I needed a vacation, so for the first week of my annual summer trip, I flew solo to the land of over a 1,200 islands, six-foot women, and the friendly Mediterranean sun: Croatia. Though I wouldn’t exactly be on land–I’d be sailing through the endless islands of the Adriatic Sea, stopping every now and then for some fresh partying.

I arrived in the coastal city of Split on a Friday evening. I had actually slept on the plane, so after a quick shower I headed into town. I’d been to bars alone in the past–once in Hawaii, the other in Mammoth–but it just wasn’t the same without friends. I found myself pounding my drinks to drown the fact that I was creepily…a loner; and I used my phone as a wingman to portray my fake importance and mystique. I struck out both nights, all in sub-two-sentence exchanges.

It was the same story for my first night in Croatia. Supposedly Split was known as a big party town, but I was rather disappointed with the quality. The place was crawling with 19-year-old kids running around like sterile ostriches in heat, and the clubs (there were no quality bars) were jam-packed with high maintenance locals who were irritated with tourists like me. After striking out with fifteen of them–all of whom were taller than 5’10 and who spoke minimal English–I hit the sack.

I had never met or really seen many Croatian people until arriving in the country. In fact, the only person I knew of who was 100% Croatian was the ex-NBA player Toni Kukoc. So coming to Croatia, I expected all the girls to look like him. I was way off. One in every three Croatian girls weren’t just attractive; they belonged in a Vogue magazine. With their towering height and Slavic faces to go with unblemished skin, they made Swedish women look like Louisiana hicks. And none of them were even slightly overweight, which might have been because McDonald’s–or any American fast food chain–hadn’t yet expanded to the country yet. And if they’re smart, they’ll keep our fatty Western food out.

The next morning I met with my boat tour in the hotel lobby, and we made our way to the docks. Our fifteen-room cruiser could sleep about thirty people plus the crew. It was about two and a half bus-lengths long with some of the rooms on the bottom floor, a dining area on the main deck, and a lounge/lay-out area on the captain’s level. Most of the other travelers were Australian, with a couple Canadians and Americans in the mix. None of the girls were even remotely attractive–except for a 23-year-old Australian “beautician” who was an 8 but considered herself a 10, and she wastefully had a boyfriend back home. Not to mention she was one of those chicks who never actually laughed for real, but rather cocked her head back, closed her eyes, and forged a face that looked more painful than amused.

My roommate Brian was a nerdy college kid from Australia who looked like Jonah Hill. He wasn’t exactly fat, but he was certainly a fan of the occasional donut. He kept to himself most of the time but contributed to conversations here and there, particularly at the group meals. The only obnoxious thing about him was sometimes during our downtime in the room, he’d throw on his headphones and put his iPod on max volume, blasting some sort of Chinese hip hop. I eventually got used to it and was able to nap in peace.

Our first stop was on the slender island of Hvar, supposedly famous for its nightlife. We went to a rooftop bar to pre-party, and then took a ferry to an island club that had maybe ten attractive girls, five of whom were 19 and sucking some gump’s face. The quality of acceptable women was so poor (and it was a Saturday night) that I maybe went 0 for 8–all stupid college chicks. Eight girls.

Apparently no women over the age of twenty-five like to travel and party simultaneously anymore. You’d think that Eat Pray Love craze would at least inspire some recent divorcees to hit up exotic islands and hook up with guys like me. But no, they’d rather stay home, save money for when they’re 65, and watch Friends reruns.

But after careful thought, I think I’ve figured out why I never have any luck with the younger girls: because what comes out my mouth–and how I say it–has no effect on their attraction for me like it does with older women (believe me, I’ve tried making adjustments); so unless I’m her perfect type, I’m doomed before I’ve even asked about her bracelets. Maybe I’m being cynical, but I’ve found that a twenty-year-old will go for the tall, dopey dude with “sexy blue eyes” over a poised, intelligent guy like me who actually knows what he’s doing. The dope won’t have the slightest idea how to talk to her, and she’s too stupid to realize this, yet they’ll still make out all over the place and have sex if she’s drunk enough. I can’t compete with that, and I don’t want to. I’ll go for the older women where the products of our minds–aka human interaction–actually have value.

The next day, a Sunday, we docked at the island of Korcula, home of Marco Polo. I was still recovering from jet lag, so I accidentally napped through the final hours of sunlight. I did, however, wake up just in time to party–at midnight. I found our group raging at an empty outdoor joint in the vicinity of all the other bars. At this point, all the guys I’d partied with the previous day and night had decided to hang around the Australian beautician like flies on shit, tricked into thinking her hotness made her cool. I instead made friends with some of the Canadian-Indian guys from the boat who knew better.

When it became evident that the outdoor place was destined for nowhere, I wandered over to where all the noise was: two back-to-back bars with college kids partying out front. Inside, drunk twenty-year-olds saturated the dance floors, and a handful of fifty-year-old men clustered sporadically around the edges like human plaque (If I ever turn out like one of these guys, shoot me). Only two girls looked over the age of 25, and only one of them was hot, a 5’11 athletic-looking brunette in a white sundress.

I approached her as her friend was ordering drinks to her right. “So is this place your hotspot?”

“What? No. Why?” She had an accent.

“This place sucks. Are there any other bars on this island?”

“Not really. Where are you from?”

After answering that question, it was all over. She eventually ditched her friend–who was talking with one of the 50-year-olds–and we migrated to a table a couple buildings down to get away from the riff raff.

Her name was Brigita, a 30-year old Slovenian schoolteacher on vacation, who was also a fan of Eat Pray Love (Finally!). One thing worth pointing out is that besides the obvious features in women–face, legs, ass, stomach, tits, etc–I’m a fan of the little things as well. Some friends of mine have a fixation for well-defined shoulders, “nice necks,” big teeth, or lower back dimples, among others. As for me, I’ll always notice a woman’s hands. I like a girl with smooth, well-defined fingers and properly manicured fingernails, fake or polished–either is sexy. A girl with dry, scaly, masculine hands with chewed-up nails reminds me of dandruff and dirty silverware; and I don’t want those things anywhere near my cock (though I’m sleazy enough to make an exception on occasion if it’s just for one night).

Brigita’s hands were perfect (She was attractive, too.). She was so well groomed that I even noticed her feet were flawless–perfect shape, clean, clear, smooth, sexy white polish, no bunions. In my last blog, I recommended guys to never compliment girls. In this case, however, exceptions can be made. If I’ve been talking to a girl for long enough–20-25 minutes–I’ll usually comment on her hands (if they’re nice, otherwise I’ll just tell her I’m glad she isn’t one of those chicks who shaves her arms–which works by the way) She probably hasn’t heard it too often, it isn’t suggestive, and it separates me from all the other complimenters. Did this guy just say he likes my hands? What a fucking weirdo! But…I think I’ll continue talking to him.

Her place was a no-go because her mediocre friend had somehow blown it with her man and gone back to their room to sleep. So I took Brigita by the hand and led her towards my boat. When we arrived, I stupidly jumped the gun and asked if she wanted to see my room, almost scaring her off. Being clutch, I then suggested we go for a stroll by the water, which regenerated her juices.

We walked along the rocky shores, making out in various spots. In one particular reef, the cliffs were high enough to feel secluded from any passers-by, so Brigita suggested we go skinny-dipping, which sounded like a fantastic idea. Unfortunately, skinny-dipping is like ordering the hugest possible dessert from Claim Jumper. It looks awesome on the menu and tastes OK, but after you’re finished you feel crappier than Kobayashi after a hot dog contest.

Making out and feeling her tits pressed against my body was fun, but there was something unpleasant about our footing. We couldn’t find a comfortable place to just…stand; there seemed to be some kind of spiky shit all over the ground. After a brief two-minute dip, we trudged back to land, stupider.

We got dressed, put on our shoes (I had to remove a strange spike from my foot), and lumbered along another crag. We were up on another small cliff when Brigita suggested we take an approaching staircase back down to the rocks. I knew what she was doing: she wanted to get railed on the beach. It was obvious. As soon as we reached the bottom of the stairs, I leaned her against a semi-flat area of rock (there was no sand), and made my typical moves: Make-out, neck-kissing, more make-out, pull down her sun dress, suck on left tit, more neck-kissing (lick this time), tits, make-out, other tit, rub clit over panties, tits, make-out, neck, make-out, push fingers past panties, two-fingers in, tits, finger, faster, finger, finger, finger, finger, franticly unbuckle pants, take wallet out and remove condom (make sure she sees), put condom on, begin plowing.

That all happened, except for the plowing part. The rocks were bumpy as hell and scraping her back and my knees, so after putting on the condom and barely slipping it in, we both came to the conclusion that it couldn’t go down like this. “Come on,” I told her, getting up. “We can’t do this here. Let’s go back to the boat.” I took the condom off, tossed it in a rock hole on top of two small crabs named Lefty and Boomer, and we left.

When we arrived at my room, Brian was fast asleep. Great. The rooms were tiny, and Brigita refused to go inside with him in the room, so I told her to wait outside for a sec. I scurried over to Brian’s bed. “BRAIN!” Uh, I mean, Brian!

Brian jerked hastily towards me, eyes wide, as if he’d just woken from an alien-encounter nightmare. “Herf?” he murmured.

“Dude, I need the room for like ten minutes. The hottest Slovenian girl ever wants to fuck. Sorry, man. Drinks on me tomorrow.”

Brian sat up, realizing he was back on Earth; then he squinted at the wall, made a farty face, and let out a rumbled sigh.

Realizing he was going to leave, I thanked him like five times, and reminded him that drinks were on me.

Brian left the room with his blanket draped over him like Frodo and walked past Brigita, who gave him a sincere thank you. Fuck yeah–I love girls who are honest about their intentions and show appreciation to people who understand they just want to get slammed real quick.

We got down to business immediately. She had a substantial bush, but I didn’t care. This was Europe, and the sex here should be rough, dirty, and even a little hairy. The only problem was that my bed was so damn small, and the side wall was at a 75-degree angle, so it was tough fucking her doggie because my shoulder kept jamming. After screwing for 10-15 minutes (I did try and hurry things up for Brian, but a couple times I greedily staved off ejaculating), I made the switch to her ass. She didn’t make a sound as I tried to slowly stuff my manhood inside her hershey highway. Once it was in, it never left, and I eventually busted in the condom despite having to deal with the wall factor.

I later learned this was Brigita’s first time in the butt, which would explain why when I took the condom off, it looked like a deformed neopolitan ice cream scoop. I quickly flushed it down the toilet and tried to pretend I didn’t see anything (Note: The next day Brian told me the room smelled so bad that he almost just stayed outside, ultimately deciding to use his Cool Water cologne as Lysol. “I don’t know what you guys did in here, but I feel sorry for her,” he said.)

We emerged from the room in a sweaty mess and chilled on a bench up on the captain’s deck. Suddenly a door nearby whooshed open and a figure stomped around the corner and began barking. “Hey! What is the name of this boat!?” exclaimed the captain, wearing nothing but saggy Fruit of the Looms.

“Uh, Catarina.”

He paused and assessed us. “Okay, YOU can stay, but she is not from this boat! Get her off my boat!”

Brigita was already up and walking before I could even respond.

I was wide awake and somehow still horny despite the ice cream condom, so Brigita and I walked back towards the cliffs where she blew me on the rocks. Then I pounded her again on an acceptable rock bench, took down her email address, and called it a night. When I returned to the boat, the sun was rising across the bay, and the crew was already untying the ropes. We left fifteen minutes later.

When I woke the next day, I could barely walk. It felt like I was constantly stepping on glass. After careful examination, I discovered nearly twenty irremovable splinters in both feet. I showed one of the guys on the tour who owned an expensive snorkel set; he had to know what had happened to me. I told him my skinny-dipping story, and he immediately knew the problem. “Sea Urchins, mate. Yeah, it’ll hurt for a few days–just gonna have to wait it out; your body will eventually reject the splinters in time.” (Update: It has now been over seven weeks since the urchin attack, and I still have a few remaining black spots in my feet.)

That day we hit up the island of Dubrovnik for a two-night stay. Dubrovnik, with its castle walls and Gothic architecture, was also known for its partying, but it was the same shit as Split–kids everywhere.

At the tail end of the night–as I limped back to the boat, already fifteen 0-fers deep–I encountered an attractive, past-college local with emerald green eyes. In her tight white pants, she appeared to be mesmerized by two movie posters on a wall. One was the new Harry Potter flick and the other involved Tom Cruise. She was just…staring.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She glanced at me a moment, then continued to gape. “I like looking at these.”

“For that long?”

“Yes, I like it.”

I was drunk and impatient at this point, so I jumped right in. “I see…well hey, I like your pants, so come sit with me as I watch all these drunk tourists stumble around.” I sat down on a bench a few feet away and sophisticatedly brought my right leg up and crossed it on top of my left.

She looked back at me, smiled, then back at the painting. But her focus was rattled. A few moments later, she moseyed over to my bench and sat down.

Her name was Marina, a 28-year-old local on her way home from drinks with friends. She seemed sweet, genuine, and sexy, so I stayed and talked with her. Not to mention she had glistening black hair and unprecedented green eyes, which was able to compensate for that one tooth on bottom that looked like a popcorn kernel. We talked for at least an hour before I gave her a kiss goodbye and made plans to meet tomorrow at “the statue” at five. I was stoked–now I didn’t have to do any tours; I had a sexy local who could show me around at my own splintery pace.

Before passing out on the boat, I masturbated to my mental sex files while Brian had his Jurassic Park nightmares just two feet away on the other side of the wall. My load plopped into the toilet with a thunderous thoip noise, but I doubt Brian heard.

After kayaking with the guys to a neighboring island and going for a swim, I met up with Marina, whose hair had amassed all sorts of split ends over the course of the last thirteen hours. The lazy-ass couldn’t even brush it? Even so, I had been looking forward to seeing her for a romantic night out in the Mediterranean sunset.

It didn’t start well. She was sober now and suddenly smoked like a chimney (Chain smokers should be sent to Tasmania or something. You guys fucking stink and are abusing everyone’s oxygen. Get out of here.). Then I learned a few interesting facts about her:

-Her last boyfriend had OD’d on heroin a year ago.

-She still wasn’t over him.

-She used to be a heroine addict herself.

-The ex before that had murdered her dog, which caused her to show up at his house with an ax in her hand, ready to kill. (He smartly didn’t open the door.)

-Her only passion in life was going for a weekly swim in the ocean.

It’s all good, I thought. That’s all in the past. She’s cool now. Nope. In our two hours of hanging out, she showed me one cool place–a scenic bar on a cliff. And in those two hours, she rambled on and on about herself, saying nothing remotely interesting or sane except for the hardships she faced during the Croatian War and the Siege of Dubrovnik in the early 90s. Other than that, it felt like I was watching a live recording of Intervention: the boring-ass Behind the Scenes edition. After two beers, I told her our crew was having dinner on the boat at 7:30 and then we were all going out together. She gave me her number and told me to “please, PLEASE” call her later. I lied to her and left.

The next morning I awoke fresh from yet another 0-for-20 college night (though I did fulfill my drink promise to Brian, who was tossed after two long islands), and I walked outside to find our boat anchored in a secluded cove. One of the best parts about the week, in addition to simply laying out on the deck, was the swim stops. Every day we’d anchor at a picturesque cove or bay, toss our floaties in the shimmering Adriatic, jump off the twenty-foot roof, snorkel, and paddle around in 75-degree water, all the while shooting the shit with each other, discussing sex and new travel destinations. And the weather was perfect, which I couldn’t quite say for the Greek Islands due to the violent wind factor. The Croatian Islands in July are unbeatable.

Our next stop was at the quaint harbor town of Trstenik. The village was a quarter mile horseshoe around its cozy harbor, and that was it. The population was maybe a few hundred. After feeding my internet addiction, I ate waterfront pizza with a couple girls from the boat, then napped until midnight. When my alarm went off, I was so tired I almost stayed in and slept. No! There would be no wasted nights in Croatia. I took a lukewarm shower to give my aching body a bitch slap, got ready and walked to an adjacent harbor, home of the lone bar in town.

It was more of a cove, and the outdoor bar, all 200 square feet of it, took up what little flat area there was. With the exception of six dancing high school girls who likely had Geometry homework due the next day, our boat crew accounted for the entire tavern. And apparently everyone had decided to dress like pirates–a handful of the guys moronically let the beautician put black eyeliner all over their faces. I knew about the pirate thing, so I wore my douchiest shirt–a grayish knock-off Affliction shirt (on sale at Nordstrom for twenty bucks) with a huge cross stitched on it, as well as some other loud junk.

Factoring in the village population, in addition to it being the middle of the week, I knew it’d be just us at the bar, so I planned on having a couple drinks with my boat mates, then hitting the sack. Halfway through my third and last drink, a sexy local with a stunning body and punky blonde hair appeared out of nowhere and stormed onto the dance floor. Okay fine, I’ll hit on her, then I’m off to bed. Unfortunately she had come with a group of six, half of them ugly chicks, the other half were bald dudes.

I waited until she was by herself. Then, finally, I found her sipping on a black drink in the darkness off to the side. I slithered up to her. “Who are you?”

“Who am I? Who are you?” Accent.

“Nope. I asked you first.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well for one, what is that thing you’re drinking?”

“Orahovica. Here, try.”

The dark fluid tasted like stale Jager. I made a face.

“This is what Croatians drink. You don’t like?”

“It’s different,” I said, trying to wrinkle my face back to normal.

She passionately explained how the drink was considered gourmet brandy in Croatia, and how great it was blah blah blah. Then the conversation resumed.

“So what else would you like to know?”

“What’s your story? Who are you, and why are you at this bar on a Wednesday night?”

Her accent was a pain in the ass, and I didn’t feel like putting in the listening work, so I ignored everything she said and instead brainstormed possible detours around the six-friend cockblock factor. I nodded my head and kept my eye contact, asking her instinctual questions at opportune breaks in the conversation. I eventually discovered her name was Tatjana, 27, and she’d moved here a few years ago from Sarajevo. When she learned I lived in California, predictably, the questions started gushing out of her.

One of my moves with foreign girls like Tatjana–and even American girls–is I’ll invite them to do a fun activity with me. I’ll say things like “If you ever visit California, call me up. I’ll take you surfing.” We never actually go surfing, or see each other ever again, but saying shit like this spawns excitement and stirs their vagina juices like minced grapefruit.

Tatjana was hooked. After a couple more drinks mixed in with some pee breaks, we found ourselves standing on a ten-foot bluff overlooking the bar. Off to our left was an uphill trail that appeared to carve around the western bank of the cove.

Tatjana motioned to the trail. “Every time I come here, someone gets lost in the woods, but we can’t do that,” she weakly asserted.

“Nope. Definitely not.” I smiled at her, giving her a playful nudge.

“We are not going to kiss tonight, so I hope you weren’t expecting things to happen.”

Perfect. “Of course not. I’m just enjoying drinking with you.”

Two minutes later, when I sensed her body leaning into mine, I pulled her in by the side of her belt and gently kissed her. She kissed me back, then stopped. “Hold on, my friends are right there.”

I looked down and noticed a couple of her bald friends glancing back at us. “I’ll be right back,” she told me.

She appeared to be arguing with one of them as I sipped on my drink from above. A couple minutes later, she abruptly got up and stormed back to me, reached for my hand, let go, and then said impatiently, “Come on.”

I followed her up the trail for at least a couple hundred feet until she stopped and faced me. “My friends say I am only talking to you to feed my ego.”

I laughed. “Well who cares what they say.” I pulled her in for a make-out. She kissed me back violently, then took me by the hand and led me up another twenty feet into an opening on the right. I let go of her hand and followed her down the steep path towards the water, branches whip-lashing my face.

The jagged trail led to a small private beach, and this one actually had sand. How many guys had she banged here? The music from the bar throbbed off to our right as we lay down on the soft earth. I got on top of her, made my typical moves, but became slightly disenchanted when I realized her nipples tasted like garlic. I’ve been with one of these before, and it wasn’t good. I kept the other one around because she was a squirter, but I always steered clear of her tits.

After all the waist-and-above stuff, Tatjana made a frustrated groan. “I can’t doing anything,” she grumbled. I knew before she even finished. “It’s my time of the month.”

“That’s cool,” I said, kissing her neck. “Do you like it in the butt?”

“Sometimes. But not tonight.” Dammit.

She eventually took my dick out, but didn’t even suck it, and gave up on the handjob after the first quarter. Realizing there was nothing in it for her, she got up and said we needed to go back. What a bust.

When we were back on the trail, she said that we couldn’t go back down because if her friends saw us “lost in the woods” together, they might kick my ass. “What? Why? Are you even dating any of them?”

“No, but they are very protective. Come on, follow me. I know a way around.”

We climbed up an impossible mountain through vineyards and heavy brush. With my feet already killing me, this had disaster written all over it. Half a mile up a car drove by on a road. “There! We must go there,” she pointed, obviously lost. There were no trails of any kind leading up, not to mention we were already on a 45-degree angle of land.

“Are you kidding? There’s no way we’re going to make it. Let’s just go back down and split up when we get back to the bar.” All I wanted to do now was avoid injury and go to sleep.

Tatjana agreed and we made our way back. She went first. I waited behind a tree in case any of her meathead friends came wildly sprinting up the trail looking for blood. After a few minutes, I made my return and skulked around the bar back to the trail from which I came.

With the exception of some site-seeing, parasailing, and a few more swim stops, the last two days were uneventful. We spent a night at the coastal town of Makarska, and even found an all-Croatian nightclub. Unfortunately, the big-town locals didn’t want anything to do with North American tourists like the villagers back at Trstenik. 0 for 50.

We returned to Split for the last night, but the five hours a night of sleep I’d been getting had finally caught up to me. I was zonked out by nine like Brian.

The following morning I said my goodbyes to the boat crew, took a bus to the airport, and caught my flight back home.

Only I didn’t fly back to California; I flew up north for a couple hours. This shit wasn’t over. Russia awaited.

To be continued…

Vince, Dane, and I started the night off with a wretched glass of “Adios Motherfucker.” Next came the worst Jager-Bomb of all-time. The floozy bartender tried to be cool and filled our glasses up with all Jager and a meager splash of Red Bull on top. Sipping on Yager without the bomb is no fun. In the five beers that followed, I began lurking. 

After four rejections, I made eye contact with a reclusive-but-sexy brunette with fishnet stockings sitting in the corner of the smoking patio. She was sitting next to her two blonde friends who were connected at the mouth to two surfer-looking dudes. The brunette had her purse where an open seat would have been, so after making eye contact, I pointed to the purse. She smiled and quickly put it on her lap. I sat down.

Me: “Who are you?”

If you haven’t noticed, whenever I can’t think of a clever line, my default line is “So who are you?” It’s extremely potent, mostly because it gets girls talking about themselves, which is what most of them want to do anyway.

Her: “I’m Courtney. Who are you?”

Me: “I’m Dave. Are these two girls your friends?”

Her: “Yeah, they’ve been making out with these douchebags all night. Who are you here with?”

Me:  “A couple friends. They’re inside. Why are you drinking a Red Bull?”

Her: “I’m the designated driver.”

Me: “Aww you’re so responsible. Are you a nurse also?”

Her: “Huh? What? No, why?”

Me: “The last girl I knew who drank Red Bull was a nurse, but she had issues–

something about hamsters.”

Her: “What the fuck? No, I’m not a nurse. I’m currently jobless. What do you do?”

Me: “I teach math.”

We talked for another thirty minutes about jobs, hair, fingernails, bracelets, phone numbers, and living arrangements until her friends got up hand-in-hand with their douchebags and declared they were leaving. “Get his number and tell him to come out with us tomorrow,” one of them told Courtney. She gave me a kiss on the cheek, and we agreed to hang out the next night.

Shortly after she left, I received a text from Vince and Dane telling me they were leaving. Even though there was still over a half-hour until closing time, I left with them and called it a night.

As much as some of my friends and acquaintances assume my foremost aspiration in life is to fuck as many girls as possible, they are wrong. Aside from her striking looks, twenty-one-year-old Courtney was cool as fuck. When I meet girls like her and can sense a connection, a tingly feeling of excitement brews deep within. A relationship suddenly becomes a possibility. Unfortunately, my history has shown that every hopeful prospect turns to mush. I end up either cutting them or trying to convert them into a fuck buddy. It’s tough for me to find “my type,” which I still am trying to define. I’ll know when I know. What I do know is that I want to get married one day and have kids; but I’m no fool, and I don’t settle. People who settle on stagnant relationships/marriages to please their parents, society, and/or their sexual needs are pathetic and need to grow up.   

Excited about Courtney, I quickly masturbated and then went to bed drunk.

Still buzzed, I awoke that morning at 6:45 because I had to pee. The shitty thing about drinking is that I will always wake the next morning at an unfavorable time like 6:45, which renders my sleeping abilities useless for at least the next half hour. I lay in my bed, exhausted but unable to even doze, for another ten minutes when my phone rang. I looked at the red digits on my alarm clock–7:00 a.m. precisely. Then I grabbed my phone off the bed stand. It was Courtney.

Me: “Hello?”

Her: “Hello-hello! What are you doing?”

Me: “Lying down. What about you?”

Her: “No one will drink with me!”

Me: “Really? What idiots! I’ll drink with you; come over.”

Her: “Yay! Okay, do you have a community pool or something?”

Me: “Uh, no, but I have a spa.”

Her: “Okay, perfect. How do I get there?”

I gave her directions and hung up. Just like that, the “tingly feeling” I’d had for this girl quickly transformed into “just another fuck.” Who booty-calls someone at seven in the morning? I didn’t think of the causes. I prepared for the effects. I hopped out of bed and went straight to the bathroom to do some touch-up manscaping and take a shower.

After showering, I cleaned up my room, which consisted of me shoving my heap of dirty clothes into a compact wedge in the corner. Then I tossed my four pairs of shoes in the closet and scanned for any leftover female jewelry or condom wrappers. I threw on my board-shorts and a red T-shirt, and waited in bed.

Courtney stumbled out of a freshly washed black Explorer. She looked much sexier than last night. She had shed the reclusive look for a look-at-me look. She wore a purple top, an exposed bra, and low riding jeans–no underwear–while flaunting a tatted left arm along with another tattoo creeping up from her waistline. “Shots!” was the first thing out of her mouth. My mind came up with a few plausible hypotheses for the attractive human being who was about to enter my house and probably fuck me:

1)      She hadn’t slept, and after dropping off her sex-bound friends, had taken drugs, partied some more, and then driven to my house under some form of intoxication.

2)      She had slept but was a raging alcoholic and began drinking as soon as she awoke. 

3)      She was sweet and wanted to spend the entire day with me because she “really felt a connection last night.”

I immediately crossed off hypothesis 3 because I realized this was real life. Then I crossed off hypothesis 2 because she was too hot to be calling a guy she had just met; she had to have other early-morning fuck buddies. It had to be hypothesis 1.

When she got inside, I grabbed a beer and gave her a shot of tequila as requested. “Have you been partying all night?” I asked.

            “My friends were fucking those guys at the hotel, so I drove down to my friend’s place in Newport and partied there for a while.”

            “You haven’t slept have you?”

            “Sleeping’s for losers.” Three seconds later, she took the shot. 

For the next twenty-five minutes in the living room, I listened to nonstop jabbering about how she got a partial track scholarship to USC, but her loser boyfriend introduced her to cocaine, which subsequently sent her life spiraling to the gutter. I could tell she played some kind of sport. Her arms were wiry but well defined, and her stomach was flat; her hipbones stretched her low-riding jeans to create a space down the front. I could just make out the upper stubble of her shaved vagina.

When she finally got to the events of the last five hours, she explained how her friends were mad at her for no reason and how some guy named Jeff was “such a fucking faggot.” She repeated the story two and a half times. Then mid-story she abruptly stopped and demanded I heat up the spa. When we got outside, I realized I’d never worked the spa. I went around the side and flipped some switches, but my efforts were hopeless. My roommate and landlord, KG, was upstairs, but like every normal person, he was sleeping on this hot Saturday morning.

Courtney sat in a white plastic outdoor chair smoking a cigarette as I toyed with the switches. “Hurry the fuck up!” she yelled, followed by a cackle.

            Fed up, and not excited about getting in hot water on a hot morning, I lied, “I don’t think it works.”

            “Oh my God. Can you wake your roommate? Maybe he knows,” she said, flicking her cigarette.

            “Okay, calm down. I’ll see if he’s awake.”

KG eventually came down on his own time and got the spa working, but it was going to take at least an hour to heat up. In the meantime, Courtney took two more shots. As KG cooked himself breakfast, Courtney babbled the same Jeff-is-a-faggot story to KG, twice. KG fake listened, nodding his head and saying “Uh huh” repeatedly. When KG finished cooking an egg sandwich, Courtney snatched it from the plate and asked, “Oh! Can I have this?” Irritated but not showing it, KG let her take it.

Having sympathy for KG’s hunger, I took Courtney upstairs to my room. I wasn’t stoked on fucking her, but after making out with her, she took off her pants. My dormant sexual desires suddenly went aflame again. Just as I was putting on the condom, she exclaimed, “Wait! I haven’t had sex in five months. Your dick is going to hurt.”

            “Okay, want me to go slow?” I asked.

            “Yeah.”

She wasn’t lying. She was a small girl and probably a slut, but she blew away my expectations. She had the tightest pussy I’d ever had. I couldn’t even fuck her properly because she yelped every time I went too fast. I had to fuck her so slow that I couldn’t even get off. I finally jerked off on her back–despite noticing a brown particle in her asshole–after fucking her from behind.

After sex, insanity ensued. We went downstairs to the kitchen. KG had already taken off, so we now had the house to ourselves. She checked her phone, didn’t see a single message, and then yelled, “Fucking Jeff! It’s all his fault! I have no friends because of him.” I let her be. As she looked around the house starry-eyed, her eyes grazed over me. “And where the fuck am I? Irvine? And I just had sex! With you! Who the fuck are you?”

            I smiled.

            “No, seriously, who the fuck are you?” Her body lurched forward.

            “Uh,” I muttered.

            “Fuck! I told myself I wouldn’t have sex until I had a boyfriend, and I just wasted it on you!”

            I made a face as if to show confusion, trying desperately not to laugh.

            Her eyes darted to the backyard window. “And we didn’t even go in the fucking spa!” she screamed.

I listened to another ten minutes of her self-deprecating soliloquies. When she’d finally cooled off, she asked me, “So what are you doing today?”

            It was almost noon at that point, and an annual “Beer Olympics”–a giant day party in Costa Mesa–was beginning in about two hours. When I told Courtney about it, she flipped out.

            “Oh, so you’d rather play fucking beer pong than hang out with me?”

I tried to reason with her but it was hopeless. Then she threatened to leave. Normally, I’d let the girl go, but this girl was far too shit-faced to drive for my conscience to allow it. “You’re not driving; I’ll drive you home.” I took a shower to wash her sex off, leaving the bathroom door open just in case she tried to leave or started breaking things. In the midst of washing my cock and balls, the shower curtain whooshed open, and Courtney began yelling at me again.

            “Are you seriously playing beer pong instead of kicking it with me?” she whined.

            “It’s not just beer pong,” I said.

            “Well, can I go?”

            “No, it’s an all-guy thing,” I lied, still scrubbing my genitals.

            “I don’t mind.”

            “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

She closed the curtain door and said, “Hurry up, I want you to fuck me again.”

When I returned to my room, Courtney was naked, lying spread eagle with a mischievous smile slinking across her face. “Fuck me now,” she demanded. I’d just taken a shower to wash off her sex, so even though I was tempted, I refrained. “I don’t have any more condoms,” I lied.

            “Well find one. I want you to fuck me.”

            “I need a condom.”

            “FUCK ME!!”

            “I can’t. We need to go.”

            “What the fuck? Guys out there would die to fuck me, and here I am begging you to fuck me. Are you fucking stupid?” She sat up.

            “Let’s go.”

            “No, I’m not going anywhere until you fuck me,” she said, spreading her legs wider.

            I got an idea. “Okay, let’s go buy some condoms on the way home. Do you have a bed?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Okay, We’ll buy some condoms, and then I’ll fuck you on your bed. Let’s go.” I had done it. She got up and put her clothes on.

The Beer Olympics were at my buddy’s apartment complex in Costa Mesa, and Courtney conveniently lived in Costa Mesa also. I figured I’d drop her off and have a friend pick me up from her place. Off we went.

Even though the outside of her car was freshly washed, the inside looked like a large poker tournament had just taken place. There were dozens of cigarette butts, dirt, old fast food bags, loose change, water bottles, and at least ten empty Cherry Coke cans. Courtney grabbed some CDs from the side compartment and threw on one of her mixes. She skipped over to track six. I was expecting something new or original. Instead, she played that Black Eyed Peas song that had been on the radio for seven months: “Boom Boom Pow.” She put it on full blast and started singing along. What a loser.

The OC fair was clogging up the freeways, so I took the back roads. Courtney took out a cigarette but had left her lighter at my house. Her crankiness escalated to new levels. Not only did she want condoms, but now she demanded food, booze, and a lighter. I told her not to worry; I’d find her a liquor store.

After passing Newport Golf Course, the same golf course that started this crazy chain of events, I made a right toward the 55-freeway into a neighborhood. Courtney freaked out. “Where the fuck are you going?”

            “Newport Boulevard. There’s a liquor store there.”

            “What! You can’t go to Newport Boulevard. That has the worst traffic!”

            “No, it’s fine now. We already passed the fair.”

            “No! Are you fucking crazy? Turn around! Now!”

Every ounce of my patience had gone out the window. I was done with this girl. I snapped. “Okay, you know what? FUCK THIS. I’m out of here.” I stopped the car, took the keys out of the ignition, opened my door, and threw the keys on the seat. I walked away from the car. When I turned around, Courtney had gotten out of the car perhaps quicker than I had, and she was yelling.

            “Where the fuck are you going? I can’t get another DUI!” she screamed.

            “Then call a fucking cab. I’m done.”

Before I knew it, she was sprinting after me. Suddenly I found myself sprinting down the block also, running in a combination of adrenaline and hilarity. I looked back. She was still chasing me! But I was beginning to separate myself. Two years ago, her USC track body would have probably caught up to me. Now she was no match. Thanks, cocaine. Off in the distance behind me, I heard her final yell: “You fucking pussy!” I never looked back. I made a right turn and hid behind a wall just in case she tried to run me over.

A few minutes later I received three texts from her:

You could have kicked it with me but instead you chose beer pong.

Fuck you!

Ur a piece of shit.

It took me an hour to walk to Beer Olympics, but I made it intact and had a fine day of partying ahead. And to think, there once was a time when I put Courtney and the word “relationship” in the same honest thought. Instead, she became the main character of this story.

(Pease note that while most of the stuff in here are my ideas/thoughts, there are a few things I cannot take credit for–either friends or random pick-up artists said it first, and I simply made it a part of my repertoire. Ex: I don’t know who coined it, but the line “Are you single?” I heard from someone else; but it’s still awesome nonetheless.)

In light of the emails I’ve been getting from readers, along with some texts/emails from friends, I have decided to unveil everything about my approach to going out and picking up women. What I am about to write is the result of over a decade of experience, which includes several hundred hook-ups: make-outs, blowjobs, sex, rimjobs. But if I do the math on my number of rejections, it works out like this:

Take away the handful of months I’ve been in relationships, and I’ve been active in “the game” for about ten years. There are just over eight weekend nights–Friday and Saturday–in a given month. Of those nights, along with a random Thursday here and there, it’s safe to say I’ve hit the bar/club/party scene approximately five nights a month for the past ten years. These adventures were full of successes and failures, but let’s focus on my 0-fers. On a normal night out, I’ll get rejected by an average of 12 girls. Multiply 12 by five nights, and you get 60 girls a month that give me weird looks, tell me to fuck off, ignore me altogether, or call me creepy. Sixty girls a month multiplied by 12 months and that’s 720 girls in a year. Multiply that by 10 years, and I’m looking at the daunting figure of 7,200 rejections in my lifetime. And I’d say it’s probably more, but we’ll say 7,200 to be safe.

In his book Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell wrote that to become an expert at something, you need 10,000 hours of experience. Because 7,200+ isn’t quite that high–nor do they count as hours–I’m technically not an “expert.” But that doesn’t mean I can’t offer something to all the single men out there wondering how a guy like me is getting chicks. Once again, my fuck-ups are your gain.

The Mentality

 
My good friend Baba said it best: “Dave, it’s not so much your game that gets you action. You’ve simply learned how to handle rejection.” Before heading out, I have come to accept the fact that I will get turned down by numerous women. I can offer all kinds of clichés about Michael Jordan missing the most shots, and Thomas Edison inventing the light bulb on his twelve-hundredth try, but until you’re able to understand that failure is a good thing, you’ll forever remain another frustrated masturbator.

The Venue

 
The venue is almost as important as your mentality. I recommend only going to bars and clubs that have different sections–a hallway, a patio, a dance floor, a bathroom area, and generally a place with lots of corners where you can post up. It doesn’t have to be the biggest joint; it just has to have structure. Handling rejection here is a lot easier–because if you get turned down, you can move on to another area, and your mind has a way of convincing you that no one saw; you’re golden. If you go to those stupid bars that are one huge room (places like San Diego and Europe are unfortunately loaded with these rectangular arenas of flaccid dicks, dry vaginas, and dancing confusion), getting rejected is a huge ordeal because if a girl shoots you down, your mind annoyingly reminds you: “You just got royally shat on, and everybody saw, you loser.” There is a psychology to this one-big-room theory that probably goes back to the caveman days, but that’s just a theory (though I bet cavemen picked up more cave chicks in the woods than in the plains).

Details

I’ve heard the case for a guy’s style going a long way with women, and that’s complete bullshit. If you’re dating her, I can understand having a deep wardrobe and nice shoes, but the rules are different for a basic night out. As long as you don’t look like a medieval Star Trek character, your charisma will override all. If anything, wearing designer shit will raise your chances maybe 4% and give you the benefit of the doubt if she’s on the fence about going home with you. If you’re new at this, yes, go out and get nice clothes to get this 4% boost. Just make sure that you feel comfortable and confident in whatever it is you decide to wear. I’ve worn the wrinkliest outfits known to man and still taken home a ton of attractive women (I still don’t even own an iron).

As for other miscellaneous issues, make sure you always have a condom in your wallet, and always bring gum (and start chewing it after your first or second drink). To avoid accidentally washing excess gum you left in your pants, thus fucking up your pockets along with your roommate’s dryer, I recommend having a couple sticks of gum in one of your wallet slips at all times (and don’t get the squarish chiclet kind; get the black 5-series gum–that shit is so everlastingly scrumptious that one time I passed out with it in my mouth and the next morning it still tasted good).

Timing

 
It’s amazing how many guys go out looking to get laid, yet don’t understand the dynamics of how the night works. They end up getting sloshed by eleven, which results in them slurring gobbledygook to a handful of girls, and then they wonder the next morning what went wrong. Time breaks down as such:

(Note: These times are for California only. +1 hour for Vegas. +3 hours for Europe)

9:00-10:00 p.m.- The place is usually empty, and everyone is sober. If you arrive in this time frame, relax, have a drink, and party with your crew. It’s very important to go through this “social warm-up” with your friends before talking to girls. It heightens your mood and prepares you for more animated interactions when you finally do begin conversing with women. Note: Unless you’re some sort of alcoholic outlier, I don’t recommend drinking until after 9 p.m.–college is over.

10:00-11:15 – The place will be full by eleven, but it’s still too early to start hitting on chicks. If you start talking to them now, you’ll have to hang out with them for over two hours before they’ll actually leave with you–plus they’re still sober and worried about being judged by their monkey-brain friends. Relax, keep drinking, blacklist girls who came with tough guys, and enjoy spending time with your entourage. Let all the douches and dorks hit on girls during this time. This way, when you talk to her later on, your awesomeness looks even more superior. It’s still okay to talk to girls at this point, but just plant seeds. Keep the conversation under three minutes, then high five them and tell them you’ll see them around.

11:15-12:30 — Primetime. This is the peak of the night, and the best window to meet girls, reconvene with any girls you’d talked with earlier, dance (if that’s your thing), get numbers, make out, and take women home. You should not be shitfaced at this point. A powerful buzz is optimal.

12:30-closing — If you’re still 0-fer at this point, you’ve probably blown it, but keep pushing. You never know; new chicks could show up. Either way, it’s perfectly acceptable to be hammered at this point–because there’s always a lurking 45-year-old hag who wants your whiskey dick in her garage.

The Scene

 
Let’s say that you, me, and another guy-friend are at a prototypical bar or nightclub–with good structure. We’ve come here knowing that half our time will be spent shooting the shit, the other half talking to girls. Our entourage of three isn’t needy and won’t whine if they get ditched because you’re off talking to chicks; we can all handle ourselves. The guy-girl ratio is a solid 1:1, about 200 girls, 200 guys. Even though they just started blasting Ke$ha’s latest hit, the place is the shit. We’ve been making fun of people for the past hour and a half. The time is currently 11:15. We’re all on our third and fourth drinks and a heroic buzz is dancing through our systems, feeling the music, feeling the euphoria of our freedom. It’s time to begin.

Quick note: When I actually approach women, I never carry wingmen–because depending on a wingman to help your game is like bringing your private tutor into class on test day for motivation. They can’t help you; all they can do is sit there and stare. If you want a girl, go after her. Unless the situation blatantly calls for it (her friend wants your friend, or your friend wants her friend etc) the “wingman” actually hurts you in the long run, because before you realize it, you start depending on them for courage. Become a wanderer like me, and you’ll never look back.

Breaking the Seal

 
The first 0-fer is always the toughest, but once you get that first rejection out of the way, you’ve ignited the engine. Nothing can stop you.

From all my years of people watching at bars and clubs, I’d say that only about 15% of guys actively hit on girls. Another 15% are in committed relationships and are there solely to drink and hang with friends. Then there’s the other 70% who are single and out with their friends, yet have an underlying desire to meet women and munch some serious rug. You can see it in their eyes. Sadly, these guys never even give themselves a chance. They hang around the group all night long, become mesmerized by the gogo dancers, watch sports highlights on the bar TV, talk about depressing topics like work and money, make a couple empty rounds through the bar, and then drunkenly return to their computers to masturbate to lesbian porn, ultimately crashing out, wishing they had abs of steel–as if that’s the problem.

 Fuck that. Get out there and make something happen. Get rejected! What I do is I’ll spot a girl standing/sitting by herself, or a girl riding the caboose of her six-chick train snaking through the hallway, and I’ll speak in her ear. It doesn’t matter what you say, just say it clearly. If you need to repeat yourself, you’ve lost your power. Say anything–“Where’d you get those boots?” “Is that a mini cherry hanging from your belly button ring?”* “What’s going on with that necklace?” Anything. She is going to reject you. Who cares? You’re only using her as a tool to spark the fire.

*These were my first words to a super-hottie at the Flamingo pool this last weekend. We partied all day. We fucked later that night. Unfortunately she wasn’t crazy, so I can’t write about her.

The Approach

 
When my naïve and inexperienced friends watch me hit on girls, for some reason they always ask me the same question: “What did you say to her?”

Not until the later part of my twenties did I realize that it doesn’t matter what you say, it’s how you say it. The cliché is true. If you talk confidently, like a man in control who doesn’t give a fuck either way of what happens, she’ll respond to you. If you speak like a seventh grader meekly asking out big-titties-Wendy to the dance, she’ll see a guy who feels unworthy, isn’t sure of himself, and has no idea how to please a woman. She’ll politely answer your question and then tell you she needs to find her friends.

But let’s assume you have your confidence, and we’re back at the Ke$ha-blasting bar. You’ve already gotten that first rejection out of the way and are about to wander from your group to talk to girls. But before doing so, picking which girls to hit on is a tricky process. I tend to stay away from girls who are in groups of three or more. Even if your dream girl is a part of that group, steer clear for the time being. Her friends are loaded with all kinds of negative energy–one of the girls is on her period, one is fat and jealous she never gets attention, one is having texting fights with her boyfriend, and one of them wants to get laid but doesn’t yet have a strategy. There are some “experts” I’ve read who have all sorts of techniques involving magic and fabricated mind games in order to engage large groups of girls like this. Fuck that; it’s way too much work.

The best girls to go after are the ones ordering drinks alone, or sitting down alone, or leaning against a post alone (if you’re in Vegas, watch out, most of these alone-girls are hookers). Basically any girl who is by herself gives you the greatest probability of success. She isn’t worried about being judged and is more inclined to be herself. Sometimes there are girls who are a part of a group but are sort of standing out of their circle of friends. Go after them as well. She’s not in the circle because she’s probably sick and tired of all the whining. You are a breath of fresh air in her world of bitchiness. Ask her, “What are your friends arguing about?” Watch her vent.

The Opener

 
Again, it doesn’t really matter what you say. If you’re looking for actual examples, check out my picture blogI wrote a couple years ago. Most of the time when I hit on alone-girls, my line is “Why are standing here trying to act all mysterious?” Other times I’ll simply ask, “Who are you?” Or I’ll find something unique about their outfit and tease her about it. Never compliment her. Leave that to the frustrated masturbators. Real men make fun of women.

The Conversation

 
The opening line isn’t your make-or-break moment. Whether you can maintain your composure and keep the conversation fun is what matters. I rarely ask a girl her name because that’s what every other nerd is asking her. Names don’t matter until you program her number into your phone.

Some gems I like to ask girls in the middle of a conversation:

– Notice I didn’t tell her I liked her eyes. I’m just asking her the color, making her prove herself to me, as well as showing that I care about details. After she tells me the color, I’ll reply with, “Oh, okay.” (She has to earn her compliments.)

-This is as close a compliment as she gets. You’re implying that she has nice teeth and a nice smile without actually saying it, yet you still leave her to wonder if you even approve. If you came out and said, “I love your smile,” congratulations, you’ve just been pigeonholed with the other 5,000 guys who told her that. Be original; be mysterious with your questions.

-This one won’t win any awards, but it again shows you’re paying attention to details other than her tits, ass, and stomach. Girls like guys who notice and care about the little things.

-Whatever is slightly confusing or strange about her outfit/shoes/accessories, comment on it–this can be used as an opener also. Make her defend herself. Make her prove herself to you, not the other way around. And besides, girls enjoy explaining their fashion idiosyncrasies.

or

Every other moron is asking if they have a boyfriend, but you’re not like other guys. The single question also has a much more confident vibe than the boyfriend question. Asking her if she’s married is also effective, because chances are she’s not (because you’ve secretly already checked her ring finger), and she’ll be happy to inform you of her status. Plus if she has a boyfriend, the married question gives her the opportunity hide this from you: “Nope, I’m not married (but I do have a kind-of boyfriend I’m not telling you about).” Immediately after asking this question, grab her left hand and bring it up so you can check for a wedding ring.  You’ve now broken the seal to physical contact and hereby opened the door to other advances–hand-holding, waste-grabbing, shoulder-wrapping, butt-slapping, etc.

Final Note: Don’t be the one to ask all the questions, or you’ll come off as needy no matter how awesome your voice tone and confidence is. After you’ve done your share of question-asking, it’s her turn. She needs to prove herself with her conversation skills, so when you feel the time is right, allow for silence, and look around as if searching for something more interesting. If she’s into you, she’ll ask you a question. If she remains silent and sort of looks the other direction, move on. You aren’t her type; she was just being nice.

Drinks

 
You’ve probably noticed that 90% of the time you buy a girl a drink, she’s gone within ten minutes. I’ve learned this the hard way many times, and I still flub up from time to time. This is a tough rule to follow, but an important one: Unless you’ve already made out with her, do NOT buy her a drink. If your drink is empty, don’t put yourself in the situation where you need to buy a new drink with her by your side; you’ll look like an ass if you get a drink solely for yourself. Either make her buy your drink and say you’ll get the next one, or wait ‘til she has to go to the bathroom and sneakily buy yourself a drink when she isn’t looking (if she asks where you got it, tell her a friend got it for you). Let all the desperate fartknockers buy them drinks, but not you. Buying her a drink communicates the following: I am like every other bozo trying to get into your pants, so please accept my drink as a token of my fake generosity. My balls officially belong to you; you own me.

Body Language

 
There are a ton of books out there on body language–none of which I’ve read. If you’re a complete buffoon, go buy one–or just read the following that I’ve learned from countless hours of real experience. It’s simple really: Act disinterested in the beginning; start showing interest 5-10 minutes in, and after that it doesn’t even matter–if she’s still talking to you, she wants you.  So when you first approach a girl, do not square your shoulders so you’re completely facing her. She might be squaring hers toward you, but you need to play it like you’re only staying temporarily, and at any second may get bored of her and leave. So keep your body facing away from hers and allow her to wow you with her answers to your absurdly intellectual questions. As the conversation progresses, gradually start to square your shoulders in her direction, but only if she’s earned it.

When either of you is speaking, always hold your eye contact. If her pupils are dilated, she’s attracted to you. If all you see is iris, she probably isn’t digging you, but don’t leave yet; there’s still hope.

Signs of interest:

-Dilated pupils.

-She plays with her hair or necklace.

-Her legs are crossed toward you.

-She’s smiling a lot.

-She squeezes/feels your arms, chest, or shoulders (she wants to feel your hot muscles).

-Her shoulders are squared toward you–even if she’s talking to someone else.

-While talking with someone else, she frequently glances back at you.

-She does a double take (when she sees you for the first time).

-She subtly ignores her friends when they leave the area or check to see if she’s “OK.”

-You take her hand; she holds it.

Signs of disinterest:

-She hasn’t asked you a single question.

-Her body isn’t squared toward you.

-Her legs are crossed away from you.

-Folded arms.

-She continuously glances in every which direction.

-She isn’t smiling at all, or if she is, it’s forced (she’s being nice).

-She doesn’t play with her hair when she knows you’re standing behind her.

-She “needs to find her friends.”

There are exceptions to everything, but really stay cognizant of the disinterest signals so you don’t waste your time. It always amuses me watching clueless guys hang around girls who obviously aren’t into them, and they sort of hover there like shadows until the poor girls have to lie and tell them they have a boyfriend. If she doesn’t dig you, accept your rejection and move on.

Escalation

 
One of the worst things you can do is meet a girl, develop attraction, talk with her forever, and never make a single move. If you are one of these imbeciles, you are officially a “nice guy.” Time to change your ways.

Within the first ten minutes, you should have played the are-you-single card and brought her hand up to check for a ring. That first contact goes a long way. There are many ways to escalate things after the initial “touch.” One easy way is to dance with her, though I only resort to that if her friends are nearby. Do whatever it takes to get away from cockblockers.

Basically, if you sense her body language is positive toward you, she’s into you. Or if she’s still talking to you and hasn’t yet invented an excuse to ditch you, she probably likes you. At some point, grab her hand and be playful with it, or put your arm around her waist, or simply put your hand on the small of her back while she orders drinks. Depending on the girl, give her butt a nice smack or grab a chunk of hair from the back of her head–underneath and close to the scalp–and give a quick tug (Be careful with this one, and don’t try it until you’ve got some serious experience under your belt). Girls will actually get angry when they’re digging a guy, and he keeps asking her boring questions about work, never making any physical advances. Be a man. Take control.

The Make-out

 
Quick note: Skipping over the escalation stage is not an option. If you expect to kiss her, you need to have had some form of physical advancement beforehand.

Girls want to hook up just as much, if not more than guys. If she’s still with you, she wants it. Only problem is, it’s up to the guy to make it happen. A cheap way to get it done is on the dance floor. When your face gets close to hers and she doesn’t move, go in for the kiss.

Otherwise, if you’re simply chilling with her at the bar, or hallway, or table, or random corner, my move is as such: While she’s facing me, I’ll take her hand (or both hands) and wrap our hands around her back. Then I’ll pull her in. If her face stays in line with mine, she wants to make out. I move in. Done deal.

You don’t even need to do the hand move. Girls want the guy to take control–because she’s the woman and you’re the man. So if you know she’s into you, just grab her waist, pull her in, and start making out.

As stated in previous blogs, I have other go-to moves as well:

“One strategy that has yet to fail me is the post-bathroom kiss. After a bathroom break, either she’ll be waiting or I’ll be waiting. If I’m waiting, I’ll lean mysteriously against a wall, and when she exits the bathroom, I’ll grab her hand, pull her face in close, smile, remain silent, and start kissing her. If she’s waiting, I’ll exit the bathroom, walk up to her, smile, remain silent, and start kissing her. One hundred percent success rate so far.” The reason this method is so effective is because if you’ve done everything right up to this point, then five minutes away from each other in bar/club time is like two days in relationship time. She misses you dearly in that little trickle break and doesn’t want to lose you, so when you see her again (especially if she was the one waiting for you), she’s going to want your tongue down her throat.

Going home with her

 
Excerpt from Scandinavian Rampage: “There comes a moment in every one-night-stand when you can safely grab a girl by the hand and lead her out without resistance. Often times this window is disguised in the form of ‘Buy me another drink’ or ‘My friends are talking to some guys’ or a pouty face or a swift cock grab.”

There is no way to put this in writing except that you know when you know. If you’ve already gotten her number and have been chatting and making out all night, it’s time for you to do the decision-making for her–since most girls are incapable of such a task.

If it’s a situation where hotels are involved, I’ll ask her, “Do you have any beer in your room.” If it’s a situation where her house is nearby, I’ll ask her, “Do you have any wine at your place?” Other times I’ll simply take her hand, give it a good yank, and say, “Let’s go,” and lead her out–back to my place. As long as you don’t make it obvious that sex is expected, and you don’t make her out to be a whore, they usually follow along. If they resist, then you probably made the move too early; or she just doesn’t do one-nighters. Text her within the next two days and capitalize then.

Everything I’ve written is just a slice of the night scene dynamic. And the only way to get good at this stuff is to get out there and fuck up, over and over and over. You can read every book out there; you can listen to the best advice, or ask your experienced friends all the questions you like, but until you’re ready to start talking to real life women, you’ll never get anywhere. Before you know it those 0-fers will start to become 1 and 2-fers. It’s not about getting laid either, it’s about making a better life for you. I’ve found that the more I learn about women, the better I am in the dating world, and the more complete of a man I’ll be to my future wife. Most won’t admit it, but girls appreciate a guy who’s been with a lot of women–because he understands them, and more importantly, he knows how to act like a man when the time arises.

It’s a fun ride, the single life. And it seems every day I learn something new about the mystical chasm between man and woman. Our relationship is infinite…

(This happened last summer, but in the excitement of another upcoming Euro trip to Croatia and Russia, I am just now posting this…)                  

           The time had come. Punchline and I had waited a year since our summer trips of ’09 to get back on an airplane, ditch the uncharacteristically cloudy California summer, and fly to the land of green landscape, midnight sun, no religion, expensive beers, and beautiful women: Scandinavia.

Denmark

            We arrived in Copenhagen on a Wednesday afternoon, tired and grimy from fourteen hours of flying. We’d each slept no more than two hours on the plane, so after checking into our hotel, we crashed with the intention of waking up around eleven to begin partying on the first of four nights in Denmark’s capital. There would be no wasted nights in Copenhagen, the second biggest party city in Scandinavia behind Stockholm.

            We spent the days in Copenhagen exploring the city with its array of gardens, and we took a boat tour through the canals. The women were so hot that at one point while sitting alone on a bench, I decided to do a study on the next thirty blonde girls (which I assumed to be Danish) between the approximate ages of 18-35 who walked by. Eleven of the thirty were hot, an unbelievable ratio. Since I was sober, I was picky, too. Two friends of mine, Harrison and Axe, had been to Scandinavia and told me “one in every three girls is hot,” but I was highly skeptical and dismissed their absurd claims. Now that I’d seen it for myself, I felt like calling them up and giggling like a circus monkey. Scandinavia is the shit.

            There are many theories on why Scandinavian people are so beautiful. One is that the Vikings were very selective in which women they fucked, only mating with the finest. Another theory is that in the middle decades of the twentieth century the countries incorporated a strict Eugenics program–prevalent mostly in Sweden and Norway–in which the government sterilized the mentally and physically inadequate. Whatever it was, Scandinavians–thought by many to be “some of the happiest people in the world”–had evolved well.

            I’d come to Scandinavia expecting a total fuckfest, with chicks flocking to my darker features and California roots. Things didn’t start well. The first two nights were a total bust. We overspent on alcohol, couldn’t find a single bar with people over the age of twenty-one, and got continuously bad recommendations on hotspots. 

            I headed into the third night with a flashback of my disastrous 0-for-129 first week in Australia a year ago. After updating my Facebook status and informing everyone that I’d completely blown it so far, Harrison and Axe suggested I “lose the sleazy weirdness” and just talk to girls normally. I planned on taking their advice as Punchline and I hit up a popular club on the outskirts of town. It was Friday, so we expected a better crowd. To our dismay, the club was still packed with kids. I put it past me for a moment and began talking to girls “normally.” On one girl I used the line, “What are you drinking?” To another I said, “How’s it going?” And lastly, “What’s up?” They all failed. Nothing was working. I was never going to hook up with a single Scandinavian woman at the rate I was going. Punchline and I were out of there by two a.m.

            The night was still young. Lacking options, we had the cab driver take us back to the kid-infested bar area where we could only hope for the best. Then I remembered something Punchline had researched earlier online. Though it’s hard to trust Internet reviews on clubs, at this point we had nothing to lose. Punchline had found a “30-and-up” club called “Nord.” The webpage wasn’t too sparkling so we assumed it probably catered to wrinkly grannies and geriatrics in girdles. Fuck it. “Actually, take us to Nord,” I told the driver.

            Nord was perfect: hot Danish women, awesome music, and people our age. It was listed as “30 and up,” but they only checked IDs if you looked under the age of twenty-four. The majority of the people there looked between 27-35. Punchline and I ordered ten-dollar beers, and I approached the first attractive woman I saw: a 5’11 blonde dressed in all pink, big rack, slim waste, perfect skin–a 9 at least. I’d given up on being normal; I tried it, but it just wasn’t me. I stood in front of her, pointed to her feet, and began, “Are you American?”

            She smiled. “No, why?”

            “I’ve never seen a Danish girl whose toenails were painted blue.”

            Five minutes later we were making out. Her name was Caroline. She was thirty-three and worked at a foster home. She’d come with a busty friend of hers, also a local. This was perfect for Punchline, who I snagged while he was mid-wander, and pointed out her friend to see if she was his type. “Yeah, she’s good,” he confirmed. I introduced the two, and Caroline and I left them behind and made our way to the dance floor. 

            After dancing, buying each other drinks (It’s actually normal for a girl to buy a drink for a guy out there), and making out a lot, it was time to escalate things. “Let’s get out of here,” I told Caroline.

            “Okay, one second.”

            Caroline walked over to her friend, who was cuddling on a couch with Punchline, and spoke in her ear.

            Their probable conversation:

            Caroline: “Hey, even though the match.com guy may still show, I’m going to go ahead and fuck this guy. Are you going to blow his friend?”

            Friend: “Yes, big time. It’s too bad about your match.com guy. He was a hottie.”

            Caroline: “I know. But this guy will do. Anyways, call me if his friend turns out to be a rapist or something. You know what happened with Wally and his scissors. Be careful.”

            Friend: “I will. Have fun.”

            Since Caroline had ridden ten miles to the club on her bike, we’d either have to ditch her bike or find a cab that could accommodate it. The fourth cab we tried had a bike rack. Things were falling into place.

            The only setback with Caroline was that every kiss had a hint of chow mein in it. Whatever. We got naked immediately and had non-smelly sex, except when I kissed her and thought about Sriracha. 

            The next morning, she opened all the windows and walked around her house stark naked while she cleaned up the kitchen and made a fruit plate for breakfast. She lived in some sort of housing community, so at least seven different homes had clear access to viewing her naked body. The sliding glass door to her room was at least eight feet by eight feet in area, so when I fucked her that morning, I sensed a lurking pervert nearby filming us. His video is probably already uploaded onto youjizz.com.

            I left just before noon and took a public bus back to the hotel. I walked into the room anxiously awaiting the details from Punchline’s night. I discovered poor Punchline had to hang around the club and dance and cuddle on the couch for at least an hour and a half after I’d left. He did finally have sex, but it was period-sex, and she was self-conscious about it. After they’d finished, at seven in the morning, she told him, “Now that you’ve tried a Danish woman, you must try a Norwegian woman and a Swedish woman, and then get back to me and tell me who was best.” Deal.

            We met with our fifty-person tour–consisting mostly of Australians–the following afternoon. We scanned the room for chicks, and were disappointed to find only two of them were cute, though neither was my type. The fifty of us walked into town for an included dinner, but Punchline and I left early to freshen up and prepare for the night.

            I’ve learned that when it comes to traveling, once you find a quality party spot, you stick with it. Getting cute and adventurous almost always ends in disappointment. When I went to Ibiza a few years ago with Vince and Jett, while walking the beach, a stunning Spanish girl handed us a flier on “The Biggest Club in the World.” Although we’d partied at awesome clubs the two nights before, we decided to give this place a whirl. The flier was right: The club definitely was the biggest club I’d ever seen, but it was also the emptiest. And we were stranded there because it was too far from anywhere else and no cabs lingered outside because they were outside clubs with actual people in them. When it comes to partying, always go with the sure thing.

            Which is why Punchline and I returned to club Nord. The only problem was that our tour bus was leaving for Norway at 7:45 a.m., which meant I’d be sleeping maybe two hours tops. Punchline was exhausted and went home early, but he still had this to say: “Dude, this has to be one of the best clubs I’ve ever been to–the set-up, the music, the girls, just…amazing.” He was right. After he left, I began making out with a homely-looking girl, maybe a 5 at best. I ditched her when she started playing games. “You may as well just stop talking to me, because all I do is kiss,” she told me mid-make-out, among other shit. It was a lie, of course, but settling for her would be like settling for a plate of oysters at a buffet.

            I ventured elsewhere, eventually spotting an attractive thirty-something blonde with a track-runner body. She was standing alone on the stairs above the dance floor. Without hesitation I approached and used my faithful line, “So why are you standing here trying to look all mysterious?” A few sentences later, she was dragging me onto the dance floor. Her name was Anja, and she worked in some sort of business. Ten minutes later we were making out. While making out with her, the homely-looking girl found me and began poking me. Gross. I can understand why girls feel the need to test guys, but when you’re a 5 in a club with 8s, 9s, and 10s, you hold onto any decent-looking guy willing to take the plunge. I grabbed Anja’s hand and led us away from Homely. Unfortunately, we ended up back on the dance floor, where we spent another thirty minutes before leaving to find a bike-rack cab.

            When we arrived at her house, there were stuffed animals and toys all over the place. Her two kids were at their dad’s, so we had the place to ourselves along with her four dogs. While I’m a fan of dogs, I’m definitely NOT a fan of dog chicks. I can’t stand it when women kiss their dogs and let their dogs slobber all over their face. That’s exactly what Anja did…to all four dogs. She kneeled down and made this “Hoo-joo-boo-joo” noise and let the dogs have at it on her face. After she’d finished, her face was all shiny with saliva. “Whoo! They are excited tonight!” she yelled, and then walked into another room, which I hoped was a bathroom full of sinks. I stepped over the toys, let the dogs jump on me for a bit, and went to her room. I was afraid to kiss Anja the rest of the night. When she tried, I’d give her small pecks and then start kissing her chest to avoid the dried dog slobber. Even if she’d washed it off, it was still in my mind. After some foreplay, we fucked boringly in missionary for ten minutes before she let me switch positions. After finishing, I rolled over and drifted off to sleep. In my dreams that night, Dobermans chased me through fields.

            I awoke to noises of Anja cleaning up her closet. I popped up instantly. “What time is it!?” I asked hysterically.

            “Um, seven forty.”

            “Fuck! I’m late. I gotta go.” I put on my clubbing clothes–jeans and black-striped shirt–in a flurry, kissed her goodbye, and took her business card (Note: I added her on a Facebook a few days later, and she sent me a message asking me if I wanted to take advantage of a business opportunity. I deleted her the next day. Who does that?). If I missed my bus, I’d have to find my own way to Norway (I still hadn’t even packed yet!). I scampered into the early-morning streets and frantically waved at occupied cabs. It took me close to five minutes to find an empty one. I threw myself across the backseat and told him my hotel name. The drive took an eternity. 
            The bus was parked across the street from the hotel, already crammed with passengers. I paid the cabbie, boarded the bus, ignored the irritated looks flung my way, and scanned for Punchline. He always had his shit together. “Dave!” I heard someone yell. It was Punchline.

            “Oh shit! Is my stuff still up there?”

            “Nah, I got it for you.”

            I sat down. “Whew! Thanks, man. I owe you.”

            “Don’t worry about it. So what happened?”

            After telling him my story, I put my head back and drifted off, still dressed in wrinkled club attire. As it turned out, I wasn’t even the last one to board the bus. Some other moron had overslept worse than me, so I wasn’t the main asshole. Things worked out. I was on my way to Norway.

Norway

            Though the most conservative and expensive of the Nordic countries, Norway was by far the most beautiful. Only four percent of the Norwegian land was flat, giving way to the mountainous terrain and world famous Fjords. On the bus ride, I’d gaze out the window for hours at a time and never get bored. The landscape was that stunning.

            Our first stop was Oslo, Norway’s capitol and largest city. Since Sunday was a dud night anywhere in Scandinavia, Punchline and I stayed in and slept. Mondays weren’t much better, but our tour had planned a get-together at a bar in town.

            The reddish bar was in a C-shape, with tables at one end, and a dartboard area at the other. Other than the fifty of us and a handful of dudes, the bar was empty. After a game of King’s Cup, I spotted a lone attractive redhead–the dyed-hair kind–sitting at the end of the bar by herself. Other than the girls on our tour, she was the only girl at the bar. Before I even had a chance to talk to her, a large bald guy who looked like the MMA fighter Fedor approached her. I continued to drink with my tour mates.

            A few drinks later, I was talking with Punchline and a couple girls on the tour, when I turned around and found the redhead standing behind me, trying to get by on her way back from the bathroom. With my back still to her, I turned around and began. “Who are you?” I asked.

            “What?” she asked.

            “Where did you come from?”

            “The bathroom. Where did you come from?”

            “California. I like your hair. Is the technical color maroon or burgundy? I’ve never been able to tell the difference.”

            “What? It’s red,” she affirmed incorrectly. “You’re from California? What are you doing in Oslo?”

            Two things: First, both girls from Copenhagen asked me the same question after finding out I was from California. Scandinavian women have no idea how desirable and attractive they are, which works out perfectly for us travelers. Second, whenever talking to girls, I always try and stealthily bring into light my strengths. I never come out and say it; I find ways of getting them to uncover it. With its surfer culture and Hollywood atmosphere, California is world-renowned as a happening, fun, and beautiful land. So if I didn’t find a way to incorporate this information into the conversation, I was wasting my advantage. Back home, my main advantage is being a teacher. Since teachers are generally considered noble and trustworthy, girls are able find a comfort zone with me much quicker than if I was a businessman or something. Here in Scandinavia, I had both things going for me. 

            She led me outside to the smoking porch to get away from the bald guy, who she claimed she was using for free drinks. Her name was Mari, and she worked at a foster care home (another one). I became suspicious when I saw her phone had a picture of a dude on it. “Who is that?” I asked.

            She looked down at her phone and quickly hid it from my view. “Oh, that’s my friend.”

            “You’re not married are you?”

            “No way. I’m only twenty-seven. But I told the Russian guy that I was married in case he got the wrong idea, so you’re gonna be my husband tonight.”

            “Okay, Wifey.”

            I liked her attitude. We returned to the bar to get drinks when the Russian poked his head in and began talking in Mari’s ear. “Hey! I want you to meet my husband,” she almost yelled.

            The guy clearly sniffed out the lie. Suddenly I feared for my safety as this giant man with sinister wrinkles in his face glared down at me. “Hey,” I muttered. He spoke in her ear briefly and then stuck out his hand. I hesitated a moment, shook it, and he left.

            “How many drinks did that guy buy you, Wifey?”

            “Like three, but whatever, he’s gone.” She stroked her hair. “So, Hubby, are you going to make love to me tonight?”

            “Of course, Honey, I love you.”

            “I love you too.” She got up, gave me a kiss, and went to the bathroom.

            Shortly after she returned, I asked if we could go back to her place for “a beer.” She rejected the idea–something about her fussy roommate. Instead she suggested the following: “Let’s go check out underneath the pier.” There comes a moment in every one-night-stand when you can safely grab a girl by the hand and lead her out without resistance. Often times this window is disguised in the form of “Buy me another drink” or “My friends are talking to some guys” or a pouty face or a swift cock grab. In this case, Mari had made the let’s-fuck signal loud and clear. I smiled, grabbed her hand, and led her outside.

            There was no pier. We walked towards the water to some bench on a hill overlooking the harbor. “I love you, Hubby,” she told me.

            “I love you too, Wifey,” I lied.

            She took off her panties as I undressed and slipped the condom on. She then began uncomfortably riding me on the rickety bench. I couldn’t even get my dick all the way in while she awkwardly bounced. “Let’s try someplace else, Love,” I said.

            She hopped off. “Good idea.”

            We had few options. Down below were boats, and on the hill was a construction zone for what appeared to be a stone fortress, tractors and bulldozers everywhere. We walked in the direction of the tractors, settling for a semi-grassy area between a tractor and bulldozer. She lay on her back while I began muddily fucking her missionary. After five minutes of this I turned her over for doggie. Her naked back was caked in mud. I was able to keep my hard-on, however, and not think of poop, as I grabbed hold of her still white ass and began plowing.

            With my pants down just below the balls, and my pant-covered knees digging sickeningly into the mud, we had to try something else. We stood up, and I bent her over the tractor and fucked her from behind, a prime example of John Deere’s finest. This was by far the best position given the quagmire that surrounded us. But we got bored of it after a while, so we found a grassier area by a tree and I let her get on top. With no tractors to protect us, we were now completely exposed to the main road some hundred feet down, but I doubted anyone would be wandering the Oslo streets at three a.m. on a Monday night.

            Suddenly light was everywhere. I saw Mari’s bouncing boobs with creamy clarity. I looked right and saw a police van a couple hundred feet away blaring a spotlight in our direction. “Fuck! The cops!” I yelled. Mari jumped up and hid behind a tree. Still in the cops’ sight, I pulled up my pants and buckled up. It didn’t matter; the light turned off and the perverted cops drove on.

            Now in the clear, we finished, got dressed, and said our goodbyes/divorces. Just before her muddy ass left, we had the following exchange:

            Her: “I’m so glad I didn’t fuck that Russian guy.”

            Me: “What? You were going to fuck that guy?”

            Her: “Until you came along, maybe.”

            Me: “I thought you were just using him for drinks?”

            Her: “If you must know; I had to get fucked tonight.”

            Great–I beat out a creepy old man to get in the pants of a Scandinavian trashbag who let me fuck her on a tractor. I need a girlfriend.

            As I searched for a cab, my body felt disgusting, and the knee/thigh part of my pants were so brown it looked like I had pads on. Thinking back, that had to be the worst sex of my life. Anyone who actually enjoys sex in public or exhibitionism (or whatever it’s called) is a complete idiot. You end up rolling around in the mud like pigs.

            The next morning we headed north to a small town called Voss, famous for their water. Idiotic celebrities pay extra for “Voss drinking water,” while I was drinking it out of the bathroom faucet. Two simple yet awesome things about Scandinavia was that all the tap water was clean (Anyone who paid for water was an idiot, though sadly I did this twice because I’m stupid; and both times I accidentally bought sparkling water, which is so awful it should be given to poor countries along with those Super Bowl shirts of the team that didn’t win); and second, all the hotels had free Wi-Fi, and since I’d brought my laptop, when I got horny I could take my laptop into the bathroom and rub one out in peace while Punchline chilled unsuspectingly on his bed. 

            The northern Norwegian cities were small, and since we were there Tuesday through Thursday, there was absolutely no nightlife. We came this north for the scenery and activities. One day we went white water rafting through the Stranda River. Another day while traveling through Lillehammer–home of the 1994 Winter Olympics (Tonya Harding)–we bobsledded down an actual run. The bobsled had wheels, however, so our sixty-five mph was only about eighty percent the speed of a real bobsled. Either way, I have a newfound respect for Bobsledders, especially Jamaicans. Those things are fucking scary. The last day we took a cruise through the Fjords, Europe’s version of the Grand Canyon, only painted with color. Unlike the Grand Canyon, the Fjords were surrounded by steep sides–not rocks and crap–carved by massive glaciers during the Ice Age and beyond. Unbelievable.

            We departed early Friday to make our way south. We ended up at a small Norwegian city called Gjovic. It was a Friday, so I was expecting big things. There was a club one block from our hotel that was supposedly the best club in the town. Punchline and I pre-partied in our room to save money. Compared to America, alcohol cost double in Scandinavia, but in Norway it was close to triple. One hotel sold tap beers for fourteen bucks! No wonder I didn’t see any bums in Norway.

            At this point in the trip, Punchline and one of the cute Italian-looking tour girls, Danica, were beginning to get lovey-dovey. They hadn’t hooked up yet (though from the looks of things, Danica wanted to fuck Punchline’s brains out); they held hands all the time and cuddled in the back seat. It was quite cute. Punchline ensured me that Danica wasn’t going to get in the way of him hitting on slutty locals. We’d see about that.

            After several 0-fers, I began talking to a punky-looking lass with a tongue ring and blonde hair that was shaved on one side. Because I find asymmetric hairstyles attractive, I was drawn to her. I knew things were headed in the right direction when I found out she worked at a foster care home. This was getting so scary that I almost slipped and told her about the other girls. Instead I used my California mumbo jumbo, and we ended up on the dance floor, and eventually back at her place for wild sex. She was fun, normal, and conflict-free, so there really is nothing worth noting except that her fat roommate had passed out in the living room and left the same damn trance/techno/house (I can never tell the difference) song playing on repeat at full blast. Closing her bedroom door didn’t do much to muffle the noise. I actually liked that song too, but I grew sick of it after the fifteenth repetition. (I’d tell you which song it was, but I don’t know the names of any House songs, and I don’t know how to write the beat–here, I’ll try: Dee Dee Doo Doo, Dee-Da-Dee-Dee-Dee-Dee-Dee-Dee-Doo-Doo. Hope that helps.)

            Meanwhile, back at the club, Punchline was making out all over the place with Danica. Boredom set in after a while, so during one of Danica’s bathroom breaks, Punchline wandered near the exit and saw one of the guys on our tour outside talking with two scantily clad Norwegian girls next to a pizza joint. Punchline decided to ditch Danica–and guaranteed sex–to join the trio. He ended up getting one of the girl’s Facebook info–giving her more incentive to post whorish pics to impress strangers–in addition to two tasty slices of pizza. Then he went home and crashed. He had this to say the next day: “Eh, I decided pizza was more important than Danica.” On to Sweden. 

Sweden

            The first three nights in Stockholm were far from extraordinary. It didn’t help that we’d arrived just in time for Gay Pride Week (There were rainbow flags at every corner; even buses had them). Saturday we were too fatigued to enjoy the night and ended up in bed by two, a major disappointment for a Saturday night in Scandinavia’s party capitol. Sunday we stayed in and searched for hotel options since our tour was over. Monday was an 0-fer night.

            Our stay in Sweden really began Tuesday. Punchline found a deal on travelocity in which we got double rooms for the price of one. In other words, we each got our own kitchen sized twin-bed room, and they were next door to each other. This was good because now when I brought a girl home, I didn’t have to worry about anything. But it was bad because when I got bored I over-masturbated and wasted way too much time. Another great thing about the hotel was that it was one block from a Mexican restaurant and a ten-minute walk to the bars and clubs. Perfection.

            That night we walked to the club/bar area and found that none of the clubs were open, just a handful of bars. We glimpsed in each bar and didn’t see too much talent. We settled on a squarish outdoor bar that was only open three months out of the year–the other nine months it was too cold to function. After a couple beers, things were looking glum until Punchline began talking to a hottie who’d come to the bar alone. She was  Punchline’s essential type–blonde hair, blue eyes, slightly curvy, giant rack.

            I left them and wandered off on my own to find couples and chicks that had already been snagged by guys. I downed a couple more beers, scanned the bar one last time, and left. Just as I was about to head back to the hotel, I heard a chorus of laughter coming from another bar. I had to give it a shot.

            I found what I was looking for: an attractive 42-year-old Swedish ex-soccer player lingering around a handful of loose friends. I approached the blonde mom and used my default line, “Who are you?” I wasn’t expecting much, but she bought us wine, and after some help from one of her friends who told her to “go for it,” (I’ve learned any time a chick’s friend encourages her to go home with a guy, it means that she hasn’t had sex in over six months) we were walking back to my hotel.

            Everything was going well. I fucked her twice with only a five-minute rest in between sessions. I’d worked hard, so when I finished I wanted nothing more than to pass out in peace. That didn’t happen.

            “I want you to tell me a story,” she begged as I lay facing the opposite direction.

            “What? A story? C’mon, we’ve had a long night; let’s get some rest so we can have sex again in the morning.”

            She persisted. “No! Tell me a story!”

            My eyes were starting to close. “Let’s go to sleep.”

            She stopped for a minute. Then, just as I’d begun sleeping, she started up again. “Come on! Tell me a story!”

            “No. I’m tired. We must sleep.”

            “NO! Tell me a story! Now!”

            I nearly snapped. I was snoozing in peace until this “42-year-old” decided to act like a kindergartner after snack time. It wasn’t in me to release a thunderous fart and point to the door. Instead I was nice.

            “Okay, fine,” I began. “Once there was this guy…and…and he went to sleep.”

            She shook me. “No! No! No! Tell me a real story!”

            “Sorry, sweetie, that’s all I got.” I sensed her give up, and I heard her turn over violently and sigh in annoyance as I passed out. I could understand how things with that third husband went badly.

            A couple hours later, I was awakened to her kissing me and telling me she was leaving. “Bye,” I told her in my daze. Then I turned the other way and slept another seven hours. I’m assuming on her way home she stopped at the movie store and picked up The Princess Bride to fulfill the void left by me.

            Punchline knocked on my door around noon just as I was waking up. I anxiously awaited his story. If he passed up sex for a burrito, I was going to kick him out of Sweden. “Yeah, she wanted it bad, so I gave it to her good,” he told me, then added, “Man, I’ve never seen a girl rub her clit that hard.” Punchline was back. Amazingly, our night went from a total bust, to a wall-to-wall to fuckfest. Never underestimate the passion of a traveler.

            The next night we went to an outdoor club, where (no joke) seven out of every ten girls were gorgeous. Only problem was that the club was all college kids on vacation, and we went 0 for everything.

            By the end of Thursday, we’d already done all the tourist stuff–we walked the bustling shopping streets, saw some monuments and museums, and took a ferry through the Baltic and Lake Malaren. Now all there was to do was eat Mexican food during the day, walk the streets for a bit, buy pre-party booze from the alcohol store (The Swedish government has strict rules on alcohol so that only a certain chain of stores can sell it), and then wait for the night.

            After the college-chick tease from the night before, we were motivated to find a 30-and-up club. Punchline did some research online in hopes of Copenhagen-like success, but he found nothing. On a fluke Facebook conversation with my buddy Jason, he asked one of his Swedish friends, who happened to be online, for a club with an older crowd. “Golden Hits” she told him. And that’s where we went.

            With its red carpeting and karaoke culture, Golden Hits reminded me of an old town Vegas casino. It even had a blackjack table downstairs near the bathrooms. Since it was Thursday, however, the bar was loosely packed with a late-thirties crowd, few of which were cute. We double-fisted beers and hoped for the best.

            Midway through my second beer I began talking to a short forty-year-old blonde with hair extensions and heavy eye make-up. Before I even knew what hit me, she forced me to dance with her. After an hour of grinding to eighties hits with an occasional techno song, I realized that I was homosexual, and that Punchline was nowhere to be found. I assumed he moved on to another bar. Like me, when Punchline gets drunk he wanders.

            Her name was Kate, and she claimed she worked as an escort, which was the biggest load of shit I’d heard all trip. One, she was too old. Two, her and her cigarette-worn body wasn’t hot enough (she was a 6.5 tops). I didn’t ask questions, however, and let her cling to her lies.

            We ended up back in my room where I flopped on my bed while she stood awkwardly. She requested I open my laptop and play the Eminem song “Love The Way You Lie” on repeat so we could dance to it.

            “We can’t dance in here.” I told her as I lay on my back, hands behind my pillow.

            “Yes, we can. Get up.”

            My suitcase and clothes were strewn all over my floor so there was no room for anything except maybe a slow dance. Also, after developing a mild case of musical claustrophobia with the punker chick and her fat roommate, there was no way she was blasting any song on repeat.

            I got up nonetheless to show her how hopeless her aspirations were. We slow-danced pathetically to Eminem. I had to end it, so I told her I had to go to the bathroom. When I walked back in, the song had started over and Kate was dancing with herself, eyes closed, head lolling. I quietly sneaked onto my bed before she had a chance to snag me. “Kate, come lay with me.”

            She slowly opened her eyes and sat down. I pulled her in for a kiss, but before I could escalate things, I had to turn off the song. I got up and closed my laptop with the excuse, “The battery’s almost dead.” Luckily, she didn’t see the charger sitting right next to it.

            I returned to bed to make more fruitless efforts. I laid her down and got on top of her, but she was hopeless. She wouldn’t take any clothes off and actually said, “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen a boy’s privates in a year.” She sat up.

            “What!?! That needs to end.”

            I unbuckled my pants and waited for her to tell me to stop, but she never did. I whipped my lifeless dick out and let it flop sideways. She stared at it depressingly. I grabbed her hand and placed it on my beef stick, but it was like playing with a blow-up doll. I zipped up.

            “Can we turn the music back on?”

            “No. My battery’s dead.”

            She lay back down. We made out some more, but it was going nowhere. Every attempt I made at touching her was thwarted. She wrote down her phone number and as a goodbye said, “I really hope you call me tomorrow.” She left.

            The next day I knocked on Punchline’s door around one. It seemed every morning our wake-up knocks to each other were getting later and later. At this point, we’d been drinking so furiously for three weeks straight that we stopped getting hungover. And our tolerance was so high we were downing our drinks in five sips.

            Punchline said he tried a couple other bars but hadn’t had any luck. Things would have to change that Friday, only they didn’t. We ended up back at Golden Hits for round two. The place had strangely expanded with two additional levels that weren’t accessible the previous night. It was crawling with cougars.
            Before I even had a chance to hit on chicks, I ran into Kate. “I called you,” I lied. 
            “No, you didn’t.”
            “I did, but I think I dialed an extra digit or something because everything started beeping and I thought I’d called aliens. So I hung up.”

            “Huh?”

            I had a decision to make. This was a Friday, so younger (by younger, I mean 30-35), hotter women were out looking for sex with sleazebags like me. If I stayed and talked to Kate, I’d be forfeiting that adventure for a 50-50 chance at sex. If I’d closed the deal the night before, it’d be a no-brainer: I’d say hi to Kate, talk politely for five minutes about how her day went escorting imaginary celebrities, and then I’d move on. But I hadn’t closed the deal, so my caveman instincts felt obligated to take another stab at it.

            While Kate ordered us drinks, Punchline approached me and said, “Dude, ditch that chick. You gotta see upstairs. Fake boobs everywhere.” Giving into temptations, I accepted Kate’s drink and told her I’d see her back on the dance floor in a few. I followed Punchline upstairs.

            I stayed upstairs for a short while, but after striking out with three floozies, I decided to throw in the towel and return to Kate. She had all kinds of excuses, however. Listen to this one: “I can’t go home with you because I need to escort a guy at a boat party tonight.” What a liar. So she paid the twenty-dollar entrance fee here knowing she’d have to leave in an hour? I couldn’t decide whether she was trying to impress me or shun me. In the end, I concluded she’d stepped on a rake when she was little and it smacked her in the head, which caused her to imagine things like the guy in A Beautiful Mind.

            After a few more minutes of mindless banter she had a feel-sorry-for-me look on her face. I took it as a sign and grabbed her hand and led us out of there. When we got outside, she stopped me and gave me two conditions: One, we had to get food. Two, she refused to go to my hotel again–her place only. I accepted.

            We found a Burger King a few blocks down, and she ordered a Whopper. She felt the need to impress me with her eating skills, so I watched in hilarity as she did a full hair whip with every bite. I’m sorry, girls, but there is no sexy way to eat a burger. Those Carl’s Jr. commercials aren’t provocative and make all their models look like sloths.

            I couldn’t watch anymore. After scanning for objects in the store to distract me (At one point I read half the menu to myself), we cabbed it back to her place to find out one of her dogs had taken a shit on her living room carpet. Fuck that. I grabbed a beer from her fridge and waited on her bed while she cleaned up.

            It took a ton of neck kissing, but I finally got her horny enough to where she let me fuck her. Not surprisingly, the whole room began stinking of fish. I breathed through my mouth and finished as fast as I could. Even though a fan was already on at max power, I told her it was too hot and had her open the window to air out the room. I’m used to bad smells, but a Ninja Turtle couldn’t sleep through this. The stench eventually left the room like a defeated poltergeist, and I passed out.

            
            The next morning started off horrifically. Kate wasn’t in the room, which was good, but a smell still lingered. Then I found out why. When I went to take a leak, her toilet had a medium-sized turd in it accompanied by two wipes. I thought of flushing it, but forgetting to flush one’s dumps is unacceptable. She needed to learn (unless she left it on purpose as a sneaky tactic to get me to leave, which would’ve made her cooler). I peed on top of Kate’s hair-whipping burger excrements, didn’t flush, and hurried back to her room to get dressed. I had to get out of there.

            Kate walked back in. “You’re leaving?”

            “Yeah, I need to go to my hotel and pack.”

            “I thought you didn’t leave ‘til Sunday?”

            “Nope,” I lied. “The airline let us take an earlier flight. It leaves tonight.”

            “Oh. Okay.” She handed me a notepad and pen. “Here, write down your Facebook info.”

            I took a frustrating twenty-dollar cab ride back to the hotel and went straight for the shower. Fish. I still smelled fish.

            Punchline and I went out the next night, our final night, but it was an 0-fer night, and the only chick who took an interest in us was a hag with a shaved head. We savored our last few sips of Scandinavian nightlife, and headed back with a long day ahead of us.

            The next thirty hours sucked. After a gruesome blend of no sleep, nine-hour layovers, and shitty movies, we returned to LAX to a life of alarm clocks and deadlines.

            And here I sit, almost a week removed from my travels. My body still feels like shit, I’m tired, and I can’t even remember the last time I ate a carrot. I gaze out my window at the blue August sky of California and feel a rush of nostalgia. Now in the twilight of my twenties, I can still feel the tingles of those special moments–table-dancing in Mykonos, skydiving over Gold Coast, Australia, the long drive in the Florida Keys, the first set of topless breasts I saw at that Spanish beach (and the chubby bunny that came with it), the bike ride through the Munich rain, the smiles of Punchline, ODR, Axe, Vince, Jett, KG, Baba, O-Dog, and all the people with whom I traveled. I can still see it. I can still feel it. In my memories, our ghosts live on.  

Enough was enough. I hadn’t had a solid one-night stand since October, making it one of my biggest dry spells since college. The drought had to end.

KG, Ron, their wives, and myself (the perennial fifth wheel), hit a local club late on a Saturday night. The two couples left around 12:30, but since Ron’s place (where I’d be crashing) was just a seven-dollar cab ride away, I stuck around to do more slithering.

It was a disaster: 0 for 10 became 0 for 20, then 0 for 30. I did manage to make out with a tall Czech woman, but she had dog-poop breath and lacked a deodorant application within the last twelve hours, so I didn’t count that as a success. As it was, I found myself waving down a cab in the hysteria of the club’s aftermath just before two a.m.

Ron lived in one of those obnoxious apartment complexes that make you call in at the front gate just to get into the damn parking structure (as if stalkers and robbers wouldn’t be patient enough to wait to follow someone in), so he gave me his key card just before he left. He told me some instructions also, but I have selective hearing, and I involuntarily ignore anything having to do with electronics, office jobs, or cars.

After the cab dumped my sorry ass off, I fished the key card out of my pocket and searched for the scanner. On the right wall next to the gate was a panel of buttons with speaker holes and some other crap. There were no slots or anything, so I hovered the card over the entire panel. Nothing. I continued to frantically wave the card everywhere like an Asian tourist with a camera, but was getting no results. I heard a car pull up behind me, accompanied by a quick door slam. I turned around.

As many of you know, my hook-up career is blemished with catastrophic disasters: I’ve blown multiple threesomes; I’ve been cockblocked by rabid goalies; chicks have pissed and shat my bed; and I’ve gotten head from a girl who turned out to be a guy. The list is endless. I think I’m due for something good.

My time had come. Walking toward me was an attractive 30-something brunette wearing a miniskirt and heels. Judging by the greasy Del Taco bag swinging gracefully from her left hand, this brown-haired beauty had just come from bars, where she had been hit on by a hefty supply of lushes and meatheads, which had led to bitching among her friends and subsequently sent her straight to the Del Taco drive-thru. Now here she was, fresh from a frustrating night in which every guy had failed her who-is-going-to-fuck-me sweepstakes, and she was walking directly into my domain: Post-two-a.m. Resident Parking Structures.

“I can’t get this thing to work,” I barked at her.

“Here, let me do it.” She took out the same card as mine, hovered it in a spot I had already tried (only slower and more patiently), and the door buzzed open.

“Sweet. Thanks.”

She smiled at me and walked around the corner and into a hallway towards Ron’s place. I followed her.

“So who are you?”

“Who am I? I’m Polly. Who are you?”

“Psh. Not your name. What’s your story? Why are you getting dropped off at this hour, and why aren’t you at a post party?”

I snuck a fart. She looked back at me, still walking. Then she smiled and said, “Went to bars with my girls, but it was getting late, and my friends were complaining.” Shocking.

“Do you have any wine?”

“Yes, I have wine. Why?”

“Because I want a glass.”

“You do, do you?”

“Yep. Have one with me.”

Her phone rang.

Apparently the cab was loaded with her reject friends, who had seen me follow her inside, and then appropriately judged me as outright scum. “Hi,” Polly said into her phone. “No, everything’s fine.” Brief pause. “Yeah, he just wants a glass of wine, and then he’s going home.” She looked back at me as I followed her up the stairs in an increasingly uncreepy manner. The voice on the other line became audibly louder as Polly continued to fend off the phone goalies. “Don’t worry, everything’s fine. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Pause. “Okay, I will.” She hung up.

We were now walking down the third floor hallway, one story above Ron’s place. Polly spoke. “Just one glass, okay? I need to get to bed.”

“Yep, same here.”

“Wait a minute, have you even told me your name?”

“No, but don’t worry, I will. We have a lot to talk about.”

She laughed. “Who the fuck are you? Do you even live here?”

I smiled. “No, I’m staying at my friend’s place on the second floor, but he’s sleeping and I don’t want to wake him. And I need a glass of wine.”

Polly shot me a thoughtful look, and I raised my eyebrows sarcastically back at her. She turned and unlocked her door.

I was welcomed to her pad with a huge gust of cat litter. I watched as two of her three cats weaved between her legs; the other one sat in the corner of the living room and glared at me with fluorescent eyes, reminding me of myself at a nightclub just before my first 0-fer. 

While Polly went to the kitchen counter to fire down her tacos, I went straight to the couch and flopped. Between bites she asked about my night and how I ended up alone at the gate. I diffused her suspicions by telling her the truth: I had gone to the club with my married friends; they wanted to leave early; I wanted to stay.

“What’s your friend’s room number?” she asked.

“I dunno–two something?”

“You’re not some sort of weirdo are you?”

“Depends how you define weirdo.”

Polly stared at me as she worked down her last bite. Then she violently crumpled up her taco wrappers, which for some reason gave me a semi. “I mean, you don’t go lurking around people’s apartment complexes at two in the morning every Saturday night, right?”

“No. First time.” I smiled. “And I’m hoping you aren’t one of those girls that likes white wine.”

“Oh God no.” She turned towards the cabinet and grabbed a fat bottle. Truth is, I know nothing about wine; I only use it to get laid. You could give me a thousand-dollar glass or a two-dollar glass and I couldn’t tell the difference.

But I made fun of her anyway. “That bottle looks cheap. What is it?”

“It’s all I got. So stop whining.” She winked at me.

“Nice pun. Haven’t heard that one before.”

She laughed. “Can you open this for me?”

Oh no. I just realized I hadn’t used one of those corkscrew things in years, maybe decades. If I couldn’t open it, she’d know I was a fraud.

“Sure.”

I clumsily tried to take the cork out using the top because it looked like a bottle opener; Polly gaped at me like I was a lunatic. I lost my composure, became nervous, and fumbled the bottle onto the kitchen tile where it shattered like purple vomit. “You’d better leave,” she told me.

Just kidding. I was clutch this time. I uncorked the bottle like Casanova, and poured the velvety liquid into our glasses with stunning ease. No spill.

We migrated to the couch. She laid down on one end, feet propped diagonally across the coffee table in my direction. I sat on the other end and petted the cat that was sniffing my pants. “One glass and you’re out of here. Got it?” she asserted.

“Yep, that was the agreement.”

I continued petting in silence, waiting for her to initiate things. I had done my share of question-asking; it was her turn. Finally, Polly began. “So what’s your story? Who are you and what do you do?”

Perfect. I gave it a 95% chance that my “high school math teacher” thing would seal the deal, and I was spot on. At first she didn’t believe me. She even made me show her my Teaching Association cards I had in my wallet solely for such purposes. Then the questions started to pour in: Are you a cool teacher? Do you give a lot of homework? Do you give out detentions? What’s the worst thing a student has done? Do your girls hit on you? On and on–they were the same inquiries I always got, so I was a pro at answering them.

As I gave my teacher spiel, I began rubbing her calf–which had made its way to the couch. After I felt I’d done enough talking, I asked her about her job, which I ignored, and then about her cats, which I listened to. After another couple minutes of chatter, I’d had enough of the small talk. I leaned over and went in for the kiss.

She stopped me. “Um no. We’re not hooking up,” she announced. “I don’t even know you.”

I sat back up. I guess I had to get to know her some more. “So do you have any brothers or sisters?” I asked robotically.

She began laughing hysterically. Between her laughs, she again asked, “Who the fuck are you?” Moments later she got up and went to the bathroom.

There was a time when I would have been angry with myself for making such a premature move, but at this point I was too intoxicated to be so calculated. That, and I already knew there was no way she was kicking me out after “one drink.” She wanted it bad tonight; I could sense it.

When she returned to the living room, she set her quarter-filled glass of wine on the kitchen counter and started doing the dishes or something. Then she leaned against the wall and asked me the infamous I’m-going-to-fuck-you-in-T-minus-thirty-minutes question, “Okay, so I barely even know you. Seriously, though, who are you again?”

After answering her redundant question with essentially the same response as before, I realized my glass was empty. I got up and took the glass to the sink, giving her ass a nice smack on the way back to the couch.

“Come sit down with me,” I told her.

“No, I think it’s time you leave now,” she said weakly, not a hint of finality in her voice.

Instinct took over. “NO. Sit down!” I demanded. I shot her a jokingly serious face and pointed to her old seat as if I were commanding a dog.

She appeared stupefied, gazing at me as a young girl might look at her father after getting caught in a petty lie. Then she grabbed her glass from the counter, took a long sip, and walked slowly back to the couch.

She spent the next five minutes “getting to know me”–basically asking me again about teaching, where I lived, where I went to college, brothers and sisters, etc. After I repeated myself for the twentieth time, I made a decision that I was finished talking for the night. From this point on, either we hook up, or I go home. I leaned in for the kiss again. Success.

She tasted like wine and tacos, but I didn’t care. I was monstrously horny; any flesh would do. “You’re not staying over,” she told me between kisses.

“I know,” I said, kissing her neck.

A few minutes later she got up to pee. Again? Usually it was me who did all the urinating. When she returned, I pushed her up against the wall and started making out. I put my hands up her blouse and squeezed her nipples. We were now in a mini hallway area where the rooms forked off. I noticed one room had nothing in it except newspaper all over the floor and a couple litter boxes. Her cats had their own room! “Who’s room is that?” I asked.

“It’s nothing. Come on, let’s go to my room.”

We entered her room only to find another cat sprawled out on her bed like a fourth grader watching cartoons. Polly picked the animal up and dumped it into the living room. I immediately took the cat’s spot on the bed. Polly returned, shut the door, and looked at me. “You’re staying over tonight.”

Whiskey dicked but maintaining good wood, we fucked gloriously for nearly thirty minutes. She even had a moderate bush. Though I’m usually not a fan of such laziness in the form of hair, a nicely groomed forest is delightful to look at once in a while. It makes me think of rookie year of my masturbating career when I spanked it to Penthouse Letters and old Playboy mags of Pamela Anderson and Jenny McCarthy–both with muffy mid-nineties beavers.

I awoke the next morning a little past nine. After answering some more of Polly’s mundane questions, she made the absurd claim that I was her first one-night stand ever. I laughed at her and called her a liar, but she held her ground, stating she’d always been a one-guy kind of girl. Before leaving, she told me that I had to come over and fuck her at least one more time, so she could remove the “one-night stand” label from last night. Without asking how many two-night stands she’d had, I told her she had a deal and left.

I usually don’t write actual success stories like this, but after my Salsa Debacle story, I got a lot of heat from my friends. “I’m sick of reading about fucking handjobs!” “Get it together, man!” “We need more fucking!” they told me–all valid points. But in light of my one-in-a-million gift from the hook-up Gods, I’d like to think things are starting to turn around. Could this be the beginning of an epic run of sane hottie after sane hottie? I sure hope so. I have a vacation to Croatia and Russia in about a month, and it would nice to ride this momentum into the European bedrooms. In the meantime, the next time I strike out at bars, you’ll know where to find me: at a parking structure near you. Picture me lurking…

Ever since I posted my Guide to Online Dating, I’ve been getting a consistent number of emails from guys asking for profile advice. While I value being seen as a source of help and enlightenment, all of these guys seem to share the same deficiency: Cluelessness. Some of these hopeless cases seemed to know what they were doing, with maybe a couple instances of idiocy on their profile. Most of the profiles presented to me, however, were downright awful. It got to the point where I found myself cutting and pasting the same advice to all the different guys. I’ll still respond to new emails, but in order to avoid redundancy, I decided to write this blog to address some of the problems I’m seeing. I’ll even include actual profile excerpts from three of the guys, who I’ll refer to as Jose, Garrett, and Wayne.

Please note: All of the “sample profiles” I recommend towards the end are not profiles I’ve used. They’re cut and pasted–with a few revisions–from guys who I felt had effective profiles (By the way, looking through guys’ profiles made me feel incredibly homosexual, but I did it for the people.). I did not include my actual profile, only to protect my identity. Also, Jose was kind enough to let me use his pictures. Though I have placed a black stripe over his eyes to keep things professional.

Without further ado, here is the best of the worst of my emailers…

Jose (his profile was essentially the same as the following two guys, so I’ll only post his pics. There was one additional picture, but it was a newspaper clipping with his name everywhere of him winning some bike race, so I left it off.)

Garrett

Who am I?

I am self-employed, operating a manufacturing facility in South Asheville (Arden NC). I like Harleys but am not anal about them.

Whenever I grab my long shirt-sleeves (to put on a jacket) I’m reminded of my mother showing me how.

My stock broker’s the etrade baby.

I get excited when Google changes their Logo.

I clench my butt cheeks before hitting unavoidable potholes on the bike.

I get emotional during Publix commercials.

I like buying event tickets for the elderly couple behind me in line.

I can spell, so writing whole words is no problem.

I’m never a liar or cheat and insist we both play fair (unconditionally).

I’m easily impressed, but more interested in your personality than sporting a trophy girlfriend.

On weekends, I like playing outdoors at the lake or beach, riding the bike, or water skiing (any combination works).

I have a handsome Rottie/Bullmastiff named Bosco who’s a perfect judge of character. If he likes you, I probably will too.

I’m turned on by petite women 32 to 44 with common life experiences. I’m not into fakes, drama, head-games, or wasting time (so be real). Unlike Bosco, I have a soft bite.

BTW- I am 5′ 9 1/2″ and weigh 170lb with no kids. Photos are current.

What I’m doing with my life

Having good times while growing a business. I am goal-orientated, time-conscionable and immersed in my work but always find time for important things like invaluable time shared with family and friends.

I’m really good at

Snoring, singing in the shower, making funny faces, math, and not looking back!

Oh! I’m a Master Cuddler…

The first things people usually notice about me

I’m alpha-male and have all my teeth.

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food

Book-the Holy Bible
Movie-the Rock
TV show-Pinks All Out (also Survivor-but rarely admit to reality shows…)
Music-Rock, Hard Rock, Blues and more…
Food-anything off the grill!

The six things I could never do without

morning coffee, Vance & Hines, popcorn, dental floss (to get popcorn out of teeth) Pandora radio, and God

I spend a lot of time thinking about

…man stuff!

On a typical Friday night I am

…doing practically anything (sometimes, nothing…).

The most private thing I’m willing to admit

Filling the coffee maker makes me want to pee.

I’m looking for

• Girls who like guys
• Ages 32-44
• Near me
• Who are single
• For new friends

You should message me if

You’re ambitious, and spontaneous.

Wayne

About Me

My name’s Wayne and I’m a fun, laid-back person. I like fast vehicles. Of the two in my pics, I own one. :) I’m new to Austin. My subject line refers to the time I was choosing between an internship in Italy and one in Austin. :)

I travel. I bike. I run. I play volleyball. I seek out adventure. Moms love me and children want to be me. Basically, I’m awesome. :-)

The most fun I ever had was when on a quiet afternoon in an eatery, the waiter brought me food and then said “Sir, do not eat the fish”. That’s a story for later :).

—
Wayne
“Life is a succession of moments. To live each one is to succeed.”

First Date

would take you on a romantic date to burger king. You can order all the fries and shakes you want. You want a large soda? No problem. A toy with your meal? Girl, you don’t even have to ask. Haha :)

But more likely, we’ll be at a live music show but I’ll be whistling to Top Gun in my head.

Note: he also provided a link to his profile in which he had four pictures displayed–one pic was of him standing microscopically in front of an airplane. Another was of him standing boringly on the beach with a Battleship off in the distance. Then there’s a picture of just his car–he wasn’t even visible. And lastly a picture of two undistinguishable men doing a tandem skydive.

My response(s) to these poor guys…

Jose, Garrett, and Wayne-
 
That was one of the worst profiles I’ve ever even heard of. Holy crap.

Jose- The pictures need some work. I would only post the last one. Yes, one picture is OK. You’re too serious and unsmiley in the mirror bicycle picture. The one with you standing up high with your friends crowded around makes you look like a 13-year-old. The newspaper pic comes off as desperate, as if  you’re trying to show off (That belongs on your wall, not a dating profile.) The picture of you standing with your bike with the hill behind you makes you look fat. The picture with your parents belongs on your work desk. Putting it on a dating site makes you look like a mama’s boy geek. Only the last picture of you smiling at the marathon I like. You look buff, confident, and cheery–attractive to girls. Only use that picture. It will be enough.

Garrett- Please don’t take offense, but what girl in her right mind would want a guy who SNORES, is “immersed in work,” is a self-proclaimed alpha male (which means you’re probably are a total weenie), is a self-proclaimed cuddler (which means you’re probably a total weenie), and who mentions urination during breakfast time as some sort of joke. I also don’t recommend mentioning God or the Holy Bible unless you’re looking for a religious girl, in which case you need to find a Christian dating website–not POF or OkCupid.

Wayne- Is this supposed to be funny?: “The most fun I ever had was when on a quiet afternoon in an eatery, the waiter brought me food and then said “Sir, do not eat the fish”. That’s a story for later :)” Dude, that is without a doubt the shittiest attempt at humor in the history of literate man. Also, delete all your battleship/airplane/car pictures. Here’s what girls will make of you: This guy is a wannabe Nam veteran, materialistic, boring, and untrustworthy (that’s probably not even him in the skydiving pic). Make sure you only post your FIVE best pictures (if you don’t have five, then post one or two). If you’re not sure which ones are your best, ask a trusted chick’s opinion. Make sure you put at least one picture of you with a group of your buddies to show that you’re socially accepted, and so girls won’t think you’re some loner creep. Also, the Burger King thing was just stupid.

But this is just the beginning of all your disasters. Here is what you three need to do:
 
1) Delete everything you ever typed.

When girls see a guy who’s trying too hard, they immediately label him as desperate. You do not need to sell yourself. Also, all your jokes fail miserably. I’ve tried the humorous (the good kind) profile approach; it doesn’t work. Trust me. Keep it simple. The less you write, the better.
 
You don’t need to fill everything out, so leave all the irrelevant stuff blank–favorite tv shows, movies, books etc. Who cares! Girls don’t give a shit about that, so only put that if you plan on being funny about it (dry humor preferably, and if you’re not sure about the joke, that means it sucks. Delete it).
 
 
Jose and Garrett- If you’re passionate about riding bikes then you need to write it in a way that is sensual. Don’t just say, “I love riding my Harley. It is my passion.” Shit like this might impress a special ed fourth grader, but real life women will immediately hit the back button.
 
Check out what this guy wrote: “Few things in life compare to riding my bike through the mountains, feeling the curves of the road with my woman on my back. I consider myself an enthusiast who enjoys the simple things in life, but is always up for random adventures. I know who I am and what I want and am looking for the same in a woman.”

Now, compare this guy’s awesomeness to your feeble gayness. He doesn’t just say things; he paints a powerful picture using cool words like “mountains,” “curves,” “enthusiast,” and “adventures.” Women will go for this dude any day over you two, because he’s, well, a man. 

 
Since most guys feel the need to write about themselves, I’ll give you a couple other ways you can do this and get away with it… 
 
I am outgoing, love the simple things in life, grounded, genuine and try to always make the best out of every situation.

It would be nice to meet someone who is fun, easy-going, has a wicked sense of humor and loves random adventuring.

I am very open-minded, and I don’t judge people based on how they look. Besides, different is interesting.

I know who I am, and I know what I want, so I’m hoping to find people like me who understand themselves and strive for their dreams.
 
 
Another good one. It’s short and to the point. Even though you wrote about yourself, it doesn’t come off as trying to sell yourself, so it would be effective. Here is another:
 
I’ve been on here for only a few months and keep getting the same questions from girls. So I’ll answer them here to save us some time: YES, I have nice shoes, straight teeth, and my parents are still together. If you’d like to know more just ask. But basically, I am an awesome and fun guy looking for the same in a girl. I’m not crazy about one-night stands. I’m also not looking to jump into anything serious right away, but I would definitely consider it with the right girl. Let’s get a drink and see if we click!

If you wanna lose the humor and be a little less risky, then go with:
 
I am an awesome and fun guy looking for the same in a girl. I’m not crazy about one-night stands. I’m also not looking to jump into anything serious right away, but I would definitely consider it with the right girl. Let’s get a drink and see if we click!

Again, shorter is better. These are just some ideas for you. Feel free to use them. 

Sorry for being so harsh, but your profiles were disturbingly bad. I hope my advice was helpful.
 
-Dave…

After sifting through guys’ profiles, I now see why so girls are so frustrated with men. Nine out of ten guys had shitty profiles with suspect pictures. If you know what you’re doing, you should have a distinct advantage over all these idiots. You can even use them in your favor. For example, lately I haven’t even been reading profiles; I’ve been using this cut-and-pasted message and getting a significant response…

Oh yeah, one last thing: I recently read some online dating statistics and learned that the subject line “How’s it going?” gets the most response. Get on it, and don’t wind up like Jose, Garrett, or Wayne…

I remember when I saw my own cum for the first time. I was in middle school and ignorant, especially since I’d never seen it before. Before Penthouse Letters, I began masturbating in the fifth grade to imaginary images of looking up a girl’s skirt. Whomever I had a crush on at the time would wind up as my jerk-victim. When I first started to cum in seventh grade, I thought something was wrong with my dick, and I should have been aiming my jizz in a sink or container since everything that ever came out of my penis had always gone into a toilet. I quickly discovered appropriate cum dispensers–tissues or printer paper–once I realized masturbation was there to stay, and when I realized how good the feeling of these newfound wet orgasms felt.

I remember other momentous sexual moments. I thought it was so cool feeling those little sacs of fat when I got my hands on a real set of boobs. I squeezed and squeezed until they became red. I remember the girl lying on her back, looking at me curiously, and smiling.

My first kiss was in the seventh grade while playing in a game of truth or dare. I was dared to kiss this cute eighth-grade chick–a girl who would soon enter my up-the-skirt masturbating mind. I hesitated and licked my lips before planting the kiss. Afterwards, she made a face and proclaimed to all twelve participants, “There was like, spit in there.”

When I fingered a pussy for the first time, I smelled my fingers for over two hours thinking I was “the man,” despite the fact that in retrospect, that particular pussy was probably in the bottom 4% of all pussy fragrances.

I remember getting my first blowjob, blissfully sitting on a couch thinking to myself, “Damn…oh fuck…whoa!”

I first had sex in the passenger seat of my car, the two of us awkwardly trying to find a comfortable position. I couldn’t develop any rhythm or ascent and remember thinking to myself, “This is sex? What a waste.”

The first time I had anal sex happened on a Friday night.

Etienne had the big table reserved at Sutra, and about ten of us headed out to mooch off his hook-ups. We were poised for an adventure, and there were even a few celebrities present: Matt Leinart, Dennis Rodman, and a chick named “Alex” from the MTV reality show Laguna Beach.

There was bottle service at the table, but I refused and bought my own beer. Drinking mixed drinks would often cause me to lose control of my fadedness, often resulting in an unfortunate behemoth hook-up or even worse, loss of memory. I am at least able to maintain control along with my memory when I drink beer. I walked back to the bar to buy another cold one.

When I returned to the table, I noticed a blonde gothic-looking chick talking with my buddy E.J. She wasn’t hot, but her black eye-makeup and lipstick sparked my curiosity. I kept my eye on her. E.J. was at the club with his girlfriend; when he saw me looking at goth chick, he left her at the post and went to the bathroom. “She’s all yours, bro,” he said as he strolled past. I walked up to her immediately.

“I like your eye shadow.”

She looked at me for two seconds, got within six inches of my face, and began to speak as if she’d just downed a six-pack of Red Bull. “What’s your favorite sexual position?”

“Uh, doggie-style.”

“Mine’s anal.”
I smiled and chuckled for a moment. “Oh, we are definitely partying tonight.”

What in the world? I had said FIVE words, and this chick just implied to me that she wanted to get ass-fucked. We talked some more about sex. In fact, we embarked on an in-depth discussion on why anal sex is so advantageous and underrated. I had never fired my dick into a butt-hole before, but I lied and told her, “I used to date this girl who was all about it. She loved it.” She listened attentively, just bathing in my artificial juicy experience.

I continued to smile and talk about how cool I thought her make-up and black clothes were. After a half hour of feeding her this shit, we took off.

Maybe someone had slipped something in my beer, but what happened in the next twenty minutes remains a mystery to this day. The next thing I remember, we were standing next to a fire hydrant near a liquor store two miles down the road. I had no car. She had no car. There are a few possible scenarios of how we mysteriously arrived at that location:

1)  We took a cab (But I would have remembered that and why wasn’t the cab next to the fire hydrant with us?).

2)  We had taken a pitstop for water on our 18-mile walk home (No).

3)  A guy with a rickshaw from India was visiting California and was looking to make a few extra bucks. In our drunken haze, we thought it would be adventurous.

Whatever had happened, at least we were both safe. In that moment of re-awakening, my roommate KG called my cell phone and asked me, “What the fuck happened to you?” My reply sounded something like this:

“Uh…I’m uh…dude, I’m at the store. I’m faded, it’s a liquor store, we’re standing next to a fire hydrant down the street.”

After several more questions from him, he figured out where we were and drove by with his girlfriend to pick us up.

KG and his girl were both laughing at us. “How the fuck did you end up here?” they asked. Tracy (goth girl) and I looked at each other, laughed, and could not come up with an answer. “We wanted more beer,” I volunteered.

Tracy began to ask KG’s girlfriend Sally what kind of sexual positions she liked. Sally had never tried anal and wasn’t too open to talk about it. Lacking tact, Tracy kept pushing the issue, eventually ending it with “I think every girl should try anal at least once. There is sooo much more sensation down there. Oh my gawd!” Sally remained silent while I quietly laughed: it was hilarious, and I agreed with Tracy. I was going home with a winner. Even better, she wanted my dick up her ass.

Prior to this night, I’d had two opportunities at anal sex. Both opportunities had ended in disappointment. Either I just couldn’t get my dick in there, or the lube was inadequate. Or both. In fact, both girls halted my attempt with a sentence beginning with the three words “Actually, I don’t..” It just wasn’t meant to be. But tonight, things were different. I hoped.

When we arrived home, Tracy and I sprinted upstairs, slammed the door, ripped each other’s clothes off, and she started sucking my dick. Blowjobs were old news. I wanted butt-hole.

She asked if I had lube. In my bathroom, I scrounged through the cabinets in a horny frenzy. I had nothing. Although I had seen K-Y jelly at the supermarket here and there, I never had the balls to buy it for nights like this because I was secretly worried about what the store clerk would think of me. My lameness was about to cost me butt sex. Luckily, my other roommate had some after-shave gel. It was the best I could do.

I didn’t want Tracy to see my failed attempt at finding an adequate lube. When she tried to get a look at the borderline lubricant I had brought back, I turned her around quickly, turned off the lights, bent her over, put the condom on, and squeezed the after-shave gel all over her ass and my dick, just the way pornstars did it. At least I had fooled her. Now I just had to get my dick in there.

My dick went in easier than I thought. Her asshole muscles were weak, and a minute later she was screaming (in pleasure I hoped). The after-shave gel had worked. I was officially a member of the Ass-fuck Club.

About seven minutes into the plowing, she asked if I wanted to take a shower with her. No girl had ever asked me to take a shower with her mid-fuck, but I said okay anyway. I was ass-fucking her missionary at the time, and when I pulled out, I heard a slow rumbling farting noise. It wasn’t loud or ominous. It was kind of like hearing a motorcycle four blocks away slowly coming to a stop. I figured it was just my dick coming out of the now vacuous poop-chute that had caused it. But the smell. Oh the smell. It didn’t smell like a fart. It smelled like real-life poop. I gave her the benefit of the doubt, however, and we got up headed to the bathroom.

She got in first and turned on the shower immediately. When I got in, the water on the shower floor was a shade of light brown. Light brown! She tried to divert my attention by grabbing my dick, and almost succeeded, but I know what I saw. I squirted some shampoo on both our heads to take my mind off that color.

The shower water returned to normal; we finished up and dried off. She blew me in the shower to get me excited again. For some reason, I was starting to think she had ulterior motives or at least “a plan,” but she distracted me. When we got back into my room, she demanded, “Fuck my ass, NOW.” I obeyed. We finished up and passed out.

The next morning, we both felt triumphant. She had gotten a much-needed anal fuck (She said it had been a while and that she “needed that”), and I became a member of the ass-fuck club.

When she went to the bathroom, I got on my computer. As I was clicking from the fantasy sports page, to MySpace, to email, I briefly glanced at my bed. Almost exactly in the middle was a dark shade about the diameter of a softball. Dreading what I’d find, I moved in to get a closer look. It was poop. Tracy’s poop. It wasn’t a log, just a half-dried puddle with some definite texture. That motorcycle fart had been much more substantial than I had originally thought. Tracy had left a patty in my bed, and we had slept in it.

I checked my body: no brown marks. But I didn’t trust my eyes. All her “moves” with the shower, sudden dick grabs, and sudden blowjobs, instantly hit me. What a mess.

When she came out of the bathroom, I told her we had “better get moving.” I drove her back to her car and could not get the brown softball image out of my mind. I contemplated telling her about the present she’d left on my bed, but refrained in the end because talking about it would have just made me feel worse. This incident was something I needed to keep bottled up. She tried to ask me about being a teacher and other small talk, but I just remained passive and sped down the highway for eighteen miles. When I dropped her off, I told her I’d call her. “Okay, yeah call me. Next time I’ll prepare myself for you,” she replied. I didn’t call her. I think she knew about the shit stains all along. She’d prepare herself? I assumed she was talking about an enema or something to wash the shit out. Yuck. Porn stars have it rough.

When I got back home, I felt like a guilt-burdened murderer returning to his mutilated victim. The patty was waiting for me. In disgust, I ferociously ripped my sheets off my bed. EVERYTHING. I took a shower, tossed the sheets in my car, drove down the street, and then threw the sheets in the neighborhood dumpster. I considered tossing out the mattress but didn’t find any residue, so I just sprayed some 409 in the softball vicinity and gave it a second chance.

Yes, I am in the Ass-fuck Club, but I have my scars. I can still smell the motorcycle “fart,” and I can still picture the aftermath of my bed. Brown is a horrible color.

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It all started when the light turned green. At first I thought it was a Hindi movie soundtrack; it was loud, trumpety, and whiny. Maria fast-forwarded to track three, “her song,” and adjusted the volume to effectively make it the loudest Salsa song ever played on a car radio. Maria rolled down the windows, whiplashed one of her arms through the innocent public air, sang along obnoxiously, and began thrashing her knees like a Martian on meth. I had a sudden flashback of Rodman. She’d had one too many, so since I’d only consumed three drinks in a two-hour span, I drove her white Camaro to the “after-party” at Punchline’s place.

It was all about timing with Maria, a 40-year-old divorcee from Columbia. While dancing at the club earlier, a pathetic string of 22 and 23-year-olds had hit on her. Most cougars don’t go for anyone under 25–guys that young don’t know how to do or say anything right. Since I’m a master with such women, and meet their age requirement, I dropped in on her at just the right time, which resulted in a couple drinks, shitty dancing, a make-out session, and a fight to break away from her clingy friend (which we temporarily won). And now we were driving raucously down Balboa Boulevard at two in the morning, noisier than a Mexican space shuttle launch.

Punchline conveniently had a guest bedroom with a king sized bed. After grabbing beers from his fridge, Maria and I retreated to the room.

We were still undressing when her phone began ringing. “Just ignore it,” I told her, biting on her lip.

“I can’t. My friends are worried about me.” She sat up and fished her phone from her purse. She didn’t even say hello. Her Columbian friend was barking on the other line, chewing out Maria in dangerously rapid Spanish.

Maria laughed. But it wasn’t a good laugh; it was a guilty I’m-acting-naughty laugh that always resulted in closed legs and suppressed passion. By the time she had finished her Latina banter, my boner had softened like a melted Snickers bar, and Maria slammed her head into her pillow, acquiescing to her friend’s desires.

Though soft, I was still devastatingly horny. I relaxed for a couple minutes to allow time for the somber halo of cockblockage to dissolve. I asked Maria about her living arrangements and plans for the upcoming week. When I decided I’d done enough nice-guy work, I made my move again. My efforts beyond kissing were thwarted with hand swipes and that same damn laugh again. It was over. I rolled over and crashed.

I awoke the next morning to noises of thunderous urination. At first I assumed it was Punchline, but I didn’t recall his trickle ever being that commanding. My friend McBride has a theory that the more powerful someone’s toilet urination sounds, the larger their pee-hole is, hence a bigger dick. He even admitted to peeing on toilet walls to avoid pee-hole judgments. (But that’s OK–sometimes I do that too.). If this theory were true for vaginas, then Maria’s vagina was the size of a baseball mitt.

She returned to the room fully-clothed and lay down. We talked for a bit, and I learned about her life back in Columbia and transition to the states. Fascinating. Caressing followed. I finally got her tits out, but she was rather shy with her cuddling. American cougars usually let their desires take control of them. Still unfamiliar with South American women, I decided to take the reins for her. I grabbed her hand and placed it on my cock over my boxers. It remained there for another ten minutes, with no escalation except gentle rubbing. I would have tried to seduce her by licking her neck, rubbing her inner thigh, and gently kissing her mouth, but my morning breath was probably kicking like Miyagi. Now that I was 100% sober, I could assess Maria’s looks, and yes, she was worth a follow up. I’d have to capitalize another time. Before throwing in the towel, I decided to test the waters. Just as I was about to whip out my cock to see where it would lead, her phone rang. It was the same friend, calling at the worst possible time for the second day in a row.

Although I took four years of Spanish in high school, I can only understand about 15% of the stuff coming out of a fluent Spanish-speaker’s mouth. Maria’s talking was so swift, however, that with her it was at 3%. The only word I understood was grande, which she said twice.

“What did you talk about?” I asked.

She laughed, a real laugh this time. “She was just making sure I was okay.” She paused, and then, “I told her you have a big dick.”

I perked up. “You did? You haven’t even seen it yet.” I smiled at her. “But thank you.” Grande!

“Yes, it’s big. I can tell.”

Coming from a 40-year-old, who had probably seen a minimum of 10-15 schlongs in her lifetime, I felt honored–especially after the debacle with the titty-fuck girl from a couple years back who told me my wiener was small. Either way, I would like to take this opportunity to give myself the award for Penis of the Week.

After texting back and forth all next week, we made plans to hang out the following Saturday. I had no intentions of taking her out. Ideally the plan would be: She comes over; we semi-cuddle on the couch and discuss each other’s aspirations with the pleasant waterfall of television in the distant background; we drink our way to a non-whiskey-dicked haze of reality, make out, and go to my room for wild drunk sex. Then I text her three weeks later, and we do it again.

Everything looked promising from the start. Over the phone she even asked if it was cool if she crashed, but then burst my cum bubbles when she announced, “It’s my time of the month. Is that okay?”

Instinctively, I answered, “Yeah, of course. Just come have a drink with me.”

Delighted with my response, she ended the call and said she’d be over around nine. I on the other hand, saw my night suddenly mutate into the likes of a middle school dance. But then I remembered her affinity for my horse cock, and I had visions of her ravenously slobbering all over it.

Things didn’t begin as planned. One, I forgot to restock the fridge with beer, and the only remaining options were three Coronas and four Coors Lights. Two, I had no limes for the Coronas, which resulted in heavy duty complaining. Maria claimed, “Corona without the lime is like a burrito without the beans,” which was the stupidest thing I’d heard since my pal Joe wrote jokes on ebay and tried to sell the punch line for 99 cents. 

As it was, I cracked open my Coors Light while Maria whined after each lime-less sip of Corona she took.

We were still in the kitchen and not even done with our first beer when the shit hit the fan. Maria had asked me a question about teaching, and in the middle of my ignored response, she blurted, “Oh! Do you know how to salsa?”

“Uh. I have some in the fridge, just a sec.”

“No! Dancing!”

“Oh. No, I haven’t taken lessons yet.”

Maria closed her eyes and made a ballerina move before speaking again. “I will teach you.” She set her beer down. “Take my hand.”

While I understand the importance of being “adventurous” and “energetic” to boost my attraction level, salsa dancing is 18,954^th on my list of life passions. I’ve been to some fine Salsa bars while traveling through Spain, but not once did I enter that war zone they call a dance floor. Whipping hair, erratic spinning, and “rhythm,” isn’t my idea of fun, unless it’s during sex. I’d much rather slow dance to Sinatra and make fun each other with sensual ear whispering than twirl around willy nilly like overgrown children whiffing at the piñata.

I took Maria’s hand, and she pulled me in close. “Okay, now watch my feet and follow my lead,” she told me. I find it laughable when people “learn to dance.” If it doesn’t come natural, there is no hope. How can dancing be fun when all the moves are manufactured because someone told you what to do? I hated the Macarena when I was little, and I steer clear of anyone who participates in the Garth Brooks’ “I got friends in lonely places” cult dance. Way to go: you learned how to have fake fun and look like a robot.

With one hand around her waist and the other holding her hand, I watched Maria’s shoes and began to make movements around the music-less kitchen. It was awful. Her feet went wide, mine came together. She moved left, I stepped forward. She dipped low, I stood there like a building.

She inevitably snapped at me. “No! You have to follow me!”

“Oh. Okay.”

“[Blah blah blah]”

“Oh. Okay.” Still looking at my feet.

She finally ended it and returned to the kitchen counter where she pounded the rest of her beer. After we cracked open a new beer, Maria came up with another brilliant idea: “I have to show you some real salsa! Where’s your computer?”

“Upstairs,” I told her, defeated.

My computer was already on, but I made sure to sit down in the computer chair first. Had she plopped down before me, we would have been watching videos for years. I pulled up YouTube, and she searched some salsa-ish key words. She didn’t like the first video, but when I clicked on the next link, she began gushing like a drunken kindergartner, pointing at the screen and yelling as if I couldn’t see it. “Yes, this is the one! Watch how they move!” she shrieked.

I watched as two Columbian dancers, a black dude and a hot senorita, twisted their bodies in perilous contortions. I artificially bobbed my head to try and believe myself into enjoying it. Then I got ahold of things and realized I was homosexual.

Ten videos later, Maria forced me to dance with her, but ended it before the clip even finished because I couldn’t hang. Now past midnight, we were on our third beer, and since I hadn’t eaten anything in a few hours, I was feeling a healthy buzz. Maria had cooled off like a four-year-old after hours at the jungle gym, and I was building up a legitimate chubby bunny in my pants. It was time to get down to business.

Maria had to borrow one of my shirts for bedtime, so I gave her a blue MXPX punk rock shirt I hadn’t worn since ’02. She went to the bathroom to freshen up and returned wearing nothing but the shirt and a pair of ugly beige panties.

We got naked almost immediately, or at least I did. She kept her panties on to shield the kool aid factor. After making out and sucking on her tits, it was my turn. She started kissing down my body, starting at my chest and ending up in my crotch area–all the classic signs of an impending blowjob. But when she got to my dick, she sat up and began giving me a fucking handjob! “Es big,” she whispered, stroking poorly.

Yeah, so start gobbling! I remained patient for a while, trying to will her mouth to my manhood, but it wasn’t happening. Screw this. I tried to come up with the best way to put it. “Do you want to taste me?”

“I only do that to boyfriends,” she said unacceptably.

“Oh.” I was a goner.

A minute later, I pathetically jerked off all over myself while she watched.

After brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed, I purposely decided not to wear my mouth guard. The dentist recommended I wear it because I grind my teeth at night–probably out of sexual frustration–but ever since I got it, I apparently snore like a fat guy when I don’t have it in because my teeth slightly separate to make up for the lost sliver of material, ultimately opening my mouth and causing a hurricane of noise to escape. Sorry, Maria.

I have distinct memories of getting shoved throughout the night. I don’t know why.

Epilogue 

It’s hard to admit, especially coming from a guy who isn’t yet locked down by a girlfriend or wife, but the luster of “new pussy” is no longer what it used to be. Which isn’t necessarily a good thing. In the weeks and months following the Maria handjob incident, I started getting back in contact with some old faithful fuck buddies. They were all solid 7s and 8s, and at least with them I knew there would be no sex act involving hands.

In the past I’d fuck girls once or twice, decide I was sick of them, and delete their number. Things have changed since those days. I currently have four different girls I’m sleeping with, though only two of them I see on a consistent basis (once every other week–they switch off); the other two (maybe once a month) are more about timing–either we’re both drunk or it’s Saturday night and we both happen to have no plans.

With sex now available when I want it, I no longer have the same desire to get laid every time I go out. The only problem with this is that lately I’ve been lazy about hitting on chicks. I’ll go to a bar or club, hit on girls, get rejected, and then think, “Fuck it, I’ll just have Jess come over.” I’ll hang out with friends the rest of the night and forget about women (until I’m super drunk in which case I’ll start hitting on wild boars). As a result of this who-cares attitude, I’m currently in one of the biggest one-night-stand droughts in recent memory. I think the last time I had a real down-and-dirty one-night-stand was around Halloween. I can’t even remember the last time I got a rimjob. (Just kidding, of course I can.)

So I ask myself: Am I happier this way? Does having a given girl I can hang with at least once a week beat having that time to myself? Is their company worth it? Is the sex so great it beats masturbating? When I explore the root of these questions, the truth is I’m indifferent. As mentioned before, spending intimate time with girls is giving me some valuable long-term experience, but at the same time my life isn’t as unpredictable as it once was. Before, not having a fall-back girl instilled in me a sense of urgency to make something happen when I hit the night scene. Now with that safety net always there to catch me when I prematurely get sick of hitting on chicks, I meet less women, and of course, it makes for shittier (and fewer) stories and causes me to write about serious stuff, like the last four paragraphs. I guess it boils down to one thing: Bringing normal girls into my life has helped me grow as a man. But I must be honest: I miss those Maria nights. I miss the psychos.

I have had my triumphs in the past with hot women, but out of all the stories I have written, it is this mini story I consider perhaps my greatest achievement.

Axe, Jason, and I met up with three girls at the Hilton, Las Vegas, just off the strip and not our choice of hotel. We had hooked up with them the previous night at Casino Royale while playing craps. They were cute then, but abominable the next day. Considering we were in the wake of an eight-hour booze binge, we expected the gargantuan drop-off in their appearance. Having eaten a sloppy chilidog at six-thirty in the morning for a “late night snack,” I had the farts. Real bad. Not the quick ones. The slow, lingering ones. 

On the way to their hotel room, I laid a fart in the hallway: the foreshock.

Once in the room, it was conceivable to hold in my farts out of respect for oxygen. Due to the disappointment in the quality of these three girls, I decided not to hold in any follow-up farts. I unleashed…in their room…with no regard for human life.

Results of the first fart:

Jason: “Oh come on!”

Axe: [Laughing]

Girl 1: “Oh my God!” [Runs to bathroom]

Girl 2: “…and then there were these guys trying to–WHAT THE FUCK!? OH MY GOD!!! WHAT IS THAT?!” [Runs to bathroom]

Girl 3: [Runs to bathroom]

Me: [Laughing uncontrollably]

The girls stayed in the bathroom for three minutes, finally venturing out cautiously. The complaining continued. From everyone.

Two minutes later, I had to fart again. This time I actually considered other people’s feelings, ultimately deciding to unleash anyway.

Results of the second fart: Bad.

A few moments after detonation, the girls ran into the bathroom, this time in a flurry of screams and shrieks. Shortly after, one of the girls walked out exclaiming, “Oh my God! Jan is puking!” 

It had to be a joke, but I wanted to see or smell it for myself. Still laughing from the bathroom sprints I had triggered, I walked in the bathroom’s direction. I could see the open hotel room door, and in the doorway stood Jan, holding a see-through trash bag full of orange vomit.

“I think you guys had better go,” Girl 1 said. We left the room.

Pride.