But there was a thorough breakdown. Check out these posts I wrote on Return Of Kings:
- Everything You Need To Know About Croatian Girls
- 22 Photos Of Pretty Croatian Girls
- 16 Tips For Having Sex With Croatian Girls
- Top 5 Clubs In Zagreb To Get Laid
Croatian girls in a nutshell: pretty and thin but increasingly require American-style game.
If you haven’t been to ROK in a minute, here are some posts you may have missed:
- The 5 Easiest Clubs In The World To Get Laid
- How To Bang A Brazilian Woman In 5 Easy Steps
- All Girls Love Rough Sex
- An Amazing Manosphere Blog You’ve Never Seen
- 3 American Cities Men Must Avoid At All Costs
- How Black America Has Predicted Our Future
- American Women Simply Can’t Compete
- Taking The Red Pill Destroyed My Family
- The Manosphere Is Reaching A Tipping Point
- The Ironies Of Female Empowerment
ROK has surpassed this site in page views for January (just over 1 million). The magazine-style layout makes that feat easier, but it’s still a nice accomplishment. Stay on top of ROK posts by following its Twitter feed.
PREVIOUSLY: PART 2
My plan was to walk straight to my apartment located fifteen minutes away, but when we were only a couple hundred feet in front of the club, she sat on a bench. I didn’t object. You can’t be too heavy-handed with this sort of thing.
“It’s a beautiful night out,” she said, looking up in the sky.
“Yes, very beautiful. You can’t see these stars when you’re in a big city.”
“There’s something I have to tell you,” she said, meekly.
“You have AIDS?”
“No I don’t have AIDS!” she yelled.
“Well what it is?”
“I’m a virgin, so nothing can happen tonight.”
Usually I’d have a funny response to that statement, such as “I can help you with your problem,” but I was immediately disappointed. I got excited about railing a petite girl who didn’t mind being penetrated by my digit in the club and now I’m being told nothing will happen. If she’s a virgin at 24 then there’s a reason for it. I didn’t think there was anything I could do.
“You seem upset,” she said, after a minute of silence.
“Upset, no. You being a virgin isn’t a problem for me, but you’re leaving tomorrow, so we don’t have enough time to pursue things at a speed that you’re comfortable with. Just curious, why haven’t you had sex yet?”
“I haven’t met the right guy.”
“Well, the first time will be painful and awkward. The right guy won’t take that away.”
“The first time can still be good,” she said.
“No, it won’t be good. It will be the worst sex you ever have in your life. There will be blood and pain, and not until you have sex four or five times will it start to feel good.” My vibe turned paternal, like I was helping her out. “I know I’m not the right guy to help you with this. You need someone patient who is willing the put in the time to make it feel good for you, to go slow and be gentle. While I do have virgin experience, the last thing on my mind on this island is to take away a girl’s virginity. It’s a thankless task. Men should get paid for it, really.”
She asked me a couple questions about the virgins I deflowered and I answered matter-of-factly, like I was giving a scientific lecture. I discarded my game filter and started saying anything that came to mind because I didn’t think victory was on the horizon.
“It’s a shame really—a pretty girl like you never having sex. You’re in the prime of your life and you’re missing out on one of the most pleasurable feelings that a human can experience. It’s a waste.”
I stared off into space and we sat silently for a few minutes. It was already 4am. She seemed content sitting next to me, her arm resting on my lap. She wasn’t looking at her phone and she wasn’t debating me on any points I was making. I wondered if I should proceed.
I turned my head to look at her and she stared at me. Her silence was hard to read, and I would’ve killed to know what she was thinking at that moment. I leaned in to kiss her and she responded, and then I resumed my program of stroking her hair and legs. Our intimate moment was then interrupted the next bench over by a man violently puking into the grass.
“Gross,” I said, “let’s walk that way a bit.”
“Okay but I’m getting tired.”
I bent down and she jumped on my back, and I carried her as we walked in the direction of my apartment. I didn’t tell her where we were going, but I assumed she knew.
“You can put me down now, you don’t need to prove that you are strong,” she said.
“Why not? I like proving that I’m strong. That’s what men do.”
I carried her like a mule, hiding the labor in my breath until she insisted I put her down. With about 8 minutes left to go in the walk I hit her with constant chatter to distract her.
“Where are we going?” she finally asked.
“We are going to my apartment to listen to music and have a drink. We’re obviously not going to have sex.”
She didn’t object, but a big flight of stairs caused her to balk. So I picked up her again, this time with my arms. Though she was only 105 pounds, I really had to give it all I had, and thanked myself for semi-regularly doing a strenuous program of squats in the gym. She complimented my strength and I felt validated and pleased.
Once at my place, I made drinks and then offered to show her the view from my balcony. She was suddenly energized, her eyes darting around, as if her brain was going a mile a minute. She didn’t touch the drink and barely cared about the view. It took me longer than I’d like to admit to notice that this girl, at the age of 24, was ready to lose her virginity.
I suggested she lay down on my bed. She didn’t want to kiss—she just wanted to get straight to penetration. I left on her bra and removed her skirt and panties. Her pussy was trimmed. It looked pure and clean. I put on a condom, squirted on a bit of lube, and tried to work it in while she squeezed her legs in a vice grip around my body.
“You’re going to have to relax,” I said. “It’s going to hurt like hell, but I will go slow.”
And hurt it did. Poor girl was biting down on her lower lip, whimpering, as I managed to get two inches inside her. I want to say I was a complete gentleman but my animal instincts did take over and I went faster and deeper than I should have.
In the darkness I noticed some blood forming on my sheets but it didn’t stop me from going down on her. I ate her pussy like a lion feasting on a deer carcass, which relaxed her a bit and allowed me to go almost all the way in when I got back on top of her. To combat her tendency to squeeze her legs, I shut them closed and fucked her missionary, which is easier than it sounds. Her pain subsided a bit and I came.
The first thing she said afterwards was, “I didn’t orgasm.” I laughed and told her I wasn’t surprised, that it will take time to find out the sexual positions that pleasure her most. I also added that a woman cannot orgasm as tense as her body was.
I went into the bathroom and dumped the blood-soaked condom in the toilet. I rinsed my mouth with water and noticed it was faint red when I spit out.
She wanted to leave so I walked her to her hotel and exchanged contact information. Her eyes remained wide open as if she was somewhat traumatized.
The next day my friend asked me what happened. All I had to do was show him the bed. It looked like someone had taken one cup of blood and threw it on the white sheets. We were renting from an old married couple that already complained to us about our noise level and having guests, so I didn’t want to jeopardize our stay when they came to clean the apartment in two days only to see a horrifying scene. I went to a bedding store and bought the exact same sheets for $30. At night I discreetly disposed of the bloody sheets in the dumpster. I felt like I was covering up a crime.
I thought about the virgin a lot in the next couple of days. I thought about how I wanted to turn her into my own personal sex kitten, completely clean of other cocks. She messaged me and asked how my trip was going. Encouraged by her initiative, I replied back saying, “It would be nice if you came to visit me before I return to the US. I will be in Zagreb for at least a month.”
She came to visit me in Zagreb a couple weeks later, staying for three days. We had a lot of sex and I was quite pleased to take the principal role in molding the sexuality of a female human being.
I visited her again three months later for five days, and while the sex was better, I began to lose interest. New pussy began to feel like old. I thought that having a virgin would make me more likely to hold on to a girl, but my eye began to roam again, until eventually I deflowered a new virgin that was younger and even more feminine. Her pussy was so pure and clean.
Read Next: “You Broke Me”
PREVIOUSLY: PART 1
“Great. Did you take a long walk by the pier with him, stare at the stars, and watch the sun rise?”
“No, nothing at all like that.” Wanting to put the focus on me she asked, “Did you meet the girl of your dreams?”
“No, not yet. But I’m pretty sure it’s going happen like in an American movie, randomly in some coffee shop or maybe in the fish market. We’ll fall in love, be inseparable for several days, then after that never see each other again.”
“That’s not so romantic.”
“Sure it is. Only unfulfilled love can be romantic.” How many times was I going to bite off the movie Vicki Cristina Barcelona, I did not know.
“Didn’t you say you’re leaving tomorrow?” I asked. I put my hand on her shoulder, the first time I touched her.
“Yeah, in the morning.”
“I’m sorry but we don’t have enough time to fall in love. You have to find someone else.” She gave me a warm stare that told me all I needed to know. What I didn’t realize at the time was that it was risky to hit her with a line like that. I was spitting game that an Eastern European girl would enjoy, but British girls recoil at. You can’t mention “love” even in a humorous way because she thinks you’re desperate. I had forgotten to be cold and distant with Anglo girls, to pretend I didn’t like them by busting their balls and keeping things superficial.
Tanya, thankfully, was different. She was feminine, sentimental, and appeared to be submissive. She wanted me to lead and do most of the talking. As I would soon find out, she was also inexperienced, on a level I was sure I couldn’t overcome.
One of her friend’s loudly said she wanted to go to another bar. In a previous time my friend would have jumped at the chance to bang her, but things changed and he seemed content merely making conversation. The cockblock was in, I thought, but then my girl said, “It would be nice if you and your friend came.” I gave a knowing nod to my friend who responded with a look of reluctance, and off we went for a short walk down the docks.
We let the girls walk in front of us. We passed sidewalk cafes located a few steps away from parked luxury yachts. It wasn’t too hot but even minor efforts of exertion started to moisten my lower back and upper lip. It’s the type of climate where you’re careful about not lifting your arms too much while wearing a gray shirt.
Surprisingly, the girls bought us a round of drinks at the next bar, which was more like a small club. “Call Me Maybe” was blasting and the girls were singing along. Even more disturbing was that guys were singing along, too. I asked Tanya if she wanted to go right outside to sit on the steps and talk for a bit. She eagerly headed to the door. My friend stayed inside to continue running interference on the two girls. The next day I’d present him with a Purple Wingman Heart for his performance.
“You don’t like dancing in a club?”
“Not really,” she said. “I like talking.”
“When I was younger, all I could do was dance because I didn’t know how to talk to a woman. I’m not saying I know how to talk to a woman now, but I think it’s a much better way to get to know someone.”
Things started to move fast now as I gave her all my greatest game hits. Every now and then you encounter a girl who takes everything you got, all that you’ve accumulated in that little encyclopedia of game you created in your brain. I hit her with so much dialogue—less than 5% of which I’m reproducing here—that even my friend, the guy who I came up in the game with, was impressed.
“I have a question,” I said. “Do you like men who are taller than you… are from America… and have beards? Totally hypothetical.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s hypothetical!” I smiled and then she said, “I don’t mind those things.”
I’ve discovered that if a girl says “Yes,” “I don’t mind,” or “I don’t have a preference,” I’ll be getting somewhere. If she objects to one of the qualities I stated, then I probably won’t. Her answer may seem neutral on the surface, but it was actually very encouraging. Within ten minutes we kissed.
After that it was a game of going along with the two friends while working on the connection. There would be a point where I could say “Let’s go” and she’d follow me without caring about them, but I wasn’t there yet.
All five of us walked to another club. One of her friends balked at the $17 cover. “I think I’m just going to bed,” she said. I tried hard to restrain my excitement, because if anyone was going to cockblock it was going to be that one. Four of us went inside: me, my friend, Tanya, and Tanya’s friend.
For a couple songs we did that thing on the dance floor where we formed a circle and bobbed to the music. I got tired of that, grabbed Tanya, and said, “Why don’t we go sit down.” She didn’t object, and we sat in a quiet part of the club, watching it fill with mostly British and Scandinavian people.
I was able to explore Tanya’s mouth more carefully now that we were alone. Her lips were soft and she liked moving her tongue around, though what struck me most was how easily she got lost in the moment. International kissing rules state that when you separate from a kiss, your eyes should open within two seconds or so, but Tanya’s would stay closed, as if she was under some type of spell. I enjoyed this because it made me feel like I was having a powerful effect on her, when the more likely truth was that she was a hyper-feminine girl who was more deeply affected by intimacy.
I multitask when I kiss. My lips, tongue, left hand, and right hand all work independently of each other to provide maximum stimulation to the girl. While cradled on the couch, my left hand was both stroking and tugging at her hair while my right hand was rubbing her thighs, testing the waters by going higher and higher towards her vagina until I was at her panty line. Most girls at that point would playfully smack my hand away, especially in a public venue, but Tanya was in another universe and allowed me to proceed until I slipped a finger under her panties and played with her wet pussy.
I felt self-conscious that someone was looking, but no one was, so I continued for at least ten minutes until I got tired and she half-collapsed into my shoulder. I wrapped my arm around her and decided to wait a couple more minutes until I would try to whisk her away.
“It’s very loud here,” I said.
“Yeah I don’t like it,” she replied.
“How about we go for a walk right outside so we can talk a bit more?”
“I don’t want to leave my friend.”
“Why don’t we find her and see what she wants to do?”
My hope was that we couldn’t find her, but two minutes in we saw her across the dance floor sitting with my friend. They weren’t kissing but they were sitting close, and as if god smiled down on me, my friend told her a joke that made her keel over in laughter.
“It looks like they are having a nice time. I don’t want to disturb them.”
“I should go over to see if she’s okay.”
“She seems like she’s having the most fun in the club. Look at her face. Did you get a text from her?”
She pulled out her iPhone. No text messages. “Send her a text message saying you’ll be right outside. When she’s ready to leave she’ll let you know.” She sent the message and then out we went.
CONTINUED: PART 3
I went with an old friend to Hvar Island, Croatia for a three-week stay. Times have changed since we were prowling clubs in Washington DC, many of which have closed. Back then a phone number had a reasonable chance of leading to a date and not every club was built around table service. Flaking and cockblocking weren’t yet nationwide epidemics. The decline for my hometown seemed to accelerate when Obama won, sending in a wave of pasty Midwesterners who thought they would change the world with their hope. The only thing that changed was how much fatter the DC population became.
There aren’t a lot of nightlife options in Hvar. Before 2am you have about four or five bars where you can actually approach women and then after 2am you only have two clubs. The most popular bar and club combo is Carpe Diem. Most people start at Carpe Diem Bar around midnight or so to warm up for Carpe Diem Club, which is a ten minute taxi boat away. I quickly found out that if you don’t have any prospects before going to the club at 2am, you’re in for a tough night. There are simply too many aggressive guys at the club trying to make something happen.
The only issue at the bar was the seating. There is a ring of elevated benches around the patio that girls like to sit at, making them elevated and tall, like they are relaxing on a throne. I tried a couple approaches but the girls had too much positional power. The queens didn’t put one scrap of energy into the conversation.
On our fifth night in Hvar, we went to the bar early so we could get a seat on the elevated bench. We picked a prime spot with a view of both the crowd and the Mediterranean Sea, soaking in the air and reminiscing on old times. Now married with a kid, my friend spent more time remembering those old times than continuing them, while I never stopped living that life.
I was starting to feel a bit of pressure because in Hvar I had yet to bang a girl, even though I didn’t care much for the mostly Anglo women on display. It took a while for my mind to get used to the idea of capturing an Anglo flag instead of a new Eastern European one.
It didn’t take long for three British girls to stand in front of us. They asked us if the seats around us were taken. Two of the girls gravitated to my friend, eventually sitting on his right side, while the third, a tanned brunette, sat to my left.
“This is a good seat,” I said, “you can see everything from here.”
“Have you been on the island long?” she asked, defaulting to a standard hostel conversation.
“This is our fifth night here. We have two more weeks left.”
“Only in Hvar?”
“Yes. When planning the trip we wanted to pick one place where we could relax without having to hop around. I know a lot of people want to see as many Croatian islands as possible, but for us it’s just about hanging out. We haven’t seen each other in 18 months.”
“Why haven’t you seen your friend in 18 months?”
“I’ve been living in Europe during that time while he’s still back in the States. I convinced him to come and visit me. You’re from England right?”
“You guys can take a 30 euro flight on Easy Jet to come here, but for us it’s at least a $1,000 round trip, sometimes more. A lot of Americans stick to the Caribbean or Latin America when it comes time to take a vacation. How long are you in Hvar for?”
“Five days and then I go back.”
“Go back to work?”
“I’m kind of in between jobs right now.” She put her head down slightly. “What do you do?”
For a split second I paused, debating if I should give her the playful answer or real answer. “I’m a writer.”
“Oh cool. What kind?”
“I do mostly travel writing right now. I stay in a country for a few months and put out a small guide, mostly on the nightlife and other things.”
“What is the name of your guides?”
“You don’t want to know. They’re very offensive and crude. I don’t let me sister read it.”
“Umm, okay. But you make money from it?” Almost every girl asks that. They find it hard to believe that you can make a living from writing.
“No. My parents send me $10,000 every month to fund my lifestyle.”
She gave me a confused look, not sure whether to take me seriously or not.
“I’m just kidding,” I added. “My job pays the bills.”
During the conversation I caught glimpses of her petite body. She was wearing sandals, a summer skirt that went to the middle of her thighs, and a blue tanktop. She had not much in the way of a chest so I was curious about her ass and if it was big enough for my needs. Her father is Israeli and there was a hint of it in her face, with a strong chin, large almond eyes and long eyelashes. Her black hair was slightly curly and pulled back with a fastener. She told me she was 24 but looked maybe a year older.
“Do you have any stereotypes about America?” I asked. She paused. Knowing what she was thinking, I added, “And it’s okay if they’re negative. I’m not a sensitive American.”
“Well, Americans are loud. I see them on the tube and they are always the loudest ones.”
“What do they talk about?”
“Just random stuff. They seem to get excited at the smallest things. The girls also have a weird way of talking, almost nasal like.” She imitated the speech, which I quickly identified as the Valley Girl accent.
“Yeah that gets annoying even for me. I don’t say ‘like’ or ‘really’ to foreign people because it makes it harder for them to understand what I’m saying. I like to think I speak the Queen’s English, all proper and grammatically correct.” She laughed and I took that as a cue to move two inches closer to her. I looked over to my friend, who was doing fine holding court with her two friends.
“Also, the American humor is a little obvious,” she said. “It’s not sarcastic like the British. Your humor is more dry actually, it’s not typical of Americans.”
“I get that a lot. In America we like to announce jokes by implying, ‘Okay here comes a joke so get ready to laugh!’ I think that takes a lot of fun out of it. Sometimes it’s okay to make a joke that the other person doesn’t get.” My drink was empty but I was still holding onto the glass.
“How about the American accent?” I asked.
“It feels slower.”
“Yes because we enunciate our vowels. We like vowels. British people hate vowels I think.” She wanted to interject but I continued: “This is why when British people sing, they sound American, because when you sing, you stress the vowels. If singing is beautiful, and British people sound American when they sing, that means that the American accent is beautiful.” She squinted her eyes and smiled, like I just pulled a trick on her.
“What do you think of British people?” she asked.
“I don’t like British guys. You say Americans are loud but they are worse. They also get semi-violent when they drink. I haven’t had much experience with the girls. They seem American at first glance.”
“We’re definitely more reserved than American girls. Right away they start telling you everything about themselves even if you didn’t ask.”
“It’s only with an American where you can know about their sex lives within only a couple minutes of meeting them. We’re also self-absorbed. We love talking about ourselves. If you’re in a group of American people, no one will listen. It becomes a competition to talk. It’s sad, really, like they didn’t get enough attention as a kid or something.”
I looked at my friend and asked him how he was doing. He didn’t seem interested in the girls so I knew he was keeping them entertained for me. The bar was filling up with guys, mostly from Norway and Sweden, and it seemed like the British girls wanted to go somewhere else to sample the island’s nightlife. I felt I had built enough rapport with my girl, Tanya, to let her know I had some interest in her. If she didn’t recoil, it would be a good prospect to pursue for the rest of the night.
“So did you meet the man of your dreams on the island yet?” I asked.
She gave a long pause, debating how she should answer.
“I met a guy last night.”
CONTINUED: PART 2
One week before I moved to my logistically superior Zagreb apartment, I encountered a 20-year-old girl at a taxi stand late at night. We ended up talking and I got her to come with me to an after-hours bar. We kissed. We met up again a few days later but she insisted on not drinking. We kissed some more and my hand passed over her vagina for 300 milliseconds. It didn’t go farther than that.
I was anxious on the day I moved to my new apartment. It was the longest I’ve ever gone without a flag. At the tail end of a long European trip that contained many easy notches, I had absolutely zero motivation to play the dating grind. I was dropping girls off my pipeline for minor transgressions that I wouldn’t have two years prior. Croatian girls aren’t the easiest but I was confident that bad logistics was requiring me to date instead of banging on the same night. But after moving, what if I still failed? What excuse will I use if I still couldn’t get my flag? My pride was at stake.
I went out the first night with two guys, one American and the other British. The American has been living in Croatia for a while and was amused at my flagging mission, while the British guy was in the same boat as I was, still after his first Croatia bang as well. The Brit and I exchanged many “so close yet so far” stories. He had what ended up being a dud date that night while I went with the American to a bar near my house.
At the bar I met a tall girl with a nose stud. She was very pretty and after a short while she ordered a shot, took it, kissed me, and then ejaculated it into my mouth. It felt gay but I went along with it. Later I touched her and she said, “Don’t touch me.”
I replied, “I’ll touch you if I want. If you don’t like it then walk away.”
“I like that,” she said. She liked the hard game, so I gave it to her. We walked out of the bar and sat on a bench, a mere three minutes away from my apartment.
She went over to the next bench about 30 feet away and asked for a light from a random group of kids, but when she came back she realized it wasn’t lighted. Then she asked me to take her cigarette and go re-light it because her “feet hurt.” Based on the game she was responding to inside the bar, I knew my best option was to say no. It was a test, and I’d pass the test by refusing to be her puppy dog.
I was wrong.
She was furious I didn’t light the cigarette, saying I was “cold” and not a “gentleman.” She stormed off, disappearing into a taxi. I was stunned. It seemed like such a sure thing. Most times you’re allowed to make a couple mistakes but this was all she wrote. I went home, unable to recover.
The second night I went out solo to the same bar. My first two approaches went nowhere. I didn’t want to continue. Then I got a text message from the Brit, saying he just got his flag from a last-minute date. I couldn’t give up now. Then who do I see with her friends but the taxi stand girl, Maya. She was curt, not giving me much affection. I sarcastically asked her if she wanted me to pretend I didn’t know her.
Eventually she warmed up and kissed me out of view of her friends, but would leave every five minutes to “find” them. I didn’t feel safe to hit on other girls while she was watching, yet it was primetime Saturday night—I’m not going to stand around like an idiot. To cover my ass, I told her, “By the way I know a lot of people here. If you see me talking to someone, either guy or girl, don’t feel shy. I’ll introduce you to them.” Truth is I didn’t know anyone there.
When she was right out of view I got into a conversation with a young Croatian girl who looked a bit Estonian with her chubby cheeks. She had a huge booty and a good vibe. During the conversation it turned out that she loved America and men with beards. She accidentally touched my stomach, felt that it was hard, and licked her lower lip like I was a piece of steak. Maya saw me talking to her so I waved her over, knowing she’d refuse to join.
As a test I told the new girl, “How about we go into that corner over there and make out?” Most girls would laugh that off, but she looked in the corner and said nothing. She might as well have yelled, “Take me, you hairy stud!” Then I asked myself why go for the silver when you can go for the gold? I said, “Actually I’m kind of annoyed by this crowd and all the smoke. How about we go for a walk?” She agreed. I steered her into the direction of my apartment. Halfway there we sat down and made out.
She said, “I have to use the bathroom,” and walked towards a tree to urinate. I told her not to act like an animal and use my bathroom right down the block instead. I said, “After you use the bathroom we can have a quick drink and then come back to the bar.” Once in my apartment, we were fucking within ten minutes. She begged me to give it to her hard and I obliged. When it was done she said, “You broke me.” I liked that.
It didn’t take long for her to receive a shrieking “Where are you?!” call from her girlfriend. She fixed herself up in the bathroom, taking away the tell-tale signs that she just got her pussy pounded, and gave me a kiss goodbye. Her friends will never know she banged a guy barely 45 minutes after meeting him.
I was content with my flag, but not too much since it was something that should have been coming anyway. Still, in the most vivid way I confirmed how important logistics are and thought of my Washington DC days when I lived in the boonies. I wondered how many dozens of notches that cost me.
I sent a text message to the Brit: “Croatian flag!!! Finally, damn.” Then I remembered Maya. I texted her a lie: “I went to meet up my friend real quick. Are you still at the bar?” After nearly an hour I didn’t get a response. I thought that was odd, and when I looked at my phone more closely, I realized it had crashed. I restarted it and she did in fact reply, saying she was still there. I casually asked if she wanted to meet for a drink before she went home, and when she said yes, I took a quick shower and met her near my front door. I said, “We can go to the after-hours bar, but how about you come see my new apartment? It’s very nice.” She came in.
Once inside, she went to my bedroom and we got down to business. The resistance was token. The only problem was that the other girl was a 8 out of 10 on sexual ability while Maya was a 2. Her kisses were average and she wasn’t doing much to turn me on. I got her naked, put on a condom, but had trouble putting it in. Not only was her pussy tight like an anus, but the angle of entry was all weird. I was fumbling around while she laid there, not helping. I penetrated her by a hair and then my dick started going soft. There was no way I could get it in.
I took off the condom and regrouped. I explored the topography of her pussy with my fingers to loosen it and figure out how it was constructed. I looked down and saw that my hand was covered by blood. Then I looked at my crotch and saw more blood. I asked her if she was a virgin but she said no. We cuddled for a bit and once the shock of the blood wore off I started getting hard again. My dick, that son of a bitch, wasn’t ready to give up. At the height of my new boner I put on another condom, slathered it with lube, and properly laid pipe to get the notch.
Afterwards, I wasn’t surprised to see that the lower half of her body was bloody. She took a shower while I examined the scene. This has happened to me so many times before that I knew what to do with the sheets (soak it in cold water). She was deeply embarrassed and I reassured her that it was okay. I changed the sheets and told her she could spend the night but she declined and took a taxi. As soon as she was out the door, I sent another text to the Brit: “Another notch!!! Hahahaha!!!!!”
In my sex afterglow I thought about what just happened. In the previous month I tried my hardest and only banged one German girl but no Croatians despite working hard at it. Then by merely having a better located apartment I was able to get my flag and a bonus bang within two days of moving.
I can’t deny that my game has changed. It used to be marathon jog of dating, of driving around town and going to hotel bars and cooking dinner for girls. Now it’s a 50 meter dash. I want to be the Usain Bolt of game, of hitting girls with a fast-paced performance and capping it off with a short walk to a nearby apartment where sex is inevitable. In marathon game, when you’re building a real connection with someone, logistics aren’t a dealbreaker, but in the sprint, it’s everything. The next time I go out, I will look around the room and use all the experience I’ve gained to identify the one girl who wants to have sex with me right now. I won’t accept anything less.
When you learn the game from scratch, you can’t help but codify every part of your game and try to make a guess on what is helping you and what is not. You analyze your look, your opening lines, your routines, the method to getting a girl’s number, and so on. Once you start getting laid regularly, all those parts merge into one big blob, resulting in an overall style that fits you and your personality. You concentrate on the whole, but at the same time you take the parts for granted. The problem is that a couple of those parts are absolutely essential, and when you remove them, you no longer get laid.
I began to get sloppy on my city research in the past couple months of my current European trip. For Zagreb, Croatia I ended up renting an apartment for one month in a quiet suburb. I made this huge commitment without knowing a few things:
- The suburb was far away from day game action. My neighborhood had no central square or busy supermarket.
- The club I lived near had girls, but isolation was impossible because groups of them would go there by sharing a ride (since it’s so far). I could only get numbers and kisses.
- It was hard to get girls to meet me in my suburb on dates, so I had to trek via public transportation to the center to meet them for drinks. There was no chance of venue changing to my apartment unless it was a weekend. I calculated I’d have to put girls on a three date program due to my location, something I wasn’t willing to do.
It didn’t help that I arrived in the middle of July, when the only place you’d consistently find people is in the center square in the afternoon, a time I’d either be asleep or typing away on my laptop.
What happened during that month was I didn’t fuck a Croatian girl. Not one. I got two dozen numbers, many kisses, an occasional date that I was reluctant to go on because of my bad logistics, but no Croatian flag. I wasn’t even close. This was right after I made a post saying How To Get A Flag In 5 Days. I felt humbled, that god had read that post as soon as I published it and decided to make me feel like an idiot.
During that month I did find a bar in the center where I was able to drag out a girl on three separate occasions, something I couldn’t do in the club closer to my apartment. I invited all three to my place for a drink once I got them outside. They asked where I lived and when I told them where (about a 20 minute cab ride away), they all scrunched their nose and said it was “too far.” I tried everything to get them to come, even saying I’d pay for their cab ride back, but it didn’t work. I’m sure I would have banged at least two out of those three if I had rented an apartment in the center. Instead, I had to get their number and accept the built-in 50% flake rate that comes from dating. I half-assed the prospects and failed. I was literally getting a 0% bang return on my investment.
It doesn’t matter how often you approach, how tight your game is, or how succulent your kisses are, but if your logistics are fucked, you’re not getting laid. You get to date instead. If you have to take a taxi from the spot you’re meeting girls, you’re getting one-night stands infrequently enough that they will seem like a major event for you. If you can’t say “down the street” when a girl asks where you live, you better hope your phone has enough battery power when you’re forced to get her number. Not only is logistics the biggest indicator of whether you’ll get a one-night stand or not, but logistics alone is the best attractant for girls who want fast anonymous sex.
If you fuck up the logistics like I did in my first month, I hope you have the patience for marathon texting and conversation in boring venues where girls know they have the upper hand since your penis hasn’t yet been inside them. Looking back the past 20 months in Europe, drum-tight logistics was the most consistent variable in me getting fast sex, and forgetting that made for a frustrating month in a place that shouldn’t have been that hard.
In my first 31 days in a Zagreb suburb, I banged zero Croatian girls. When I moved to the center, I banged two within 38 hours. Sometimes you have to fail to make you remember what made you successful in the first place.