One reason that Reykjavik nightlife is so active is that the outlying suburbs have so few venues. On the weekends you get hordes of people coming into the city that you don’t normally see, which is why you shouldn’t freak out if you don’t see any talent walking around mid-week. Disclaimer aside, here is my top 5 list for guys looking to peep Icelandic women…

1. Bakkus (Tryggvagata 22). This is the best bar in Iceland to get laid. The main floor has two bars and a large dance floor, while the bottom floor has a small bar and a tighter space for seating. I’d classify it as a rock dive bar, but it regularly plays house music and will feel more like a regular club. The girls aren’t the hottest in Iceland, but they are young and friendly.

What I’d do is arrive on a weekend night around 3:00 a.m. and hang out in the downstairs bar. It doesn’t get a whole lot of traffic, allowing you to save your energy for prime time (last call), but if a girl does come within your radar you can easily start a conversation since it’s quieter than upstairs. If a cute girl is giving you eye contact, definitely don’t be shy about approaching. I don’t want you to get the idea that you shouldn’t approach at all before last call; it’s just not essential to work hard before that time.

Around 4:30, which is a half hour before last call, go upstairs and lean against the main bar while looking out toward the crowd. It’s then you should start to approach. Since so many girls will be drunk off their ass, don’t be offended if she doesn’t respond (it’s not that she’s trying to be a bitch, but she’s having trouble with her sensory perceptions). Pick off isolated girls who were trying to get a drink in the bar, but don’t shy away from pairs since it will be easy to divide them. Try for the occasional triplet, though don’t waste your time on larger groups unless you’re getting serious eye contact.

When the lights come on, continue to approach girls who are meandering out until finally getting kicked out by the bouncer. Continue approaching in front of the bar and then on the streets until no girls can be found.

2. Austur (Austurstraeti 7). This club definitely attracts an older crowd, sometimes women in their thirties, but they’ll be more aggressive in showing their interest as they get just as shitfaced as their younger counterparts. The strange thing here is that there was a big disparity on how I was treated (either the women were awesomely friendly or just plain nasty). The music is top 40 and the drinks are expensive ($9 for a crappy beer). The best spot for chatting up girls is on the right side along the main bar.

3. b5 (Bankastraeti 5) is a compact venue that gets insanely crowded. This is hands down the craziest club I’ve ever been to in my life. Even though everyone is dressed wonderfully, with girls in heels and tight clothing and every guy in some type of suit, they are completely committed to getting blackout drunk.

There is constant pushing and shoving. Drinks get spilled everywhere. People fall on the floor and are unable to get up. Girls dance on the couch and then fall on top of people. Guys are itchy to get into fights. Girls pass out cold while friends try to wake them up by slapping them in the face. Thanks to the incompetent bouncers, it’s basically anarchy inside, and in any other country this spot would be shut down in a week. Now imagine that scene while everyone is dressed like they’re going to a formal function.

The biggest problem with b5 is that it’s extremely hard to pick up in. People tend to come here in mega-large groups so each girl is going to know at least ten people, causing your approaches to be constantly interrupted. Since it’s impossible to have a conversation, unless you like “clubbing” and plan to dance the night away, it won’t be a fruitful spot. If you’re a bar guy like me, you’ll be running for the door within an hour.

Above all other venues, it’s crucial to get to b5 early. The line outside, if you want to call it that, would offend the sensibilities of any bouncer. Line cutting is the rule and people actually rush the bouncers to get in, as if trying to escape from a fire. If you want to go, and I think you should for the experience, get there before 1:00 and then sit back and wait for the mayhem to commence.

4. Bar 11 (Hverfisgata 18). Thanks to their beer-and-shot combo special, young people go here to get seriously trashed, making Bar 11 one of the sloppiest bars in Reykjavik. The main issue is that it’s a bit small so you won’t have a lot of selection. Nonetheless, a lot of hookups go down here.

5. Kaffibarinn (Bergstadastraeti 1). This trendy bar, which is co-owned by the singer of Blur, attracts an older crowd with an average age pushing twenty five. I’ll admit that I wish this was Bakkus. I love the music, the back bar, the “scene,” and what have you, but there are two big problems. First, the girls are snobbier here than anywhere else. This bar attracts the famous musicians, writers, and people from the Icelandic fashion industry and art scene. The front of the bar has a line for commoners who have to face up to thirty-minute waits while “VIPs” are whisked right in. You can still pull here, but it’s more of a “who you know” type of vibe than anywhere else in Reykjavik. The second problem is that sometimes it’s a huge sausage fest, something that’s not a problem elsewhere. Now that I think about it, I really wasted a lot of time here.

1. Have a budget so tight that swinging for a private room will send you into the throes of bankruptcy. You should travel on such a shoestring that you won’t be able to provide decent logistics when a girl wants to have sex with you. Hope instead that the girl you meet has parents who are out-of-town, since I can almost promise you she won’t live on her own.

2. Eat street food every meal so that you can get a food borne illness. Make the assuption that street food in the United States is the same as street food in the Philipines or Ecuador. Full-blown diarrhea, with its accompanying pain, dehydratation, and frequent trips to the bathroom, will tighten your game.

3. Make no effort to learn the local language. Nothing turns on a local girl more than to suspect you’re a sex tourist with your inability to say basic words like “hi” and “thanks.”

4. Take the advice of nerdy travel bloggers who say you should pack as light as possible. Leave all your nice clothes at home. Pack one pair of hiking boots, sweat-proof nylon pants that make a swish-swish sound when you walk, and a couple t-shirts with ironic sayings on them. Foreign girls throw themselves all over guys who are rocking the backpacker style, especially those who wash their clothes in the hostel sink with bar soap.

5. Jump from one ultra-popular tourist city to the next. Your trip should be a roller coaster ride of picture-taking in as many mega-cities as possible, not a slow meander where you learn the best spots in second-tier cities to meet and date local women.

6. Do not pipeline on the internet before your trip. Instead of messaging cute girls you may find on dating sites, Badoo, OkCupid, or Couchsurfing, it’s better to assume that on your first night out you’ll find a bar with dozens of beautiful women who like the beige fisherman hat you bought specifically for the trip.

7. Makes friends with other foreigners who have zero game and just want to get drunk. Going out alone is boring and hard. Instead, you should hang out for several hours in the hostel until everywhere can agree on going to the crappy bar across the street. Sure, you won’t get laid, but you’ll no doubt enjoy the crazy antics of Noah the Australian who threw up in the bathroom.

Follow these seven tips and I promise you that foreign pussy will remain foreign.

1. Don’t bother trying to get phone numbers and date.

Notice how in my night game breakdown there is absolutely nothing about going on dates with girls. If you’re moving to Iceland permanently, get as many numbers as you want, but if you’re only there for a short time, asking for phone numbers from girls you meet in the bars or clubs is a dumb move. Unless her boyfriend is right there and she wants to give her number for a late-night rendezvous, your phone’s dial pad shouldn’t be used on weekend nights. In Iceland my cell phone mostly served as a heavy watch.

The lack of dating in Iceland creates a fascinating bang progression. In America, it would take a certain number of digits, kisses, and dates to get one bang. For example, you could get twenty numbers, go out on four dates, kiss two of them, and bang one, building momentum off smaller closes to get the big close—sex. In Iceland, you can go seemingly long periods without anything at all, not even an innocent kiss on the cheek, and then bang—you catch a girl at the right time and she’s down for your afterparty.

The smallness of Iceland does a good job of explaining why there isn’t a dating culture. Consistently running into the same people over and over again encourages men to bide their time and take less immediate risks. For them it’s okay that they didn’t make a move on the pretty girl they’ve been eyeing because odds are he’ll see her again next week, possibly with a mutual friend who can set up an easy social introduction. Even if conversations do go well, why should he ask her out on an expensive and possibly awkward dinner date when he’ll see her again while she’s more liquored up and horny? The guys are passive not because they’re genetically weak (they come from Viking stock for fuck’s sake), but because the environment encourages them with more bangs if they pretty much wait for pussy to fall onto their laps.

2. You’ll run out of girls to approach if you stay too long.

If you’re staying for a while, you’ll feel the smallness in the second month once you start to recognize most of the people in your regular bars. If you plan on moving to Iceland for a long period of time, you’ll eventually run out of girls to approach. In that case, it will be worth reapproaching girls in the hope that they’re hornier the second time around.

Reapproach by saying, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” This is actually the common approach that Icelandic men use, and it works because it will help get a conversation going about who you know and what places you frequent. Even if you’re 100% sure where you’ve seen her before, pretend that you’re only vaguely familiar about how you met. You lose a lot of value by vividly remembering people, because it implies that they impacted you strongly.

3. What you think of as “game” has little effect in Icelandic.

The game that works best in a country is a reflection of that culture. In hyper-competitive America, with a wide gap between the haves and have-nots, the proper game is showing how you’re better than the next guy, either by being funnier, more talented, more famous, more of an asshole, or what have you. In Iceland, a small, egalitarian culture where class differences are minor and everyone treats everyone else the same, the proper game is being a chill, outgoing guy who can provide the best logistics for private sex.

I must stress that in Iceland I didn’t feel like I was using game at all. I definitely didn’t win over any Icelandic girls with complicated routines or techniques like I would with their American counterparts. On one hand, this news should be welcome to guys who have a ways to go before having tight game, but on the other hand, for guys who rely exclusively on game skill, trying to get laid in Iceland can feel like taking a step backwards.

4. Minorities do better in Iceland than in America.

The tricky part of generalizing how well a black man would do in Iceland, for example, is that you don’t see much hooking up in the bars. So while on the surface things seem to be neutral, who knows if they’re actually going to have sex afterward. That said, it wasn’t obvious to me that minorities would have an easier time than myself (girls consider me more Latino-looking than Middle Eastern).

The guys who should do best are Latinos, since their olive complexion is considered sexy. Next up are black guys, who should focus on clubs that play hip-hop music to better target a more open-minded audience. Then we have Asian and Indian guys, who will see less discrimination from Icelandic girls than American girls. I don’t like making generalizations on race because individual variance is so great, but I believe minorities should have it easier in Iceland than in America. White guys should find it easier as well. In fact, Iceland is easier for everyone!

5. Being an America is neither a strength or weakness.

The only time being American really helped was if she happened to love America or had traveled there, something that is becoming increasingly rare due to the weak Icelandic currency. Therefore don’t expect much of a warm welcome, even if you dress or look completely different from the locals. Your bangs are mostly going to result from approaching a horny, drunk girl at the end of the night, not by somehow broadcasting your exotic status by looking cool at the bar.

That’s not to say that you won’t be approached for looking cool at the bar. I was approached more in Iceland than I was in Washington DC, but waiting to get approached isn’t a sound game model if you have a short timeline. Also, the typical girl coming up to you will be chubby with average looks. Depending on your standards, this could be good or bad, but for me the hottest Icelandic girls I fucked were the ones I approached.

6. Icelandic guys have horrible game but great style.

It’s safe to say that Icelandic guys can’t approach. Until I got to Denmark, I’ve never seen such piss-poor all-around game. I’ll give them a pass because the Icelandic environment promotes passivity, a strategy that may actually increase the chance for a permanent male resident to land a girlfriend. While sometimes they do approach while drunk, the only time I saw “normal” approaches was from Icelandic guys who had lived abroad (in places where they had to approach to get laid) or guys who like American culture and have been exposed to game writings on the internet.

Don’t take any advice from an Icelandic guy about women. Either they have no idea what they’re talking about or they’ll fuck with you by giving obviously bad advice (a part of me thinks they don’t like the idea of richer foreigners coming to Iceland to bang their women). If an Icelandic guy is talking a big game to you, ask him to demonstrate. Chances are he’ll pile on the excuses about how he doesn’t think any of the nearby girls are cute or how he has a girlfriend. Unless a dude shows you how it’s done, don’t listen to him because it’s just way too tempting for them to sabotage foreigners.

However, feel free to accept fashion advice from the guys, who dress as if coming out of a GQ photo shoot. I brought some nice clothing to Iceland that would have made me stand out in an American bar, but I looked almost underdressed in Iceland, where guys rocked bow ties, skinny ties, suit jackets, pocket squares, and cardigans. Their dedication to style is especially surprising considering how expensive clothing is, making me conclude that most of an Icelander’s income goes toward booze, clothes, and food—in that order.

7. Icelandic hookup culture is kind of fucked up, and that’s coming from me.

I still can’t get my head wrapped around how strange Icelandic hookup culture is. It’s basically backwards: they have sex first before having an extended conversation that women from almost any other country in the world would require as a prerequisite to sex. While I’m not complaining, it was sadly all downhill after I had sex with an Icelandic girl, because she’d then start with the lame, arrogant feminist shit that I don’t care for. Thankfully all that nonsense came after I already got what I wanted.

I was walking home from a coffee shop when I noticed a girl crossing the street in a path that would collide with mine.

“What’s that building there?” she asked, in a thick accent that made it clear she wasn’t Icelandic. She pointed to a large glass structure that was being constructed. I had asked myself the same question two weeks before, curious enough to research the answer on the internet.

“It’s the new theater house,” I said. “They’ll hold plays and shows there. Are you a tourist?”

“Yes. I’m here for two weeks.”

“Your accent is different… it sounds Russian.”

“Yes, how did you know?”

I nodded. “Where I come from, there are a lot of Russians. Their accent is easy to spot.”

It was her first day in Reykjavik and she was eager to learn about the city. It was only a couple days after I had fucked the Icelandic girl from the street, so I couldn’t believe I might get my Russian flag in the exact same way.

I said, “I’m actually about to walk by the center square on my way home. If you want, I can show you a couple of spots.” She was eager, so we started walking.

The first place I showed her was my day hangout. “This is the bookstore I spend a lot of time in. I like it because they close late at ten o’clock. A lot of the other coffee shops close much earlier.” We walked inside and went into the café, where we talked for almost an hour about Iceland, Russia, and America; a cultural conversation that comes easy with other foreigners. Her English was good, but she had to talk slowly, and I slowed down so she’d understand me.

I got a better picture of her body once she took off her coat. She was extremely thin, making her seem taller than her 5’10″ height, with light brown hair that came all the way down to her stomach. Her cheekbones gave a slightly hollow look to her eyes. I had trouble identifying any obvious physical flaws. She was generic and void of anything unique, but pretty close to perfection. She had the ideal proportions to be a runway model, and with the right makeup and clothing I knew she would blow away most girls.

After some time chatting, I wasn’t convinced she was genuinely interested in me. Even though she had approached me, the interaction had almost a professional feel to it. Did she just want to practice her English? Was she trying to tap my head for information on Iceland? We exchanged email addresses after I told her of a bar I was going to the next night.

She didn’t show up at the bar, emailing me to say she couldn’t find it. I invited her to a small rock concert a couple days after that, but she didn’t even reply. I was going to give up on her forever, since I never reinitiate contact with a girl who doesn’t reply to one of my messages, but I still had a long way to go before understanding Russian women. For research purposes I decided to probe the situation and see if she’d react the same way that an American woman would (with radio silence).

I sent her an email that said: “Did you leave Iceland already?” Of course I knew she hadn’t.

She wrote back quickly, asking if I wanted to go for a walk, apologizing that she hadn’t replied previously due to internet trouble. The plan was to meet in the same bookstore at eight on Friday night.

By that time I had been in Iceland for three weeks. After I got my flag, I became temporarily disinterested in Icelandic girls because their personalities were so cold. While they look marginally better than American girls, have silkier hair, and aren’t as fat, it felt like I’d been talking to rocks. It was hard to draw them out in any sort of fun conversation since they didn’t socially respond the way women in other countries would. They didn’t seem to be curious about other cultures or other people and they had nothing remotely interesting or funny to say. I was ready to conclude that their specialty is getting trashed, acting silly on the dance floor, and fucking.

The consequence of dealing with socially withdrawn people is that you become socially withdrawn yourself. It got so bad for me that I’d go for two or three-day stretches without even having a conversation with another human being. I’d talk to myself out loud at home, just to hear the sound of my voice. Combined with the five hours of weak sunlight a day, I felt like I was in a social isolation chamber. I started to get nervous that Iceland was infecting me with some type of antisocial virus, and that I was losing my bubbly nature.

The Russian girl showed up a half-hour late. She wore knee-high boots, a short skirt paired with black leggings, and a leather jacket over a black shirt. We sat at a table and talked about ourselves.

“So what do you do?” I asked.

“I’m a model.”

“Interesting. How long have you been doing that?”

“Four years, since I was fifteen. I’m considered an old model now and probably won’t do it much longer. These days they recruit girls starting at twelve.”

“That’s weird—a girl that young doesn’t look like a woman.”

“Well, with makeup and clothing they make them look much older. I look completely different when I’m on a job.”

I became curious about seeing photos of her glammed up, later making a strong effort to add her as a Facebook friend.

“So what are you going to do afterwards?” I asked.

“I’m in school now and currently teach runway walking to girls. In Russia, you have to work very hard to get anywhere, so I’m trying to secure a good future. There’s no time to hang out just to hang out. When I spend time with someone, there has to be some sort of exchange.”

That confirmed something I’d heard from guys who had dated Russian women: “They are always playing some sort of angle.” I didn’t know what she wanted to get from me, but I was hoping for it to be cock.

A café was holding a little concert featuring a Brazilian singer from Rio. I wanted to stop by and see if there was a Brazilian community in Reykjavik I could snake my way into. The Russian agreed to come.

“Maybe we can go to a bar after the concert,” I said. “I know a couple nearby.”

“I don’t drink,” she said.

“Really? But… you’re Russian.”

“Are you saying all Russian people are drunks?” She wasn’t smiling.

I wanted to say yes, but I could sense it was a touchy subject. Maybe her father was an alcoholic and had beaten her mother when she was a little girl.

“No, but the Russians in Washington DC are hard partiers. You’re honestly the first Russian person I’ve met who doesn’t drink. That’s like meeting an American who doesn’t like cheeseburgers and french fries.” I smiled.

“I can drink Coca-Cola, juice, water, and hot chocolate.” At that moment I noticed her necklace. It had a pendant of the Virgin Mary. My hope of sex was fading.

We killed some time in the bookstore before the start of the concert, talking a lot about her life in Russia. For being only 19 years old, she had a lot of interesting opinions on the things she had experienced, offering them at will without me having to drag it out of her. She asked follow-up questions to my own opinions and even had a sense of humor that kept me laughing, something most girls I meet are incapable of doing. The funniest thing she told me was, “Reykjavik feels like the Russian countryside instead of a capital city. I’m expecting a cow to walk by any second now.”

The more laughs and stories we exchanged, the more I felt my social nature coming back. Even though I hadn’t been in Iceland long, I had almost forgotten how rewarding human interactions can be. I was a little upset to know that my new friend was leaving in only two days.

I was more upset that she wasn’t a drinker. I’ve only fucked one other girl who was a non-drinker in my life. That girl wasn’t hard to get into the sack, but it did take longer than normal. I gave myself a 10% chance of fucking the Russian, a low number, but enough for me to pursue matters.

In heavy snow we walked to the concert venue. The Brazilian singer performed and almost brought a tear to my eye, not because I could understand what she was saying (though I’m sure it was about love and heartbreak), but because I knew I could have been in Brazil instead, spending less money to be with wonderful women who were sexy, feminine, and eager to please me.

After the show, the singer came up to me and the Russian. “Thank you for coming,” she said, greeting me with a double cheek kiss. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from America, though I lived in Rio for a while. That’s why I wanted to come tonight. Do you live here now?”

“Yes. I’m trying to move permanently to Iceland. I came with my daughter and we have a nice life here.”

Is she fucking crazy? Exchanging Rio for this? Then again, she was in her 40s, and forty years of anything wonderful will make it stop being wonderful. I also couldn’t discount the fact that Brazilians really like blue-eyed white people.

The singer engaged the Russian girl by asking questions and patiently waiting for her labored responses. She spent only three minutes talking to us, but the interaction was so pleasant that afterwards I was glowing. In one day the Russian girl and Brazilian singer had made me feel more human than any Icelander had. It was that night that I knew I’d never return to Iceland.

When it was time to leave the café, I looked at the Russian girl and said, “My socks are wet from snow getting into my shoes. Do you mind if we stop by my apartment one block away so I can change them?” She didn’t mind. My plan was to make my move once there.

I walked in, but she stayed outside in the freezing cold, waiting for me to change my socks. I gave her an “Are you serious?” look. She reluctantly came inside, but not any farther than the door mat.

“Are you going to change your socks?” she asked after I had opened my laptop.

“Are you in a rush? I mean, what do you want to do now?”

“Well, I have an excursion tomorrow morning, so I should be getting home.”

“You sure you don’t want to hang out more?”

“No. I should go.”

“Well, then, I guess I don’t need to change my socks after all. Let me walk you to the street corner and point you in the right direction.”

I wasn’t upset or bitter about her decision, since I had seen it coming a mile away. She gave me a nice hug at the intersection but lingered afterwards as if she wanted to keep chatting.

I said, “You seem like you want to hang out some more. Do you want to go to a bar? We don’t have to chill in my apartment.”

“No, no. I really must go.” She leaned in to give me a kiss on one cheek, then the other. I held onto her and she smiled, then we kissed on the lips for a few seconds.

“Why don’t you come back inside for fifteen minutes?” I asked. “We can listen to some music.”

“No, I shouldn’t,” she said, then turned and walked away.

I went back home, slightly discouraged but feeling good about the night. I was content with staying in, but with only two good nights to go out in Reykjavik during the week, I’d have to take advantage of both. I watched some old episodes of Seinfeld on my computer while drinking a fair amount of scotch before heading out the door at three.

I went to Bakkus near my apartment, not motivated to talk to Icelandic girls. Time flew and the bar lights came on. Realizing I had absolutely no prospects, I started approaching in earnest.

First girl, nothing. Second girl, nothing. Then I noticed a girl who was the friend of another girl I had approached on my first night out. I had barely exchanged three words with her, so I wasn’t sure if she’d remember me, but she did. That was surprising since she was now drunk out of her mind and holding onto the wall for support. I was inebriated myself, but nowhere near the way she was.

Her friends had ditched her and left her all by her lonesome. She desperately looked for them, fiddling with her phone, but they were all gone. I couldn’t believe my luck.

“I guess I’ll walk you home,” I said. She didn’t say anything. Once she started walking I followed her.

Five minutes into the walk she fell into the snow, hiking up her skirt so that I could see her stockings almost all the way up to her pussy. Helping her get back on her feet confirmed that her body was the real deal, like a little ballerina with a big ass (my ideal type).

“Look at you, falling all over the place,” I said. “You’re a mess.”

“Fuck you!” she said. “You don’t have to walk me home!”

“It would be cruel to leave you because another man might try to do something to you. I don’t want you to get raped.”

“No one rapes anyone in Iceland,” she said.

“You sure you want to test that out right now? You can’t even walk straight.”

“Whatever, you’re such an asshole!”

I didn’t know if she was joking or flirting. She kept telling me to leave and I kept saying it was my duty as a man to make sure she got home safe. I said, “I have a sister who’s a couple years older than you. I’d want a guy to walk her home as well.” That was the first time I had leveraged a family member in the hope of building enough trust to get laid. I couldn’t decide if it was tight game or pure evil.

Then she grabbed my hand. For balance? For intimacy? I didn’t know, but I did know I wasn’t going to fuck her. I’ve never fucked a girl in her parents’ home while they were sleeping, and while there’s a first time for everything, I wasn’t counting on it. On the other hand, I did have to piss like a racehorse.

When we got to her place, I asked, “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Yeah, whatever.” Her speech was like an American girl. It turned out that she actually lived on the East Coast for a few months.

I took a leak in her bathroom, which was decorated like a ski lodge with various woodsy knickknacks and little troll figurines. I came out to find her in the kitchen, warming up a huge pot of chicken soup.

“Do you want some?” she asked.

“No, I’m good.”

“Thanks for walking me home,” she said, in what was her kindest statement of the night.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Can I take off my shoes?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

She was talking loud, as if no one was home, but I did notice a shut door that I assumed was her parents’ bedroom. I sat down on the couch while she messed with the soup. Eventually she sat down next to me, putting her legs over mine. Her wet feet were tiny and I compared them to my hands, which were a few inches larger. I went into horny creep mode and started rubbing her legs while talking. She placed a hand on my arm.

“Tell me something about you,” she said.

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything, I don’t care.”

“My life is pretty shallow,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I’m never somewhere long enough to put down roots. I just go from place to place, and even if we were to be perfect for each other, it still wouldn’t work because I’m leaving soon.”

She leaned closer and said, “That’s sad.”

Then I kissed her. She tasted like beer and cigarettes, but now with my hands exploring her body I got more aroused in five seconds than I had with the Russian girl all night. Without saying a word, she got up, poured out a bowl of soup, and went into her room. I followed her.

It went so fast in her bedroom that even I felt weird. Clothes ripped off. “Do you have a condom?” Jam the dick inside. Barely any kissing. I was too drunk to feel anything and she was too drunk to produce much in the way of lubrication, so after five minutes we stopped having sex, if that’s what you want to call it, and lay on our backs. She fell asleep and started snoring. Her soup went untouched.

I took a short nap and when I woke up, her alarm clock said eight a.m. I figured it would be a good idea to leave in case her parents woke up early, so I ducked into the bathroom, threw the condom into the toilet, and flushed. It wouldn’t go down. I flushed again, but still nothing. I wanted to protect her honor (more like get rid of the evidence), so I fished it out the toilet and wrapped it in half a roll of toilet paper. I went back to the room and put it in my coat pocket along with the condom wrapper. Then I got dressed and left while she slept.

The next day, I heard a knock on my window. It was the Russian. I thought, “Yes! She wants to fuck! Two bangs in one weekend!” But no. She sat next to the door with her coat and scarf on, shying away whenever I got close. I tried to go caveman at the end but she just kept saying, “When you come to Moscow, I’ll show you around!”

Two weeks later I went to Bakkus again. After last call I stood outside in front of the bar, looking for targets, when the Icelandic girl I had fucked walked out with a guy in the same way I had walked out with her. She was so drunk that he was holding her arm so she wouldn’t fall over.

—

The above story is from Bang Iceland, an 80-page book that teaches you how to sleep with Icelandic women during a visit to the country. It contains tourist tips, game advice, and five additional sex stories that give you all the information you need to pillage creamy white Icelandic women, with extra details not released on the blog. It’s available in both paperback and ebook. Read sample pages or learn more about the book.

I decided that I had to get my Icelandic flag no matter what. If I had to fuck a fatty, I’d put an honest effort into doing so and there would be no bitching or complaining until the deed was done. I had to release the unbearable pressure.

The only problem was that I couldn’t come up with the motivation to approach. I just didn’t want to do it. I sat at the bar for over an hour, talking on and off to the Belgian bartender. His coworker was a cute girl from the Czech Republic.

“You’re totally blind,” she said. “That girl with the curly hair was staring at you.”

“Oh, I saw that, but she’s way too stocky for me. I like my women around your height, about 110 pounds.”

“I weigh 50 kilograms—what is that in pounds?”

“Let me check.” I pulled out my cell phone and used one of the tools to convert 110 pounds to kilograms. Then I looked at her and said, “My phone says that 110 pounds is 49.9 kilograms. Soooo… what are you doing next week?”

We laughed and she playfully hit my hand. I would have loved to ravage her, but unfortunately I already had a Czech flag and my next fuck had to be Icelandic. I didn’t want to be in the dangerous position of running out of time before flag attainment.

Why was I putting such pressure on myself? One reason was that it would be a fucking travesty to be in a country for two months and not get a bang. Toss in a big dollop of ego, in that it “should” happen quickly for me since I teach this shit, and the pressure was even higher. I’ve arrived at the point where if I don’t get laid within two hours of landing in a country, I’m a phony who no one should listen to.

I did a couple of warm-up approaches and they went how they normally went. The girls were polite until we got interrupted or they ditched. I had trouble sustaining things and couldn’t transition from superficial conversation to playful teasing and flirting.

Later I saw a cute dark-haired girl with olive skin. I approached and she turned out to be Australian, on vacation with two girlfriends. I actually had more trouble understanding their accents than with the Icelandic girls.

I said, “Alright, I’m going to guess which city you guys are from just by hearing you talk.”

“Go ahead,” one said.

“Melbourne?”

There was a chorus of “Oh my god, how did you know? That’s so awesome!”

It was a lucky guess.

I was accepted into the group and the other girls allowed me to isolate the cute one. We talked for quite a while until I felt a kick on my shin. I looked to my right and it was a girl who dipped on me earlier. I leaned into her and said, “You ditch when I’m talking to you but then you see me talking to another girl and now you want to chat? I see how it is.” I then ignored her because I never let a girl reject me twice.

The girlfriends of the Australian eventually came back and wanted to drag us to the louder part of the bar to dance. I went reluctantly. Once we were there, I realized I’d have to stay with those girls for the rest of the night for an opportunity to bang, because they weren’t going to separate any time soon. Just like when talking to the Czech girl, I got on myself for losing focus. I returned back to my spot. I had to get the Icelandic flag first.

Then I saw the girl I had gotten to within a few feet of my front door. I hadn’t contacted her and it had been a week, so I wasn’t surprised when she shot me a visible scowl and turned around. A player always keeps his options open, so what I had done a few days earlier to prepare for this very scenario was change one digit of her number on my phone. I knew there was a good chance I’d be desperate and horny if I ever saw her again.

I went up to her and said, “Hey, I think I know you.” She was visibly annoyed and didn’t even look me in the eyes.

“What happened? I texted you and you didn’t write back,” I said.

“You didn’t text me.”

“I definitely did.”

“Well, I didn’t get any text, so—” she said, looking away.

“Well, that’s weird. Let me see.” I pulled up her number on my phone and said, “This is your number, right?”

“Yeah that’s my num—wait! No, you got it wrong.”

“Oh, shit. I must’ve entered it incorrectly,” I said, putting on a performance that would have gotten me nominated for an Oscar. She told me the digit to change, but it didn’t register in my brain.

“Hey, I have to leave right now to go to another bar, but text me later,” she said, giving me a big smile that let me know I was back in it.

I watched her walk away and thought about my brilliant execution of the old “I put it in wrong” trick. Then I looked at my phone to correct the number, but I had forgotten which digit was wrong. Fuck, so much for brilliant execution.

I did more approaches, but it was the same shit—an okay start to a conversation that went nowhere. The girls gave me absolutely nothing to work with and it felt like I was having a monologue with myself.

Last call came. It was my fifth night out in Iceland and I had to admit I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. My game had been only marginally effective on one girl out of the thirty or so I had approached in the country so far. I was throwing everything and anything out there, hoping something would work, but none of my best prospects for the night were from Iceland. The Czech and Australian were fun girls who knew how to flirt, and I felt like I had a solid chance of getting somewhere if I had pursued them, but how could I elicit such a reaction in Icelandic girls?

It turned out I was asking the wrong question. Instead of trying to elicit a certain reaction, I had to ask myself if I needed to elicit that reaction. I assumed all girls went through the same progression of flirting and touching and so on, but could it be possible that some girls don’t need that in order to have sex?

The next thirty minutes went by quickly. First there was the tall ballerina. She was drop-dead gorgeous, but the conversation ended quickly. Then there was the girl with custom feather earrings. That conversation lasted three minutes. Then there was her friend, who actually asked me questions, but that died out, too. Then there was the friend of that friend. She barely spoke to me but did something peculiar upon leaving. As she was walking away, she gave me a long stare. I’m standing there, waving goodbye as if she was leaving on a ship, while she stared with her head craned around to face me. Did she want me to follow her? Was that a sign?

The back bar shut down, but the bartenders let me stay with them. I did a shot with the Belgian and gave him a recap of the night. Then he said, “You know, it’s funny, sometimes after work I go sit on a bench outside and some girl starts talking to me and takes me home.”

“Wait, right on the street?” I asked.

“Yeah, right here,” he laughed. “It just happens… they pick you.”

“How many times have you banged a girl that way?”

“A few times.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, man, it’s weird here. It’s hard to explain.”

I helped him clean for a few minutes and then went to the part of the bar that was still open. I stood next to the window and looked outside while a girl stared at me. I asked her when the bar closed.

“It closes now,” she said.

“That sucks.”

“Do you want to come with me and my friends?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

“Do you want to do cocaine?”

“I don’t mind weed, but, um—”

“Come on let’s go!” She grabbed my arm and led me outside to meet her friends. The only problem was her ugliness; she actually had a tooth missing on the bottom row. Two blocks away we stopped for a minute and I decided I just couldn’t sleep with her. She sensed it and walked away, leaving me alone on the street corner.

I looked around for a bench and found one, but concluded it was ridiculous to even try. I gave up for the night. I still hadn’t gotten a flag in a country where sex was supposed to be easy. I was a failure and a total fraud.

During the walk home, I slowed my pace to relive the night’s approaches and to identify my weaknesses, stretching a ten-minute walk into more than twice that, but nothing was coming to me. I was tired and intoxicated and just wanted to go to bed.

What I’m about to share with you next will seem like fiction. If I read it, I’d automatically assume it was false, regardless of who had written it.

I was almost within sight of my front door, walking slow with my head facing the ground. I heard a woman’s footsteps behind me, but I was so dejected that I didn’t bother to look back to see if she was attractive or not. The footsteps got louder, and then I heard a voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Who, me?” I said.

“Yeah, you. Are you sick?”

She was decent-looking, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a petite body. She wasn’t quite pretty enough to approach a few hours prior, but at six in the morning I couldn’t believe I was in the game with a bangable prospect so close to my house.

I livened up. “Oh, I’m fine. I’m just a little tired. I’m not used to staying out so late like you Icelanders.”

“Where are you from?” We stopped walking at the exact same corner where the girl from the previous week had escaped into a cab.

“I’m from the States.”

“I love foreigners!” she said, taking out a cigarette as if to say she wanted to stick around for a while.

The hardest place to pick a girl up is on the street. It’s such a pain that I don’t bother unless the nightlife sucks, so for a girl to approach me so late at night on the street was something I’d never experienced in my life. If I had seen an approach go down like that in a movie, I would have been disgusted and turned it off, yet it was happening to me.

I said, “You spoke to me in English. How did you know?”

“Oh, just by the way you dress and look. It was easy.”

We talked about Icelandic culture, American culture, and what I was doing in Iceland. She was about to finish her cigarette when I asked if she was tired.

“Not really,” she said.

“Well, do you want to have a drink with me before you go home? I live right there,” I said, pointing to my front door.

“You live right there?”

“Yes, I live right there.”

“Who are you staying with?”

“No one. I’m alone,” I said, maintaining eye contact.

“Sure, I can use a drink.”

I made her a scotch on the rocks. She took off her shoes and settled on my bed while I put on some music.

“Do you think I’m a slut?” she asked out of the blue.

“What do you mean?” I said, needing time to think.

“I mean, don’t you think it’s weird that a girl will come home with you after only a few minutes?”

“Not at all. We had a nice conversation and the natural thing to do is to share a drink and get to know each other better. You have to understand that in America things can move really quickly. If you get along with someone, anything can happen.”

She smiled and took off her jacket. “That makes sense.”

I played it slow, and by slow, I mean I didn’t join her on the bed for about two minutes. I tinkered with the music queue on my laptop and changed into shorts and a t-shirt in front of her. Only then did I join her on the bed. We kissed.

She pulled away and said, “Icelanders don’t date. We’re not like Americans. Only Americans date.”

Obviously she hasn’t been in other parts of the world. ”So, what do Icelanders do?” I asked, humoring her.

“We meet at night and have sex. Then we say goodbye the next morning and run into each other some other time.”

“But how about if you like the person?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

It seemed to me that she was trying to prove that she didn’t get attached to guys. She calmed down on the tough-guy crap and her clothes started coming off. Then I heard the sweetest five words a girl could ever say: “Do you have a condom?”

There was maybe only two minutes of total kissing time before I violated her vagina. I felt so little investment in the bang that I didn’t even make the slightest effort to delay my orgasm by changing positions. I simply went directly for the nut then rolled over and fell asleep. It was the most impersonal sex I’d ever had. She might as well have been a prostitute.

In the middle of the night I got another boner, put on a condom, and jammed it back in while she was half-asleep. I came and passed out again with the condom still on my dick.

In the morning, she lingered longer than I would have suspected for someone who “doesn’t date.” I fiddled around on my laptop, hoping she would leave.

“What song are you playing?” she asked.

“This is something by Empire of the Sun,” I said.

“Oh, I’ve heard of them before. They have the same singer as MGMT.”

“No, that’s a different band.”

“But their singers are the same.”

“I assure you, they’re not.”

“No, I’m sure they are,” she insisted.

You stupid dumb bitch. I went on Wikipedia and proved her wrong, but she still remained skeptical.

“So,” I said, “do you need help getting home?”

I walked her to the door and then said, “Well, if you get horny next weekend, I’ll check the street corner at exactly six a.m. to see if you’re there.”

I gave myself a fist pump when the door closed, then went back to sleep.

—

The above story is from Bang Iceland, an 80-page book that teaches you how to sleep with Icelandic women during a visit to the country. It contains tourist tips, game advice, and five additional sex stories that give you all the information you need to pillage creamy white Icelandic women, with extra details not released on the blog. It’s available in both paperback and ebook. Read sample pages or learn more about the book.

There are no bars that remain open after 5:00, yet people will still want to party (Icelanders live for the weekend, if you haven’t noticed). This leads to a strong afterparty culture where some guy randomly decides to host people in his house. He invites four or five people and then word spreads to a larger group, but the problem is that everyone is so drunk and discombobulated that the afterparty rarely gets off the ground. People drop out, get lost, lose their phones, encounter drunken drama, and so on. So while everyone will be in front of the bar talking about an afterparty, most end up just smoking a couple cigarettes before going home. While it’s nice to get invited to an afterparty, it’s far better to throw the afterparty yourself so you’ll have home court advantage.

To execute the afterparty move, first say, “Are you going to sleep right now?” Give off a tone that makes it seem like you’re definitely not trying to go to bed. Unless she says yes, add, “Well I’m thinking of throwing an afterparty in my apartment. I have some good music and scotch. I’m staying right down the street.” (If the girl is really digging you, then all you have to say is, “Do you want to come over for a drink? I’m staying right down the street.”)

It’s as simple as that. If you get to the point where you can suggest an afterparty, your chances of getting laid are already at 50%. You make it very easy for her to say yes since you’re giving her the privacy she needs in order to get intimate. If you’re staying at a luxury hotel, don’t be afraid to namedrop it.

I know what you’re thinking: what happens if you invite a girl to your place and her friends want to come? One time I rolled an afterparty on a girl and she invited two girlfriends, so it was the four of us walking to my place. Then suddenly the friends got into some sort of fight and dropped out, leaving me isolated with the girl, who still wanted to come. Even if you end up taking a couple chicks back, Icelandic girls don’t babysit or cockblock one another, so all you have to do is hang in there until the others drop or pass out.

One thing I loved about Iceland is that at the end of the night people really don’t give a fuck what happens to their friends. You’ll be surprised how many girls are drunkenly wandering alone on the streets at five a.m., whereas two hours earlier they were with a group of twelve people.

There’s a kidnap variation to the afterparty move that I want to discuss. Let’s say you approach three girls at the end of the night and they seem interested in your afterparty. Then two of those girls go off to the side to have a conversation with some other people, leaving you isolated with the third girl. It’s at this moment you should double down on your afterparty—in effect “kidnapping” her. Say, “Well I guess your friends don’t want to come to the afterparty, but how about we still do it?” Reiterate how close your hotel room or apartment is. If she says yes, say, “Cool, let’s go” and start walking. If her friends are out of sight to the point where the girl concludes that they have walked away, the bang is in the bag.

As you can see, this is more logistics than game. You need to approach at the right time, get her isolated, and then swoop her away with the afterparty move. Once in your room, get comfortable, make some drinks, put on some music, and then sit back as she makes it all too easy for you. Sex will be a foregone conclusion even though you haven’t kissed yet or talked long. The sex will be sloppy, her pussy will be dry since she doesn’t care about foreplay, and her breath will probably be awful, but hey, the speed of your “seduction” will make up for it.

Let’s say you approached a bunch of girls after last call in the bar and then in front of the street, but got no bites. Your next gambit will be walking around the center of the city approaching lone girls. While you can also approach pairs and triplets on the street, go for singles first. This strategy would never work in the States, but it does in Iceland.

Be polite and ask girls if they know of another bar that’s open. Try to get a chat going by sharing details about the bar you were at and how you’re still trying to figure out Icelandic nightlife. If she asks where you’re from or any other personal question, hit her with the afterparty move a minute later. If she declines the afterparty, your last-ditch play is to offer to walk her home, weaseling your way inside once you’re at her front door by asking to use the bathroom.

She has to be moderately inebriated for these moves to work, but chances are she will. It’s the late street approaches that are actually your best chance of fucking a young college girl who stubbornly didn’t separate from her pack until the very end of the night.

The bottom line in Iceland is that the game is just beginning at last call and keeps going until there are no more people on the street. If you gave up and went home alone to fall asleep at 6:00, you didn’t work hard enough. As a last resort, you should get a late night-snack at a busy food shack and continue approaching there, asking girls for an open bar.

—

The most important night to pickup in Iceland is Saturday, which I consider the night to get laid. Everyone goes out on Saturday night to get fucked up, so the night venues will definitely be more packed. Friday is still a great night to go out, but when it comes to fucking, it seems like girls have a plan to do it on Saturday.

On the weekends, Icelanders start heading out around midnight. By 1:00, places start to fill, and by 2:00 there are long lines for the most popular venues. Thursday night generally sucks, since only a handful of bars have people and everything shuts down at 1:00 instead of 5:00 on the weekends, but it’s still worth a try.

In America I’ve always recommended going out early, about four hours before closing. Since it generally takes a few hours of talking to get a one-night stand, it’s best to start a conversation with an open girl between 10:00 or 11:00, venue change to another spot a couple hours after that, and then close out the second bar before making the final venue change to your place or hers.

That’s not how things work in Iceland. There you have a 10-30 minute conversation, sometimes mixed with dancing, before relocating to your apartment and fucking. Because there are no “long” seductions like in America, there’s absolutely no benefit to going out early. All the action happens at the very end of the night.

My first two bangs came from girls I started talking to after closing, which definitely confused me at the time. It was surprising to learn that as the night goes on, girls get more and more friendly, hitting maximum receptiveness after five (in America, it’s just the opposite).

Icelandic girls have a term for the men they meet at a late hour: the “last-minute man,” sometimes also referred to as “the six a.m. man.” They don’t give a damn about rapport and personality because in their drunken state all they want to do is fuck (god bless them). All you have to do is present yourself as the best last-minute man option as the bars close. Do this by casually approaching girls as a normal, cool guy who drops the fact that he has nearby private lodgings. If you’re thinking, “Wow, this sounds too easy,” that’s because it is.

The best type of game in Iceland is therefore last call game, where you start approaching at the end when she’s at her drunkest while separated from her friends and possibly looking for a hookup so she doesn’t have to go home alone. It will seem weird to wait until the last minute to approach, since it doesn’t work in America, but it’s the way to go in Iceland if you want to get laid at night.

If you’re only in Iceland for a weekend or two, by all means go out around 1:00 and enjoy the nightlife, but it doesn’t matter where you are before 4:00, since it’s unlikely you’ll be able to sustain an early approach. I did all my venue experimentation early in the night, but come 3:00, I was on my way to my favorite spot to get ready for real work. All you need is one girl to bite by closing time to arrange for the afterparty move.

When you’re ready to approach, use simple, indirect openers. My favorite opener, which works on just about any girl, is “You don’t look like you’re from here.” Squint your eyes then make up another country that you “think” she is actually from. Act surprised when she says you’re totally wrong. Inquire about her ancestral lineage and ask her to say a few words in Icelandic as a playful way to give proof that she really is from Iceland. By that point she should ask where you’re from and how long you’re staying in Iceland (if not, she’s not interested).

In most countries a girl will get turned off when you say you’re only visiting her city for a short while, such as in Colombia where I’ve advised men to be as vague as possible about their departure dates. Not so in Iceland. Since girls value privacy in a town where she runs into former lovers on a weekly basis, she’ll be excited to hear that you’re going to leave soon. Because I was staying so long, I actually insinuated that I was leaving sooner that I was, the first time I’ve ever done so. Iceland could be the only country in the world where the women don’t like it when you stay.

While opening Icelandic girls is incredibly easy, making headway with them is another matter. I had a lot of conversations that would simply die around three to five minutes, especially early in the night. I’d go on and on about my observations or opinions and she would just stare at me and nod, offering absolutely nothing that I could use.

Only if she has lived abroad will she respond in a social way that you’re used to. For that reason I became averse to opening girls before they were at their maximum drunkenness, when ironically they were more capable of having a conversation. Your chances of getting a basic chat off the ground after four a.m. is dramatically higher than before.

The main reason it’s hard to converse with an Icelandic girl is that she’s so used to meeting people who already know her friends. I noticed that most Icelanders start conversations by talking about who they know and what school they went to. A ten-minute conversation is just about guaranteed.

She likely won’t have the tools to build a connection with a completely random man who isn’t connected to her life or social circle in some way, regardless of how good his conversational skills are. It doesn’t mean she won’t fuck you (she definitely will), but it does mean she won’t do so from the value you’ve built through a long conversation. What you must do in Iceland is go back to the Stone Age by using less language and more persistence in dragging her back to your cave.

The second reason it’s so hard to have conversations is that you’ll be interrupted every other minute, since she literally knows half the people in the bar. She won’t be so keen to resume the conversation with you especially if you’ve been talking for a short while, which will probably be the case since the interruption will come soon. Thankfully, at the end of the night, most of her friends will have already left or have been neutralized by too much alcohol. Approaching at that time is money because the chances of an interruption are greatly reduced.

Keep all your conversations basic and refrain from teasing too hard. Hit her with questions about things you’ve seen during the day. Joke around by asking if Icelanders really believe that elves and trolls live in the hills (many do). If there’s a dance floor and she’s in the mood to dance, use it, because it can only help you.

You’ll know you’re putting out the correct fun, laid-back vibe if Icelandic guys or girls are offering to buy you drinks. At first you may be reluctant to accept a drink from a stranger, but in Iceland it’s pretty close to an insult to refuse. Accept graciously. Think of Icelandic nightlife as a happy party where alcohol flows and strangers buy other strangers drinks. When it comes to buying girls drinks, though, I recommend you do it only after she buys you one first.

If she has bought you a drink and the conversation is still going after ten minutes, she probably has serious interest in you. Your instinct may be to get closer for a kiss, but you have to be careful about this. While touching and mild groping is acceptable, trying to kiss girls in bars shows you don’t understand how big of a problem gossip is on the island. While she’s a card-carrying feminist, she still doesn’t want the slut stain because her community is so small (it was common for me to repeatedly run into girls I had previously fucked).

It’s no big deal if you don’t get the kiss out of the way when you’re in the bar since it’ll happen quickly once you get her isolated. Sex will follow the first kiss within minutes. Definitely touch her to establish an intimate vibe, but if her friends are around and you’re in a crowded place, the risk of going for a kiss far outweigh the benefits (if she doesn’t mind being kissed in public, she’ll definitely let you know by coming within a couple inches of your mouth).

A good prediction of how far you’ll get with a girl is by counting how many of her friends are circling around. If you decided to murder the Icelandic girl you’re talking to, how many witnesses would have seen you with her? The fewer witnesses there are, the more likely she’ll accept your afterparty suggestion. If there are too many witnesses, she’ll be hesitant to show genuine interest since she’ll be so worried that members of her tribe think she’s easy.

While she’s in denial of the fact that she’s a slut, we know she is, and all we need to release that inner slut is to get her isolated and away from prying eyes. Though Icelandic girls are wary of foreigners, we have an advantage over local guys since fucking us won’t “count.” If she wants to fuck just to fuck, which she will if she’s out drunk on a Saturday night without a boyfriend, then you’re her man… her last-minute man.

One Icelandic girl told me, “Everyone thinks we’re sluts, but that’s a misconception. There are consequences to sleeping around.” While I disagree with that statement and think that the girls are indeed hardcore sluts, there are almost no consequences for her to sleep with someone who is going to leave the city soon, which is why we make it clear we’re not staying for long. These girls want one-and-out fucks, not potential long-term relationships. At first I was slightly offended at this, since I think I’m a good catch, but when I realized how little work I had to put in to get laid, I quickly got used to it.

Let me sum up how your average Saturday night in Reykjavik should look like so far. You had a couple of drinks in your room then walked out the door around 3:00 a.m. You got in line at the bar and eventually wound up inside with another drink in your hand by 4:00. You picked a prime post-up spot and made small talk with the Icelanders around you to get into a social mood, letting them buy you drinks and buying them drinks in return. Around 4:30, you increased your alert level and made a more conscious effort to approach cute girls close to your spot. You did not run around the bar approaching girls like a monkey, but remained cool, casual, and tethered to either one or two locations. When a girl bit by asking where you were from and what you were doing in Iceland, you pulled her chain by hitting her with humorous responses. She proved to be too drunk to talk further, so you suggested some dancing, which she accepted. Your faces got slightly close, but you didn’t try for a kiss. The clock now strikes 5:00 and the bar is closing. It’s time for the afterparty move.

If a bar is closing and you haven’t gotten any bites, pick a new spot by the exit and approach singles and pairs on their way out. Increase your hustle and, if necessary, run around the bar like a monkey to find women. Here’s the opener to use after last call: “Do you know if there’s another bar that’s still open?” You’ll either do this in the bar or, if the barman kicks you out, in front of the bar where people gather in impromptu street parties before heading off. If she’s helpful, go on about how you think it’s still early and wouldn’t mind having another drink. If the girl continues to engage you, asking more than one personal question like your name, job, travel plans, home country, or place of lodging, do the afterparty move, which I’ll describe next week.

—

May and June in Poland were two of the best months in my life. I had to research ways to increase my libido so I could keep servicing the insatiable sexual appetites of Polish women, who have long since been neglected by their goofy men. After an abrupt summer pause the action resumed in October, meaning all was good in the world, right?

No matter how great a movie is, it just isn’t the same when you watch it a second time. In October I went to the same clubs that I was so successful before, but I couldn’t regain the excitement, and decided that I’d be happier trying to find another great movie. Even paradise feels normal after a while.

My time in Poland can be represented in two innocent events, both of which happened on the same day.

I went to the dental clinic for a basic cleaning, surprised to find that my dentist was an attractive woman younger than me, with revealing curves despite her loose white coat.

It took me ten minutes to realize that she was actually flirting with me. After she did a fine job sand blasting my teeth, I sat by her desk and flirted back. We talked for a short while and one step short of going for the number it comes out that she’s married. Not comfortable pursuing a married woman, I aborted my attempt, but how common is it to be in a country where not only the dentists are pretty, they’re interested in you as well?

I was on my way home when I saw a tall girl on the street walking towards me. I immediately focused on her sexy legs; they seemed five feet long. My eyes slowly moved up, savoring her magnificent body, building up to the moment of eye contact. I got up to her face and immediately recognized her as a girl I had fucked a couple months prior. How common is it to be attracted to an anonymous girl on the street only to find you already banged her?

I’m completely aware that it may never get better. Poland may be the best place in the world for me, but leave I shall. I don’t want to bleed, and I don’t want to suffer, but I need the drug of new experiences, new action, new places, and new women. I’m like a baby who needs a new toy jingling in front of him, or else he gets irritated and kicks wildly into the air.

Goodbye Poland. You’ve made me a happier man, a better man. Even though I can come back to defile you anytime I want, I know it won’t be quite the same.