All posts by Roosh

Newsletter No. 6

This weekend I’m sending out a newsletter about taking advantage of approach opportunities, and when you should beat yourself up for not doing anything. Sign-up in top right, or go here.

Some of the free email services act weird with the mailings, so I recommend you add [email protected] to your address book. If you missed any of the previous newsletters, or come Monday you don’t get this one, just send me an email.

Sleeping With Prostitutes

About half a dozen guys I’ve met since college have told me their story of sleeping with a prostitute. There was one thing in common with each guy: none of them actually paid for the prostitute, a relative or friend did. All of them made sure to stress that fact, which tells me that the shame isn’t in sleeping with prostitutes, it’s paying for it.

I’m not a fan of the “Well you are paying for sex anyway through dating” argument. Sure you spend money on food or drink with the intent of sleeping with a girl, but sex is never a sure-thing and in the end she sleeps with you because she wants to, not because she thinks she’ll get something immediately after the sex act is done. I agree that there are golddiggers who put out to keep the good times rolling, but I doubt they actually count how many more dinners they will get from one additional instance of sex.

If I’m able to sleep with attractive girls on my own, I can’t imagine a reason or situation where I would pay for one, even if I was about to jam it in. But how about if there is a girl who is incredibly hot and on a level way beyond anything I’ve experienced? If the price was right and she “looked” clean, I would give it consideration until the disease issue would most likely force me to back out. Morally and intellectually, though, I can handle it.

Live And Learn

Continued from The Encounter.

I rolled off her onto the other side of the bed. In Spanish I said, “No me dijiste eso. No pago para el sexo” which I was hoping translated to “You did not tell me that. I don’t pay for sex.” I got on my back and stared at the ceiling. She said everything is okay and snuggled up next to me. I got the impression that she would bang anyway, but I was no longer in the mood.

I laid there motionless and quiet, stunned, reliving the past five minutes of my life, still naked with a condom on my junk. There’s the prostitute, laying next to me. She’s probably thinking about how much money she lost on me. I felt dirty, stupid. She got up from the bed and put on her clothes. I put on my boxers and walked her out to make sure she didn’t decide to grab a snack from the refrigerator and discover my money stash in the butter compartment. No more words were exchanged between us. I went to the bathroom after she left and rinsed my mouth with Listerine and brushed my teeth, a mostly symbolic cleansing for I’m sure I already have everything that could be transmitted from mouth to mouth contact.

It’s tempting to say that I should have known, but I disagree. I’ve had some experiences with American girls which come close to the Brazilian, and when you have been bombarded with messages that Brazilians are hyper-sexual beings you figure it’s just their normal way of doing things. Plus I had too many Polar Ices.

I know what I will do next time: I will make a casual reference to being short of cash. Maybe I’ll ask her if the bar accepts credit cards or I’ll say that I’m only having one more beer because I spent all my money and can’t find an ATM. If she is a prostitute, she’ll probably ditch me immediately. Short of asking her if she is a prostitute, which may kill my chances if she isn’t one, any insinuation of being broke should do. Basically what I do now with American girls.

I had a grin on my face the next morning. What a fucked up but crazy experience to have. And all it cost me was a whole lot of sand she left behind on my bed. I’m smarter and have better prostitutite-dar than before, but I’ll be surprised if I don’t cross paths with another secret prostitute again. I’m just glad I didn’t touch her vagina with anything but my fingers.

Conclusion: Sleeping With Prostitutes

The Encounter

Enough time has passed where I feel comfortable sharing something that happened to me in Venezuela. The emotional wounds have healed.

It was my fifth night there and I was on Margarita Island. That night I met a couple waitresses at a restaurant who took me to a club two blocks away. I thought I was going to hook up with one of the them but that didn’t happen so I was on my own for the second half of the night.

Going through the back of the club put you directly on the beach. I dodged couples making out to sit on a sand ledge facing the ocean. The wind was strong that night, my friends. I closed my eyes and placed my hands on the sand behind me. This is the type of moment that is enhanced with a girl, I thought. Not two minutes later, a random girl I never met before did show up. She sat right next to me.

She was alright looking. Maybe a 6.5 out of 10. Cute but not hot. In bad English she asked me where I was from. I told her and then she said she was from Brazil. Then she gave me this lazy look and glanced at my lips. If you’re a guy, you know what I’m talking about. It took less than 30 seconds for us to start making out on this sand ledge. I guess all those things they say about Brazilian girls are true.

We went back inside and I bought a round of Polar Ice beers (a dollar each). This girl is dancing in front of me as I’m sitting down enjoying my beer. Then she asks me where I’m staying. I had a $50 a night apartment with its own bedroom and kitchen, luxurious by Venezuelan standards. She asked me if I wanted to go back to my place.

Now this concerned me. I’ve had girls move fast on me before but this is exceptionally fast. And she is from Brazil, a land known for its casual prostitution. I told her that I wanted to hang out at the bar a little longer because I like the music. If she saw me as a potential client, I wanted her to get discouraged and move onto easier fish. But if she wasn’t a prostitute, she wouldn’t mind hanging out for a bit longer. I got a second beer and we hung out for another 30 minutes.

Once I knew her for an hour, I concluded that she definitely was not a prostitute. I was ready. “Why don’t we go back to my place?” I said. She agreed, and we walked there. Inside I gave her a tour of the apartment that ended in my bedroom. I went to the kitchen to get some water and to put my cash in the refrigerators butter compartment—just in case she tried to rob me after I went to sleep.

Things progressed quickly in the bedroom. Within 10 minutes we were both completely naked. My condom use can best be described as a hair short of full safety compliance, but with this girl there was no fucking way I’m getting near her without one. She didn’t look that clean anyway.

I put on a condom and got ready to make big penetration. Then she said something which has been permanently etched into my brain, Brazilian accent and all.

“Pay me.”

Part 2: Live and Learn


Basic Travel Tips & Links

I’ve received a few emails from people my age asking for some travel advice. I’m posting this one because it has some helpful links for everyone.

To plan trips I used to go to the bookstore and grab the travel books and sit there and read them. I don’t know if you have tried this but it’s pretty useless in trying to find places you think are good. There really is no travel guide written for the single young guy. I tried the internet too but it’s mostly just advertisements and general info that the travel books have.

So that leaves two real sources of decent info:

1. People you know, who know you and what you would like.

2. Message boards, with opinions that are more honest and current.

Some sites I use…

BootsnAll Travel Forum
Road Junky – i read this regularly
Hostel reviews
FlyerTalk Forum
Couch Surfing – myspace for travelers
WikiTravel Guides – dry but free

You may be reduced to picking a major city you like and just winging it. Once you get there it will be much easier to find things to do because you only have to ask the locals.

As for travel tips, my main one is to keep your schedule as free as possible. Don’t reserve more than your first couple nights of rooms and don’t buy any bus/train tickets in advance. Once you get to the location, you will find out about things you can do and you want to be as free as possible to change your schedule.


In other travel news, it took me about six hours but I was finally able to get a custom map installed that keeps track of my whereabouts. When I post from down there, all I have to do is attach my longitude and latitude coordinates and a marker automatically shows up here. Then you can click on a post from that location. 😎

Only In America

Sunny Lane is a porn actress, which means she gets paid to have sex with random men on camera. Her career is managed by her parents, who are very pleased that their daughter is famous and making money.

XXX Family Values (work safe)

For them, Sunny’s co-stars are her “dates,” and they say they’d rather her have sex on a porn set than with a “civilian” who might eventually break her heart.

I agree. It’s much better for a girl to get fucked by hundreds of large cocks than to try for the kind of relationship that resulted in her existence. This type of thing only happens in cultures where money and fame is believed to be more important than qualities like self-respect and humility. My brothers in Afghanistan would agree that this would never happen over there.

I’m not mentioning this story because it’s shocking or surprising, but to show that certain outcomes follow naturally from their corresponding beliefs. Next thing you know they’ll have porn movies with mothers and daughters sharing the same guy.

Dragonfly Is Closing

Rumor has it that Dragonfly, my favorite lounge/club/whatever, is closing on Sunday or Wednesday. My 5 Washington DC Bars For Men post is already obsolete.

I’m surprised because judging by the Saturday night crowds it didn’t seem like they were hurting for business. Someone told Virgle Kent said they are turning it into a boat shop.


Postscript: I went there Saturday night and they will indeed be closed after Sunday (May 27). The management of Fly lounge is taking over and is turning it into a water-themed venue that will be called Current or Wave. Just what we need: another “exclusive hotspot” that only cares about table service.

Postscript 2: Another source claims management will be from Play, and that the new club will open early fall.


My Dad has a special dining room chair that only he can sit in. The regular chairs are plain, old, and without ass cushioning, but my Dad has a fancy chair with a large cushion and a carved design on the back. It’s a few inches higher than all the other dining room chairs. His wife (my stepmom) bought it for his birthday.

When my Dad comes home from work around 5PM or so, the house is clean and a pot of tea is ready for him. He drinks his tea and plays with the kids or reads the paper while my stepmom cooks dinner. She cooks dinner at least five nights a week, and during those nights my Dad doesn’t enter the kitchen except to get a glass of water. He doesn’t do any cleaning either, and even if he wanted to there is nothing to do by the time he gets home. Everything she does is to make his life as comfortable and relaxing as possible, setting up a pleasant environment for him to continue providing for her and the kids.

The concept of “me time” is foreign to her; it’s family time twenty-four hours a day. It’s hard even for me to imagine her asking my Dad to watch the kids while she goes out with friends. It doesn’t happen and I don’t think it ever will. If she wants to go out, the kids are going with her.

When I cook my own meals, my stepmom likes to clean up after me as I’m still cooking. I’ve had to fight with her many times to not do my dishes, but she does it anyway. And even if I clean up my own dishes, she thanks me. “Back in Iran, the man doesn’t do any cleaning,” she says to me. She was taught this from a young age. American public schools have taught me to clean up after myself so it feels weird that someone else wants to clean up my mess instead. Well it did feel weird but I’m quickly getting used to the Iranian way of doing things.

I know what you are wondering. “Is she is happy?” I can tell you with very high confidence that she is extremely happy. For a woman who grew up in a small Iranian town, coming to America, marrying a stable provider, and having two healthy children is like hitting the jackpot. I’m sure that there are women here who hit the American jackpot of marrying filthy rich that are much more unsatisfied than my stepmom. Living in a townhouse and driving a four-year-old Toyota to Ikea is the pinnacle of life to her. Imagine that.

In this country there are 17-year-olds whose parents have given them more material wealth than some of us will ever get to see. They have a “family” credit card and live in an upper middle-class McMansion that they travel from in a new car they received for their sweet sixteen birthday. When you have more than 99.5% of what other human beings have before you even start work, your view of life becomes distorted. In creeps entitlement and poor work ethic that affects your consumer habits (nothing is truly valued), how you view fun and pleasure (it can be bought), and how you approach human relationships (people are disposable).

My Dad has been hinting that he wants to return to Iran, but my stepmom keeps telling me how she doesn’t want to go back because she loves life here. Happiness is relative, based on perspective and expectation—thinking too much is detrimental to happiness. Besides, you’ll just hurt your head (existential depression is considered a medical condition). I doubt my stepmom wonders about those bigger questions of life. Are the kids fed? Is the house clean? Is the spouse happy? Is there food and shelter? Then life is great. But for a lot of my peers and countrymen, that simply is nowhere close to being enough.

Roosh Pregnancy Test

I’m inventing a new home pregnancy test because I’m not satisfied with the ones on the market. Right now all the pregnancy tests are 99% accurate, which is way too accurate. I want there to be serious doubt if the test comes back positive to buy me some extra time to search for cheap one-way fares to a different country. The defining moment of my life should not come to me in a plastic tube brought from CVS pharmacy.

Introducing the Roosh Pregnancy Test ™, with an 80% accuracy rating.


With the Roosh Test, if it comes back positive there is a whopping 20% chance that your life is not ruined. That’s a pretty good chance! Therefore there is no reason to stress out if there is a positive result. Until you do find out the true result, make a couple simple life changes to represent your renewed outlook on life, like moving and changing your phone number and birth name.

But how about false negatives, you may ask, when the test comes back negative but the girl is actually pregnant? Let’s take a closer look at the numbers. If the test comes back negative, there is a huge 80% chance that it’s correct and she is really not pregnant. If you went to a casino and I could guarantee an 80% winning chance on a roll of a die, would you take the bet? Of course you would. There is only a 20% chance it is wrong and you are in fact screwed, which is pretty damn small, but not so small that if it came back positive you need to start calling abortion clinics.

A man’s psychology is such that he needs to be eased into life-changing events. And that’s what my inaccurate pregnancy test does, coating his brain with wonderful doubt and inoculating him against the big revelation that would put a halt to his correct lifestyle.

No Escape

For the past two months I’ve been trying really hard to slow things down and not view women as pieces of meat, to just enjoy their company and not always try to bang them quickly. But no matter how hard I try, just knowing I have the ability to make something happen is enough for me to make it happen.

I met a girl at a bar and talked to her for maybe five minutes before I had to leave to catch the Metro. I have been telling myself I was done with numbers but she was cute and Venezuelan so I got it. Besides, I’m going to South America and it will be useful to pick her brain.

On the phone I found out that she is going back home in four days for several months. By the time she returns I will most likely be gone. A girl doesn’t give you her number with one week left if she’s not trying to bang, but I’m done with this casual banging, I said to myself. “How about ice cream?” Just for one hour, to talk.

Man, that night was chilly for ice cream. “Do you want to get a drink instead?” I said. Of course she wanted to. Once we started drinking that sangria I was put into situation that I’m all too familiar with. The auto-pilot switch went on. It starts with touching first, her hands, her arm, barely brushing her legs with mine, then a couple of stories (true stories of course) that indirectly display qualities that she probably wants in a man. Hours pass.

The more time she spends with me, the more my tentacles have a hold on her and the weaker she will get. Yeah, initially she was sitting there in a bar, mostly sober, thinking logically about how she’s not a slut and won’t fuck some guy she just met, but things change.

When I walked her home, I remember she told me earlier in the night that her rooftop has a good view of the Washington Monument and Capitol. Whether she said that purposefully or by accident, I’d be stupid not to use it. “How about you show me that view you were talking about? I can’t stay for very long though.” The time-constraint line came out without conscious thought on my part, just like how you can throw a ball in the air and calculate its mathematical trajectory without thinking of numbers or equations.

Girls can be so full of shit. She’s telling me before how she is going to be busy before she leaves, but then after rooftop moves all of a sudden she’s pretty free the next three days. You can’t go wrong if you ignore everything a woman says and just follow her body language and actions and do what you had in mind.

The way I interact with women has more or less turned into a program. If this, then do that. With any situation that comes up I access a prior experience that helps me determine the best next move, like the Deep Blue chess program would do. It sounds technical and robotic but when you are doing this in the flesh it’s more like art: the girl is digging you and you got this goal you are trying to fulfill and you have no idea how it’s going to turn out. No two girls talk, kiss, or touch the same, and the pathway to bang ends up differently. The guys who are successful with the game are the least robotic because they can quickly adapt to different environments and girls. They have many different ways of getting to the same thing. I understand how the phrase “art of seduction” came about.

So I’m not going to mess with my before sex game. I’m not going to try to get to know girls better and see them as amazing creatures if there is strong physical attraction. As I found out over sangria, my brain won’t allow myself to make an evolutionary backwards step by artificially lengthening the time it takes to get girls into bed. If she’s trying to get banged, she will get banged. We’ll go with the flow (more like rapids) and have at least one memorable night.

More Flags

Had a couple interesting questions about the flag metric that I wanted to discuss. But first, what is a notch? The most objective answer would be when the plane of the vagina is broken. This means any depth of insertion. Everything else is subjective. If a guy told me his latest notch was when he put it in one inch, I’d roll my eyes but I would not dispute his notch.

I remember a friend telling me his girlfriend had the belief that sex with a man doesn’t count until he ejaculates. Every woman seems to have a different definition that would make the notch count mostly meaningless. The standard definition isn’t perfect, but at least you know, at the minimum, what happened.

Onto flag questions:

“How about if she moves to America at 10 years old from her birth country and is basically American?”

If we go by our objective definition, we’d count that flag. This is one of the downsides of the flag metric that will boost every guys’s count by a couple flags. But notch count has its own problem where even those hogs you’ve banged have equal footing with your more respectable encounters.

It’s impossible to draw the line and figure out how old is old enough to be flag worthy. How about if she moved here when she was one-day old? Well just like with the one-inch penetrator I’d roll my eyes, but I would not dispute it.

“How about if a girl was born in Madagascar to American parents, and then moved back to this country at a young age?”

This is where I tell you to stop thinking about situations that are going to be uncommon for 95% of men. Again, if you want to count that as a Madagascar flag then fine but you are beginning to shit on the spirit of this concept.

So we’ve got the notch, cost per notch, and flags as objective, though flawed, indicators of game tightness. In addition, hanging out with the guy for several nights and viewing a sampling of photos of the girls he has banged would paint a much clearer picture of his game.

I’ve also thought of cost per bang (CPB), which is your total dating expenditures divided by total sex encounters. I haven’t touched this one because betas in serious relationships would probably compete very well with even the most supreme of players. If you do test it out though, I recommend you count a series of bangs in a continuous encounter (for instance a nighttime date that turns into a next afternoon exit) as one “bang.”

John Rambo

This first video shows how much information our brain processes without us consciously knowing it. Some filmmaker sets up two marketing guys with a challenge to come up with a campaign for a taxidermy chain. The end result is creepy.

The Rambo sequel is coming out in 2008 but there is a 3-minute trailer floating around…


Holy shit I gotta see that.

I really dig the one-man army movies because there is a part of me that longs to be that bad ass than can kill everyone without being seriously injured. Take note of the brutal but necessary ways that Rambo disposes of the Burmese scum, including the bare hand neck claw move. And you know he’s going to bang that chick. Every now and I need to watch a movie that regresses me into my true primal state.

The Flag Metric

We need a new metric in addition to the notch count that correlates more strongly to game, but one that, as I mentioned yesterday to be useful, is “measurable, objective, and easily tracked over time.” The reason why guys ask other guys “Bang any new girls lately?” as opposed to “So how is your female happiness going?” is because the latter is too subjective and dependent on individual factors.

Your flag count is the number of countries you have slept with. If you sleep with a girl who was born in another country, that’s a flag. If you sleep with two girls from the same country, that’s still one flag. It’s not good enough if her ancestors are from another country because in that case an American flag might as well also be German, Irish, British, or Dutch.

For example, if I have sex with a girl born in Greece, two girls born in Poland, one from Colombia, and a ton from the United States, I have four flags. Most American guys have flags in the low single digits while some of my multilingual friends are in the high single digits. I have only met two men who are in the double digits, including the Italian traveler of average stature who introduced me to this concept in a Spanish hostel. While prolonged travel is not a prerequisite for a high flag count, it seems to help (maybe unfairly so to the point where this metric is gamed).

Flags are more telling of your game skill because you are having sex with girls that have different and usually more conservative cultural beliefs and norms. Being desirable to women from several countries signifies more game than being desirable to the same type of girl from the same locale. Abercrombie & Fitch guys who abuse pomade have a lock on the American blondes, but unless they are especially good-looking their game has trouble adapting and conforming to girls from other countries. And an American flag is the least valuable because American girls, from my experience, are the easiest in the world. European guys drool on American girls overseas not necessarily because they are exotic but because tales of their promiscuity have arrived long before they flew in.

If a guy tells you he has 30 notches but 2 flags, chances are he found a niche for which he is exploiting. It is possible he is a one trick pony. There is no crime in that at all, but his specific niche may not be able to teach you anything. His advice could be like Leonardo DiCaprio telling you that to get laid all you have to do is be yourself and wear nice clothes. But if a guy tells me he has 15 notches but 6 flags, I’ll make the safe assumption that his diverse banging is probably not the result of a golden goose.

Keep in mind the only way to really identify a guy’s game is to observe him in action over a prolonged period of time, which means that unless he is a close acquaintance you will have to always be skeptical and see if his game advice and stories at least somewhat correlates with your own experience. Without experience though, you will have very little ability to separate truth from fiction.

Everything that is worth exploring has been explored, but flags can serve as a modern man’s way of tapping into the exotic unknown and pushing himself when notches no longer can. If there are two girls in front of me who are mostly equal, I gotta go with the one who gives me the flag.