Let’s say you sit in front of a computer all day without talking to anyone. Then at 6pm, I ask you to go to a happy hour with a few opportunities to talk to women. How will your first couple of approaches go? Well, it’s likely you won’t even do an approach. Your mind will not be primed for social interaction because the testosterone draining effects of computer work put your dick to sleep. You’ll come up with fancy excuses to not even try, like waiting until the weekend.

Now let’s say you did a different routine. You lifted weights in the morning, setting a personal record on the bench. At lunch time, you went to Barnes & Noble and picked up a magazine with bikini babes, giving you a 25% boner. You then did two approaches that went okay but didn’t result in a number. Once back at work, you had a five minute chat with the slutty HR gal, catching glimpses of her cleavage. At your desk you took breaks every 30 minutes to explore deep fantasies of sex. Then as soon as you got off work, you called a friend and talked about the approaches you did at lunch.

If you were to hit that happy hour now, do you think things would be different?

In Lublin, Poland there was a club with a ladies night on Wednesday. This is how I prepared for it:

• I nurtured my morning boner by thinking of girls I’ve had sex with in the past, but I didn’t masturbate.
• I forced myself to do my one approach of the day.
• I went to the coffee shop in the mall that is right next to a popular clothing store for teenage girls. I got a seat where I had a clear view of all the female clientele.
• I stared, lustfully, at the pretty girls coming and going.
• I did an additional approach after coffee shop time.
• I hit the gym and leered at girls wearing tight aerobic clothing.

When I went to the ladies night club after doing all this, my balls were ready to explode, even when rolling solo. My dick was my wingman. Sometimes my very first approach hit.

Consider an approach session to be a symphony that starts when you wake. The warmup gets you ready, the actual approaches are the climax of the movement, and finally your results (number, kiss, or bang) bring you back down to a hopefully satisfied mood. If the game starts with your first approach, then your warmup is garbage. You’ll be rusty with weak desire.

You know you’re doing it right when there is almost no anxiety when you start with the actual approaches. In fact, the approach is just a drop in the bucket within the entire process. It’s what you did before that first approach that will determine the bulk of your success.

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Hello, young Ukrainian girl. I saw you from across the street and then timed my trajectory and gait to intersect with you somewhere in front of this kiosk. I have much experience with such casual run-ins, so you probably didn’t notice what I was doing, though rest assured I nearly cracked opened a physics textbook to get such collisions down perfectly.

From a far distance, with the sun in my face, you looked quite pretty, but now that we are talking only three feet apart, I’ve noticed some troublesome flaws.

Your eyebrows are overly groomed. They are thin with hairs so short that I can see the skin behind them. You have also sculpted an arch that makes you seem in a state of sudden surprise.

Your eyelashes are fake. They look like thin fish netting that has been dipped in cheap acrylic paint. The attachment goes beyond your eyelids, making me wonder if you want everyone to know that they are not of human origin.

You have so much makeup on that I imagine it would be dangerous for you to give a hearty laugh. Like fissures that appear on the ground after a large earthquake, I can see breaks around your mouth when you gave a slight smile to my joke about needing to find a supermarket as big as a soccer field. If I put a plaster cast on your face, I doubt it would feel different compared to what you have on right now.

You lipstick is bright red, yet your teeth are discolored and crooked. I can’t complain much since my teeth aren’t perfect either, but the contrast of blood red and tea brown is jarring. It’s best not to force attention to one of your weaknesses.

Your nails are fake. I can tell since the nail surface rises far above the level of your cuticle. Fake nails aren’t so bad, but it sure is awkward when they come off in bed, as if you are coming apart.

Your hair color is not that blonde. I can easily see it in your dark roots. It looks like you haven’t colored in twelve days.

I commend you for taking your appearance seriously. You deserve an award for turning your 5 rating into what many guys with less experience than me would give an 8. I can only imagine how perfect your photos on VK are, especially after asking Ivan your beta orbiter to touch them up a bit with his pirated copy of Photoshop. But you just don’t do it for me, because your aesthetic is fake, with no anchor to truth and reality. You’re a billboard advertising for a product that doesn’t live up to its stated benefits, and I know I will be asking for my money back after my mind sees through your cosmetic mask.

Your false aesthetic should be enough to please some man out there, but not me. I insist on real beauty. Beauty for beauty’s sake. I’ve learned that a girl who is wearing a lot of makeup surely can not be beautiful, because why would she spend hours covering her beauty? Makeup precludes beauty. In sparing amounts it can only compliment it like a snug t-shirt does on the body of an athletic man, yet the t-shirt alone, regardless of what it costs or what design is on it, can not elevate the aesthetic of a frail man.

Consider the grotesqueness if we put a New York skyscraper in the city of Siena:

The beauty of the skyscraper depends on its environment, on what lies beside it. Your fake eyelashes, nails, and eyebrows are like constructing skyscrapers in a pleasant village that is dotted with apple trees and spacious pastures for grazing sheep. Your natural beauty is not New York City, so please don’t take on its artifacts.

I know you don’t care about what I think of you, because next month I’ll see you holding hands with a man who doesn’t mind the special effects that is your appearance, but as a connoisseur of the aesthetic, I seek the real thing. I believe all men should.

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Patricia woke up not when her body was ready to wake but when her smartphone, which she lays to bed beside her every night, vibrated and chimed with a text message from Madison reminding her of the lunch they would have later that Saturday afternoon. Her eyes began adjusting to light coming from her phone’s screen instead of the sun, to Facebook and Instagram updates of the amazing experiences her friends had the night before. She was more than excited when she noticed four new messages on Facebook, but quickly realized they were from losers. She let out a “lame” under her morning breath before getting out of bed, phone in hand.

She didn’t want to eat a large breakfast since she knew she would be having a fattening lunch later in the day with Madison at the new restaurant that was the buzz of all the local blogs—blogs she was now catching up on after preparing a small meal of two toaster pastries, banana, probiotic yogurt, and three pieces of artisanal dark chocolate. There on the center of her kitchen table was the biography of Steve Jobs, and if you look closely you can see a fine layer of dust on the cover. She received it as a gift, and though she read the first 16 pages with enthusiasm, she got distracted with something else and never picked it up again. She felt no loss for failing to read the book because her extensive blog reading and magazine browsing must surely surpass the depth and wisdom contained in the autobiography of only one man. A book, unlike her favorite blogs, also didn’t allow her to leave witty comments that other people could give her recognition for in the form of upvotes.

She arrived on time to lunch and greeted her friend Madison with “You look amazing!” The two other standard greetings she uses are “You look great!” and “Oh my god where did you get that—it’s so cute!” where the that would usually be an article of clothing or piece of cosmetic jewelry. There were two seatings that took place; first their bodies, on a square table besides the open kitchen that draws attention from patrons whenever a little fireball erupts from the grill area, and the other seating was for their phones, which they both placed to the right of their appetizer plate and silver utensils.

Their menu browsing was interrupted with snippets of their Friday night, each girl teasing with small details that would be explained more fully after ordering. Every minute one would ask the other, “What are you getting?” and the other would invariably respond, “I don’t know, what are you getting?” followed by a detail such as, “Did you see Josh recently? He lost a lot of weight!” The girl who did not see Josh pulled out her phone to find a recent photo of him on Facebook that confirmed his improved appearance.

Madison noticed there was a typo in the menu. She followed her gut instinct, which was to take a picture and then tweet it to her two favorite foodie blogs and the restaurant’s Twitter account with the text “Still working out the kinks?” She expected her discovery to get many responses but three minutes later, after their meals were ordered, there were no retweets or replies and she was surprised, because the typo was obvious and this was supposed to be a serious restaurant, opened by a chef of a famous food truck that sold Mexican cupcakes with avocado sprinkles that were locally sourced. It wasn’t uncommon to hear people using their entire lunch hour just to wait in line and buy a few cupcakes as part of the combo special that came with a bag of nachos and pumpkin salsa.

It’s around this time that the full recap of the Friday night would be expected, two continuous stories with a start and end, but it resembled more a staccato, bits and pieces that I was hard-pressed to connect to the whole. Madison was more enamored with the place settings than the story of Patricia getting into an argument with a guy at the bar who asked her for a “female opinion” on something fashion related. Madison took two photos of the table layout, selected the one she liked most, applied a retro filter to make it look more distinguished, added seven different hashtags that were various spellings of the restaurant, and then uploaded it to Instagram. It took a little longer than she liked to upload and she said “Come on” twice while Patricia browsed through her phone so she wouldn’t appear to have nothing to do while waiting for her friend to finish with her art hobby.

Patricia didn’t feel like taking photos at the moment. Instead she launched an app that would blast a status update to all her social networks. She sent the following: “Having an awesome time with Madison at the new place!” Indeed, they were having an awesome time, mostly because they could share it in real time with the entire world.

The food arrived, presented beautifully on large plates with squigglies of unknown sauce going outward like heat rays a child would leave on a drawing of the sun. Both phones were out now, taking pictures from different angles. It took a few minutes for each of them to get their shots just right since the lighting was less than optimal, but post-production app filters were up to the task and produced beautiful photos that they girls couldn’t upload fast enough.

Patricia uploaded just two photos of her dish, a Cobb salad, with the colorful ingredients arrayed beside each other like bags of spices in the Indian market she buys naan bread from. Madison, coming to the realization that this day would be special, created an album with the date and uploaded four photos of her Angus burger on brioche bun that was topped so high a horse wouldn’t be able to take a bite. She ate it not unlike Patricia’s salad, picking at the vegetable ingredients until she decreased its height enough where she could replace the top bun and finish it off in the normal style of eating a burger, exclaiming “This is so good” a total of six times.

Dessert was shared between them, a large piece of chocolate cake, and Patricia got the creative idea of taking a picture of Madison when a spoonful of cake was approaching her mouth. It would have been a better photo, in my opinion, if Madison removed her oversized sunglasses, but she partied hard the night before and didn’t want people to see her sagging eyes, which would suggest she’s upset or not having fun, when the truth is that she was having—like I already mentioned—an awesome time. After the cake was finished, there was a full seven minutes of conversation when neither operated their phones, but glances were stolen at their respective devices, and with no new notifications in such a prolonged period of time, Patricia thought that she lost signal and compulsively turned on the screen. The signal was full strength. Three more minutes went by before she got a like on the status update she sent earlier, but it was from Cody, who was really creepy the other month when he displayed skepticism that free birth control should be a basic human right for women.

The most passionate part of their lunch date was when the check came and they debated how much tip should be left. The service was acceptable, but at one point Madison had no water and she had to flag the waiter to come, going so far as twisting her torso in an unnatural position to locate where the waiter could possibly be. It seemed unnecessarily difficult, she argued, and convinced Patricia to levy a 5% tip penalty from the standard 20%. (Later that night, Madison went on Yelp and left a 3 out of 5 star review, citing the poor water service and menu error as reasons that the restaurant “still had a ways to go.” She added a joke, hoping it would get “Funny” likes, but she only got two “Useful” likes instead.)

They left the restaurant and—I don’t know who came up with the idea first—agreed to take a picture in front of the main entrance. It was their luck that the name of the restaurant could easily be seen. Patricia asked a male passerby to snap the photo. He was more than happy to do so, but Madison began to get anxious because what if Patricia forgets to upload the photo? She didn’t want the opportunity to pass because she may never come back to this restaurant again after the poor service, so she asked the man to take the same photo with her phone. The man happily obliged. He hung around an extra twenty seconds longer than necessary and then thankfully went away without bothering the girls. He wasn’t good-looking.

It was time to walk off the meal by checking out the Old Town shopping center a half-mile away. Only three pictures were taken along the way and they considered buying a cupcake at a classic bakeshop but the line was too long and cupcakes are no longer in with the important foodie crowd that they considered themselves a part of. The Old Town was capably designed, they agreed, with a second level patio that oversaw a small fountain in the center of the complex. There wasn’t much else that I saw, but Patricia and Madison must’ve been moved because they excitedly took out their phones and got ready for picture taking on the patio that oversaw the little fountain. They believed that this moment must be captured with a camera sensor to not only be appreciated by their friends and beta orbiters, but also so they would never forget this special day for as long as they lived.

Patricia stood on the edge of the patio so Madison could take several shots (with Patricia’s phone, of course). Patricia examined each resulting image as soon as they were taken and grimaced each time, as if she was expecting a photo with an entirely different person than herself. After eight photos, she was finally pleased with one and then the process repeated with Madison, and then repeated again with both of them together thanks to the help of another male passerby, who was even more eager than the first. An extra “Thank you so much” was said to get him to buzz off. Not long after, in front of a Chinese restaurant, they stumbled on a display of an oversized Coca-Cola bottle, the classic bottle that can no longer be found in stores, and a handful of more pictures were taken beside it with exaggerated facial expressions.

From the beginning of their lunch date until the end, a total of 52 photos were taken. Sixteen of those photos would be uploaded to various sites to garner a total of 48 likes, comments, and retweets, including a comment from the restaurant, apologizing for the menu typo. Not a bad haul for a Saturday afternoon, Madison thought proudly. She realized that through her effort and ingenuity hundreds of people—no, thousands—would not have to endure an unprofessional typo in a restaurant menu.

Patricia had a date that evening to prepare for. It was a casual date with a man she met on OK Cupid, and though she was reluctant to go since she wasn’t horny (she was getting serviced twice a week by Brody, her ex-boyfriend), she had nothing else to do. She arrived 17 minutes late to be greeted by a man who seemed slightly less attractive than his rock climbing photos suggested. She felt cheated that he uploaded the best version of himself, and while he may be able to say the same of her, since it was obvious her photos were from a younger time when the stress of her studies didn’t allow for the dining experiences she has become a connoisseur of, he was just proud to get a date out of messaging god knows how many women.

He ordered a gimlet while she ordered a mojito that came in a unique glass. She took a picture of her drink and then left her phone on the table while her date put his away. The sun was starting to fade from its peak intensity, signifying the arrival of evening, and so the texts began pouring into her phone. She was polite, only catching a quick glimpse of who was contacting her when her phone’s screen would light for three seconds before fading back to black. Her date soldiered on with his life story, talking about his recent experience in the Peurvian mountains where he took ayahuasca and achieved spiritual enlightenment. He also remarked how he accumulated a vocabulary of 1,000 words in Quechua to learn important Andean wisdom from wise elders that has never been published in English. His story, however, could not compete with her phone. She responded to his prattle with a series of uh huhs while becoming more curious about the contents of her six unread text messages.

The anticipation reached a boiling point, not unlike when she was a young girl on her birthday and wrapped presents were shoved in front of her upon the ceremonial blowing out of the candles. Look, another pretty doll that she could play with for hours without worrying about anything else in the world, quieting her for such long periods that her parents would periodically get a feeling of panic that she wasn’t in the house. “I just have to check something real quick, sorry,” she said, then turned on her screen and scanned through the text messages that were waiting for her. One was from Brody, which was a pleasant surprise, since he didn’t usually contact her until Sunday evening. She decided to only answer the most important text message, the one sent by Madison, who asked how the date was going. She replied: “He’s so boring.. what time are we going to the club tonight? I want to wear my slutty dress.” She smiled as she typed this out with her thumbs, a smile that her date could not elicit from her no matter how hard he tried.

He suggested another round of drinks but she said she was tired and that she needed to get some rest from a hard week of work at the office. He was disappointed but not surprised, and when the check came he was pleased that she made a sincere offer to pay, but she actually had no money in her purse. He paid the bill and got a pleasant hug with Patricia’s breasts pressing slightly against him, completely unaware that his Monday evening “How was the rest of your weekend?” text would go unanswered. I could easily argue that the date was a waste of time for both, but Patricia didn’t see it that way. She got a free cocktail, a cool photo, and a fleeting string of conversation for her friends that would last at least 15 seconds and display how valued she was in the dating game, immediately followed by a comment about how there are no exciting men anymore, only boring ones who think doing hippie drugs, learning dying languages, or climbing mountains make them interesting.

Back at home, Patricia put on her favorite Nicki Minaj party mix and began getting ready for the club. She dressed in her Vegas outfit, the skimpy black top and skirt paired with heavy makeup and heels so high and uncomfortable that a full half-hour of the night would be spent complaining about them to anyone who would listen. While she didn’t look as good as two years ago, you couldn’t tell by increased amount of attention she was getting from men, even when she went out in sweatpants.

She stood in front of her bathroom’s mirror to take some self shots. This took a while to get right. The secret to a good self shot, she understood, was making it look completely natural as if the act of taking a photo next to the toilet bowl was a spontaneous event that came in a rare moment of artistic inspiration, when in actuality she has done this over a thousand times. I was impressed at how skilled she was at striking a pose that was the prettiest she could possibly look in spaces that rarely exceeded 84 square feet, with fluorescent lighting that would have easily highlighted her developing second chin had it not been for a precise 20 degree up-tilt of her head that didn’t decrease the brilliance of her blue eyes like a 25 degree tilt would. After fifteen minutes in the bathroom getting it just right, she raced out the door and mentally braced herself for all the idiots who would make unwanted sexual comments about her body, thinking she dressed that way to get attention instead of to feel confident about herself and who she was as a woman.

She and her crew, four strong, assembled at a lounge. There was such a flurry of ensuing activity that I had trouble keeping up with them. Guys were coming out from behind bushes, it seemed, to put in their attempt, and even Patricia began to feel threatened by the street harassment as she raced with her girls from one club to another, easily skipping the line for peasants and straight into the VIP where rich men with bottles of vodka and sometimes whiskey were waiting to pour whatever they wanted. Numbers were given to the cute and confident men and a couple of them were able to get up close to Patricia and sneak in brief kisses on her glossy lips. During all this the girls maintained death grips on their phones, usually in their left hands so they could party with their right. It would have been too risky to put their phones in their purse because the bass from the speakers would make it impossible to feel the little vibration of a “Where are you?!” text from a friend or a booty call text that would almost always start with the sentence “You out tonight?”

The fact that the girls were dancing with their phone didn’t reduce the fluidity of their gyrations or the rhythmic grinding on men’s crotches, and when a screen lit up from a new notification, even a minor one like an acquaintance not heard of in months being tagged in a photo, the dancing would stop for ten seconds and then commence again as if the interruption didn’t happen. The night wasn’t all joy, sadly, because Patricia forgot to recharge her phone midday, and now her battery level had sunk down to a perilous 14%. She couldn’t take any more photos with flash, which in the dark club essentially meant no more photography. Her night was on the verge of being ruined because her friends could record the exciting moments happening while she could only spectate.

In spite of the battery problem, which killed her phone not long after because of the irresistible urge to take just a few more group shots, the night was a raging success. Between the four girls, 266 photos were taken. Sixty-two would be uploaded, garnering 1,158 likes, comments, and so on, mostly from men. The girls gave out their number a total of 13 times, and 6 men were kissed. Patricia stumbled home alone and the first thing she did was plug in her dead phone into its charger. She patiently waited beside it to boot and then enjoyed the explosion of backlogged messages and notifications that came in all at once. They soothed her soul and validated her self-image as a popular girl in a big city.

She put her phone on silent then fell asleep, waking seven hours later. The first thing she did when she opened her eyes was reach for her phone, which lay beside her like it does every night, and already there was a text from one of the guys she met the night before. Who was it? She didn’t remember, and it didn’t much matter, because the photos, the texts, the likes, and the pleasant notification chime gave her more happiness than these men could provide for her. If you asked Patricia to forever give up her smartphone in order to meet the love of her life, the one in a billion man who would satisfy her both physically and emotionally for as long as she lived, and who would serve her like a queen until his last days, it wouldn’t take her even ten seconds to respond with a decision.

Three days later, the best self shot she uploaded had amassed 102 likes. It was a new record.

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When I first got to Eastern Europe, my standards were lower than what the market provided. I bought all the product available, a binge that coincided with doctor visits and antibiotic treatments. But each new notch increased my standards by just a tiny amount, until one day, standing in a plentiful, fully-stocked market, I did not make a purchase. The reason is that my standards overshot the local markets I found myself in.

I tried to drug myself with alcohol to make the market more appealing. It used to work in the past, but no longer. Even after many drinks, my brain knows true beauty. Only when my boner supplants my brain, when I walk around the market with a priapismatic erection that is not stimulated by the external, can I proceed with a transaction.

Please tell me how to go back to when my standards were lower, when I was not a machine for detecting aesthetic flaws in women, of spotting misshapen thighs, an extra dollop of adipose tissue over the stomach, eyebrows that weren’t properly groomed or even a voice one half octave too deep. When I look in the mirror, I see a physically flawed specimen, so why have I come to seek perfection? My brain demands it, and it is defeating my boner, putting me on the path of one day seeing sex as a biological nuisance instead of a pleasurable necessity.

Almost all women I’ve had sex with in the past I would have sex with today, but only on one condition: I wouldn’t have to put in a stroke of work. They would have come to me, touch me, disrobe, and then let me play with their bodies as I see fit. I would not put 10% of the original effort that allowed me to have sex with them in the first place. This must be the end of the player, when the development of his brain defeats the evolutionary demands of his penis, or is it the natural order of man, with the hyper-sexed player and his demands of neverending variety being the anomaly, the freak of nature?

The club is horrible and I want to leave. I pick the most beautiful girl in the venue, one who my brain liked, but she rejects me, not so softly. I can’t leave after having done just one approach—I can leave after two. I go through the motions on the girl next to me, cute but not extraordinary, just slightly above the mean of what I’ve had in the past. She likes me. She’s touching me, complimenting me. She is ready to do the work that I don’t want to do and so my brain allows me to proceed and I will have sex with her three days from now. Unless it’s easy or unless the girl in the top 0.01% of women I’ve seen in 25 countries and counting, I can’t seem to be bothered.

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A keystone habit is a habit that improves more than one area of your life with a ripple effect that goes way beyond its intended purpose. For example, weight lifting is a great keystone habit. While it does burn calories and increase the size of your muscles, it also increases your testosterone, encourages you to eat better, sharpens your mental focus, and increases your confidence level. If there’s one habit a guy should take on besides learning game, weight lifting is it.

But how about for game? Is there a keystone habit for those guys who want to focus on getting laid more? Is there a habit that has a positive ripple effect? To answer that question, I’ll first portray two different scenarios.

I.

For many years I had a habit of doing ten approaches when entering a club. It had two benefits. First, the warm-up was built-in. I don’t know any man who wasn’t mentally ready to approach girls within ten attempts. Second, it gives you enough opportunity to allow for success. If you want to get laid, and don’t hit upon a solid interaction within ten approaches, you’re either in the wrong place or using the wrong game. This habit does have a couple downsides: you tend to drink a lot of alcohol and the following day will be a write-off. It’s a decent habit, but not a keystone habit.

II.

In my second Polish trip, I decided on a new “habit”: no day approaches. I would only focus on writing during the day and not be distracted by the flesh. Instead, I went out only one night a week along with seeing two fuckbuddies on the weekend. My productivity skyrocketed—I never got so much work done before in my life, but my game went to total shit. My lone night out a week had me painfully rusty.

As much as I valued being productive, I want to be a player as much as a writer. At the same time, I didn’t want to return to a 10 approach per night habit. I needed a new habit.

One important feature of the keystone habit I forgot to tell you is that it should bring out the natural competitor within you. You should want to self-improve and set ever higher goals just by executing the habit. When you lift weights, for example, it’s only natural that you want to lift more weight and set personal records. You don’t need a trainer or coach to push you to lift more.

After some experimentation, I stumbled on a keystone habit for game: one approach a day. Sounds easy, right? It’s not. Imagine what it would take for you to approach one attractive girl every day:

• You’d have to put yourself in a public place where there is a selection of girls, possibly altering your daily routine in a drastic way.
• You’d have to maintain your appearance at top levels (can’t skip days shaving) and also regulate your mood to be social and positive.
• You’d have to get comfortable with day approaching.

I have taken on this habit and, by the time you are reading this, I have approached most days for the past four months, including one streak of 40 continuous days with at least one approach, in three different countries. To make sure I stick to the habit, I’ve taken on two enablers:

• I have an account with Don’t Break The Chain. Every day I experience a reward of clicking the calendar to add another day to my streak.
• I deny myself a trip to my beloved coffee shop unless I do the approach first. No approach, no cappuccino.

Understand that there are absolutely no exceptions if you decide to take on this habit. It doesn’t matter if you’re sick, if you have a date, just got laid, or are traveling. You must approach a girl who acknowledged your existence (blow outs are fine), or else it doesn’t count.

What will happen is that you wake up with a bit of weight on your shoulders that doesn’t get lifted until you do your first approach. When you combine it with some sort of pleasure withdrawal (e.g., no cappuccinos), you’ll want to do your approach early to “get it out of the way.” Sometimes it’s just a throwaway approach on a girl you’re not even that attracted to, or an approach you end prematurely because you simply don’t want to talk. But something interesting happens. After your first approach, which will probably not go well, you get in the mood. You’ll want to redeem yourself. The natural competitor in you comes alive and wants to succeed, to do better than an approach that didn’t even last 30 seconds.

If my first approach bombs, I often think, “Nah, I ain’t going out like that.” Then I do another, without much mental effort. Approaching begets approaching, and the biggest barrier is simply the first approach of the day. What is originally designed to make you approach 7 girls a week will turn to 20 without any extra strain on your part.

An additional side benefit to this habit is that it will positively change your lifestyle. If you live in the suburbs right now, you’ll have to go to a mall to get your approach in. It may take you an hour for transport alone, but this gives you a taste of how important location is to have a lifestyle where you are around women. I wouldn’t be surprised if after a while you start thinking of outright moving to a location where it’s easy to do your daily approach. If you live in a city where you can’t even do one approach a day, then you have much bigger problems than meeting women.

My favorite benefit, however, is that I’m always on. One approach a day is just enough so that if I see a girl I like, anywhere at any time, there is no mental fight to do the approach. There is no barrier I have to overcome, no self-doubt that tells me to wuss out, and no “alright let’s get ready to approach!” psych-up talk. I’ve forgotten how it’s like to be rusty.

Take a look at this list:

• Increased testosterone
• Bigger muscles
• Higher confidence
• Better eating
• Sharper focus
• Better sleep
• Less approach anxiety and hesitation
• Tighter game
• Less dependency on alcohol for talking to women
• More interactions with women

If you told me that the benefits in this list could be achieved from two habits: lifting three times a week and one approach a day, I’d say you were lying. But it’s the truth. Tomorrow when you wake up, I want you to figure out how you’re going to do one approach. Just one. Then the day after that, I want you to do another approach. And then keep going. If one day you have a horrible fever, you’ll have to do your approach on the way to the pharmacy. If you got a date, you’ll have to arrive earlier and do it on the street. There are no exceptions. It’s a tough habit, but you’ll be more than pleased at the results.

I forgot to mention one of the best benefits of approaching once a day: you get laid more. On the eighth day of starting this habit, I met a  20-year-old Polish girl at the coffee shop that I had sex with a few days later. She was the first approach of the day, and the funny thing is, I wasn’t even in the mood.

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1. Her commitment to a seduction

Problem:

The best type of game to run leans on the aloof side. Girls want a challenge, no matter where you are in the world, but how distant and aloof can you be until you start to lose her? How much effort is she willing to put in before finally giving up and moving on?

My Initial Take:

When I was in Argentina, I quickly learned that a girl will release you back into the wild much easier than an American girl. She will not spring back at you when you withdraw attention. I remember one night I was in a Buenos Aires club, flirting with an Australian girl, when I got annoyed at her and walked away. Not one hour later, she sought me out, something than an Argentine girl would never do.

American girls put in the most amount of work for a guy they like, to the point of desperation. They will send repeated texts or just ask the guy on a date outright. You can be extremely aloof—even disrespectful and insulting—and the girl will still come into you. In Eastern Europe, this is not the case. The aloof line of demarcation is closer to Argentina than America. Not responding to one of their texts can be a grievous error that you may not be able to recover from. Even though her attraction for you is high, and she has no other cock in her lineup, she will be much more reluctant to chase you if she feels you are withdrawing from her.

Future Work:

I need to experiment with girls I have had sex with via dating (not one-night stands). This means that her attraction for me is relatively solid. With these girls I will need to play around with my text reply times or not be in a hurry to ask them out, just to see if they will make moves to gain my favor. My instinct tells me that in Eastern Europe, I have to continually lead the interaction.

2. Receiving advice from other men

Problem:

For men who get laid with 5s and 6s, how applicable is their game advice for men who want to bang 9s? If I’m in Romania, studying Romanian women, and I meet a man who bangs a new 6 every night, should I listen to his advice?

My Initial Take:

I respect the man who has banged a hundred 4′s. The sheer act of sealing the deal on a woman of any attractiveness takes salesmanship and commitment. This chubby chaser can have advice that helps men who want to bang higher talent. For example, his logistics game could help when trying to bang your 9. Nonetheless, it would be a mistake to duplicate his game. As I’ve gone up in quality over the years, I’ve had to adjust my game in all areas. The fact that average girls use their sexuality to attract men in ways that 9′s don’t immediately tells you that’s a different ballgame. Sometimes it feels like a different sport entirely.

I wrote Bang to get with an American 7. The book has done well because in America, a 7 is close to the high average. But banging model or actress quality requires a different set of tools that very few men in the world have, especially men in America who don’t even see 9′s thanks to the aesthetic de-evolution ravaging the country. For this reason, I mostly ignore all game advice from all men, unless I know that that man specifically goes after girls I want. Otherwise, I’m in my workshop with no choice but to re-invent the wheel for the environment I’m in.

Future Work:

The men who are banging 9′s are not pick-up artists who use copy/paste material—they are men of status who have coveted access to these women. It would be ideal to befriend such a man and dissect his life to see what could be modeled. The problem is that this is more of a structural and lifestyle game than verbal game, and would likely take years to iron out. For you to have this issue, I imagine you would have been in the game for several years and a notch count well over 100. I consider it an “International Player Problem.”

3. When conversations end

Problem:

You’re in a night venue and approach a girl. You get into a conversation that lasts five minutes and suddenly she leaves with an excuse to dance with her friends. Did you do something wrong? Why would a girl end a conversation that she seemed initially interested in?

My Initial Take:

This issue has perplexed me for years because it brings up a lot of difficult questions related to attraction and how it is perceived by the girl. If you approach a girl and get rejected off the bat, it’s because she didn’t like your look, vibe, or opening line. But if you approach and she talks to you with open body language, that means those three components are agreeable to her. In other words, she is actively considering you for sex, and is now going to see if this positive first impression is matched by your personality, background, and value.

I’ve recently decided to adopt the firm view that if a girl exits a conversation after five minutes, I completely blew it (unless she had a boyfriend). I lost out on a notch, displaying a quality that she didn’t like or a game that is not what she wanted. In other words, I’m interpreting her exit from an established conversation the same as a blow out. This is tough on the ego, because essentially you’re expanding the definition of rejection, but on the other hand it’s needed for me to achieve the next level of game wisdom. Accepting this view is allowing me to test a lot of assumptions I’ve made about game and what it takes to hook a girl and keep her hooked.

Future Work:

When a girl exits an established conversation, I meditate on what just occurred, especially the last minute—to examine the content of my speech and my body language. How did I respond (or not respond) to what she was giving me? Did I show too much interest? Did I miss a cue that she gave me? Every girl is different so what one girl would have banged you for is what another girl would reject you for.

This issue forces me to mentally pull up an idealized blueprint of the path to a girl’s panties within the first minute of a conversation. I have to draw upon all my experiences to very quickly identify the game she wants and then smoothly deliver it without making mistakes. This is no easy task, obviously, but once accomplished, I don’t know what further game mountain is left to climb.

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Let’s say you sit in front of a computer all day without talking to anyone. Then at 6pm, I ask you to go to a happy hour that will have a few opportunities to talk to women. How will your first couple of approaches go? Well, there’s a chance you won’t even take advantage of those opportunities. Your mind will not be primed for social interaction and the testosterone draining effects of computer work won’t even perk up your dick. You’ll come up with fancy excuses to not even try, or to wait until the weekend.

Now let’s say you did a different routine. You lifted weights in the morning, setting a personal record on the bench. At lunch time, you went to Barnes & Noble and picked up a magazine with bikini babes, giving you a 25% boner. You then did two approaches that went okay but didn’t result in a number. Once back at work, you had a five minute chat with the slutty HR gal, catching glimpses of her cleavage. At your desk you took breaks every 30 minutes to explore deep fantasies of sex. Then as soon as you got off work, you called a friend and talked about the approaches you did at lunch.

If you were to hit that happy hour now, do you think things would go differently? How would the first couple of approaches go?

In Lublin, Poland there was a ladies night on Wednesday. This is how I prepared for it:

• I nurtured my morning boner by thinking of girls I’ve had sex with in the past, but I didn’t masturbate.
• I went to the coffee shop in the mall that is right next to a popular girls clothing store. I got a seat where I had a clear view of all the female clientele. I stared, lustfully, at the pretty girls coming and going.
• I did one or two approaches in the mall after coffee shop time.
• I hit the gym and stared at girls wearing tight aerobic clothing.

When I went to ladies night, I was ready like a motherfucker, even when rolling solo. My dick was my wingman. Sometimes my very first approach hit.

Consider an approach session to be a symphony that starts when you wake. The warmup gets you ready, the actual approaches are the climax of the movement, and finally your results (number, kiss, bang) brings you back down to a hopefully satisfied mood. If you think the game starts with your first approach, your warmup is garbage. You’ll be rusty with desire that is too weak.

You know you’re doing it right when there is almost no anxiety when you start with the actual approaches. In fact, the approach is just a drop in the bucket in the entire process. It’s what you did before that first approach that will determine the bulk of your success.

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Day 1

The British girl I devirginized arrived to my hotel room with a carry-on bag. I was a bit surprised because we didn’t discuss her staying with me, but since I had no intention of going for other girls, I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t the first time that a girl weaseled a relationship escalation move on me. I’ll have to be more mindful of this in the future.

I hadn’t seen her in three months, so we got right down to sex. It was good. For the first time there were more moans of pleasure than screams of pain.

Day 2

While she was out for work, I explored the city and went to the coffee shop to work. She came home at 6pm and after a couple hours of relaxing in the room, we went to an Italian restaurant. She paid. After that she showed me around the center of her city, but it was touristy and not what I would have liked. We had a couple drinks at a bar. Then we came home and had sex.

Day 3

It was Saturday and in the morning we had sex. She previously disliked it when I hit from behind because it’s “impersonal,” but unprompted she turned over and assumed my favorite position. I went deeper than I ever have. Afterwards I asked her about her change of heart and she said, “I’m starting to like it more.” My sex training was starting to take.

For the first time I felt the urge to separate from her, but instead we had breakfast downstairs. We had more sex. I told her I “had” to get work done and that she was welcome to come with me to the coffee shop with a book. She got bored after an hour, as I expected, because no one has coffee shop endurance like I have, and went back to the room. I enjoyed this time alone and was reluctant to return.

I researched an area of town to go out. We took the subway and stumbled on a Belgian restaurant. Her eyes seemed more focused onto me than before. She knew that I was immediately going to Poland after my time with her.

“I enjoy our time together,” I said, “but knowing what happened last time I was in Poland, I think it’s best we take it one day at a time. Who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone here.”

After a long pause, she said, “I recently started dating someone. It’s early.” Her head bowed slightly. Now I know who she’s been texting on and off from the bed in between my orgasms (she herself has still not experienced an orgasm, as far as I knew).

I was actually pleased. I would feel no guilt with whatever choice I’d make with her. But I was curious: “How long have you been dating? Does he know you’re with someone else?”

“Not very long. He thinks I’m with an American girlfriend.”

We went to a bar, had a drink, then went back to the hotel room to have sex. Like always, we did not use condoms.

Day 4

She left early for a bridal dressing. I timed it so I would leave the hotel room right before she came back to maximize my time away. I went to drink with a couple guys. She texted me on and off, asking if I’m having a nice time and suggesting time points to meet, but I kept it vague and stayed out late. I returned drunk to the hotel room and unrobed her for sex.

When I was about to orgasm, I pulled out and said, “Open your mouth.” I put my dick in her face but she didn’t open. “Open, open!” I said, hurriedly, but her mouth remained closed. Then I came all over her face. I laughed and got her a towel. “I told you to open.”

Day 5

Today was her birthday. I gave her morning sex before she had to go to work, but this time she didn’t want to leave. She snuggled up next to me in a half-dressed state, wanting to talk when I just wanted to sleep. She made a move for my dick, but I denied her. I turned my head away when she wanted to kiss. “You’re going to be late for work!” I said. She left and I felt relieved that I had the next eight hours completely to myself.

I dreaded her return, but when it came I wasn’t entirely displeased. A part of me missed her companionship. For her birthday I took her to Pizza Hut since she told me she liked pizza. She was satisfied and we went back to the hotel room for more sex. Afterwards I told her that I could no longer perform. I never had so much sex in five days.

On my way to the shower, she said, “I have to make a call.”

“Is it the guy?” I asked, mockingly.

“Yes. Are you jealous?”

I laughed. “No, not at all.”

The next morning she insisted on driving me to the airport. As an extra birthday gift I gave her a near-full bottle of Absolut vodka that I had purchased at the airport duty-free shop.

She parked the car at the departure gate. I didn’t want to linger, quickly getting my bags and hugging her goodbye before the tears welling in her eyes fell. I gave her a kiss goodbye and made my way to the terminal, eager for round two of Poland.

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