On my site meter I can see how people visit my blog. Often times it’s from Facebook but I can’t always read what comments were written about it. One recent time I could. Here’s how my blog was introduced:
are you ready for this??? He’s a legend in his own mind. His hairy hairy mind.
Typical Roosh hater right? But then I look at the name. It’s a girl that I know. I don’t use my blog to settle scores (anymore), but since her friends are swinging by here I thought they’d want to hear another side of the story. This is a public service for them.
At the last happy hour a drunk girl comes up to me and says she loves my blog. She bought Bang, is writing about it for some academic paper, and is generally “fascinated” with me. She says that we met before a year ago at Dragonfly before it closed but I didn’t remember. I have a witness to her affections: Lemmonex was looking and laughing at her because she was so drunk and obvious.
I’m all about sex, of course, but she is drunk to the point of swaying and I was on my first drink. If I took that girl home it would have been rape, and I consider myself above rape. It was just a matter of time until she puked. I got her number knowing full well it’s likely I’ll never see her again.
A few minutes later she gets kicked out of the bar because she started smoking inside. The bouncer came up to me explaining why he’s kicking her out (“I couldn’t let it go… smoking has been banned for a year now”), but I tell him that she is not my girl and I don’t care what he does to her.
Ten minutes later I peek in front of the bar and there she is, waiting for me in the freezing cold. I go outside and tell her to go home but she says not leaving without me. I say no, but allow her to make out with me for five seconds. Then I go back to hosting the happy hour. I can only imagine how many guys tried to pick her off while she stumbled her ass home.
A couple days later we chat on the phone for a bit and agree to hang out. I put in the effort, if you want to call it that, because she was born in Saudi Arabia and I wouldn’t mind getting such a difficult flag out of the way. On the day of the date I call to confirm a time but she doesn’t return my call. So the drunk girl ended up flaking on me. I manage to find the strength to get over her.
I did want that Saudi flag but I wouldn’t have changed what I did on the night we met. If you saw her wrecked state then you would understand.
Fast forward two months. I’m at a bar with friends. One friend ends up talking to this girl for quite a while and later tells me that I know her. I look at her closely and it’s the blog groupie chick. I tell my friend the story, we have a laugh, and then I go on with my night talking to other girls. I don’t say hi or make eye contact with her, even though she was never more than a few feet away from me.
I’m talking to a girl with an ugly beret hat when the blog groupie chick, trashed like before, comes up and plays the same game. Her crotch is rubbing against the side of my thigh while I’m seated on a stool and she’s literally pawing at me. She goes on about Bang but is slurring her words, and it’s at that moment I understood what type of girl she was: while drunk you can do whatever you want with her, including ass to mouth, but while sober she is a worthless flake and a colossal headache. Again, it would be nice to have that Saudi flag, but I pass. May Allah (الله) be with the next guy who tries to ride that.
I tell her nicely to go back to her friends, but she doesn’t want to leave. I ignore her to talk to the beret chick, whose hat I took off because I wanted to see how she really looked. She was pretty and I decided to stick with that, but the groupie is still rubbing up her bits on me.
“Did you two used to date?” the beret chick asked. She was becoming extremely curious.
“Nope,” I said, and continued talking to her like there wasn’t this drunk girl oddly placed in our conversation.
The groupie was proofing me so hard that I could have replaced my game with reading out of a television manual. Other girls in the bar were blatantly staring.
Eventually it got old and I had enough. “Can you just GO AWAY! I don’t want to talk to you.” Sometimes with these girls you have to be firm. Finally the groupie chick gets the hint and leaves. By the end of the night she can barely stand and her friends have to hold her hand to walk through the bar. I felt sorry for her.
The next day she goes on Facebook and says I’m hairy and a legend in my own mind. I think the only mind who I’m a legend in is hers. If she ever sends me an update about how her academic paper about me is coming along I’ll let you guys know.
Then the bearded one in the middle busts out with this: “Do you like anal sex?” I squint. I’m confused. “Do you do anal?” he repeats, head bobbing with excitement. The litany continues. Do I want to take it in the ass? Have I ever taken it in the ass? My silence is taken as an affirmative and he announces that this interview will go no further unless he receives a hand job.
I bet you these guys thought it was the funniest thing in the world to ask a reporter for anal, high-fiving each other and laughing it up for being such badasses—until she published names. Now members mentioned in the article are crying libel in the comments like little bitches.
Code words like “turbo” and “turbette” help posters maintain the site’s exclusivity. The lingo ranges from abstruse to obvious. In addition to “takedowns” and “going to poundtown” or “PT” (getting laid), there’s “big timing” (snubbing someone, often a member of the opposite sex, at a bar), “smoke” (an attractive LNS member), and “RBV” (a Red Bull with vodka, the preferred drink of many LNSers).
I guess they have to come up with new code words now that everyone knows what the cryptic “poundtown” means. Another LNS member showcases his superior game:
He says he knows people talk behind his back, but he doesn’t care. He’s rich, and that’s all that matters. “My brother and I, we do all right,” he says. “Guys with money can do whatever they want.” He grabs me again and says, “You’re kind of cute.”
He failed. Overall I found the article to be fair and balanced.
A part of me feels sorry for LNSers, especially the guys. They are just going through college withdrawal and want to be a part of a community where they can get laid with look-at-my-business-card game. As long as they keep their stripped collars and funny boat shoes in the tourist hell that is Georgetown, let them think they are special and high-brow, where nothing says class like a Red Bull and vodka.
Average Late Night Shot member → ← City Paper reporter
Two years ago I got trashed on my 26th birthday. After my friends drove me home, I stripped down to my boxers and made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, my favorite food. This video is them making fun of me while I eat my sandwich. It’s pretty embarrassing but enough time has passed that I don’t mind sharing.
Speaking of trashed, me and this guy are heading to the beach today and staying until Sunday. I’m taking my camera.
The first time I went into Grand Central with my wingman, this girl gave me a smile. She wanted me to approach but her appearance was disagreeable. Thirty minutes later she gave me another smile but I still didn’t bite. Finally she decided to take matters into her own hands when she slid up next to me at the bar. I was more intoxicated by then and open to talking to her, but no way I was having sex with her.
She gave up after a while because I kept giving one-word answers to her questions. She went to sit down next to her cuter friend, who VK took a liking too. Thirty minutes later he told me he wanted to get the friends number real quick and then we could leave. I tagged along and sat at the table.
The girl who liked me was half German and half Japanese, but unfortunately she was born in the United States so there was no flag consideration. Her face was all sorts of bad—she didn’t really have a chin and I couldn’t hold eye contact for more than three seconds. This would be like a negative notch.
I was being a good wingman until my beast said to me, “God you’re so hot I just want to kiss you.” Fellas, if a girl tells you that you’re hot, you are way out of her league. Only “cute” is acceptable. I knew this but earlier in the day I checked my budget spreadsheet and saw that my cost per notch was just above my $50 goal for the year. If I bang this beast tonight, mission accomplished. So I banged her. I put a Turkish flag on her face and did her for my Mom’s country.
After the deed was done, I looked at the clock and it was 1:30. My ride, the Metro, closed at midnight (it was a weekday) so I was stuck until the morning. I got up at 7am, looked at her face, and felt like dog shit. And I’m not being dramatic—I had to think of all the pretty girls I’ve dated to make myself feel better.
I stopped by McDonalds for a post-celebratory bang treat of a Sausage, Egg, and Cheese McGriddle. It was tasty and took my mind off the beast bang (the maple syrup is built right into the pancake buns), but I remembered why I stopped going to McDonalds during each of the three times I visited the toilet that day. I deserved loose stools after what I did. At home I couldn’t even look my little brothers in the face.
I stooped low just to say I accomplished a goal that was experimental in the first place. The only thing a low CPN proves is that you are dirty and can get one night stands. But I already knew that about myself in the first place. Getting laid on the cheap is nice, but where’s the emotional connection? Where’s the passion? Where’s the game growth? Where’s the self-respect?
My CPN for 2007 will stand for eternity at $45. Its neon yellow box has been deleted from my spreadsheet.
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
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.
Part 2: Live and Learn
The goal of this post is to make you feel better about your life.
My doctor prescribed me the antibiotic cefdinir because I was having sinus issues. On the eighth day of a ten day treatment, my body got itchy in multiple places at the same time. I wrote it off as crabs (the sexual kind), but the next day it got much worse. Globs of raised red skin with the itching power of a million mosquitoes moved through my body like plucky terrorist fighters. When they attack my face, I look like a burn victim. Then they go hide in their sophisticated cave system, regroup, and come out later to attack again in different places… twenty-four hours a day, for the past nine fucking days. From a skin perspective, these have been the worst of my life—and I’ve had some bad pizza-face breakouts in my day. The first couple of days were so bad that I had a scratch queue where I had to prioritize which area got attention first (balls). Anti-histamines and cortisone creams have done little. Here’s how my back looked on day two:
You’re probably wondering what that patch of hair is. Sometimes I think it’s the result of a secret government experiment (my bet is on the fluorine), though I can’t say for sure. But I do know that it is growing in size and thickness.
Anyway, my doctor said my hives would go away in 2-10 days. The welts aren’t as bad this week but the quality of my life just isn’t what it used to be—to play with myself I have to carefully time it between hive episodes. I did some googling and turns out that for some people hives stay with them for over 20 years. Since this is day nine for me, I’m happy they will suddenly disappear tomorrow, just in time for the weekend!
I ordered a tall Americano and a water at the cash register. I waited a couple minutes by the bar but the water never came. No big deal, I’ll just ask again.
“Can I get a cup of water?”
The Asian lady barista said, “Sure I’ll get it for you this time but next time can you get back in line and ask for it?” Suck deez.
That barista is actually a manager, and I’ve seen her give attitude to others and reprimand her subordinates in front of customers. After I got my water I briefly considered using my Pulitzer-worthy writing skills to write a letter to corporate headquarters, but that would take too much effort.
A large black man next to the bar sees I’m waiting for my coffee drink. “My drink is taking forever too,” he said.
We small talk for 30 seconds. I looked at the Asian barista and said to him, “You see that woman? I really hate her.”
“That’s my wife.”
“Haha yeah right.”
“No really, she is my wife.”
“Uhhhhhhhh yeah I’m saying that because I tried to get a water but she was not very nice.” It only took five seconds for me to regress into a beta male.
“Oh she can seem tough but this store is very busy.”
Phew, he’s cool with me hating his wife. I chat a little to alleviate my guilty feelings as my intoxicating charm wins him over: he ends up introducing me to her as his “homeboy.” He told her to look out for me in the future, so talking shit to a man’s wife may actually get me free coffee. I didn’t learn a lesson from this.