My feet ached.
The inner lining of my brown biker boots had ripped so a little fold of material was pressing against my ankle and the left heel was asymmetrically worn away from many weeks pounding the streets. The toes of my sock were wet from stepping on a loose paving slab that splashed water as it wobbled underfoot. These are the trivial annoyances of winter daygameâthe hobby of prowling busy shopping streets to pick up beautiful women gets tougher when the weather turns. Iâd been out four days straight through wind, rain, and snow. It was beginning to wear on me.
Covent Garden was wet and dreary that day. I had an enthusiastic young student in tow. He was a young, nerdy, socially awkward kind of guy with an unkempt shock of black hair combed unconvincingly over a thinning crown. The kind of guy youâd expect gets laid about once a year maximum. He was upbeat and anxious to learn, so I was taking him around for free. I wasnât really qualified to teach but Iâd opened about one thousand girls and was at least getting some dates, so LSS guys even less successful than me wanted to hang out.
I pulled up the collar of my fur-lined flight jacket and pulled my woolly hat down to my eyebrows, then jammed my numbing hands deep into my pockets. It was December 30, 2009. A cold, damp typical wintery London day, New Year just around the corner. Christmas decorations cluttered store windows, long streams of golden tinsel framing displays of snowmen and reindeer. As dusk approached, the fairy lights adorning lampposts and street signs began twinkling in the reddening sky. Everywhere I turned people were milling, jostling, and scurrying for that last sale item. Some rushed purposefully to and from their destinations as others strolled along dreamily, shopping the stores with their eyes, or watching as the street performers put on a show for their pleasure and their tips. Lovers strolled hand-in-hand and looked at the sights. Japanese tourists with comically oversized cameras took pictures of everything.
This seasonal fauna of street life was a blur to me. My attention was on the fold of cotton pressing awkwardly against my ankle, and whether I should find a seat to take my boots off and fix it. Little things loom large when daygaming due to the high pressure of the activity.
Covent Garden in winter
I was sold on daygame now. I loved that there was an art to meeting a girl in a public place and getting her number, perhaps taking her for a coffee there and then. Itâs the first step in getting laid. For most men itâs a strange, intimidating but fantastically liberating experienceâjust imagine walking around the streets scanning for pretty girls and then, when you see one, you just walk up and make a conversation from nothing. Make her laugh, make her curious, and hopefully fuck her a few days or weeks later. For a guy conditioned that bars, nightclubs, and Internet dating sites are the only places to meet women this is an eye-opening thought.
Any girl. Anywhere. Any time.
I was still somewhat new to the game, having stumbled and mumbled through what was now six months of approaches. I had yet to get laid, but I had gotten some basic competence at drawing girls into conversation and getting numbers. Sometimes the girls would even come on a date. Thatâs what my student was looking for that day. I was still hurting from my devastating divorce from a woman with whom Iâd shared the past nine years. We had dated for six and were married for three before she walked out on me that January. By the time I was trawling these Covent Garden streets at the end of the year she had already remarried.
It was almost a year since the separation, and over six months of Game. I was reflecting on the year, as we are wont to do when New Year approaches. Was I headed in the right direction? Iâd initially promised myself a six-month commitment to Game to see if it worked and if I could learn it. So how was it working out?
In the early months of 2009 I allowed myself to wallow in the unfairness of it all. The self-pity that comes from being dumped enveloped me. Outwardly, I was the same guy I had always been, but inside I had been smashed into a million pieces, like a jigsaw box emptied onto the floor. I was glad Iâd tried something, lest I allow myself to sink deeper into the pits of despair.
I thought back to the Tony Clink book Iâd picked up and then reordered earlier this year. A gaudy red book with cover art of a slick lounge-lizard guy surrounded by beautiful women. It promised the secret system to meet and attract women, sleeping with different girls every week. So, although married and in love at the time, I read it from idle curiosity, and it had stung. Itâs like the author knew my whole life. I replayed memories of all the girls Iâd dated, laid, or failed with and every single time I could relate it to his system. I believed him. Then I loaned the book to a friend and forgot about it.
In business I was successful, having always been at the top of my class from the time I was four years old right through my Masterâs program. Every single year I came top at everything. Soon London beckoned and a career in investment banking. I was so focused on professional advancement that I never noticed the lack of women around me. Iâd just stumble into a relationship and gave it little more thought. Wolf of Wall Street it wasnât. I wasnât one of those rare guys who had girls throwing themselves at him an university and thus graduated with a First Class degree in Entitlement.
As my student and I strolled along through the busy streets, talking to a girl here and there, I suddenly heard someone singing flutter in the wind behind me. A sweet, feminine, melodic voice seemed to tinkle like water in a mountain stream. It was so sweet and uplifting. I turned to look and behind me walked a pretty young black girl. She was wearing a set of headphones, singing along with the music. I smiled and turned back to my student, and almost at once wondered what I was doing. I couldnât ignore this opportunity. Today I was the teacher, but I was still in the game myself, and she looked like someone that Iâd really like to get acquainted with on a horizontal and naked basis.
Turning back towards the girl I motioned her to take off the headphones. She gave me a wide-eyed inquisitive look, but obediently took the buds out her ears and returned my smile.
âDid you really just start singing in the street?â I said.
She smiled again and giggled a bit. âYeah, I like this song.â
Her brown eyes were large and her long hair hung in curls to her shoulders. She looked to be in her early to mid-twenties. I would find out later that she was twenty-six. My eyes scanned up and down. Decent height, full breasts, wide hips, quite possibly a good ass. Sheâd do.
âPeople may think youâre crazy,â I challenged. âThe only people I see singing to themselves are also carrying a can of Special Brew.â
It was easy. She was in a great mood and she liked me. My student stood off quietly to watch me work, absorbing what he could. I teased a little, and she laughed. I could feel a spark of attraction between us like the crackle of electricity. Something undefinable in her eyes and manner telegraphed, âI want this guy.â Back then, I was actually terrible at picking up on such signals but she was throwing them out so strongly I couldnât miss.
âI have to get back to my friend there,â I told her, âBut let me take your number and we can have a drink sometime.â
That is how I met Rakiya, a young medical student of Nigerian descent but born and bred in South London. Sheâd be the first black girl Iâd ever fucked. Her number stored in my phone I bid her goodbye and strolled away, re-joining my student with a smile on my face. Perhaps this curvy minx would be the one to finally end my year-long dry spell, and allow me to complete the whole daygame process from beginning to end.
Next installment (Chapter Four, part two) in three days. Buy the full Balls Deep book in PDF for £10 here or in paperback for £20 here.
