was it nerves or lack of interest? If nerves, what were you worried about?

I’ve never gone soft from “nerves.” I have on many occasion turned into a marshmallow either because I drank too much, or I was too sober and either her breath or vagina started stinking.

For example: Recently, a girl who I hadn’t banged in years invited me over for a late-night screw on a weeknight. I arrived at her place to find her hammered and at least ten pounds heavier than she used to be. Still attracted to her, we fooled around some (her vagina smelled worse than before), and then we started fucking. Not even a minute in, she insisted on kissing me while I plowed. And each time I got close to her face, I got a whiff of her stale breath and booze-scented face. I went soft in a matter of seconds. “I hope it’s not me,” she said. I told her it wasn’t and rolled off her.

Don’t be that girl. I’m not saying be self-conscious, but at least be aware. Chew gum if you know you probably reek of booze. Check your oil; if it stinks, go to the bathroom and take care of it.


  1. If you’re super keen on hooking up with a girl and really like her, if you sleep together fairly quickly, do you completely lose interest or just crave the chase again with someone new?

It depends on the girl. Intelligent guys usually know what they have in a girl within the first few hours of hanging out with her. Stupid guys misjudge the girl completely and wind up wasting the next two years of their life. Luckily I’m not stupid. But to answer your question, back in my twenties, and even my early thirties (I’m 33 now), yes, if she slept with me within the first two or three dates, I’d lose interest. Looking back, I do regret some of the girls I blew off after sex was…”achieved.” Had I spent more time with them, who knows, I might have really liked them. But now I’ve been with enough women to not care as much about “getting in their pants.” It’s no longer my #1 goal (unless I’m drunk, of course). It always varies on the situation, though. There are some girls who are fun to be around, but deep down I have no interest in committing to her, and it doesn’t matter how quickly we screw. In the back of my mind, I know it’s either casual fun, or nothing at all. And either she’s cool with the casual sex thing, or she isn’t. But if I genuinely like a girl and see it possibly going somewhere, I’m finding it much more healthy to do fun activities with her—Angels games, beach hangouts, concerts, surfing, etc—rather than simply bar-hopping and taking her home for a drunken lay, which is what my pattern has been since I started online dating back in ’09. At the same time, it’s important to not wait too long for sex or you fail to cultivate your physical and emotional chemistry, which is the crux of any meaningful relationship. It’s hard to draw the line when the “right time” is, but my advice to women is to trust their instincts and forget about rules—though I’d always wait until at least the third date (a little suspense is healthy). If the connection is there, have sex with no inhibitions. If he’s right for you, it’ll work out.


  1. What are some dealbreakers for men?

Every guy’s dealbreakers are different. Here are a few of mine:

-Overweight: Like I said, eat right and exercise. It’s sexy. (Again, this is just my preference. Some guys like heavy women)

-Hygiene, mainly stinky breath and/or stinky vagina: I’m sorry, but there are too many women in this world for me to settle on one who doesn’t know how to properly brush her teeth or douche her snatch.

-Cheapness: I’m not a sugar daddy, and never plan on being one. If I got the last beer or dinner, you get the next one. It doesn’t have to be perfectly even, just be conscious if the guy has been spending considerately more than you. And always say thank you.

-Selfishness: If I’m sitting there listening to you blabber on about yourself, and you’ve asked me maybe one meaningful question in the last half hour, you’re selfish (I can usually gauge this on the first date). If you’re a perpetual flake, you’re selfish (thanks for treating my time like a sandbagged beer). If you get angry when I have fun without you, you’re selfish (shut up).

-Neediness and clinginess: You know exactly what this is. Don’t do it. There’s no need to get mad if I don’t text you back something cute all the time–within whatever window of return-text-time you’re comfortable with. No, we’re not ignoring you; we’re just busy. Time away from each other here and there is healthy.

(Mani-pedi: This isn’t a total dealbreaker, and this is specifically just my thing, but for the love of God don’t chew up your fingernails like a fourth grader. Simple nail polish on your hands and feet go a long way)

Everything listed above are qualities you have complete control over. If this is you, make some adjustments not just for men, but for yourself.


  1.  What is it about a woman that keeps your interest after you hook up?

For starters, we’ll run for the hills if you tell us mid-post-sex-cuddle that you want something long-term, or are “finally turning your life around,” or are “finally starting to feel normal” (all true stories). Don’t text us nonstop, or act all lovey-dovey-nervous every time we see you, or make plans for a ski trip in two months. Relax and stop acting like a teenager.

What will sustain our interest? Put it this way: all those bad-boy qualities women crave in men are often the same things guys want in a girl. Have your own life. Don’t be so available all the time. If we send a lame or needy text, ignore us. Leave us hanging here and there. Make fun of us. Be mysterious, spontaneous, and courageous. Tell us interesting stories. Be a sweetheart at intimacy. Rock our world in bed. Obsess over adventures, not work and people. Live passionately. Think, do, dream. Be a woman.


  1. Why are relationships so scary?

As an Economics major, it’s simple really. With every prospective girl I date, I innately ask myself the following question: “Does my life improve by being in a relationship with this woman?” In other words, do the joys I experience being single—bars/clubs, traveling, road trips, Vegas, one-night-stands, fuck buddies, independence, free time, the unknown—outweigh the experiences I’ll gain by committing to this woman? Almost always I’ll choose the single path. And the few times I actually like the girl, I usually manage to fuck it up. I still have a long way to go.


  1. Why do guys pursue a woman, then freak out and go silent?

If we’ve gone silent, something came up that wildly turned us off. We’re likely not into you anymore. At least not long-term.


  1. What is it about boobs that are so alluring?

Boobs aren’t a big deal to me, but if you’re asking the question from a psychological standpoint, breasts remind men of ass, which reminds us of sex (and they’re for fertility and feeding a baby blah blah blah). Didn’t you watch that one human sexuality thing on the Discovery channel back in the mid-nineties? (Still to this day, that is the only time I’ve ever seen frontal nudity on network television. I had the hugest boner)


  1. What moves has a woman done in bed that made you classify her in your head as the best at something?

Be open to new things. The best girls are up for anything and everything, and they like it. But most importantly, and I’ve said this in my blog before, but here it is again: WORSHIP OUR PENISES. Marvel at it. Cherish it. Gobble it up. Tell us you love the way it looks, tastes, and feels in your hand, mouth, vagina, and ass. Seriously, I’ll take the dick-worshipping 6 over the starfish 8 any day.

(Any other questions, post a comment or email me at [email protected])


My friend Meyer recently told me, “No offense, Dave, but you’re the last person I’d want relationship advice from.” And he’s 100% right. I have the least actual in-a-relationship experience probably out of all my friends. The closest thing I had to a relationship was my on-and-off fling with Taylor in 2008-2009. But when I thought hard about what he said, I realized that I’m not necessarily “bad” at relationships. Dozens of times I’ve dated a girl, had sex with her, had sex with her again, and then reached a point when it was up to me to make her my girlfriend or not. And every time I chose to either keep it casual or remain single. I guess I’m bad at…not going through with the girlfriend thing. So ladies, as you let some of my responses sink in, keep in mind I’m not an expert at this stuff. I’m just a regular guy who, just like the girl who asked me all these questions, is still discovering myself, and you. Happy dating…



The Disturbing Yacht Story

Twenty-two miles off the coast of Southern California lays a hidden gem in America: Catalina Island. Technically it’s part of California, but anyone who’s ever experienced it will tell you otherwise. Known for its big city, Avalon, most people overlook the quaint island village of Two Harbors. It has only one restaurant, one bar, and one general store, all of which are run by residents who work for dormitory accommodations. It makes a profit mainly during summer from its campgrounds and visiting yachts. Every June, a group of 20-40 of my college friends will camp there for a weekend of sports, hikes, barbecues, swimming, drinking games, and public debauchery (there is no law in Catalina for drinking in public, which is why I don’t consider it California).

After a couple hours of drinking games, accompanied with a few shots, our group had taken over the bar. The only downfall of Two Harbors is the quality of women. Very rarely will you come across a solid 8 between the ages of 21-35. Because there are so few acceptable targets, girls who are actually 5s seem like 9s–like Double A pitchers at a little league game. If I were an ugly chick, I’d move to a low-populated place like this, snag a guy way hotter than me, get married in a haystack or something, then move back to the mainland and start a family. Beats competing with all the other California bimbos who get spray tans, “mani-pedis,” and dress better than I do.

So as a result of such a poor selection, we are usually stuck going after high school chicks or 45-year-old divorcees–and only after we’re severely drunk. Since I’m not into jail or being chased around by an angry dad with a knife, I stick to the older women.

I recognized her immediately. Her blonde curly hair, giant jugs, and huge dancing smile brought me right back to a year ago when I unknowingly made out with her in the wake of Hilliard’s sexcapade with her in a nearby field–while her husband tried to watch or something. I didn’t get all the details. She had apparently told Hilliard she was in her fifties, which meant she was 59, easily making her the oldest woman anyone I know had ever boned.

I had already struck out with the two lone 20-year-olds at the bar, so I made the pre-walk-of-shame over to the big-breasted grandma. This is what sucks about being a horny sleazeball like me. Most single guys would look at this geriatric beast, become disgusted, and throw in the hook-up towel. But I’m not like most guys; if there’s any opportunity for island sex with someone remotely attractive, I’ll jump on it like a hobo to a freshly stocked restaurant dumpster.

I approached her on the dance floor. “So do you remember last year when we had sex on the field?” I’m not sure why I took this angle; it was probably my instinct telling me that it gave me the highest chance of success. Deep down I had faith in Hilliard’s sex abilities, and I sensed she wouldn’t be able to discern that I wasn’t Hilliard (we did both have dark hair, how could she tell the difference?).

“Yes. That was you?” she faked.

I smiled. “Yep.”

“Wow. That was a hot night. Do you remember throwing me against the bathroom door and pounding me?”

Uh What? “Yeah, it was so good.”

She looked me up and down. “Dance with me.”

I soon learned that her name was Georgia, and she was there with her husband, but he “didn’t mind.” After five minutes of talking while pathetically dancing to Madonna’s “Like a Prayer,” she led me over to a table where a balding dude with white hair was sitting. “Jerry, this is Dave.” (I thought about telling her my name was Hilliard, but there was no way she’d remember.)

I shook his hand.

Georgia turned to me. “Okay, so we need to drop our friends off at their yacht, then Jerry and I will pick you up. Sound good?”

“Sure. You know where to find me.”

I gave it about a 75% chance she’d return, so I spent whatever time I had left partying with friends and downing two more drinks and a shot. I had to be royally drunk to enjoy what lay ahead. A couple of my friends saw what was developing and didn’t even try to talk me out of it; they knew I was a goner.

Georgia returned half an hour later just as I finished a monster piss. She apparently knew people at the bar and didn’t want anyone to know she was leaving with me, so she told me to follow her out thirty seconds behind her.

When I walked out, I saw her silhouette standing at the base of the dock.

“Hurry up!” she yelled and walked down the dock.

I followed her to a side branch of the dock where all the dinghies were. Sitting in one of them was her husband Jerry.

“Our yacht is in another harbor two miles away. It’s like a 15 minute ride,” she told me.

“Cool. Let’s go.”

Before I continue, let me assess what I was getting myself into, since obviously I didn’t then. I was boarding a fucking dinghy with a 60-year-old lady and her even older husband at one in the morning to go to their yacht, which was God knows where. And I was supposedly going to have sex with this woman with her knowing husband chilling somewhere on the boat. While it’s true I’ve had some very bad luck with hook-ups in my lifetime, I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I asked for this.

“Just step right here,” Jerry directed me.

I stupidly almost tumbled into the ocean but smartly fell face first into the dinghy instead, blocking my fall with my forearms like Lieutenant Dan.

“You okay?”

I grunted and sat on the end pad at the nose of the dinghy. “Yeah.”

Georgia got in and sat next to me while Jerry sat in the driver’s chair directly across from us.

Not even a minute out, Georgia started making out with me while Jerry nonchalantly focused on driving (I think). Then Georgia started fiddling with her shirt and bra until her giant fake tits were out in the cold ocean air. I sucked on them immediately. Moments later, with the dinghy bouncing wildly at max speed, she unzipped my shorts and fished my dick out.

It was rather dark, so I couldn’t really make out the expression on Jerry’s face, but I could have sworn he was smiling while his wife bobbed me up. This was already getting too weird, but I let her continue at it because she clearly knew her way around a penis.

When we arrived at their yacht, I realized I had no idea where the fuck we were. Their boat was a solid 500 feet away from land, and way the hell to the left of the actual harbor–where half a dozen yachts sat, none of which had any lights on.

Georgia saw me analyze the situation and explained, “We like to be far from the other boats…so we can make all the noise we want.” I acknowledged her and walked inside.

The hallway was narrow, and every room I peeked into was littered with laundry and crap. “Our room’s at the end of the hall. I’ll be there in a sec.”

I laid in bed for a minute or so in the dark room when Georgia walked in completely naked, crawled onto the bed like a saber tooth tiger, unzipped my pants, and started blowing me again. Jerry, thankfully, was nowhere in sight.

Five minutes into the blowjob, Jerry walked in naked! With Georgia’s ass exposed at the end of the bed, Jerry began to work his dick in. According to my friends, the moment Jerry’s dick touched vagina, it was officially a threesome. Figures that I’ve blown threesomes with two 18-year-old hotties, then another with two horny Aussies, but the one threesome I’m successful at is with a 60-year-old woman and her fucking husband.

I was hard before Jerry walked in, but now I was distracted and losing my wood by the second. Jerry, by the way, was awful at sex. His thrusts were so slow you’d think he was on the moon or something.

After two minutes of threesome hell, Jerry pulled out like a snail and laid down next to us! He lay on his side and propped his head on his hand, like he was posing for Playgirl. I couldn’t do this anymore.

I grabbed my softee dick out of Georgia’s mouth, made it off-limits, then turned my head away from Jerry. “I can’t do this,” I muttered.

Mid-sentence it seemed, Jerry got up and walked out.

“Okay, he’s gone. Now I want you to fuck me,” Georgia demanded.

“Are you kidding me? His dick was just inside you. I can’t do it now.”

She ignored me, got on top, and tried thrusting my dick inside of her. I wiggled away. “No.”

Frustrated, she started blowing me again. My eyes kept venturing toward the door, expecting grimy-ass Jerry to make another entrance. Before long, I was hard again and horny enough. I put on a condom and started plowing.

After a couple minutes of Georgia riding me, I felt a wet sensation at the base of my dick. Had she squirted? She was way too old to muster up such juices; there was no way. To make sure, I started pumping her hard and fast, and sure enough, she gushed a healthy stream onto my stomach. Wow, talk about an outlier. Though it smelled uriney, it was still awesome, so I induced several more gushes until my stomach was drenched in her gross juices.

Suddenly I saw movement near the door. I darted my eyes there to see Jerry’s head duck back behind the wall. What a sicko! Georgia continued to ride me. Then suddenly she yelped.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I just bumped my head. I’m fine.”

We switched to doggy, thus giving me a better view of the doorway to make sure Jerry wasn’t George McFlying us. Every fifteen seconds or so, I’d glance at the door. On my third perusal, Jerry was back! This time he was stroking his cock! He immediately ducked away, but I know what I saw. I shortened my glance intervals to every ten seconds. And like a hungry pigeon lurking around a barbecue, Jerry was there every time, only to franticly scram the moment I looked back.

After catching him for an eighth time, I was no longer hard. This was too weird. I gave up on sex and lay there in defeat until Georgia decided to finish me off with a blowjob.

As we lay in bed, light from a circle window shined momentarily on Georgia. The entire right side of her face was coated in blood. The blood had streamed down to her tits even. This was bad.

“Holy shit. You’re bleeding,” I told her.

“I know. I bumped my head. Is it bad?”

“Uh. Yeah, go check it out.”

She got up and wobbled to the bathroom. Moments later, I heard her cry out, “Jerry!”

I had the bed to myself for a solid ten minutes, during which time I tried to sleep, but just as I was dozing off, a cleaned-up Georgia crawled back into bed and had this awful piece of news: “Jerry has to sleep with us.”

I was wide-awake again. “What!? Noooo!”

“He has to. Don’t worry. I’ll sleep in the middle.”

Oh My God. A minute later Jerry walked back in, still naked, and slipped under the covers on the other side of Georgia. This was rock bottom. All I wanted to do now was get the HELL out of here. I thought of my options, and seriously considered jumping ship and swimming the 500 feet to shore in my clothes to make the two-mile mountainous hike home in the dark. I could make it.

I didn’t do it. Instead I curled up into the fetal position on my side of the bed and whimpered myself to sleep like a broke bitch.

I woke up a couple times in the middle of the night, remembered where I was, realized I was soberer, and felt a pang of fear. I had to will myself into being drunk again just so I could fall back asleep. Morning eventually came, and I woke to Georgia giving me a handjob. Jerry was still laying next to her. She then tried to blow me, but I pushed her back down. “Not with him right there,” I whispered. Obviously deaf to her ears, a couple minutes later she tried riding me. I pushed her back down.

Suddenly Jerry got out of bed and walked out. Georgia followed him, then walked back in. “Okay, he left. So now we can play.” She got on top of me. With daylight seeping into the room, I noticed a bloodied Band-Aid on her temple.

“I need to get back to my campsite.”

“We’ll take you back, but I want you to fuck me again.”

I had no desire for any sort of sexual activities for at least two weeks after what happened last night, but I suppose I had to pay my dues to get out of there. “Okay, warm me up,” I said, and pointed to my dick. She took the hint and began blowing me. We robotically fucked after that. Not surprisingly, I caught Jerry peeking in three times. I never blew my load.

After taking two minutes to find one of my damn shoes, I got dressed and walked out to the deck. Incredibly, Jerry was fully clothed. He grinned at me as if we were old buddies. “Do you have to get back?”

“Yeah. Got a lot to do today.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The campsites.” I took my phone out.

Then out of nowhere: “Did you get any good pictures last night?”

What the fuck? I quickly glanced up at Jerry. “Not really.”

Georgia walked out in an oversized sweatshirt. “Okay, we all set?”

“Yep,” I said immediately.

We all took our same spots in the dinghy–Jerry driving, Georgia and I sitting across from him. With the dinghy bucking boisterously, Georgia began asking all sorts of questions about where I lived, worked, blah blah blah. Unfortunately, they lived like ten minutes away from me, which prompted Georgia to suggest we “do this again sometime.” I falsely agreed with her and changed the subject to her kids, who were apparently older than I am.

In what seemed like seven hours, we finally docked back at Two Harbors. I thanked them for the ride, shook no one’s hand, and power-walked back to the campsite. I needed a shower.


On a serious note, this might very well be the most disturbing night of my life, up there with the “It Can Happen to You” night. The decision to get on that dinghy and go through with what I did is not something I’m proud of. Jerry could have held me at gunpoint and told me the only way I was getting off that boat was if I sucked him off…or worse. Or I could have drunkenly gone through with my jump-ship-hike plan, and died of exhaustion somewhere on a mountain. I like to think I’m a man who stays out of shitty situations. But when you reenact fucked up stories from Penthouse Letters, things change.

I still recommend Catalina Island to everyone who hasn’t been, just be careful of those yachts, especially the dark ones in the secret harbors. Bad things happen there.



Audio Book

What up everyone, I’ll be writing more stories in the coming weeks. In the meantime, I released the audio book finally.

Read by the talented Dave Axe, the book is now available on itunes. Go to the itunes store and search “Sexcessful Failures.”

If you’re not on itunes, you can also get it from cdbaby (

“Quite frankly, this is the greatest thing I’ve ever listened to.” -Lady Gaga

Quick Book Update

As many of you know, I published my book a couple weeks ago. In the coming weeks, it will be available on Kindle, and I will also be releasing an audio book read by the one and only Dave Axe.

In the meantime, the retail price days have come and gone, and the book is now $9.95. Loaded with all new content, you”d be unquestionably insane to not own a copy. On a serious note, I”m not looking to make any money off all this (A teacher salary suits casino pa natet me just fine). Just looking to get my words circulating through the occasional bookshelf for centuries to come. Go to amazon stat and check it out here.

I want to thank you all for your support over the years. You help put me on the map and kept the journey alive.


Dave Glenn’s Sexcessful Failures now available on Amazon

I am absolutely giddy to announce that our very own Dave Glenn has sexcessfully published his first book and it is now available on Amazon for a measly $12.95! And with never before seen content, there is really no reason you shouldn’t check this book out.

I don’t care who you are or what you think of this guy, his writing is damn good and you know you can relate to at least a few of the situations he so eloquently describes for us and drags and spooges all over our faces.

A very sincere and heartfelt congratulations from all of us here at OurThursday Mr. Glenn and we look forward to your continuing saga of debauchery, enlightenment, education, and sleaziness.


Continue reading “Dave Glenn’s Sexcessful Failures now available on Amazon”

Dave’s Guide to Texting

There was a time when I insisted on talking on the phone, saying what needed to be said, and moving on with my life. Over the last five years, however, I’ve learned that writing almost always possesses more conviction than talk; and girls aren’t about walkie-talkie-like communicating. There is an artistic and literary urge in every human being; and only texting allows for such communicative playfulness women so desperately crave.

Not in a million years did I think typing into a two-and-a-half by five-inch device would surpass the time I spent jerking off–and ultimately become the elixir to women. Texting has turned the ever-evasive bar number into dates and lays; it’s sustained fuck buddies, revived old sex partners, salvaged middling first dates, and bred second chances. It’s restored dormant desires and attraction levels that had been in hibernation for as long as three years. Most importantly, however, texting has strengthened my connections with women, whichever type of relationship that might be.

Of course, none of this could be done without failure. Lots of it. While my texts have led to dates, hook-ups, and sex, they’ve also led to turn-offs, rejections, and aggravation. I’ve ruined my chances with countless women, even pissed a few off. I made adjustments and tried a different approach on the next girl. When that didn’t work, I tried something else. I identified and internalized what yielded a positive outcome and what didn’t. In the end, I was able to refine my texting skills into something tangible. To this day, I’m still refining–because even now, I still make mistakes. But with tens of thousands of sexts stored somewhere in my memory bank, I’ve finally been able to develop a blueprint for success.


(Please note: This blog has been in the works for some time now. All of the included conversations are verbatim, saved to a Word document at some point over the past eighteen months. I have only edited some of them for clarity purposes. To women reading this: Much of what is outlined in this blog apply to you as well. Guys appreciate girls who understand cellular lingo.)


The following is a texting exchange I had with a recently acquired Plenty of Fish phone number (She was very hot).

Me: What’s up Kayla. This is Dave from pof :) What u up to?

Her: Hi Dave. Not much, just relaxing and watching tv. You?

Me: The same. Had a long day. We on for tomorrow?

Her: Oh, sorry to hear that. Yeah :)

Me: Awesome. Only thing is I don’t know any good places in Whittier. You have any hotspots?

Her: Yeah there are lots here. There’s a place called the Havanahh house. We can meet there.

Me: Sounds good. 8:45ish cool with you?

Her: Yeah that’s good

Me: Cool I’ll shoot you a text before I leave :)

Me: Have a good rest of the night. Talk soon ;)

Her: Ok sounds good. Can’t wait! :)

Her: Thanks, you too.


I’ll let you predict the outcome:

a)      Date was awesome. So good that we ended up at her place for wild sex.

b)      Date was fun. We kissed next to her car and made plans to hang out two days later. Relationship possibility!

c)      Date was okay, but there was something…off about her.

d)      She flaked.

The correct answer is d. Her text the following day: Hey Dave, I’m sorry but I’m gonna have to cancel :(

So what went wrong?

For starters, this conversation was too predictable and way too robotic. I didn’t make a single attempt to tease, banter, or even converse, which subsequently fizzled her spark, causing her to lose interest and flake.

In analyzing my side of the conversation line by line, my first text was solid. It’s always best to start off with some sort of inside joke to be playful, but our online messages were rather brief, so this “what u up to” thing was the best route.

Note: Unless you’re familiar with the girl (girlfriend, fuck buddy, etc), it’s always wise to write out words–“you” rather than “u” etc. I know it’s stupid, but shortening words comes off as lazy. The little things add up.

Text #2: The same. Had a long day. We on for tomorrow?

Everything went downhill from here. I immediately asked her out on the second message, thus revealing that I didn’t really care about what she was “up to,” and it was all some sleazy ploy to get to the date, and ultimately in her pants. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s already sniffed out my bullshit. Everything from here on out is dead weight–but we’ll discuss my blunders further.

Text #3: Awesome. Only thing is I don’t know any good places in Whittier. You have any hotspots?

Another abomination. As the guy, I’m supposed to pick the places. Even though I’m more familiar with Transylvania than I am Whittier, I should have done some minimal research and at the very least suggested a place because I “heard it was cool.” Try this approach: Awesome. I hear Chotchkie’s is a good spot. You ever been?

The rest of my texts were good, but because I screwed up these two lines, particularly the we-on-for-tomorrow text, it’s irrelevant. To my defense, I was on a roll with my sexts in the two weeks prior, so I started thinking I was invincible, becoming impatient in the process. And impatient texters always get flaked on.


Another conversation under the exact same circumstances (also hot):


Me: What’s up Valerie. This is Dave from match. What you up to?

Her: What’s up Dave. I’m doing good about to go swim in a bit. Life is good how are you?

Me: Doin good. Got home from work a bit ago. Perfect beach weather right now.. Any plans tonight?

Her: Yeah im going dancing with my girls. You?

Me: Not sure yet, something low key though. One more day of work til the weekend :)

Her: Yeah I just had my weekend, unfortunately I work on real weekends. When are u free?

Me: You had your real weekend? No fair. How bout we get together next time you have your weekend. When’s that? Tuesday?

Her: Yes my weekend starts Tuesday so that would be good for me

Me: K sounds good. Anything crazy going on for you this weekend besides work?

Her: Not much. I usually go up to long beach, I like the music they play. You?

Me: Having a bunch of people over Sunday for a bbq. Long beach? What kind of music they play there?

Her: Hip hop and classic rock, I won’t leave the dance floor with that mix

Me: Lol not into the oc techno hype huh

Her: Yeah I can’t stand techno, it’s just a very long song. Do you dance?

Me: If the music is right, yes of course..

Her: Good. Well I’m going to take a swim. It was nice talking to you. Talk with you later.

Me: Yeah for sure. Talk soon :)


Me: Heading to long beach tonight?

Her: Yes!! It’s been so crazy at work, I need to get out! What are you doing?

[Bunch of the same banter]


Her: How was your bbq?

Me: Awesome.. still going actually :) How was your night?

[More banter]

[Eventually] Her: Yeah that works. I kind of have this thing where I like to talk on the phone once before I meet someone so if you get a chance at some point.

Me: Lol yeah I’ll call you tmrw

Her: Ok thank you. After some of my experiences on match they were interesting that’s why the whole phone thing. Not that I think you are.. you know what I mean

Me: Yeah totally..


[I didn’t call her]

9:41 p.m. Her: Hey just wanted to see if you were still down for tomorrow.

(I’ve stated before that all phone conversations–with online girls–should be kept under five minute. These days, however, I’ve stopped calling them. Often nothing is gained from speaking to her before meeting; all you do is give her another opportunity to judge you out of her life. It’s actually way riskier to call them than to blow them off, so I’ll consent to it like I did above, but never text her again. They usually let it slide and agree to the date anyways. But trust your instincts, and if you feel the phone call request is legitimate–and not some judgmental test of hers, then go through with the call.)

So what happened this time?

a) She flaked the next day with the following text: I’m assuming that because you didn’t call me, your voice sounds raspy and gargly. Therefore, you’re ugly and I can’t see you.

b) Date was awful. She looked nothing like her pictures and was 30 pounds overweight.

c) Date was good. We made out afterwards, but she tasted like tomatoes.

d) Date was good. We made out; she tasted good; and two dates later, we fucked.

Answer is d again.

(Before I get into why this exchange was a success, let me first state that when it comes texting, every girl is different. Some are born flakes, cynics, and time-wasters; and your texts won’t change shit. While with other girls, a Call of Duty geek with the texting literacy of a fifth grader could close a date. The majority of girls, however, Kayla and Valerie included, lie in the middle of the bell curve, where the details can make or break us; and every text matters–hence this blog.)

Notice I started off the conversation with Valerie in the same way I did Kayla. In the second line, however, Any plans tonight is completely different than asking if we’re still on. Asking about her plans doesn’t necessarily imply I’m jumping the gun and asking her out. Depending on how I continue with the convo from here, it can mean I’m just testing to see if her life is exciting.

Me: Not sure yet, something low key though. One more day of work til the weekend :)

Usually when a girl asks if you have plans (and you know she won’t be in them), either invent some fun activity to portray your exciting lifestyle–barbecues (my favorite), friends in town, road trip to San Diego, bachelor party–or just tell her you aren’t sure. Those initial texts were on a Thursday (a work night), and I was actually laying in bed watching Sportscenter, so I decided to save my fun shit for another text–a small risk. “Something low key” isn’t exactly a scene from The Hangover, but it’s safe.

Commenting on the weekend was borderline lame, but I felt I needed to say something uplifting in order to compliment my “low key” thing. Also, throwing in the smiley at the end made it textable. More on smileys later :)

Me: You had your real weekend? No fair. How bout we get together next time you have your weekend. When’s that? Tuesday?

Girls hate pushy guys, and impatience oozes out through our texts like pre-cum. This text was effective because I back-handedly catered to her schedule and didn’t force the issue. I sensed Valerie was tight with her work nights, so I accommodated.

The “No fair” is also in the there for a reason. One, it boosts her up–even though she’s a moron for having the wrong fucking weekend off. Two, it simplifies the text. For example, imagine this alternate text:

Me: You had your real weekend? No way. What kind of job do you have that allows for that!? But I guess it kinda sucks you have to work Friday and Saturday :( How bout we get together next time you have your weekend. When’s that? Tuesday?

The three additions turn this text into a literary monster. “No fair” was all it took to communicate all three of those hideous sentences. The simpler the text, the better. By writing unnecessarily long texts, you’re surreptitiously communicating that you’re trying too hard and are way too excited about the possibility of dating her–all major turn-offs. If you constantly find yourself writing complete sentences, you’re doing too much. Texts should mostly consist of quick fragments, one-word confirmations, and half sentences with no subject (but periods, commas, and apostrophes are always to be used in appropriate spots).

Observe the following texts…

Me: Lol not into the oc techno hype huh

Me: If the music is right, yes of course..

Me: Yeah for sure. Talk soon :)

Me: Heading to long beach tonight?

Me: Lol yeah I’ll call you tmrw

Many of the rules of good writing parellel good texting. In the above five texts, there isn’t a single unnecessary word or character. Cut the fat, or she’ll cut you.

Moving on…

Her: Yes my weekend starts Tuesday so that would be good for me

Me: K sounds good. Anything crazy going on for you this weekend besides work?

Now that she has agreed on the date, I didn’t stop there. I continued with the conversation for a few more texts to communicate that my goal isn’t simply to “land the date,” but rather that I’m actually interested in her world. I’ve learned the hard way that these extra post-close texts (with new girls only) go a long way–even if it means having to lie about “dancing if the music is right,” which was her test to see if I was good in bed (Never tell a new girl that you dislike dancing. Wait ‘til after you’ve slept with them.).



Not mentioned in the above exchanges is the timing between messages. Always return your texts close to the rate at which she’s returning yours. For example, if you text her and it takes her anywhere from 15 to 45 minutes to get back to you, you have to wait at least 10-15 minutes before texting her back. If you text her right away she’ll think you’re some loser with no life who has nothing better to do than sit around and wait for her text. Girls always assume the worst when it comes to texts (as do guys), so be patient; if she hasn’t texted you back, relax–she’s probably busy fiddling with her eyebrows; she’ll hit you up eventually.

If she’s one of those quick-texters who are always responding within the minute, it becomes okay to return-text her IM-like. But switch it up from time to time; throw in a delay here or there so she can ponder your whereabouts–even though you’re sprawled on the couch eating Flaming Hot Cheetohs. Make her sweat and second guess herself–be a challenge. If she sends a dull or needy text, just ignore her altogether. Often times the best text is no text. She’ll eventually realize her lameness and message you again.


…Her: I know, I love that place. What you up to this weekend?

[three minute wait] Me: Some friends in town. Not sure what the plan is yet. You?

Her: I dunno, my married friends want to go dancing Friday. Saturday I may have to baby-sit.

[I didn’t respond]

An hour later…

Her: I can probably get out of baby-sitting. Were you going out with your friends Saturday?

Me not responding communicated that I was moving on to more exciting things (other women). Instead of hanging with me, she decided to spend her time dancing and babysitting? Only a zit-ridden poindexter would respond to that crap. Ignore her; she’ll be back.


Smiley Faces

Texting without smiley faces is like a movie with no music. Smileys are the staple of all fun and playfulness in every form of messaging–emails, texts, IM, Facebook chat, Words With Friends chat. Everything. They shouldn’t be used in every text, but they must be a part of your repertoire.

There are three kinds of smileys: smileys :), frownies :(, and smiley face winks ;) (Smileys don’t need noses (hyphens)–just eyes and a mouth.) Smileys are given for pleasantries and to portray excitement. The best use for them, however, is for goodbyes. When a girl says any form of farewell–“good night,” “have a great day!” “ttyl,” “see you soon”–my return text is a lone smiley face. That’s it. Saying “you too” is too boring and predictable. A simple smiley is all it takes to end the convo on a positive note.

Frownies are to be given when sarcastically communicating that you’re in a strange situation–heading to the dentist, tired from a long weekend, hungover, feeling sick, the person standing in front of you just farted, etc. Also post frownies to show sympathy for her when she whines about something.


Her: I’m hungry and no one will feed me!!!

Me: :( I just ate Chipotle. You missed out :)

Smiley face winks on the other hand, are the most potent thing any texter can ever use. Winks single-handedly elucidate flirting; they distinguish voice tone, clarifying the line between serious and sarcasm; and they bolster sexuality with unsequestered grace. They can be used with any girl–new, dating, girlfriend, long lost fling, or fuck buddy (though the longer you’re with the girl, the less necessary they become). But they must be placed strategically. In the above exchanges, I never used a single smiley face wink because the conversations never took on a route where it became necessary. One must not dish these out carelessly; they are only to be used in appropriate spots or they’ll become cheap and lose their power.

Some recent examples that are in my phone at the moment:

-Upon receiving the final text of a long convo in which the girl said she’d text me tomorrow. The wink here communicates sarcasm and flirting.

Me: You better ;) K have a good night..


-Upon receiving a text from one of my illiterate fuck buddies who incorrectly said “your.” Again sarcasm and flirting.

Me: You’re* ;)


-Upon hearing that she was cooking. The wink initiates playfulness.

Me: Oh yeah? What are you cooking? Green bean casserole? ;)


-Upon joking with her that I was flying out to see her, to which she replied “Really???” The wink in this case is purely sexual.

Me: If I can stay w you, maybe ;)


Without the wink, all these texts fall flat.

To hammer this point home, here is an old wink-infested convo I had with a girl I brought home after blacking out at bars (I literally woke up and found this petite blonde hottie with fakies–fully-clothed–laying in my bed. No recollection whatsoever. I immediately tried making a move, but she was self-conscious about her morning breath and pushed me off. I took her to breakfast to try and piece together the night…and figure out who the hell she was. Then I dropped her off at her car a few blocks down. Two hours later, she texted me.)

Her: oh man hot tub sounds soooo good right now ;)

Me: Lol do you have one?

Her: heck yes…might have to make my way there later

Me: I’m jumping in w you ;) how does your butt feel? (she had whined earlier about ass cramps or something)

Her: LOL it hurts still but I’ll live ;)

Me: Ima take a dump but let’s hang later..

Her: Good call! K ttyl ;)

(2-3 hours later. And just kidding about the dump thing. I actually said nap.)

Me: You overslept, I can tell ;)

Her: OMG I feel sooooo much better!

Me: Same here. Awesome beach day today. You should come..

A couple hours later, she was back in my bed, naked this time. Unfortunately her vagina smelled like freshly cut toenails (a first).

Had I not thrown in the winks, would she have had the same anticipation? Perhaps. But with our sexual energy still fuming from last night, every wink fired a surge of electricity through her womanhood. I certainly had a legitimate semi after that convo.

Quick Note: Anytime a girl says something daring–hot tub sounds good right now–

or something that is meant as a joke (however lame it might be), you have to throw in a “Lol” at the beginning of your response. To be an effective texter, you have to be an active listener, and “Lol” has to be in there–to make them feel as if they’re funny and entertaining.

Notice my final text: Same here. Awesome beach day today. You should come…

As mundane as it sounds, had I botched this last text, the entire exchange could have crumbled. One lame text can ruin everything.

For example, imagine if I had texted something like, “I know me too! What are you up to right now? Do you wanna come over?”

She may still have hung out, but by sounding overly excited and putting her in the power seat, I’ve exposed that I’m unsure of myself and that I’m basing my day and schedule on her. Tell. Don’t ask. This shit adds up, and in the long run all these weenie texts become embedded in her memory like parking tickets and will ultimately affect her decision of whether to hook up. He’s kinda cool, but…I dunno.

Tread carefully as the conversation comes to an end. You’ve probably picked up some momentum during the course of the convo, and it’s easy to become cocky with your closing-texts, fucking up the ones that matter most. Compare the following “asking-out” texts:

Guy 1:

-“Would you want to get a drink sometime?”

-“Do you wanna kick it tmrw? How’s 8?”

-“Wanna hang out?”

-“I’m hungry. Wanna get some food?”

-“I need new pants. Can you help me shop?”


Guy 2:

-“I got a bunch of crap tonight, but free tmrw. Let’s get a drink..”

-“I’m free after 8. Let’s get together..”

-“I’m hungry. Come eat with me..”

-“I gotta do some shopping. You should come..”

-“We’re partying over here. You should come..”


Both these guys are communicating the same things, but Guy 1 is clearly in a place of weakness, while Guy 2 is in control of the situation and himself. For one, never say the word “need,” “help,” “want,” or “wanna” in any text. To a girl, these are trigger words for neediness and dependency. Chicks want to be told what to do; they want MEN to make the decisions. You decide when is good to hang out. You pick the place. You decide whether to get a table inside or outside. You decide EVERYTHING. Girls actually resent guys who put all the decision-making on them. Also, think what is implied by saying “You should come..” as opposed to “Do you want to cruise over?” Telling her she “should come” implies that you don’t care if she does or not because you are independent and can have fun without her. You are simply inviting her into your fascinating world–even if it’s just a facade. Women want men with a life. They don’t want to be put on a pedestal, and they don’t want to be depended on for fun.

Lastly, notice the “..” at the end of all Guy 2’s texts. This dot dot (always use two dots, not three) thing is a simple way of communicating that you are expecting a reply without using a needy question mark.


Bar Numbers

Phone numbers attained from a bar or club chick are about as promising as trying to win the $10,000 sweepstakes on a Starburst wrapper (It’s actually more like 1 in 6, but it feels a lot worse.). Don’t expect much from these, but they’re still worth a shot.

I always get the number within the first five minutes (and don’t ask for the number; get the number), and then continue talking to her so she sees that the phone number wasn’t my goal. I’ll pull out my phone, say, “Let me get your number,” and then I call her so she has mine (You’d be surprised how many fresh girls will call you at 2:15 in the morning that same night for a Plan-Z hook-up.)

You have one shot of turning this bar number into a future date or fuck. And it must be done within 24 hours of getting the number–so basically the next day. I know it sounds too soon and borderline needy, but I’ve tried every time frame, and this is the best. After that first day, you are no longer fresh in her mind and your chances drop exponentially–though there are always exceptions.

Your first text must never be a generic re-introduction: Hey it’s so-and-so from last night. How are you? Lame. If you had spoken with her for more than ten minutes, you should have at least one subtle inside joke by now. If not, think of a topic that made her laugh or smile and revive those feelings of positive energy. Some “first-text” examples of mine:

– Green apples are so good ;)

– I am so much better at crossfit than you ;)

– Are you sure you didn’t strike out at your softball game? ;)

– Vodka-sodas are so deceiving ;)

– Your friend’s dress had the hugest rip in it ;)

These were all inside jokes I gave life to in the ten-plus minutes we’d spoken/made out. Remember, you’re not trying to impress her on the first text. You’re simply opening the doors to something fun, playful, and mysterious. The majority of them won’t even text you back (get used it), but some do. If she doesn’t remember you and pulls a “Who is this?” then throw some hints her way: Psh I’ll give you a hint: I can kick your butt at golf ;) Be a challenge; turn it into a game if it appears she’s looking for one. Even though most girls hand out their real number for ego purposes, there are some girls who genuinely took an interest in you at the time. It’s your job to rejuvenate those feelings of attraction. Keep teasing her until eventually she starts asking you questions. Once that happens, you’ve semi-succeeded. It’s time for an “ask-out” text as mentioned before.

Note: When asking out these bar girls, always shoot for the soonest time possible–“tonight” or “tomorrow”–all the while maintaining that you’re busy “later in the week” (to show her you have a life). “Next weekend” is way too far away; the longer it goes, the creepier you get. She’ll flake.

Lastly, if your next-day texts with that bar/club chick–or any previous fling–were falling flat, add her on facebook. It can’t hurt–she has a chance to check out your stunning looks again, and it opens the door to the almighty yet less-intrusive facebook chat. Capitalize when the timing’s right.


Second Chances

We’ve all had those girls that slipped through our fingers, or the timing wasn’t right, or the date went awry, or we just outright blew it. Some can be saved, some can’t. But if you’re looking to revive things, texting (and facebook if you still haven’t added her yet) is your best hope. Remember, she’s been out of your life for a while now, so you have nothing to lose. Sometimes I’ll text them out of the blue with one of following movie quotes:

-How are we supposed to teach children to read when they can’t even fit into the building.

-I have all your equipment in my locker. You should probably come get it cuz I can’t fit my numchucks in there anymore.

-I can’t believe what a bunch of nerds we are. We’re looking up money laundering in a dictionary.

First off, if you don’t know what movies they’re from, there is no hope for you. Just give up. Second, these can actually be used for almost any situation involving neglect. It doesn’t matter what type of relationship you had–new, old, whatever. Some won’t respond at all; some will say “Who is this?” in which case you play the hint game; and some will text “hahahahaha” and piggy back off the quote. Salvage what you can and give her a hard time for being “so crappy at cell phones.” She’ll usually make up some junk about being busy and begin to banter with you. Chances are she’s lonely as hell, discouraged with all the awkward guys she’s been meeting on eharmony. In her frustrating dating/sex life, your novelty is like a fresh spray of Cherry Blossom.

Here’s one exchange between a girl I went on a date with; she then ignored my texts in the days that followed. Two weeks later, I gave it another whirl:

Me: Hey haven’t heard back from you in a while, so I’m assuming your phone has fallen out of a helicopter. Hit me back when you find it ;)

Three minutes later…

Her: Hahahahaa I know sorry. I’ve just been soooo busy! What are you doing?

Me: [I attached a super hot self-picture of me eating at a sushi table–a couple friends in the background–I had taken weeks earlier to send to a different girl] Eating sushi with some friends. So yummy. You jealous?

Her: I am! You should order a California roll :) How have you been?

Me: Doing good, of course :) I may be moving to Newport next month.. Stoked… You?

Her: I’m good. Newport??? I’m so jello. What are your plans this weekend?

Me: May head to San Diego for a friend’s bday. Not sure yet. What about you? Hitting up another art gallery (inside joke)?

Her: LOL! Nooo not this weekend. Well let me know if you go to SD. If not let’s hang out :)

I dated this girl for close to a month following this exchange, but she became whiny and clingy–among other things–so I ended it before a Vegas weekend. Also, the helicopter lifeline is one of my most dependable. Girls usually always respond. Use it at will.

As for the “super hot picture,” this is probably the most underrated move in the texting business. I don’t do it enough–mostly because I lost that sushi pic when I switched to the Driod and have been too lazy to take another. Basically take a self picture of yourself in a semi-social setting–sushi, bbq, group lunch/dinner–and make sure it’s your hottest pic ever (there must be food somewhere in the corner of the photo to hedge your bullshit). It took me three snaps to get the one I wanted, but once I had it, it became my most prevailing card in the deck. Throw it in when she asks what you’re doing as demonstrated in the convo above.


Fuck Buddies

In all my writing and experiences, I still cannot say I’ve come remotely close to understanding women. But I can say one thing about them: they’ll always embrace a good challenge. It is our job as men to be the source of this fearless entity, constantly maintaining our ground and mystique. So easily we forget.

An exchange with an old fuck buddy after bantering all week about hanging out:

Me: Hey we still on for tonight?

Her: Yep yep.. 7:30 right?

Me: Awesome. See you soon ;)

15 minutes later, after more banter…

Her: Make sure you clean your room! Don’t be lazy

Me: Lol don’t worry. I’ll surprise you..

Silence followed. Then thirty minutes later…

Her: You’re gonna kill me. I can’t make it tonight. Patrick (her son) is puking everywhere. I need to stay home with him. So sorry. Maybe tomorrow…

I didn’t see her again for over a month. We had screwed like sixty times, had texted each other over fifty times in the two days prior, yet suddenly I had turned her off on the 55th text, causing to her fabricate some crap about her son being sick.

So what happened? It’s simple–I fell into her trap:

Her: Make sure you clean your room! Don’t be lazy

Me: Lol don’t worry. I’ll surprise you.

Her “clean your room” thing was a test to see if I’d roll over for her. The funny thing is, she didn’t even know she was testing me; it’s simply in the female genetics to do this to men to make sure we have a backbone, and most importantly, aren’t just looking for sex. Me complying to clean my room communicated that I expected to end up there–with her. Had I turned it around and busted her balls, she would have come over.

What I should have said:

Me: Lol who says you’re gonna see my room? ;)

Fifty good texts keep the boat afloat. One bad one sinks it.

Not all fuck buddies are so fickle, just make sure you don’t fuck up like I did and break one of the two cardinal rules: expecting sex, and making them out to be a whore.

Observe the following exchange initiated by a different girl:

Her: Hey dork what you got going on tonight?

Me: Workout in a bit then not sure later. You?

Her: Just finished my workout. Get with it. You’re so slow pssh… doin nothing right now.

Me: Dumb. Can you drive yet? (she recently got a DUI)

Her: Technically no, but if I’m not driving around all night places I’m fine. I drive really slooow at night

Me: K come over 9ish

Her: K

We had actually texted each other earlier in the day but I had purposely never mentioned anything about “tonight.” One of my tactics is I’ll try and get them to ask me out. I’ll tease them sometime in the morning or afternoon, then right when things are getting hot and they sense I’m about to ask them out, I’ll simply stop texting them (works great for facebook chat as well–end the conversation on a high note, and don’t ask them out). Fishing for a date or fuck is what they’re expecting, so take the opposite route–welcome the silence, and wait it out. They usually come back.

Note: Since I had slept with this particular girl just a week earlier, throwing in a smiley face at any point during this convo would have been cheesy. When it’s obvious she wants sex, there’s no need to get cute. Just get to the point and tell them when to come over for “a hang out” or “a drink” or “din din.” The sex, however, must always go unspoken.



-The following are strictly for girls’ use: lmfao, hehe, tee he he, rotfl, omfg, j/k. The only acronyms acceptable for guys are lol, omg, and wtf.

-Never replace words with numbers: I’m going 2 the store 4 beer. No.

-If she hasn’t returned your text, never send a follow-up text–especially one asking if she got your last text. Yes, she did–now stop thinking about it so much. Either she isn’t digging you, or she’s legitimately busy. Move on; she’ll text you when she texts you.

-Don’t include her in any group texts. No one likes those people.

-Unless she’s in the bottom 25% of your phone chicks you give a shit about, don’t drunk text. Though it’s pointless to even tell you this, because I break this rule all the time, and it’s my own rule.

-As your texting relationship builds, come up with teasing nicknames for her. “Lame ass” is my favorite (girls hate being called lame).

-If she enters PMS/psycho mode and starts calling you a player/dick/asshole, do not text her back. Wait until she texts you something normal, then respond.

-When making plans to hang out, if she ever says “maybe” anywhere in the sentence, it means she either doesn’t want to hang out, or plans on flaking. Time to ignore her; eventually she’ll become aroused by your new facebook pictures and hit you up.


Final Thoughts

While every girl is different, they’re all wired the same. Applying these techniques won’t guarantee anything. But I believe in probability and percentages. By learning from all my royal screw-ups and making the necessary adjustments, I have maximized my chances with women, increased my sex and relationship opportunities, and developed a better overall understanding and connection with chicks in general. Women aren’t what life is all about, but they’re certainly a significant component. And today, as we enter the New Year, texting is becoming an increasingly essential part of the dynamic between male and female.

Funny thing is, on the surface I’m a soft-spoken, easy-going, introvert–with an occasional stutter and possibly a mild case of tourette’s (unless there’s women and booze involved). But the moment I get my hands on a cell phone, I’m a bad-ass motherfucker.

Get on it..


Honey Buns

Exactly three years removed from the trauma with the Grandma and her horny wiener dog Nicholas, I was back in Ventura County again for Ed’s birthday. Charles picked me up from my parents’ house, and we made the short drive to Ed’s. Since graduating high school together back in 1999, Charles has evolved from math geek to poker professional to big time sleazeball. A fast-talker who is fascinated with all the latest breakthroughs in stocks, poker, and womanizing tips, Charles is easily stimulated. An avid reader of my stories, he recently expressed his disappointment in my inability to come through in the clutch (blown threesomes). But on this night, I showed him what legends are made of.

Ed’s birthday party was a family ordeal, so he was obligated to his house for the night. Charles and I made an appearance for a couple hours and then fled to Bogey’s, a local bar/club that had developed into a cougar cesspool over the past year. We met up with Kelsey, Locke, and Louie. Big things were expected of me from the start. The problem with starting a blog about one-night-stands is that every time I go out, I am expected to get laid. What these guys don’t realize is that getting laid on any given night takes serious perseverance, aggression, and luck. It isn’t easy being sleazy.

“Come on, Mr. Glenn, show us what you got,” Charles dared me.

“In time. The night is young. I’m trying to be mysterious right now,” I said.

“Psh. Supposedly you get laid all the time; let’s see your magic.” Charles recently won a $640,000 World Series of Poker championship playing No Limit Hold’em, which had led to success with more women along with a cockier persona.

“I’m going to take a leak. That chick is looking at you. Go talk to her,” I told him.

When I returned from the bathroom, Charles was in deep conversation with the woman I had pointed out to him, an attractive thirty-something brunette with fake breasts and probable fake lips. I leaned up against a post, alone with my beer. From the looks of her body language, she was interested in him. I left my post and made a round through the bar.

When I walked by the dance floor, I caught a glimpse of a familiar face at the bar. Her big blonde hair and athletic figure was impossible to miss. It was Emily, the wiener dog chick, partying on the same night, three years later. I approached her.

Me: “So how is Nicholas?”

Her: [Shocked] “How do you know my Nicholas?”

Me: “Believe me, we are old friends. How is he?”

Her: “He is doing great, but how do you know him? Who are you?”

Me: “I was at your place a few years ago. Nicholas was backing up and running head first into the door.”

Her: [She looked me up and down, trying to extract a memory from her fading brain] “You were at my house?”

I was disappointed she didn’t remember me. How could she not remember? When I first met her, we were making out within thirty seconds. Now she didn’t even recognize me. Had I lost my youthful look over the last three years and aged past her cougar limit? Was I just average at sex? She was only forty-eight now, so the Alzheimer’s hadn’t set in yet. To make myself feel good, I concluded that she was a massive slut who’d probably been with over fifty guys in the past three years. Ed had told me stories about how he had seen her getting cozy on a couch with a new guy at all the local bars. I said a few more mindless words to her and moved on.

Five girls later, I got yanked onto the dance floor by a disgusting forty-two-year-old, who proceeded to mouth-rape me. Drunk, I let it happen. It didn’t last long because when she tried to dish me off to her potato-shaped friend, I made a run for the toilet.

Fourteen strikeouts later, things were beginning to look grim. The bar was closing in less than an hour, and I had hit on every decent-looking girl in the bar. 0 for 20. I went to the bar to order another drink. On my left I saw a tall, attractive forty-year-old brunette standing next to me. She looked in my direction. The moment we made eye contact, I was forced to come up with a line after only two seconds of observation time. Hesitating after eye contact is not an option. Within those two seconds, I noticed that she had a chain around her waist, and it hung down an extra six inches. Instinct took over.

Me: “What’s with the belt?”

Her: “What about it?”

Me: “Why does it hang down like that?”

Her: “I don’t know. It’s just how I wear it.”

Me: “Was it too big, or is that just your style?”

Her: “It’s my style. Do you like it?”

Me: “Yeah, I do. Where’d you get it? Florida?”

Her: “Florida? Do I look like I’m from Florida? No, I got it at…[somewhere].”

Me: “Oh, right on. So who are you?”

Before BeltGirl could answer, her fifty-something girlfriend, who looked like a zombie with her stringy hair and expressionless face, grabbed her arm and pulled her onto the dance floor. The last thing I heard was the zombie friend saying, “I love this song,” which probably meant she wasn’t trustworthy. I bought my beer and took a leak.

When I exited the bathroom, BeltGirl was standing alone near the bar. I walked up to her and asked, “What happened? I thought that was your song.”

“No, it was her song,” she answered.

We talked for the next thirty minutes. Her friend lingered behind us, awaiting her chance to cockblock. Keeping BeltGirl’s interest piqued, I fazed out the cockblocker to perfection. I found out that BeltGirl’s name was Jackie; she was a forty-year-old divorcee, had a seven-year-old son, and lived thirty minutes away. She refused to kiss me at the bar, so we went out to her car to make out. After ten minutes, it was time to sneakily go for the kill. Here is a breakdown of my attempt:

Me: “Do you have any beer at your place?”

Her: “I have a little wine. Is that okay?”

Me: “Hmm. We may have to make a stop for beer.”

Her: “That’s fine. I need to find my friend.”

In other words…

Me: “Want to fuck?”

Her: “Sure.”

Me: “Let’s go. Now.”

Her: “OK.”

When we walked inside, Charles confronted me. He had been trying to get hold of me for the past half-hour. I told him not to worry about me; I had a ride. Apparently he and his chick had talked the entire night. He got her number, that’s it. Charles is more of a three-dates-then-fuck kind of guy. I don’t have that kind of patience. We found Jackie’s undead friend and dumped her off at her car one minute away. She’d tried to get Jackie to crash at her place, but Jackie told her she just wanted to go home. Baffled, the friend got out and walked to her car, the loser in the battle for Jackie. I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate myself on my victory…thanks.

The car ride began with the traditional “Don’t expect anything to happen.” I passed the test with, “I know. I just want to drink another beer with you.” Then came the concern over how I would get home. I assured her not to worry; I was a big boy. When she said, “I have two dogs; they’re going to go crazy when they see you,” I got a little scared. The last time a chick’s dog was “crazy to see me,” my salad got tossed without my consent. I thought for a moment and came up with a better alternative. “You know what? Let’s just go to my place.” We made a U-turn and headed to my place. Problem was, it was my parents’ place; and they were home, asleep. Fuck it. Off we went anyway.

I told her my parents were in Cancun and that she just had to make sure to be super quiet because my “baby brother” was asleep in the next room. She believed me. I had fucked once at my parents’ house, but it was years ago, with my girlfriend, and no one was home. This was different. Not only were my parents home, they were just two rooms down the hall. Not to mention the woman I was with was only a decade or so younger than my mom. They may have been friends. All walking, giggling, laughing, smacking, screaming, slurping, and gargling had to be muffled.

We never “stopped for beer,” so I went downstairs to find us some drinks. I was so cautious about my parents that I never turned on a single light anywhere in the house. I crept through the darkness like Darkwing Duck and brought up a daiquiri for her and a Heineken for myself. We took two sips before our lust took over. I leaned her onto my bed, and we began our adventure.

After all the waist-and-above crap, we got down to business. She took my pants off and began deep-throating me. After ten minutes of this, I got bored and greedy. “Lick my balls,” I whispered. She obeyed. After five minutes of this, I decided to test this girl’s limits. People always ask me how I am able to get rimjobs so frequently. I really just think I’m lucky. It’s not like I demand it. Most of them do it themselves. But on this night, I felt like making some demands, like a kid sitting in Santa Clause’s lap. What’s the worst she could do? Say no?

“I want you to lick my asshole,” I whispered.

“You like that?” she asked.


Although the room was almost pitch black, what took place in the next fifteen minutes will forever be a gem of a memory. She slowly inched her tongue down to my asshole. After only ten seconds of licking the actual hole, she lifted her head and asked, “Do you have any honey?”

“Honey?” I asked.

“Yeah, or maple syrup.”

“Uh. I think. I’ll go downstairs and check.”

“Okay, I just want you to enjoy this.”

I leapt out of bed and literally sprinted butt-naked downstairs before she could change her mind. Three things went through my mind: 1) Damn, my butt must have tasted bad for her to require honey to neutralize the flavor; 2) Bees; 3) How in the hell do I keep finding these butthole-licking babes? And why are they licking my hairy ass? I think if Playboy collected data from fifty random sexually-active guys, me included, and were put into a graph depicting our luck with rimjobs over the past two years, the graph would look something like this:



The bear container full of honey stared at me eye-level from the upper-middle shelf. The bear seemed to be smiling mischievously at me. I grabbed it and sprinted back upstairs, penis flopping, slowing down ten steps before I reached the door so Jackie wouldn’t think I worked up some butt sweat. I lay down on the bed, put my legs in the air like a Thanksgiving turkey, and watched as Jackie gave the bear two big jerks to get the honey to the top. She proceeded to squeeze warm honey onto my ass as if I were a breakfast entrée at the local Denny’s. She rubbed the honey around my asshole, lowered her face, and ate me out for nearly fifteen minutes.

I teach high school.

After the salad tossing, we fucked. No condiments were involved. We finished up and collapsed, a duo of sticky oversized biscuits. Before she left, I got a chance to ask her if she had ever done this before:

“Nope. I’ve never licked a guy’s ass before. It just seemed like it was your fetish or something, and I’m all about fetishes. As for the honey…I was just feeling creative.”

I am convinced that there is an article in Cosmo or something that is brainwashing women to think that rimjobs are a common practice; and for some reason, I am finding all the women that read this article.

She took off around four. I cleaned up the bottles and condom wrappers, and returned the honey to the pantry. My room was disgusting. Everywhere I stepped seemed to be sticky. Lying in my bed was like lying in Velcro. Taking a shower at this time of night may have awakened my parents and caused suspicion, so I stuck it out. I found a soft spot at the edge of my mattress, curled up into the fetal position, and slept. My parents never found out. I think.

I texted her the next day, and she texted me back. There was a legitimate chance of this happening again within the next few weeks. I began looking for ideas of what condiment to use next time. After discussing this story with some friends, we came up with the following ideas:

-Hot fudge



-Jack-in-the-box Buttermilk Ranch dressing


-BBQ sauce

-Balsamic vinegar

-Salsa: Thick and Chunky

-Peanut butter and jelly

-Whipped cream

-Roasted marshmallows

-Ice cream or yogurt

-Chicken Tikka Masala

-Some type of chick shot that can be taken out of my asshole as though it were a belly button


I am open to ideas

Russia…and stuff

There’s a difference between vacationing and traveling. While I’m a fan of both, each one has its own distinct personality. Vacationing is a lounge-by-the-pool, cocktail-downing laze under the sun. While traveling is a sleep-deprived, up-at-dawn, drive-for-hours, site-seeing frenzy.

I’d gotten the vacationing out of my system in Croatia. It was time for some down-and-dirty traveling–five countries in fourteen days.


Helsinki, Finland (two nights)


I arrived in Helsinki Saturday night, stoked to be back in Scandinavia. Unfortunately, the central party area was an absolute cesspool. Bums and hoodlums were double-fisting forties everywhere; the streets were littered with rubbish; even a trashcan was on fire. The place reminded me of Hill Valley in the alternate universe when Biff took over.

The bar scene was infested with minors; the of-age chicks were pasty and fat; and there was a McDonald’s around every corner. And every one was packed with blathering drunks (I know because I went inside and waited 25 minutes in that septic muddle to get a lousy chicken sandwich.).

I was so fed up with all the kiddies and bumbling scumbags that I went to a local hotel, paid a couple Euros to use the internet, and researched “quality bars in Helsinki with an older crowd.” It took a few minutes, but I found a place a couple blocks away.

It was perfect: at least eight different lurk-zones, semi-cheap drinks, even a blackjack table–and a hundred or so girls aged 25-45. Only problem was that of those, three were attractive–actually more like “acceptable.” The other 97 Big Macs were 2s, 1s, and 0.5s. I went 0 for 3 and called it a night.

I did, however, get something out of the city. While eating lunch the next day at an outdoor shopping center, I ordered the tastiest dish I’d had in months. Three huge meatballs (with reindeer meat, the best kept secret in the meat packing industry) to go with succulent mashed potatoes, juicily steamed vegetables, and savory lingonberry sauce made the Ikea cafeteria look like jail food. Absolutely delicious.

I returned to the hotel and met a few people on the tour (another one), but being a Sunday, no one was going out, which was fine by me; Helsinki’s nightlife blew chunks, and we had a long day ahead.



St. Petersburg, Russia (three nights)


When I told my friends I was going to Russia, the first thing they told me was, “Dude, be careful. The Russian mafia doesn’t fuck around. Seriously, it’s fucking scary over there.” Or: “Don’t wind up in an alley one night with your kidney missing.” I didn’t get what all the hype was about. Sure Russians don’t smile much, but everyone seemed peaceful and friendly. The entire trip I only saw one probable mafia member, and he was passively eating a sandwich at a picnic table with a blonde bimbo. And speaking of which, apparently Russian women have an affinity for fat guys. Ninety percent of the attractive, non-single women I saw were with walruses. To all you obese men reading this: STICK TO YOUR DIET–continue to passionately eat Cinnabons and Zingers, and move to Russia; pussy will flock to you like those white floaty things in Avatar.

Our first stop was St. Petersburg. Though rainy all three days, the city was well maintained, and there was a museum or historic park or building around every corner. The night scene, however, was pathetic. It didn’t help that we were there for the worst nights of the week–Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. To make matters worse, the central part of the city (where all the nightlife is) was protected by the Neva River, which drew all its bridges from 12:30-5:00 a.m. to let ships pass in and out of the Baltic. And our tour had stupidly booked our hotel a quarter mile outside of the island. So if I wasn’t in a cab by 12:15, I was stranded until five.

I stayed in the first night because we had a nine-hour sight-seeing session the following day beginning at 8:00 a.m.–Lenin, Peter the Great, Catherine the Great, etc. Usually I’d rage it up until three, get four hours of sleep, and then rally the next day for the tourist stuff. But with the obnoxious bridge factor, that wasn’t an option.

I went out the following night with Jack (a Kiwi), and an Aussie named Annette wearing a white Ed Hardy get-up (apparently things in Australia become fashionable two years after they’ve washed up in the states). When she met us in the lobby I hardly recognized her. She cleaned up so well that she went from a 4 to an 8. Annette had a solid rack–which she continuously talked about–but she was 23 and thought the world of herself, whining and cussing up a storm if someone got in her way. Whatever, if she was down to go out, she was probably cooler the other twenty-five girls on our tour, only three of whom were attractive–two sisters with boyfriends back home and a black girl who looked strangely similar to Jada from my disastrous “Lost Night.”

The three of us had a do-or-die decision to make on whether to stay or beat the bridges and give up on the night. Things became clearer when we discovered only two bars had actual people inside (we asked everyone for advice, and this was it). Each spot had a few dozen locals circulating in and out, and both were blasting mid-nineties hits–Nirvana, Madonna, Offspring, Green Day, even a Weird Al song.

I got my first glimpse of Russian dancing. I didn’t know people could move in such ways to portray their fun. The men looked like a bunch of Vlade Divacs trying to run under water. The women nervously jumped and performed feeble half fist pumps (like Deruki). I spent twenty minutes sitting by myself, watching the freak show.

Once I drank enough to promote mediocre chicks into sexy, I made my move. It was awful. They were digging the whole American thing, but I found myself doing sign language in order to communicate even the most basic information. One exchange:


Me: “Who are you?”

Her: “Vut?”

Me: “You. [pointing at her] Who are you?”

Her: [nervously] “I am here at the bar.”

Me: “Nevermind. What’s up with those rocks on your necklace?” [Using my index finger and thumb, I mimicked a crab’s snapping claw to communicate “rocks”]

Her: “The bathroom?”


I eventually became impatient and fled. Fuck. If this was how it was going to be in all of Russia, I was going to masturbatingly run my laptop’s batteries to the ground–similar to my two-week trip to Spain in the summer of ’06 (the Spanish refuse to acknowledge English-speakers) when I hooked up with one local in fourteen days.

After getting salted on by Jack a couple times, then doing a quick motorboat in Annette’s tits, we were out of there just in time to make it across the bridge.


Jack and another guy on the tour went out the following night, but they were going back to the same two bars. Exhausted from ten hours of walking, seeing museums, and sitting through a folk show, I threw in the towel and returned to the hotel where I hung out with Jada, the hot black girl, and her mute roommate down in the lobby before crashing. Sleep comes at a premium when traveling. If the nightlife sucks, you get out while you can, sleep, and go hard another night at a higher energy level. Economics.


Novgorod, Russia (one measly night)


The night was freezing and only one bar was open.

Nobody was inside.


Moscow, Russia (three nights)


I don’t know what it is with these trips, but every time I go alone, I get stuck with the hugest geeks. My new roommate looked like a real-life Waldo. Sure he was nice…and sweet, but he cussed worse than a tourette’s patient, and he ended every sentence with “man.” “You gonna go out tonight, man?” “The shower’s fucking cold, man.” “What do you think about my fucking pants, man?” “Is that fucking salsa any good, man?” At least he wasn’t clingy, and above all, didn’t snore.

Of all the cities I visited in my three-and-a-half week extravaganza, Moscow was by far the most exquisite. From its history with Stalin, the statues, St. Basil’s Cathedral, the busy night scene, and the Hollywood landmarks I’d seen in movies, Moscow is a must-go. (Note: For those who played video games during the Golden Eye 007 era, I walked through the real life “Statue Park” level. Funny how seeing a Nazi tank at one of the museums didn’t come close to the awe that came with walking through the place I once shot fake assault rifles at virtual bad guys.)

I hit the town that Friday with one of the Aussie guys on the tour named Phil (To my college friends reading this: This guy was the living, breathing, Australian version of “Philthy.” He had the same mischievous, tooth-less smile as our beloved house rat. Not only did he look like him, he was equally sleazy. He smoked his cigarettes in the exact same manner–head tilted to the right, eyes closed to a sliver, big adjectives leaving his mouth…you know the look). Of the 50 people on the tour, only Phil and I went out on a Friday night in Moscow. I can understand the need to save energy, or how other people don’t care as much about hooking up with foreigners like I do.

But going out isn’t always about that.

Someone recently asked me if the only reason I did these trips was for the women. Yes, girls are a big part of why I travel, but it certainly isn’t the sole purpose. While sites are cool, I’m more interested in the little things: the smells, the sounds, the mannerisms, the guessing game of deciphering what two girls are gossiping about in their native tongue, the way the supermarkets are set up, the unusual shoes the women wear, the style and speed at which people walk, the way a toddler and his mother show affection while eating lunch at a cafe, the way a college couple on a subway pet each other and wordlessly stare into each other’s eyes for five consecutive minutes, a man’s turbulent reaction after being bumped while eating a Curry Schnitzel.

Details are what make life interesting.

Traveling is less about the sites, and more about seeing and experiencing the unique ways people live, interact, and react. And, it’s also about seeing how they party. Which is why no Friday night should be wasted in foreign land.

Phil and I met two Russian sisters at a grunge bar in the heart of Moscow.  Digging our foreign roots, it wasn’t long before we were making out with them all over the place. I took the hotter one. They were 25 and 26, lived with their mom, and were too naive to realize their own horniness, which caused them to be overly protective of each other, leading to their refusal to come back to our hotel.

Russians, I’ve noticed, are very intense lovers. The wordless, staring couple on the train is the norm. While sucking face with the sister, she would kiss me passionately and then stare into my eyes for thirty seconds. Acting as a wannabe Russian, I stared back. But then I became impatient, and scared, and looked at something else.

On a side note, I was baffled how any girl in her right mind would hook up with Phil.

The guy stank.

He wore the same shirt he’d been wearing all day (he didn’t believe in pre-going-out showers), and used this spray deodorant that he continuously applied to his chest and back–never his pits. There was a perpetual scent of BO anytime he was within a six-foot radius. Every day, a group of us had to remind him, “Phil, change your shirt.” Other than the stench, however, Phil was a hell of a wingman, always down to party.

The next two nights were major busts. The bars were empty Sunday, and on Saturday our tour went to a 60-dollar club only to discover that all the guys there were middle-aged rich guys, and all the women were gold-digging, unsmiley cunts. I did manage to make out with a forty-year-old blonde local, but when we left the club and stood under a streetlamp, I noticed her teeth were rotting out of her mouth! The two front teeth looked like little pieces of wood, two of her bottom ones were missing, and her molars looked like yellow raisins. I ditched her and popped in a fresh stick of gum.

Europe should seriously incorporate Dental Hygiene courses into K-12 education. A 10-year plan should remedy the problem–or at least teach them a toothbrush is their friend.


Minsk, Belarus (one night)


This place was the hugest rip-off ever, and you can tell them I said that. Sure it’s a poor country, but those fuckers made me pay $270 for a ONE-DAY Visa, fucking me in the ass with Lex Steele’s cock in the process. This is all I shall write about Belarus.


Warsaw, Poland (two nights)


The Polish don’t fuck around when it comes to food–mainly fatty meat patties and Schnitzels with all kinds of cream sauce and mayonnaise slopped on top willy nilly. They’ve likely never heard of carbs or cholesterol, and I doubt they’re aware that sugar turns into fat. So I was amazed when I went out that Tuesday night to find not a single overweight Polish girl. Few, however, spoke English and they were visibly irritated with my inability to cater to their language. They gave me looks of disgust, and one girl became so annoyed that she called Sebastian Janikowski over to shove me eight feet across the room. Jack, Phil, and I all went 0-fer and left, eating a shit-sized schnitzel on our way home.

The following night was essentially the grand finale of the tour. The last night of these things is always the biggest. Everyone, even the behemoths, find a way to hook up.

Wednesday was VIP night at all the good spots, so we couldn’t get in anywhere worthwhile. We settled on a bougie lounge with expensive drinks and pictures of Hollywood actors everywhere. As a dozen of us sat on the couches sipping our drinks, I sensed Jada stealing looks at me. I hadn’t pursued her because I didn’t want to deal with the risk of clinginess–but things had come down to the wire tonight. Over the past few days, we’d sat next to each other on the bus for a couple long stretches and learned about each other’s life back home. At twenty-nine-years old, she was a teacher from England, but had only moved there recently, so she didn’t carry much of an accent. While I was interested in her, I had to keep my options open.

Suddenly greedy, Jack and I ditched everyone because we heard there was a casino three blocks away. We gambled for an hour, consumed free drinks, irritated the hot dealers, and won over three hundred Zloti each. They did make us write down our driver’s license and contact info before playing, so our winnings are still pending identity theft and a future beat-down from Sebastian Janikowski.

When we arrived back at the lounge, fresh couples from the tour who I thought hadn’t even met each other yet were making out in corners. The joint was now bustling with unsullied locals, so I hit on them, striking out gloriously. Closing in on two a.m., I was tired as hell, so I said my goodbyes to everyone and grabbed a cab with Phil, who took shotgun.

Night over.

I looked out the cab window. Actually. Standing on the curb with the remnants from the tour was Jada. At 5’10–6’1 in her heels–she towered over everyone like a swan. I opened the cab door. “Jada!” Her head jolted towards me. “Let’s go,” I commanded, motioning her in with my head

She almost ran to the cab and laughingly flung herself in, obviously tipsy. I pulled her in close and positioned my hand along her inner thigh. Phil looked back at us, and, realizing the developing situation, spoke. “Alright, here’s the deal. It’s the last night. You guys are gonna go back to the hotel, have a good shag–nice and dirty–and maybe have another drink, and then shag again.”

I had to hand it to him. He may have stunk worse than my asshole after a 15-wiper, but he was hands-down the coolest guy I’d met all trip.

Jada and I laughed. “Nooo!” she squealed, unconvincingly.

“She’s not that kind of girl,” I chimed in, only to make it seem like I didn’t expect anything.

“Yeah,” said Jada. “Phil, what about you? Are you going to party in the rooms with us?”

“Me? No, I’ve got a long day ahead, and I need my sleep. But you two go ahead. This is the last time you’ll ever see each other, so Jada, I expect you to party hard tonight, and take care of my mate…and have a good shag.”

We laughed again.

We went from room party to room party, delaying the inevitable. These final nights really are quite sad. The last two weeks of our lives were intertwined in the most exuberant of circumstances, and despite all the promises to visit, you know this is the only time you’ll ever share. We sipped our drinks to celebrate time spent and the blossoming memories that only belong to travelers.

After an hour of pre-partying, Jada and I found our way back to my room. Somehow, Waldo was still out partying. I flopped on my bed, and Jada followed. When she propped herself up on her elbow, I laughed. “Come here.” I pulled her on top of me and started making out.

Having never been with a black girl (condom blowjobs in Vegas don’t count), I didn’t know what to expect. Jada’s ass wasn’t in Serena Williams’ class, but she definitely had some junk. So after maybe thirty seconds of boring missionary, I flipped her over. Even skinny girls look like their ass is big in doggie position, so Jada’s looked absolutely ghetto fabulous–jiggling, undulating, and sloshing everywhere in chocolate magnificence. I squeezed it and slapped it silly as I pounded her doggie with my non-black dick.

Suddenly, I heard a keycard at the door. Waldo! Luckily the door had a deadbolt I’d locked that prevented him from barging in. I scurried to the door to bargain for some extra time.

Waldo looked exhausted. “Hey, can you give me like twenty minutes?” I panted.

Twenty minutes, man?”

“Okay, ten. I’ll be quick”

“Alright, man. Hurry up, man.”


I shut the door.

Back to sex.

The interruption didn’t phase Jada. She was horny as hell, a clear sign that it’d been months since her last slam. A few minutes later things were becoming stagnant. She was riding me, but my dick was slowly losing its steam. For a couple minutes, I just lay there like a piece of plywood, watching as Jada rode my marshmallowy wiener. I’d lost my motivation to work, but in a sudden rush of urgency, I decided to give it one last go. I pumped her like a jackhammer, fast and hard, rejuvenating some rigidity. Moments later, I felt a wet sensation at the base of my dick. I looked down and saw a pool around my crotch too substantial to be sweat. She had squirted! In one of the biggest comebacks in black-girl-fucking-an-average-penis history, I now had some serious confidence–like Forrest when his leg braces fell off. I put everything I had into my thrusts, and the squirts came every twenty seconds! And she was screaming. I knew from our conversations on the bus that she’d dated several black guys. Apparently my dick was right up there with them–getting the job done, ready for the Big Time.

After over fifteen squirts–which were streamlined like pee, rather than the huge sprays I’d seen in pornos–I realized I was too drunk to bust. “Well, you can use my mouth,” she told me, which sounded like a great idea. It took a while (a long while), but I was finally able to bust my lone squirt down her throat.

I walked her back to her room, told her I’d see her at breakfast, and sauntered my sweaty, squirted-on self back to my dorm. Figures–I go to Europe, the land of white people, to have sex with my first black girl.

I ran into Waldo in the elevator.

“So who was it?” he asked.


“Yep. I saw that coming from a mile away.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, man,” he said, surprised, as if explaining the obvious.

Waldo’s the fuckin’ man.


Berlin, Germany (three nights)


I arrived in Berlin late on a Thursday after a grueling seven-hour drive and toured the city all day Friday and Saturday. I only went out one night–with some folks from the hostel–and struck out.

Berlin had the most chaotic night scene I’d ever seen. The sidewalks on a regular Saturday night were packed like Vegas on New Years. I’d be willing to bet that over 40% of the population was out partying, and everyone had a beer in their hand. Policemen lingered in the streets while hooligans chucked bottles at them–and the cops did nothing about it. Broken glass, blood, vomit, and unfinished schnitzels lined the gutters. College girls were curled up in balls against the walls crying into their cell phones. The subway stairs were used as urinals. Every 7-11 had at least an eight-person booze line. The bars buzzed with screams and freakish laughter. Music from a nearby club was constantly pulsing with malevolence. Girls with buzz-cuts were picking fights with people who looked at them funny. The drunkest guy in the history of drunk guys got arrested for God knows what. Even an 80-year-old couple was making out against a street fence…at midnight. Berlin’s nightlife gets what it wants.

I flew home early Sunday morning, eager to return to something more…tangible. The entire trip had cost me over eight grand. Life can take my money, but it won’t take my summers.

The defining moment of my trip–I remember it vividly–was waking up at the butt-crack of dawn just as our boat left Hvar. The first one up, I had the whole deck to myself. A gentle breeze on my back, I walked to the rail and thought about what was to come: For three and a half weeks, I’d sleep maybe five hours a night–7:30 wake-up calls every morning; I’d get stuck rooming with another freak; I’d spend five hours waiting around in airports, 20 hours on airplanes, and another 50 on buses; I’d hook up with wildabeasts who had corn for teeth; diarrhea was a certainty; I’d get stabbed by fucking sea urchins; I’d drain my bank account; and my health would go to shit. And as I leaned over the rail, I looked across the sea at a passing island, and I smiled…knowing all those things might lay ahead.