I’m often accosted on the street in Central London by blog readers. Originally it was a surreal experience to have people want to talk to me based entirely on my online persona. I guess even more surreal than seeing forum posts arguing about what I would probably think on a topic:
Forum Guy A: Krauser says x, y, z…. therefore a, b, c naturally follow
Forum Guy B: No. I imagine Krauser probably thinks 1, 2, 3.
There’s nothing at all wrong with this, it’s just when you’re the subject of it it feels weird. Two guys you’ve never met arguing about something you may or may not have said. It must be really weird when you’re genuinely famous like Justin Bieber and having fans set up forums to discuss you 24/7. I guess I’m glad I don’t run The Silk Road because when I cross paths with my online persona there are no SWAT teams or Russian mafia hitmen involved.
I’ve noticed the guys who accost me are of two types. The normal-looking guys politely catch my attention and apologise for interrupting me, try not to make any demands on my time and basically just say “I like your blog”. Precisely because they are so polite and value-giving I tend to give them the time of day. Conversely the weird-looking guys tend to watch my sets, follow me down the street and then do some creepy opener on me while looking for any pretext to launch into their life story and extract a free consultation. They seem to think they have some kind of right to my time and attention. So I’ve started to blank them and may go the Steve Jabba route and start dishing out wedgies.
This long self-absorbed ramble is meandering it’s way to my main point:
Almost without exception the normal guys mention that they are really happy to hear about my failures as well as my successes.
I don’t mean they are churlish or resentful. It’s because the pick-up community literature is extremely biased towards success stories and due to the human cognitive bias of The Availability Fallacy we absorb an impression that Game is easier than it is. And thus guys who are experiencing the harsh reality of cold approach can drop into the frame of “I suck. I’m the one guy who is getting blown out alot.” So while guys like to be inspired by success stories they also take heart from knowing that the better-known guys are still suffering blowouts, LMR and the usual emotional rollercoaster. So allow me to offer a recent failure story.
Two months ago I’m out at the British Museum with Bodi. It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m feeling good. My first set is a wandering Russian tourist who looks about 25 and hooks strong giving me eye-spazzing and soft kino so naturally I take the number and try to set up a delayed idate. It’s a highly promising ten minute set but it fritters away into nothing. After a few text exchanges that weekend she agrees to a date, flakes, and is soon back in Russia. This happens alot so I don’t give it much thought. Half an hour later outside the museum I see a tall slim girl crossing the road and putting up her umbrella. My vibe is great so when I open she’s beaming. She’s from New York visiting for three weeks for a course and a definite anglophile. The set goes great with strong eyes, two-sided flirting and because she’s a native speaker I can really let loose with the full gamut of nuance and cultural references (contrary to popular mythology, verbal game works better on native speakers once you’ve hooked because you can operate at the full extent of your intelligence and charm).
It’s at the point of taking her number that I encounter the one tiny logitistical problem that eventually blows the set and costs me the lay. She doesn’t have a UK SIM, her US SIM doesn’t work in the UK, and she hasn’t unlocked her iphone to take a UK SIM. The TL:DR is we have to communicate by whatsapp and only when she has wifi (no mobile internet). I tell her to buy a UK phone knowing it’s falling on deaf ears.
First date is the next evening. We go to a blues bar behind Carnaby Street and I quickly decide it’s a great venue. There’s live music but not too loud, it’s rammed with a buzzing energy, and we stand against a wall to chat. It’s here that I develop a few tweaks to my theory of date game for my book (yes, I just plugged it again).
I run a perfect Day 2. Absolute dating mastery. I’m really proud of myself.
I do push-pull, douchebaggery, deep rapport, rapid kino escalation….. the whole time I’ve got her eating out of my hand with the tension on the fishing line at optimal levels throughout. After half an hour she’s giving me strong kiss-me signals so as the music reaches a crescendo I pull her in and she just melts. It’s an extremely hot romantic moment perfectly accentuated by the neon lighting of bar signs and the crashing blues music. I feel her go weak at the knees. Then I roll off and make her chase hard. She’s pressed up against me and I do the Ramy line:
Me: What do you like about me?
Her: I like how confident you are. Arrogant even, but still with a very sweet side.
Me: I’m modest. I only believe I’m half as good as I really am.
Her: And you are so incredibly attractive!
We’ll call that an IOI. It’s getting late so we are struggling to find another bar. I walk her up Oxford Street to get closer to a taxi rank while searching for a pub. The only place still open is Carbon bar in the basement of a hotel. It’s a chode hell but mercifully sparse. We get a booth and she’s soon on my lap taking my dirty talk. She’s boiling in her love juices so when the bar kicks out at midnight I try to put her in a taxi. She’s already been giving me the “I’m not going home with you tonight” talk so I push as hard as I can but I don’t want to snap the fishing line. We end up making out in a shop doorbar with her hands down my pants wanking me off as late-night revellers stumble by. And then she goes home.
It’s a dead cert, I think.
She’s working hard and claims tiredness but we agree to meet Friday night in Camden at 9pm. Plenty of time to reblow the love bubble, put some alcohol in her and end up in a taxi rank. The whatsapp dirty talk and logistics has already agreed this is a sex date. So I show up at 9pm, do a quick circuit of the bar (she hasn’t arrived yet) then sit at a conspicuous seat at the bar. It’s rammed. After half an hour I’m surprised and concerned she hasn’t shown up but I stay with my pint. By 9:45pm I reluctantly write off the night. I’m fuming. It was so totally on and she didn’t even show, despite reconfirming at 8:30pm.
I hate all women everywhere at this point.
So I get the bus home, tail between my legs. Around 10:15pm I’m almost home and my whatsapp buzzes.
Me: What are you doing?
Her: !!!! What happened?? I was there for like an hour… I looked everywhere for you
Me: I was at the main bar. From 9pm. Red leather jacket.
Her: Me too… I got there right on time. Then I walked around the bar a bit
Me: Where are you now?
Her: Back at my place.. where are you now?
Me: Halfway home
Me: I can be back there in 20 minutes. You?
Her: I just got food with my roomies….
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Because of her stupid US SIM I couldn’t call her in the pub to find her. She couldn’t contact me until she was back on WiFi at her home. And being a girl she’s too much of a dumbass to properly search the pub for me or to ask a punter to borrow his phone for a second to make a call. This is why women should not occupy leadership positions or be allowed to vote.
I rebuild it all back over text and when in Latvia she’s chasing me hard, dirty talking and soon masturbating over sexting. She’s sending me messages like “You have no idea how badly I want to be on my knees in front of you” and “I had an amazing dream about you the other night” and “I came, but not as hard as I’m going to come when you’re railing me with that big rock hard cock” and “I can’t move right now. I want to be yours so bad, ready to do whatever you want with me.” Seems pretty on. So I set up the date:
Her: What do you want to do on Thursday?
Me: Apart from the obvious? What time are you thinking, afternoon or night?
Me: Meet at X station. Drink in local bar. Build unbearable tension.
Her: That won’t take very long
Me: Feel you up at the bar where no one can see. Make you go to the bathroom and bring your panties back for me to keep
Her: I like that idea
Me: I might require you to discreetly finger yourself under the table
Her: you know we’re not going to be able to stay out very long if you make me do that
Me: While maintaining conversation so as not to arouse suspicion of other patrons
Her: Good luck with that. I’m not very subtle. Or quiet
Me: Hmmm…. perhaps you can bite your lip while I outline what I intend to do to you in a more private setting
Her: I can’t wait to hear what you plan on doing to me once you have me alone
Me: That’s enough for now ð
Her: Oh my god you are killing me. You are making me want you so bad
I’ve returned from Latvia thinking it’s a dead cert. Thursday evening is set, I’m going to fuck her. And then the night before…….
Her: I have some news for you. You’re not going to like it.
Her: It seems as if I’ve acquired a boyfriend.
Her: Someone who I was dating in NYC before I left, who asked me to make it official. So needless to say, I can’t see you….
Me: No problem.
And that’s the Game. I’ve had about fifteen lays collapse on me this year where the girls were ripe for plucking and something intervened. Like Tom said to me after we’d narrowly missed a same-day foursome with two beautiful Serbian teenagers we bounced back to our apartment, “Sometimes you do everything right and it still falls apart.”
When that foursome collapsed the girls were sitting on our sofa, taking the kino, showing us dirty videos on the internet and then at the moment of truth refused to cheat on their boyfriends. We let them out the door, shrugged, and turned our attention to other things. One reason Game is such an emotional rollercoaster is you constantly maneouvre yourself into positions of great expectation only to have your hopes dashed.
Like Jabba says, emotional control is the most important part of Game.