This post is inspired by When You Have A Good Girlfriend But Want To Bang Sluts on Roosh's blog. I primarily address the topic that the title implies, but also stray into other relevant topics, and it takes a somewhat autobiographical form, since I am a newbie, and have a backlog of thoughts to get off my chest.
I am in my early 30's, unemployed, living out of a room I'm renting in some immigrant's house in a shit suburb on the outer ring of a major US metropolis. I'm tall, skinny, but not stick thin, and people tell me I'm good-looking, like a young Leonardo DiCaprio (think What's Eating Gilbert Grape?). I stopped keeping track of my notches 10 years or so ago when I had surpassed about 50. Since that point, they have come in at about a rate of 10 new notches per year. The notches have been overwhelmingly short-term affairs, where I'll pickup a cute girl who was glancing at me on the street, at the grocery store, on the subway, or at an event, like a political rally, and we'll bang for a few days/weeks, sometimes up to the 3 month mark before going our separate ways. There have also been one-night stands and a handful of medium- or long-term relationships, but nothing longer than a year or so. These relationships each involved my settling for a woman whose beauty and fitness were admirable and good, who loved me dearly with her tender little heart, but whose value to me, and my interest in the relationship, wasn't quite up to the level where I felt satisfied, you know, the level where I'd feel genuinely proud to have this girl at my side for a good long time, feeling somehow affirmed, and safer, stronger, cooler, all just because this girl had chosen to spend her time with me and let me put my dick in her body, like a warrior, a man, maybe like how Eddie Vedder feels when he's singing a solo in front of thousands of fans cheering him on: confident but not arrogant, grounded and humble but somehow also exalted and, in a sense, immortal.
The ones that fall for me and try to make me their boyfriend usually fall in the 5-7 range. I've had 6.5s give me a place to live, cook for me and do my laundry, let me smoke their weed, and drain my balls, for months on end, all while feeling in my gut the sick nausea of shame and guilt at taking advantage of a person whom I may like to some extent, but do not feel a strong passion or interest in pursuing a life with.
I've been doing cold approaches, mostly day-game, since perhaps college. My forte: grocery stores. The girls are generally alone, aren't bolting at breakneck speed down a sidewalk or looking at their phone and, unless there's another man with the same idea, they're not already in the midst of a ton of other suitors, so it's relatively easy to distract her from the kombucha display and get a few lines in. I've found one location in a progressive college town nearby where at all hours of the day it seems to be fairly crawling with young hotties in yoga pants and Blundstone boots, which I refer to as farm slut boots, because it's the kind of thing a girl wears on her feet who is majoring in anthropology, has joined the women's studies club, and volunteers at the local organic food co-op and/or community farm. The thing about these girls that I find so irresistible, is that they have no sense of absolute morality, and carry a grudge against western industrial society. Thus, I can, without them immediately shit-testing the hell out of me about it, own up to being a pothead, mostly a loner, and unemployed, with little or no interest in employment, even though I went to a good university, could use the money and am saddled with nearly six figures in student loan debt. I just hate spending all that time doing something I don't want to do. So I don't. The immigrants I cross paths with always incredulously question why I am not busting my ass to earn a living, invariably commenting on how I have all this earning potential and I deserve a good life; they wish they had it as good as I do; they had to risk their life crossing the desert/the open sea barefoot/in a small, overloaded dinghy, just to meet their dream of one day making $11.18 an hour bussing tables. I never felt that primal drive of needing to bust my ass to survive, even though I came from a moderately humble, single parent family that would sometimes camp out in the summer to save money. When I was a kid, the motivation to do well in school was the desire to get into a good college so that I could get the fuck away from what felt to me like a dysfunctional family, with a single, feminist mother, in a straight-laced suburb where all the other kids seemed to have regular, functional families, and could play sports, whereas I sucked at sports, and had no father to help me figure it out. I thought that college would lead to a career, money, status, and community, but now that I'm out in the world on my own, there doesn't seem to be much motivating me other than my loneliness.
![[Image: wwkvHGR.jpg]](https://i.imgur.com/wwkvHGR.jpg)
Blundstone AKA farm slut boots
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a journalist or a lawyer, and investigate big stories or cases and see that justice is carried out, but I balked at pursuing such a career, given the sacrifice in time, additional student debt, and the potentially slim employment prospects once it's all said and done. So I content myself to living in these cheap rooms I find on craigslist and I work random wage jobs for a few months at a time here and there, using a falsified resume to get hired before inevitably getting fired after 6 weeks for taking an extra half hour on my lunch break. I worked in sales for awhile, which was quite lucrative, but the pain of all that rejection eventually left me feeling immobilized and broke once again. I've also crashed with relatives and friends, but seem to have fewer and fewer of those that are interested in giving me a place to stay. Nevertheless, it always seems to work out that I have enough food to eat, somewhere to sleep, and some pussy to comfort myself with, even if I have to lower my standards a little now and then. It is painful, though, to see the higher tier girls around, and sometimes even do a cold approach on them, only to get shit-tested beyond the point of no return, and see myself really taking each blow personally, letting it sink in and get to me, as if it deserved a dignified response. There was one time I held my frame with an 8.5 long enough to get the bang, but the shit-testing kept escalating and, in a moment of weakness, I lost my composure and went into blackpill mode with this fine specimen still lying naked in my bed.
Being somewhat shy, or you might say mildly neurotic, I've never focused too heavily on night game. Maybe this is because I rarely have enough motivation or interest in any of the women to put out the amount of energy required to be entertaining and talkative and jockeying with all of the people that are usually massing around any girl that is remotely attractive. Also, bars have this element of publicity, where everyone can see me making a move, which somehow makes me feel ashamed of myself. It is, after all, one might argue, immoral to target another human being for the sole reason of seducing her for casual sex (not that that's stopped me). In any event, I prefer to be in a place where people are ignoring each other, like on a street, or in a retail store. The handful of night game scores I succeed with occurred when I just sat alone at the bar, looking around, or reading, and waiting for a girl to make herself known to me.
So, at any rate, I often find myself in the company of one of these decently hot, but not snap-your-fucking-cervical-spine-in-two-checking-her-ass-out-as she-passes-by-walking-down-the-street-hot girls, and we'd be out at a supermarket, or at a party, and I'd have this girl with me who is ostensibly my girlfriend, but I'm seeing all these hotter women milling around, some of whom even are giving me erection-inducing stares (partially because they see I'm already somebody's boyfriend and that increases my perceived value), and I'll think to myself “what the fuck am I doing with this girl? Why can't I have one of those hotter ones?” and feel absolutely miserable, like I'm a fraud, pretending to have a good time with this girl , or at least attempting to conceal my misery, because if I came clean and told her “you aren't even the hottest girl in this room” I'd be looking at maybe not getting my dick sucked later on, or worse, I'll be back in my room at the end of the night jerking off or commenting on Roosh V Forum or something. A lot of my time spent with women feels this way. Good enough that I can stomach it, and enjoy having a wet hole nearby to periodically deface, but not really joyful and at peace, not as excited or inspired by the woman as I know I am capable of being, not really sensing that she is a woman to contend with, a woman worthy of an intelligent, worldly man. The woman at my side never seems to be stunning enough to make me confident that I'll be envied by any man whose gaze falls upon her, although that's the caliber of woman that I yearn to possess. But I'll stick around because such and such girl is available, and it's convenient, and already set up, and she answers my texts within two minutes, and she crawls all over me, even when I'm not in the mood and just want to watch her Netflix account and smoke her weed. I'll stick around, enduring that nagging lack of total fulfillment, fucking these women, making up whatever random bullshit to talk about –anything other than my haunting sense of dissatisfaction with her – because she was the woman who stared at me in public, or stood next to me in a bar, blaringly obvious with her desire, or walked past me three times in a grocery store, or took the ball and enthusiastically ran with it after the most basic of openers on my part. These women are the low-hanging-fruit of my world, and they make me orgasm, they feed me, give me rides in their cars, help me with my resume, they learn the ropes on my boat, and they keep me company during bouts of painful isolation, but they aren't the 9s or 10s that my heart and my ego so strongly desire. Sometimes, I'll be in bed with such a woman, and the nagging for more, for better, will get to me, and I will summon the courage to get up from the bed of convenience. I'll actually manage to peel myself away from one of these kindly, homely women, with every intention of never returning, lest I forego the slightest opportunity to hunt and game for the girls that I so truly and deeply desire. But then, failing to land the hottest ones that my ego craves, a few days will pass, and I'll get lonely or bored, and inevitably text the girls that are already actively willing to take my dick. I'll settle for the predictable bang, and stay the night in her bed, feeling the warm comfort of her body, of her hands on mine, mingled with the odd guilt or shame of my own decision to settle for less than I really want. I'll feel moderately to severely shitty about myself the whole time. It's like a trap, a vicious circle, that the more I fuck these girls, the more it keeps me from feeling my best, most confident self, with enough self-respect and integrity to proudly insert myself into a situation where I could land a girl that really satisfies my hunger for a beautiful mate that I could maybe even marry and spend my life with.
I have, 4 or 5 times in my life, banged a 9. In one of these cases, the pickup occurred when the girl first made eye contact with me from the sidewalk as I rode my bicycle down a public street in a trendy hipster neighborhood with a cool wing man and his bicycle in tow. We tag-teamed the approach, and I banged her the next evening after a number close. Three of these precious notches were picked up at a house party, and one at a church. In one case, I knew some of the people there and had drank enough kava kava to make a person with squirrel-like approach anxiety gently walk up to the hottest girl in the room and strike up a casual conversation. The ambiance felt very safe and family-like. Normally I would be ashamed to pick up a girl in front of so many direct acquaintances out of fear of being seen for the scoundrel that I am, stricken with the moral impurity of a seducer with bad intentions, but in this case, the intensity of my affection for the girl swept all of that aside. My heart was pure, and I felt noble and right in moving quickly with her. Another instance was at a community event in a private house, where I was the guest of a guy who was well-regarded in his little sub-culture, and I was, by happenstance, positioned in the room to look like I had an outsized role. The hottest girl in the room made eyes at me from across the room and when she got up to go downstairs to the kitchen, I followed her and later that night we walked a few blocks to the decrepit basement I was crashing in. There was another case where I banged a 9 that I thought had friend-zoned my male friend, but it turns out that she had in fact already given him head. She found me on social media and I followed her to a nearby country, where the magic of traveling abroad and a little alcohol landed us in her bed. It was a culpable act on my part, sure, but also the best sex of my life. I think that in these cases the intensity of my desire, the deep, genuine longing I transmitted in my eyes, must have been what sealed the deal. Nothing is forced. Those are the moments where millennia of natural evolution kick in and strategic, conscious game becomes irrelevant. The authentic, powerful desire of a man must be intoxicating, or at least mildly stimulating, for a woman on the receiving end, versus the cheesy dullness of the half-enthusiastic come-on I provide when a woman merely meets the basic minimum standard that my ego has established for a prospect. When that level of desire is absent, I find it difficult or impossible to fabricate it, and the interaction often lacks that sexual magic that would justify hooking up or even conversing. Then, it can only work if the girl is legitimately interested enough in me to accept my play-acting at affection, which I'm willing to bet isn't so believable to the objective eye, or else, and much less frequently, a notch can occur if the entertaining banter of our conversation itself warrants lingering in her company long enough to develop a rudimentary friendship.
In each of these cases, with the 9s, I quickly fell victim to the delusion that “she's the one,” and began acting extremely beta, texting and begging for another date, even though none was forthcoming. In two of the cases, the girl's pussy literally dried up at a certain stage, failing to produce enough mucus for me to continue re-inserting my manhood. Once, this unfortunate but unambiguous sentence was handed down by the gods of pussy shortly after I shared some heartfelt attestation of affection, and in another case, it was immediately after she had completed the task of moving herself and all her worldly possessions into my apartment (that was back before I had really given up on the rat race). In one case, the 9 that had been my buddy's prospect, I had banged her thrice before she got spooked when my girlfriend (a different woman, who I was cheating on) started sending her threatening texts. The other two just ghosted after a one-night stand, and I assume that I must have been acting too intensely interested too early on, or else they were merely using me for the enthusiastic attention I offered or the sex itself.
Thanks for reading y'all!
felix vagabondo
I am in my early 30's, unemployed, living out of a room I'm renting in some immigrant's house in a shit suburb on the outer ring of a major US metropolis. I'm tall, skinny, but not stick thin, and people tell me I'm good-looking, like a young Leonardo DiCaprio (think What's Eating Gilbert Grape?). I stopped keeping track of my notches 10 years or so ago when I had surpassed about 50. Since that point, they have come in at about a rate of 10 new notches per year. The notches have been overwhelmingly short-term affairs, where I'll pickup a cute girl who was glancing at me on the street, at the grocery store, on the subway, or at an event, like a political rally, and we'll bang for a few days/weeks, sometimes up to the 3 month mark before going our separate ways. There have also been one-night stands and a handful of medium- or long-term relationships, but nothing longer than a year or so. These relationships each involved my settling for a woman whose beauty and fitness were admirable and good, who loved me dearly with her tender little heart, but whose value to me, and my interest in the relationship, wasn't quite up to the level where I felt satisfied, you know, the level where I'd feel genuinely proud to have this girl at my side for a good long time, feeling somehow affirmed, and safer, stronger, cooler, all just because this girl had chosen to spend her time with me and let me put my dick in her body, like a warrior, a man, maybe like how Eddie Vedder feels when he's singing a solo in front of thousands of fans cheering him on: confident but not arrogant, grounded and humble but somehow also exalted and, in a sense, immortal.
The ones that fall for me and try to make me their boyfriend usually fall in the 5-7 range. I've had 6.5s give me a place to live, cook for me and do my laundry, let me smoke their weed, and drain my balls, for months on end, all while feeling in my gut the sick nausea of shame and guilt at taking advantage of a person whom I may like to some extent, but do not feel a strong passion or interest in pursuing a life with.
I've been doing cold approaches, mostly day-game, since perhaps college. My forte: grocery stores. The girls are generally alone, aren't bolting at breakneck speed down a sidewalk or looking at their phone and, unless there's another man with the same idea, they're not already in the midst of a ton of other suitors, so it's relatively easy to distract her from the kombucha display and get a few lines in. I've found one location in a progressive college town nearby where at all hours of the day it seems to be fairly crawling with young hotties in yoga pants and Blundstone boots, which I refer to as farm slut boots, because it's the kind of thing a girl wears on her feet who is majoring in anthropology, has joined the women's studies club, and volunteers at the local organic food co-op and/or community farm. The thing about these girls that I find so irresistible, is that they have no sense of absolute morality, and carry a grudge against western industrial society. Thus, I can, without them immediately shit-testing the hell out of me about it, own up to being a pothead, mostly a loner, and unemployed, with little or no interest in employment, even though I went to a good university, could use the money and am saddled with nearly six figures in student loan debt. I just hate spending all that time doing something I don't want to do. So I don't. The immigrants I cross paths with always incredulously question why I am not busting my ass to earn a living, invariably commenting on how I have all this earning potential and I deserve a good life; they wish they had it as good as I do; they had to risk their life crossing the desert/the open sea barefoot/in a small, overloaded dinghy, just to meet their dream of one day making $11.18 an hour bussing tables. I never felt that primal drive of needing to bust my ass to survive, even though I came from a moderately humble, single parent family that would sometimes camp out in the summer to save money. When I was a kid, the motivation to do well in school was the desire to get into a good college so that I could get the fuck away from what felt to me like a dysfunctional family, with a single, feminist mother, in a straight-laced suburb where all the other kids seemed to have regular, functional families, and could play sports, whereas I sucked at sports, and had no father to help me figure it out. I thought that college would lead to a career, money, status, and community, but now that I'm out in the world on my own, there doesn't seem to be much motivating me other than my loneliness.
Blundstone AKA farm slut boots
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a journalist or a lawyer, and investigate big stories or cases and see that justice is carried out, but I balked at pursuing such a career, given the sacrifice in time, additional student debt, and the potentially slim employment prospects once it's all said and done. So I content myself to living in these cheap rooms I find on craigslist and I work random wage jobs for a few months at a time here and there, using a falsified resume to get hired before inevitably getting fired after 6 weeks for taking an extra half hour on my lunch break. I worked in sales for awhile, which was quite lucrative, but the pain of all that rejection eventually left me feeling immobilized and broke once again. I've also crashed with relatives and friends, but seem to have fewer and fewer of those that are interested in giving me a place to stay. Nevertheless, it always seems to work out that I have enough food to eat, somewhere to sleep, and some pussy to comfort myself with, even if I have to lower my standards a little now and then. It is painful, though, to see the higher tier girls around, and sometimes even do a cold approach on them, only to get shit-tested beyond the point of no return, and see myself really taking each blow personally, letting it sink in and get to me, as if it deserved a dignified response. There was one time I held my frame with an 8.5 long enough to get the bang, but the shit-testing kept escalating and, in a moment of weakness, I lost my composure and went into blackpill mode with this fine specimen still lying naked in my bed.
Being somewhat shy, or you might say mildly neurotic, I've never focused too heavily on night game. Maybe this is because I rarely have enough motivation or interest in any of the women to put out the amount of energy required to be entertaining and talkative and jockeying with all of the people that are usually massing around any girl that is remotely attractive. Also, bars have this element of publicity, where everyone can see me making a move, which somehow makes me feel ashamed of myself. It is, after all, one might argue, immoral to target another human being for the sole reason of seducing her for casual sex (not that that's stopped me). In any event, I prefer to be in a place where people are ignoring each other, like on a street, or in a retail store. The handful of night game scores I succeed with occurred when I just sat alone at the bar, looking around, or reading, and waiting for a girl to make herself known to me.
So, at any rate, I often find myself in the company of one of these decently hot, but not snap-your-fucking-cervical-spine-in-two-checking-her-ass-out-as she-passes-by-walking-down-the-street-hot girls, and we'd be out at a supermarket, or at a party, and I'd have this girl with me who is ostensibly my girlfriend, but I'm seeing all these hotter women milling around, some of whom even are giving me erection-inducing stares (partially because they see I'm already somebody's boyfriend and that increases my perceived value), and I'll think to myself “what the fuck am I doing with this girl? Why can't I have one of those hotter ones?” and feel absolutely miserable, like I'm a fraud, pretending to have a good time with this girl , or at least attempting to conceal my misery, because if I came clean and told her “you aren't even the hottest girl in this room” I'd be looking at maybe not getting my dick sucked later on, or worse, I'll be back in my room at the end of the night jerking off or commenting on Roosh V Forum or something. A lot of my time spent with women feels this way. Good enough that I can stomach it, and enjoy having a wet hole nearby to periodically deface, but not really joyful and at peace, not as excited or inspired by the woman as I know I am capable of being, not really sensing that she is a woman to contend with, a woman worthy of an intelligent, worldly man. The woman at my side never seems to be stunning enough to make me confident that I'll be envied by any man whose gaze falls upon her, although that's the caliber of woman that I yearn to possess. But I'll stick around because such and such girl is available, and it's convenient, and already set up, and she answers my texts within two minutes, and she crawls all over me, even when I'm not in the mood and just want to watch her Netflix account and smoke her weed. I'll stick around, enduring that nagging lack of total fulfillment, fucking these women, making up whatever random bullshit to talk about –anything other than my haunting sense of dissatisfaction with her – because she was the woman who stared at me in public, or stood next to me in a bar, blaringly obvious with her desire, or walked past me three times in a grocery store, or took the ball and enthusiastically ran with it after the most basic of openers on my part. These women are the low-hanging-fruit of my world, and they make me orgasm, they feed me, give me rides in their cars, help me with my resume, they learn the ropes on my boat, and they keep me company during bouts of painful isolation, but they aren't the 9s or 10s that my heart and my ego so strongly desire. Sometimes, I'll be in bed with such a woman, and the nagging for more, for better, will get to me, and I will summon the courage to get up from the bed of convenience. I'll actually manage to peel myself away from one of these kindly, homely women, with every intention of never returning, lest I forego the slightest opportunity to hunt and game for the girls that I so truly and deeply desire. But then, failing to land the hottest ones that my ego craves, a few days will pass, and I'll get lonely or bored, and inevitably text the girls that are already actively willing to take my dick. I'll settle for the predictable bang, and stay the night in her bed, feeling the warm comfort of her body, of her hands on mine, mingled with the odd guilt or shame of my own decision to settle for less than I really want. I'll feel moderately to severely shitty about myself the whole time. It's like a trap, a vicious circle, that the more I fuck these girls, the more it keeps me from feeling my best, most confident self, with enough self-respect and integrity to proudly insert myself into a situation where I could land a girl that really satisfies my hunger for a beautiful mate that I could maybe even marry and spend my life with.
I have, 4 or 5 times in my life, banged a 9. In one of these cases, the pickup occurred when the girl first made eye contact with me from the sidewalk as I rode my bicycle down a public street in a trendy hipster neighborhood with a cool wing man and his bicycle in tow. We tag-teamed the approach, and I banged her the next evening after a number close. Three of these precious notches were picked up at a house party, and one at a church. In one case, I knew some of the people there and had drank enough kava kava to make a person with squirrel-like approach anxiety gently walk up to the hottest girl in the room and strike up a casual conversation. The ambiance felt very safe and family-like. Normally I would be ashamed to pick up a girl in front of so many direct acquaintances out of fear of being seen for the scoundrel that I am, stricken with the moral impurity of a seducer with bad intentions, but in this case, the intensity of my affection for the girl swept all of that aside. My heart was pure, and I felt noble and right in moving quickly with her. Another instance was at a community event in a private house, where I was the guest of a guy who was well-regarded in his little sub-culture, and I was, by happenstance, positioned in the room to look like I had an outsized role. The hottest girl in the room made eyes at me from across the room and when she got up to go downstairs to the kitchen, I followed her and later that night we walked a few blocks to the decrepit basement I was crashing in. There was another case where I banged a 9 that I thought had friend-zoned my male friend, but it turns out that she had in fact already given him head. She found me on social media and I followed her to a nearby country, where the magic of traveling abroad and a little alcohol landed us in her bed. It was a culpable act on my part, sure, but also the best sex of my life. I think that in these cases the intensity of my desire, the deep, genuine longing I transmitted in my eyes, must have been what sealed the deal. Nothing is forced. Those are the moments where millennia of natural evolution kick in and strategic, conscious game becomes irrelevant. The authentic, powerful desire of a man must be intoxicating, or at least mildly stimulating, for a woman on the receiving end, versus the cheesy dullness of the half-enthusiastic come-on I provide when a woman merely meets the basic minimum standard that my ego has established for a prospect. When that level of desire is absent, I find it difficult or impossible to fabricate it, and the interaction often lacks that sexual magic that would justify hooking up or even conversing. Then, it can only work if the girl is legitimately interested enough in me to accept my play-acting at affection, which I'm willing to bet isn't so believable to the objective eye, or else, and much less frequently, a notch can occur if the entertaining banter of our conversation itself warrants lingering in her company long enough to develop a rudimentary friendship.
In each of these cases, with the 9s, I quickly fell victim to the delusion that “she's the one,” and began acting extremely beta, texting and begging for another date, even though none was forthcoming. In two of the cases, the girl's pussy literally dried up at a certain stage, failing to produce enough mucus for me to continue re-inserting my manhood. Once, this unfortunate but unambiguous sentence was handed down by the gods of pussy shortly after I shared some heartfelt attestation of affection, and in another case, it was immediately after she had completed the task of moving herself and all her worldly possessions into my apartment (that was back before I had really given up on the rat race). In one case, the 9 that had been my buddy's prospect, I had banged her thrice before she got spooked when my girlfriend (a different woman, who I was cheating on) started sending her threatening texts. The other two just ghosted after a one-night stand, and I assume that I must have been acting too intensely interested too early on, or else they were merely using me for the enthusiastic attention I offered or the sex itself.
Thanks for reading y'all!
felix vagabondo
