Number 3 (and Number 4)

The separation was messy. Medusa left for the Big City, ostensibly to look after her sick father. It turned out to mean rent an apartment with her high school friend, and spending time with her ex. So fucking typical of modern women. Any time we spoke it descended into malignant, vitriolic arguing. So we tried not to speak to each other.

Her mother and sister would come to the house (that M. and I owned) and give me shit, telling me how they'd run me out of town or whatever. Sour old bitches. Ironically, the sister's husband left her about three months later, and she tried to initiate contact with me under the pretence that she was sorry and now knew what I was going through. Ridiculous, their whole family is ridiculous! Anyway, that's not what we're here for.

For a few months I actively avoided chicks. I was bitter and misogyny coursed through my veins. My days consisted of early exercise, a run to work, a run home and healthy dinners. I was playing a lot of guitar – having stumbled upon Protest the Hero I was determined to shake off the cobwebs and get to playing some tech shit again. Porn was still on the menu occasionally, as were a few beers and the odd joint. Game literature and the burgeoning “Red Pill” and “Manosphere” movements received much attention in that period, and as I worked in one of Australia's biggest bars, I was able to witness modern human courtship live, daily. Analysing those moments in Game context armed me with indispensable knowledge, and in conjunction with living a healthy lifestyle, my confidence had returned to pre-Medusa states within a few short months.

Number 3 came out of the blue for me. We had worked together for years, she knew Medusa reasonably well, and had recently been through a divorce of her own. Eight years my senior, but she took care of herself, and having never had children, her body was rocking. 5'6”, bubble but, long brown hair with highlights, half Spanish, half Israeli, Number 3 was a picture of Mediterranean beauty.

It was staff party, a massive occasion at our bar, seeing as we have around 120 staff members. The party itself is supposed to be a classy affair, and I guess that's how it starts. But inevitably, after the GM has made his speech and the Dj starts spinning, dingers and grams of coke are being thrown around like Minties at Christmas. A few weeks before the party I moved out of the marital home (after a settlement with Medusa) and into a flat with some of my close colleagues. We hosted the after party, with Dj's until dawn and more acid than we knew what to do with. It was strong shit too.

I hadn't seen Number 3 all night at the staff party. Maybe I had but I sure as shit don't remember talking to her or anything. I remember walking out of the club thinking I better stay away from the German girlfriend of the bar manager, I remember getting home and setting up the keg and the ice tubs. I remember taking the first tab of that acid. Holy shit...

Walking down the hallway after snorting a line with the owners daughter, I saw Number 3 coming towards me. Simultaneously we greeted each other with a “Hey!” and a long hug. Pulling away slowly, the air was on fire between us, our eyes locked. My hands lingered on her hips... instinctively, I asked her if she wanted a line.

“Oh yay I haven't had coke for ages!” she squealed. So I put my arm around her waist and we walked back into my room, straight to the en suite and I racked two fat lines. Number 3 insisted I went first, and that I hold her hair as she had her line.

Gents, there is a pivotal moment in each seduction, where you both know it is going to happen. Your heart rate increases, your skin prickles. The air feels heavy and everything slows down. I live for this moment. As Number 3 straightened up after smashing a line, a ran my hand through her hair and down to the small of her back. We looked at each other. It was the moment.

I leaned in to kiss her, but she beat me to it. Kissing hard and fast, we stumbled backwards into the bedroom and crashed on to my bed. The lights were already low, incense was burning. I could hear voices of shock and surprise in the hallway over the doof, doof of the Dj. I flipped her on to her back and got up to lock the door.

The sex was great. Number 3, at 32 years of age, had one of the best asses I have yet to come across. And she frothed for doggy style. It was dreamy. Oh yeah, she gives possibly the best head I've yet to have too. God damn, that chick was pretty sweet.

We finished up and she had a quick shower. By this stage everyone at the party – and by extension, everyone we worked with – had found out what we were up to. The reaction in the party was pretty funny. Obviously the guys were pretty stoking for me, the girls not so much. A few of the harder fiends were off it that they couldn't use my bathroom to rack up for so long – typical. I put Number 3 in a taxi with a quick kiss and went back to the party.

By this stage everything was in full swing. After visiting the Dj and picking collecting another tab of acid I cruised around the party drinking, dancing, having a good old time. The acid was strong, just how I like it, trippy visuals and a slightly out-of-body perception of reality. As if you're watching yourself, the actor, partake in a grand play. Memories of Number 3 were flitting through my head, making me hornier and hornier. Drinks kept flowing, music kept pumping, it was snowing and I flirted with the idea of calling Number 3 and getting her back to the party.

I walked out of my room after smashing a particularly large line with my flat-mate. With bottle of champagne in hand and half a chub I scanned the living room / dance floor for talent. At the time I was trying to implement my “Don't Screw the Crew” policy, so I eliminated girls mainly on that criterium:

“I work with her... and her... she's fat... that's Sammy's chick... work with her... Oh, hello!” I spotted Number 4, grooving away with a couple of mates. Light brown bangs, nice tan, curvy in a healthy way, short red dress, red heels... Yeah, you'll do.

“Hey”

“Hi! I'm Number 4”

“Sweet, have you seen the big room yet, the coke room?”

“No?! But I'd like to!”

“Come with me.” I smiled and took her hand, leading her down the hallway to smirks and winks from a few of the boys. With forethought I had set the room up with low lighting, a few easily accessible candles and incense. Number 4 went about lighting candles and generally scoping out the room.

“Is this your room? It's so cool!” as she inspected a deck of tarot cards. I sat back on the bed not really saying anything. After a few minutes she joined me. We talked for awhile, and at one stage as my attention was waning, she stated “Honey, you're tripping hard... good acid, hey?”

“Yeah, it's great. Making me kind of horny though...” and almost before I could finish she was kissing me.

I honestly don't remember much about the sex. I was tripping hard, sweating, fucking like it was my last fuck. She came early, and hard. I think that's what got her hooked on me for the next few months. For what felt like hours we fucked in a haze of acid and coke, stopping only to sip from the bottle of champagne I'd carried in. Eventually I came, and spent I laid back, content. Two chicks in one night was not a bad effort, especially after roughly three months of self-imposed celibacy. Sre I had been studying some game, but this was the first time I'd had a crack at picking up since Medusa. I was a happy man. Number 4 cuddled up for awhile, but I told her I would prefer to sleep alone. I could hear the party winding down and see the faint light, harbinger of day, imposing it's will on the darkened world.

I smoked a cigarette laying in bed, reflecting on a massive night. Back in the game, baby, I'm back in the game.

Number 2: The Guitarist

Number 2 was before the separation.

It was always on the cards too. Denying intercourse is the water-board of spousal warfare, and Medusa used it often and to great effect. Not being able to fuck the woman you love, your wife, but when she looks like that... God, it was torture, laying there at night, approaches scorned, manhood questioned... I'm sure every man becomes acquainted with the feeling at some time, and besides that's not the focus here.

So Number 2 was an old flame. She was a bit of a prawn (rip off the head and she's be great - I believe the yanks call the "Butter face" - ya know, she's good, but her face...) clocking in at a six for the face (narrow eyes, larger nose) but great body, beautiful long brown hair, great lips - an easy eight everywhere else. We'd never really dated. At all.

She played in a band, I played in a band, it was a small town. She happened to be fifteen, so always accompanied by her parents to gigs. I was nineteen. At that stage I had banged probably 8 or 9 different girls. Being a country town, and being that age, you pretty much had to be "official" bf/gf because common decency, brah, which was a slight impediment. At that stage I had no idea about game, but a couple of my friends were great naturals to learn from, I played in a band and played rugby, so I was pretty confidant in myself.

Anyway at a house party after a gig one night we hooked up. In my mates bed I had her down to her panties... and she said she was a virgin, and on her period. Needless to say she left that house a virgin. But she had tasted sperm for the first time. Mine. Less than two weeks later we fucked for the first time, and continued to do so on a casual basis until I left for Australia a year later. Apologies to you Bri, my Auckland sweetheart, I definitely cheated on you.

Back to the story! Medusa, my lovely wife, had refused to fuck me for about three months. I knew she was talking to her ex on a regular basis and preparing to move to his city to look after her sick father. My band was playing a gig about an hour away, in a city where Number 2 lived now after emigrating from NZ. I reached out to her on facebook. We had exchanged one or two emails over the last few years, but hadn't seen each other for four years.

She drove out to the venue, a suburban dive bar, and I said I'd go meet her in the car, lest someone I know report to my then wife and further decay my life. 

My heart was pounding as I walked up to her car. My cock was straining against my jeans. I opened the door and sat down, getting a heavy waft f florally shampoo and perfume. Our eyes met, we hugged over the centre console, long and hard. Cheeks grazed as our embrace loosened, and we kissed frantically. A minute later my pants were around my ankles and she was naked, straddling me in the passenger seat.

"Do you have a condom?" she asked.

"Yeah, in my wallet, somewhere..." and I rubbed my cock against her wet snatch, almost there...

"Fuck it, I don't care, fuck me!" breathless, impatient, so I did. Later she cleaned herself up and went to work. I drove home, had a shower and got into bed. Medusa was awake, so I made a move to spoon her.

"Don't touch me!"

I smiled to myself and rolled over. The end is the beginning is the end. "Goodnight."

Number 1: Memory

Number 1. Oh, number one. Did you know I never told a soul, Number 1? But this is a good way to start this revelatory confessional, in the spirit of honesty, so I hope you won't mind my telling too much.

Before the wedding, my band was on tour in NZ. I was 22, back in my old stomping ground, with a notorious reputation and free of my fiancé, Medusa. 

Cue first hometown gig. As the opening band were getting into their stride, I saw her sipping on a long straw, listening to her friend, blondie, ~7.  Number 1, my memory told no lies of you. I punched my drummer in the arm and pointed her out.  He studied her head to toe, button nose and big blue eyes framed by hazelnut bangs, ivory skin with vanishing freckles and sparing makeup, hourglass figure hugged by a short, silvery skirt, skin, skin, skin... and heels... oh Number 1, you'll always be my favourite. The Badger (my drummer) let out a low whistle and simply said,

"Dude, it's a pity you're getting married."

"Yep, it certainly is. But I've gotta do the right thing."

I didn't.

After the gig, as we were loading gear into the van, she cornered me. We talked for half an hour - the boys got my gear packed up for me, cheers fellas! She wrote down her number and told me to call her, we'll have a smoke and catch up. With trembling hands I took the piece of paper, hugged her and said I'd see her soon.

In the van the boys jeered and laughed. They mocked and scorned. They wanted to know if I'd fuck her...? I took an eftpos receipt out of my wallet.

"Boys," I announced, "this is her number. I'm going to eat it." I munched away on that scrap of plastic-y paper to their cheers.

Two days later I called Number 1. She picked me up in town, and that afternoon we layed down on her bed smoking joints and listening to Tool on her dodgy old Sony mini-system. Fucking to Tool was a bit strange, as much as I like Tool. But she was into it, and I wouldn't have changed a thing.

There was history though. I'd dated and banged her older sister while we were all high-schoolers. After I graduated high-school, Number 1 and I got together, briefly and turbulently. A virgin, with sometimes severe bipolar, it was a forbidden coupling, which served only to make it deeper. We share that bond to this day.

When we finally fucked it was like scratching a primordial itch. It was animal. I remember it as an almost out of body experience, as if my genes had taken over and the spirit of my ancestors had determined to continuate the lineage with this woman and no other. I'd never fucked so hard in my life. Medusa is a solid 9.5, built for my exclusive preferences almost, and I really did love her at one time... but she could never have the effect on me that Number 1 did that day. No other woman has since. The reasons for that are myriad and beyond the scope of this blog. And probably beyond what I grok, or care to grok, about myself.

Fifty fux better: Introduction

Aged just twenty-two I tied the knot with a volatile, unstable but stunningly beautiful twenty year old girl. We dated for three years prior, violently passionate and chillingly merciless in turns. Our marriage was torrid and disintegrated completely within a year. I lost my house and my car, a bunch of family and friends and the only woman I'd loved. Possibly even the capacity for love...

I already knew about game, but now the manosphere and Red Pill discourse saturated those internet locales I frequented. My resolve was steeled. 

So much of game theory is simply making yourself a better man. Emphasise your masculine traits, learn how to subtly dominate social interactions, be interesting and fun, outcome independance, spinning plates, hobbies and projects you love, keeping in shape. These foundational points are the only advice I give to guys who ask about my success.

I'm no Don Juan. After my separation I took a good eight or nine months of working on myself. I started running and doing tabata exercises, and using empty kegs as weight training whilst at work (sorry Boss!). I learned to dj and got a rig so I could do some gigs. New wardrobe? Check. Haircut? Check. Pimpin' new pad? Check.

Over the next five years I plowed my way through more than fifty women. Some may say it's ruthless, others mediocre, some still just pathetic. Call it what you want. I'm not here to justify it, simply to tell a story that others may learn from...