Icelandic girls are extremely shy, boring, and cold (I’d describe American girls as annoying, abrasive, and cold). Unless you get them drunk, you’ll have a hard time building any sort of connection. When I met someone who was unusually warm (asking me questions and maintaining strong eye contact), it would be a guarantee I was talking to a foreigner.

In the beginning of my trip I wanted to conclude that Icelanders were an anti-social species, but very often I saw people having long conversations with their friends in coffee shops and bookstores. So while they’re capable of normal human interaction, their shyness, combined with a lack of charm and skepticism of outsiders, makes it challenging to establish rapport in a way you’re used to. The vibe I got from many of my interactions was that they simply didn’t care to put one ounce of work into helping the conversation, especially when they were sober. It’s unfortunate that unless she was drunk and borderline about to puke, talking to her was like getting a tooth pulled.

There is a big exception: if the Icelandic girl has lived in England or America for a while. In that case, she’ll be used to long-form conversation that you already do on girls. She’ll also be more accustomed to dating, something that Icelanders don’t do (they simply fuck, only developing relationships if their social circles happen to overlap).

With the Icelandic girls who have been exposed to Western culture, you can use gradual escalation in the form of chatting, flirting, touching, kissing, and so on, as if it’s a timed program. Otherwise, you’ll have to adopt some new techniques to account for the fact that having more than a thirty-minute heart-to-heart conversation with her is just about impossible. In addition, she won’t be turned on by your charm, wit, or cocky and funny game because, after all, she doesn’t mind sleeping with Icelandic guys, who are boring as rocks. Therefore, you have to time your approaches toward the end of the night so you can go for a quick venue change to your room, a strategy I’ll elaborate on in the future.

What I want you to understand is that good chat is not valued by Icelandic girls. They really don’t care about your status back home, your vast experience, or your accomplished humor. While I’m not saying to be boring on purpose, the things that get you laid with American or British girls will be of little help on an Icelandic girl who hasn’t had long-term exposure to your culture.

So what criteria do the girls use to select for sex? Appearance and vibe. If they like both and you can eke out a respectable fifteen-minute fluffy conversation where you’re being a non-cocky cool guy, you have a high chance of getting her in bed.

I asked several Icelandic girls about the vibe they wanted in men, but I didn’t get any clear-cut answers. Most said they liked “sexy” guys who were “different” and “stood out,” vague statements that could mean just about anything. Looking back at my own Icelandic bangs, it seems that timing and logistics were the primary keys to success, assuming the girl didn’t mind my appearance or vibe. This means approaching a girl at the right time when she was looking for a hookup and then providing a nearby private room to make it happen. My Icelandic bangs felt more like plain old luck than any other country I’ve been to, but since the girls love to fuck and will do so quickly, that “luck” became somewhat consistent.

So far I may have painted a picture that the girls are boring and quiet, but they’re a rambunctious bunch when hanging out with friends, doing all sorts of crazy, silly, and obnoxious shit. You look at a girl, think she’s the most fun in the bar because of her wild dance moves, then approach only to have her clam up. In another instance, you think she hates you because of how withdrawn she’s acting, but then she offers to buy you a drink. Even guys get into the drink-buying act. In Iceland I’ve never had so many people buy me drinks before, even as expensive as they were. It seems to me that drink-buying is a crutch for shyness, since one of the most reliable ways for them to break the ice is, “You want a shot?” In Iceland the general goal is to go with your friends and get retarded, not to have a deep one-on-one conversation by the bar. I’m not saying that deep conversations don’t happen, but it’s rare.

On the plus side, the girls are extremely polite. I can’t say I’ve ever been blown out, even when they were drunk. They’ll be nice as long as you’re asking for some type of help, like a bar recommendation or how late some place closes, but don’t be surprised if they quickly shut down and give no additional information that might help the conversation proceed. They’re sort of like guys in the fact that their communication is to convey information instead of to flirt. Sadly, flirting or charm is nonexistent, as is the case with most Scandinavian girls. Until Iceland, I had no idea that a girl would be interested in fucking me after a conversation where absolutely no sexual or playful vibe was established.

I can easily say that an average conversation with a Colombian taxi driver was far more intimate and enjoyable than one with the average Icelander. The night I went to see a Brazilian singer with a Russian girl about one month into my trip was eye opening. The Russian was chatty about life and travel while the Brazilian singer was charming, smiley, and graceful. The fact that the Russian girl asked for my opinions almost blew my mind, because even Icelanders didn’t give a fuck what I thought of their country. One month into my Iceland stay, I forgot what it was like to experience basic human warmth.

Don’t confuse my criticisms on Icelanders with bashing them. Not every culture will fit what you’re accustomed to, and Icelanders actually think American friendliness is fake, forced, and superficial. I’m not here to say which culture is better, but a discussion on their personality traits, including their weaknesses, is essential if we want to identify the optimal game in banging the women.

Another important trait of Icelandic women is that they’re die-hard feminists. They believe in equal rights, suffrage, and abortions for all, but thankfully they don’t do the American thing of calling you out on your perceived flaws or mistakes. In the early stages of your interactions with them they won’t try to jam their liberal opinions down your throat, they won’t go on about the inferiority of men, and they won’t try to make you feel small.

While I could argue that a lot of American women actually hate men and get joy out of shaming them, in Iceland the girls are more laid-back and just out to have a good time and get drunk. She’s too busy drinking to have a verbal battle with a guy because she didn’t like his approach style. (In America and Denmark, though, I believe girls have a hidden agenda and go out with an intention to feel superior). An Icelandic girl is definitely quiet and boring, but she won’t disrespect you early on.

Her overall attitude will be positive when you first meet. She won’t say much, but she won’t make you groan or roll your eyes. She’s just a shy girl who takes a long time to get to know strangers, but once she starts to feel comfortable with you, let the groaning and eye-rolling commence. I once had a girl argue with me about what “real hip-hop” is, pulling up a YouTube video of two chubby Icelandic guys rapping in plaid shirts on a green hill. Thankfully, the opinionated feminist only reveals herself after sex, and since most sexual encounters are one-and-out, you may never get to experience the annoying side of an Icelandic girl. The fact that she doesn’t talk much before sex can actually be chalked up as an advantage, since the things they have to say are likely to irritate you anyway.

The picture in your mind of the average Icelandic girl should be a decent-looking shy chick who gets a little sexy and a lotta drunk for the weekend. She’s not particularly feminine or graceful, and her movements and body language are sometimes gruff. She won’t care about appearing ladylike, even when she’s wearing sexy clothing. What this ultimately means is that Icelandic girls are for fucking, not for falling in love with. While there are countless tales of men visiting Latin America or Southeast Asia and finding a wife, this will definitely not happen to you in Iceland. Go there to drink, get laid, and see some interesting scenery, but be prepared to pay a bit of coin for that privilege.

The last point I want to make is that Icelandic girls have a very loose concept of fidelity, meaning she’ll definitely cheat on her Icelandic boyfriend for a guy she knows isn’t staying long. If she claims to have a boyfriend but he’s not currently in the same venue, you can safely ignore what she says. The only question you may want to ask is, “Are you meeting up with him later?” Because the girls get so drunk, they’ll easily succumb to cheating if the logistics are right and there are few spying eyes.

—

Not only is beauty relative, but the way you perceive the same girl is relative. Imagine you just broke up with this girl from a year-long relationship:

And then you were told that you had to move to a deserted island with this girl:

You’d be disapointed, right? Now how would you feel if you had to move to the island with the above girl after dating this:

You’d probably feel like you just won the lottery. It turns out that the girl you were with yesterday directly influences how you feel about girls you see today. It can also affect how you see women of an entire country.

The Bolivia Effect: You will overvalue women of any country you visit if the previous country had uglier women.

I’ve experienced three Bolivia Effects. The first is when I actually left Bolivia for Argentina. I was so floored by the beauty of Argentine women that I was ready to renounce American citizenship and permanently move there. While the women are indeed beautiful, the Bolivia Effect made me miss out on a lot of their flaws. In my second visit to the country (after living in Brazil for six months), I couldn’t believe I thought they were so amazing. I only lasted one more month until leaving.

My second Bolivia Effect was going from Washington DC to Iceland. Because Icelandic women dress sexy, something that DC women don’t know how to do, I initially thought they were above average when in fact they have the same problems shared by their Scandinavian cousins. They were of respectable stock but nothing special.

The third Bolivian Effect was going from Denmark to Poland. I was so repulsed by Danish women that I could have stepped in North Korea and thought it was paradise, but thankfully Poland really is a place where horny man dreams come true. Still, it has its weaknesses. The Bolivia Effect caused me to ignore a butterface problem that didn’t begin to register until three months into my stay. Only when I forgot about how bad Denmark was did I start to see Poland for what it really was.

The problem with the Bolivia Effect is that it prevents you from objectively comparing your exploits for choosing an end game location in order to sow your wild oats or settle down. If I originally visited Argentina after Brazil, would I have still stayed for three months? If I went to Poland after Argentina, would I have been able to tolerate the butter? When it comes to women, there is no truth except for relative truth. Our most recent experiences color current ones, which is why I overhyped Poland and Argentina while underhyping places like Colombia and Brazil.

Unfortunately, the more experience I rack up the less confident I feel that I’m being objective. The best I can do is tell you my stories, relay facts (not emotions), and let you make decisions on where to visit yourself. Even then, it is impossible to make the absolute best decision possible for you’ll always be deciding from incomplete and impartial data. Not only will no two men ever see a country the same, but with separate visits, you’ll never see the same country the same.

The first time I heard the phrase “Icelandic girls,” I thought of hotness. How can a race that has procreated on a lonely island for a thousand years with little outside influence have nothing but the most ravishing blonde beauties? While there are plenty of those beauties to be found, I want to first describe the reality so you have the right expectations.

Your average Icelandic girl will have pale skin, light brown hair, a small chipmunk face with nose pointed upward, and a body that is average to slightly chubby with slightly large breasts and an average to small ass. When it comes to hair color, I estimate that 25% of the women are platinum blondes, 25% have dark brown hair, and the rest are in between. Regardless of hair color, her skin stays pale thanks to limited sunlight for half the year. If she’s a shade darker than everyone else, there’s a good chance she’s from Denmark, where most Icelanders can claim ancestry.

If you like Latina women with dark hair, olive skin, and big asses (I’m thinking of Brazil right now), Iceland won’t have what you’re looking for. I will say, though, that fucking a pale, hairless girl gives a great “beauty and the beast” contrast to my darker skin color and hairy body. I felt like a wolf from the woods coming into the city to rape a fair-skinned woman, then escaping back into the darkness before the townspeople could find out what happened.

One way that I’ve found pale women can beautify themselves is to apply eye makeup as thickly as possible to give their eyes a dark contrast against their light skin color. Icelandic girls don’t do this. Instead they insist on bright red lipstick that makes them look clownish. I never thought I’d complain about girls not putting on makeup correctly, but I strongly feel that Icelandic women aren’t maximizing their appearance.

When it comes to weight, they are generally a little thick with flabby arms (there’s no gym or exercise culture in Iceland), but nothing on the scale of American obesity. Nonetheless, it was shocking to see fatties walking around with the price of food being what it was. This suggests that higher-priced food won’t be a cure for America’s obesity epidemic and that more drastic action must be taken.

One positive point is their dedication to looking sexy, even in the hipster bars. Girls wore heels (usually boots), skirts, black stockings with interesting patterns on them, and generally tight clothing that revealed their figures. Even a more butch Icelandic girl with the sides of her head shaved off put effort into her appearance. While I did question some of their fashion choices, especially when it came to wearing jean shorts over black leggings, the girls generally highlighted their figure regardless of how cold it was outside, especially on the weekends.

Overall I’d say that Icelandic girls are slightly sexier than American girls, but since they’re not as fat, this causes a considerable increase to their rating. The best analogy I can give for how the average Icelandic girl looks like is Jodie Foster in The Accused, the movie where she gets gang raped on a pinball machine. I find her appearance in that movie to be rather reasonable, and can therefore recommend Iceland as a place where you’ll be pleased with the level of talent.

1. The weather sucks.

The average high temperature during the winter in Reykjavik, Iceland’s capital, is about 32 degrees Fahrenheit. Cold, but bearable. Depending on where the thermometer falls, you either get daily doses of cold rain or fat snow, meaning it’s rare to see the pavement completely dry. You also have to deal with a brutal wind coming off the Atlantic Ocean, sometimes topping fifty miles per hour. The weather and darkness were so bleak that it was actually neat in a somber way.

Summer is better. The average high temperature rises to the 50s, and around the solstice you get to experience nearly twenty-four hours of sun per day (bring a night mask). Summer also means tourists. College lets out and everyone takes their vacations in the interior or abroad. Even smack in the middle of winter, I was surprised to see so many foreign travelers, but thankfully they were the older type who came to make day trips to the countryside. There were very few guys like me who had come mainly to pillage the women.

2. Icelandic girls don’t throw themselves on foreign men.

If you’re thinking of visiting because you want to stand out, I have some bad news: Iceland is a tourist-plagued country, especially with visitors from Northern and Western European countries, though the closing of an American air force base several years ago has helped make Americans slightly novel once again. By the time you roll up on cute little Inga, she will have met dozens of guys just like you. While that fact in no way should discourage you from going, don’t for a second think you’re visiting some type of isolated tribe in the Amazon that will be amazed by your steel tools and exotic spices.

Unless you’re into chubby chasing, you’ll definitely have to move your ass to get laid with what you think of as a pretty Icelandic girl. To make it happen, I recommend a two-weekend stay, which if you start on a Thursday would be a minimum of ten days. You’ll be able to do some pipelining on an Icelandic dating site and then go all-out on two sets of Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, which are the only suitable nights to game. If you want to get your Icelandic flag, two weekends will be required.

3. Iceland is a village founded by rapists.

Iceland was founded by the Vikings, supreme badasses who some-how figured out how to live in one of the least pleasant environments on Earth. On their way to the island, they stopped by Ireland and kidnapped some Celtic women as wives. It’s safe to assume that brutal rape was part of the program, which is why you see a surprising number of brown-haired Icelanders. While their skin is almost always milky white, less than half of the women are platinum blonde, which is probably the stereotype you had about them. Disappointingly, there were some Icelandic guys who even had my dark hair color and beard.

The tiny population of the country (less than half a million) means that no one is more than one connection away from anyone else. The running joke goes that when two strangers meet, they aren’t surprised to find out they’re distant cousins. Due to this extreme smallness, Iceland is like a little high school where gossip spreads like wildfire, causing privacy to be more valued than in other cultures. If just one person finds out that Inga slept with Janus, then literally the entire “village” will know in just a few days.

4. Icelandic girls are incredibly easy once drunk and isolated.

Thanks to a wonderful synergy between feminism and an Icelandic girl’s desire to self-medicate with alcohol, you’ll find that night bangs happen incredibly quickly, often within an hour. While getting an “in” with an Icelandic girl will be hard due to her introverted and skeptical nature, once you get that in you’re going to be rocking the bed in record time. Iceland is the only first-world county I know of where nearly instant sex is possible without having to pay for it.

5. Where you stay is half the battle.

The best way to get Iceland bangs is to find a girl and throw an “afterparty” at your place once the bars close, so you’ll need your own room stocked with a bottle of booze within walking distance of the nightlife zone. I can’t stress enough that your hotel or apartment room must be close. The more likely a stone thrown from the bar you’re gaming in will land on your hotel or apartment, the more girls you will fuck, all because you’re making it easy for drunk Icelandic girls to continue their night. If your place is so far that you need to take a taxi, you’ve already lost the game.

Open Google Maps and do a search on Reykjavik. Zoom in and locate the domestic airport on the left (Reykjavíkurflugvöllur). Above the domestic airport is a park and a lake, and then a square called Austurvöllur, which is in front of the Althingi parliament building. Above that square is nightlife ground zero. Don’t lodge more than ten blocks from this area! I lodged a respectable five blocks away, so all I had to do was say the name of the street I was on (Aegisgata) for the girl to say, “Oh, wow! That’s close!”

Since logistics are such a big part of banging in Iceland, you want to make it as easy on yourself as possible. If you’re not ready to pony up the cash to stay in a nearby hotel or apartment (no hostels!), don’t go to Iceland.

6. Everyone speaks English.

English is widely spoken, even by old people, so there’s no need to bone up on your Icelandic (the girls won’t even give you bonus points for saying a few words in their language). The natives possess sharp enough English that you can successfully hit them with typical American or English sarcasm without having to dumb it down. If learning the local language is important to you, then go to the following site for free lessons: icelandiconline.is.

7. Iceland is not for the budget traveler.

Iceland is expensive as balls and definitely not for the budget-minded traveler. Understand that just about everything except whale meat and some species of fish are imported by ship or air, leading to some eye-opening prices in restaurants, grocery stores, and bars. Clothes and electronics are also expensive, and even a “handmade” sweater crafted by Icelandic children in sweatshops will set you back at least $150. Hell, even a decent knit cap or pair of gloves approaches $50.

Pack everything you need for your stay so you don’t have to waste money, including basic supplies like contact lens solution, which costs about $20 a bottle. Definitely bring an unlocked cell phone (get a SIM card after arrival in the main tourist office off Ingólfstorg square), though you probably won’t use it since one-night stands are the way to go.

8. Iceland is a wonder of nature.

If you have some money to blow and get excited by landscapes and touristy things, then Iceland will satisfy your craving. Besides Blue Lagoon, there are several day tours where you can view glaciers, geysers, mountains, and whales.

Two well-known tour agencies are Mountaineers of Iceland and Eskimos. They appear to have identical tours, with Eskimos being cheaper. Sample programs include night tours above the city to see the northern lights, riding ATVs to explore caves and glaciers, horseback riding through the country, snowmobiling on glaciers, and the popular Golden Circle tour to see all of Iceland’s environmental extremes. I didn’t do any tours because I got my fill of nature stuff in South America, but at the minimum a Golden Circle tour, which will run about $350, will make you feel as if you did your tourist duty of exploring the island.

9. Icelandic people are very serious drinkers.

The irony of Iceland’s sky-high liquor prices is that I’ve never been to a place where people get so consistently drunk. I guess if you lived on an island in the middle of the ocean with nothing to do you’d probably take to drinking as well. Beer is the most popular drink of choice since it’s cheapest, with Viking and Tuborg being the most common (Tuborg Classic was my favorite). The two national liquors that are taken in shot form are Brennivin, a strong schnapps, and Opal, a disgusting concoction that you’ll want to wash down with something smoother like Jagermeister.

If you’re not a drinker, there is no point in going to Iceland.

10. Iceland has an Approach Index score of 40.

My approach index states how many girls an average-looking guy with decent game has to approach before he’s likely to bang a cute girl (not including internet approaches). Since there are so many variables involved, the index is best used to compare easiness of one country with others. First let me share the numbers from previous countries:

Argentina: 90
Brazil: 50
Colombia: 60
United States: 45

From these numbers we can conclude that a man has to do twice as many approaches to get laid in Argentina than the United States.

To make the index more scientifically rigorous, I counted my actual approaches until I banged my first Icelandic girl. That number is 34, with eight of those being from daytime approaches, a method that I already mentioned is rather unfruitful. For an average-looking guy with average game and average standards who doesn’t mess with day approaches, I’m assigning an approach index value of 40 for Iceland.

This means you’ll get your flag at about 40 approaches, give or take a few. This also means it’s slightly easier than the United States, but only by a small amount. If your standards are a little lower than average, you’ll get the flag in fewer approaches. If you stay for two weekends and do 50 quality approaches, odds are you’ll fuck an Icelandic girl. While I can’t guarantee that, I would bet on it.

May of 2011 was an amazing month. I arrived in Poland with no expectations, eager to put two bad months of Denmark behind me. I was not ready for what was in store for me: bangable women everywhere who were fluent in English and had little attitude. Most importantly, they liked me. They liked my look, my humor, my conversation, my beard, my accent, and where I came from. On my third day I slept with a girl whose quality was top five of all women I’ve been with in my life. I called her “little egg” (jajeczko in Polish) because of what she cooked for me the morning after I slept with her.

Little Egg was beautiful, smart, sexy, optimistic, funny, and happy, a former punk kid who grew up faster than her peers, eventually settling into a fashion career. We had great chemistry so I always looked forward to talking and joking with her. I’ll always remember one night she showed up wearing a necklace that had a little gun. It made a click sound when you pulled the trigger. She shot me twice. I never met a girl who made me laugh as much as she did.

I kept Little Egg at arm’s length because I didn’t want to stop whoring. When I wasn’t with her I tried to fuck any Polish girl that could get my dick hard. I had one-night stands every night of the week except Sunday and Monday. Most of my conquests were college girls under 23 years old, nine years younger than me, and six years younger than Little Egg, the most mature and grounded of them all. I was living my dream, my dick was living its dream, and all was good in the world. I found my utopia.

It didn’t last long. Little Egg went cold on me after two months, suddenly busy when she wasn’t busy before. Was she tired of my reluctance to advance the relationship or did she meet someone else? I’ll never know. Summer arrived and all the students left, leaving the city a shell of its spring self. The pussy switch flicked to the off position. No more one-night stands and no more easy lays. My dream gradually turned into a nightmare. I lost the Polish magic.

During the summer I had to lower my standards for girls who were much harder to lay. Only in Washington DC did I have to work so hard for so little (hell, even summer in DC is better). I kept going like a good soldier until banging a nympho Polish girl who helped keep my testicles empty in those hard months. I enjoyed my time with her, but she was too shy and restrained. Besides, I didn’t want just one girl, I wanted all of them. I wanted a great girl on my arm while fucking young sluts on the side.

One day towards the end of September I walked to the grocery store and noticed girls all over the place. It seemed like a cargo ship had suddenly dumped a huge load of pussy on the streets. School had resumed. I wanted the spring back, I wanted the magic back, and was willing to do whatever it took to get it.

With school back in session, I went out on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday nights. I put in the work, at least 25 approaches, but there was little magic to be found. The clubs were filled with sausage. The young girls weren’t as extra horny like before. The magic must’ve been a one shot deal, I thought, so better ramp up the day game to at least get some dates going. I figured that in May I came at the right time with the right energy, leading to a great epoch of my life that could never be duplicated. You never see it coming, you only see it go.

I went out on Saturday night, the first of October, tired and dejected. I hadn’t been laid in two weeks. Expecting failure, I planned on doing five daily approaches at the mall starting on Monday to re-build a pipeline that was bone dry after burning the bridge with my summer fling.

At the club I sat down away from the action, something I never do. I told myself I’d get up when I saw something decent. It took half an hour for that girl to arrive. She was alone, wearing tight jeans, high heels, and a simple black top that revealed a nice curve in her lower back. She had long brown hair and bangs. She was a 7.5, no more and no less, with a petite body type that satisfied my perverse elephant-on-kitten sex desire. Still, I didn’t want to get up. I started making excuses why the approach would not go well, and remained seated.

Five minutes later she was still at the bar, just standing there. My excuses fizzled in the face of a good opportunity. I pulled myself up and moved my legs until I was right next to her. I tapped her on the shoulder and said, “You don’t look like you’re from here. You look like you’re from… Macedonia.” She had dark eyes and hair so it was plausible.

“I’m from Poland,” she said with a huge smile. “Why do you think I’m from Macedonia?”

She laughed at my jokes and complimented my appearance. She told me how badly she wants to visit America, particularly New York City. Within a few minutes she asked me what my astrology sign was, perhaps the biggest sign of interest a girl can give me without getting on her knees and blowing me right there. Over the next three hours I gradually increased the sexual tension as if playing with an oven thermostat. Light touches before heavy. Dancing a foot away before grinding up on her body. Gentle brushing of my lips against hers before driving my tongue in her mouth. You know a girl is ready when all you have to say is “Let’s go” for her to jump to attention and face the door, eager to leave with you.

In my apartment I made her a vodka drink that I knew would go untouched, the glass sweating all night. I leaned against my kitchen counter and pulled her body against mine. She took off her shirt, I unbuttoned her jeans, and she did the rest. I stared at absolute perfection: 100 pounds, C cup breasts, a round ass that would please any black man. She took of my clothes, bending down to get my jeans off. I unsnapped her bra and pulled down her wet panties. Roosh, get a condom. She stroked my dick with her hand and I put it between her legs, her bald pussy. Roosh, get a condom, it’s in your back jean pocket. I felt her juices leap onto my dick, smothering it with lubrication. Roosh, get the fucking condom. I turned her around, still leaning against the counter, and pushed her down. Stop Roosh you dirty motherfucker! The shape of her body was flawless. All I wanted in that moment was to be inside her. My inner monologue went quiet.

I went straight to raw dog, my dick going in smooth like butter. My eyes rolled in the back of my head and my head tilted up to the ceiling. For twenty seconds I felt paralyzed with pleasure, unable to move. She didn’t mind doing the work, holding onto the couch for balance to fuck me in and out, her moans getting louder. I regained focus and gave her the best dick I could, in the kitchen, against the couch, against the window with a view facing the entire city, and finally on my bed, her pussy juice leaving a crumb trail throughout my apartment. I pulled out right in time and ejaculated a liter of cum all over her body, shooting up to her neck.

We fucked again and again and again. I instructed her to talk dirty in Polish and she obliged as I fucked faster and harder. I had no idea what she was saying but I assure you it sounded sexy. Even Vietnamese would have sounded sexy at that point. After three nuts I knew it would be impossible for me to cum again, but I couldn’t stop. I was a mindless fuck zombie with no other function in life but to pump that poor girl’s pussy. Even sleep wasn’t required, only fuck.

I started getting angry that she was able to handle so much dick, so I fucked her as violently as I possibly could to tire her out, as if trying to lose her in a sprint, choking her and yanking on her hair, but I only fatigued myself in the process. “I need a time out,” I’d say, pulling out slowly. She’d cuddle next to me while I caught glances of my raw dick, wondering how much more it could take. After a twenty minute breather I’d wake her up and fuck some more. My dick was inside her for over two hours by the time she left the next afternoon.

Four nights later I brought home another girl. She had the same petite and thin dimensions, a body that I’d be lucky to experience even once a year in my own country. The sex wasn’t as good, especially since I was mindful enough to use condoms, but it was good enough.

October was turning out to be even better than May, but something felt off. Was magic simply fucking a lot of girls, or do you need something more, like having a Little Egg on your arm to balance it all out? I wasn’t sure, because I didn’t want to be sure. I wasn’t ready to examine the purpose of my current existence, to accept that my pursuit of the easiest sex possible may have costs that are decreasing my happiness.

Sometimes your subconscious decides for you. As if just out of curiosity, I started to casually research flights out of Poland.

A common criticism I see is the following: “You can’t get laid in the United States so you go to third world countries to fuck poor women.” It’s an easy insult that serves a strong purpose for the two groups that primarily use it, women and beta males.

For women, it allows them to believe that they are still beautiful princesses who don’t have to lose weight, adjust their attitude, grow their hair, or put on a pair of high heels. It’s much easier to call guys like me “losers,” to believe that no desirable man would ever step foot inside Brazil or Poland to meet women, than it is to look in the mirror and be disappointed with what they see.

For beta males and white knights, the insult allows them to deny the fact that other men are pulling quality women while they’re getting nothing but turd droppings from butch feminists. They want to believe that a man who does “dating travel” only gets uneducated, diseased women who have AIDS and large vaginal sores. It’s much easier for him to fire off the insult than to tighten his game, stop playing video games, stop pedastalizing masculine women, and undertake the challenge of world travel where English may not be the dominant language.

There is no snappy retort when someone uses the insult because it comes from two deeply held beliefs of self-preservation:

1. “I don’t have to change or improve myself to get what I want.”
2. “If someone doesn’t like me, it’s never my fault.”

Most guys who dabble in dating travel do it not because they can’t get laid in America, but because they want to lay better. An American man with tight game can leverage that into getting with foreign women who I guarantee will increase his happiness level. Yet as I’ve said before, how you’ll do abroad is based on how well you do at home. All the guys who think that it’s a cakewalk to get laid with beautiful women in places like Colombia and Argentina have obviously never stepped more than a couple feet away from their masturbation station. It can be easy only after hard work and time, but not right as you get off the plane.

How about the guy with severe appearance deformities, negative game, and a psychiatric disorder who decides to hit Thailand in order to sleep with a dozen prostitutes? Should we shame him for such a trip?

We shouldn’t. If it makes him happy, and he’s able to leverage his American dollars to get abroad what he can’t get at home, he should fuck all the prostitutes he can handle. Explain to me how it’s smart for any society to prevent millions of sexually frustrated men from getting their biological needs met. For feminists to deny fucking these “losers” and then shame them at the same time for paying prostitutes is nothing short of cruel. If these men committed mass suicide, not a single feminist tear would be shed.

I have any analogy for why guys like me hit the road in search of their own little slice of happiness. Let’s say that the town you live in has only two bars called Cuntfest Bar and Poonani Paradise Bar. It’s Friday night and you get separate text messages from friends who are at each bar. Here’s what the text messages say…

Friend number one: “I’m at Cuntfest Bar and it sucks. There are six dudes for every girl, and the girls are hideous and overweight. Their attitude sucks.”

Friend number two: “I’m at Poonani Paradise Bar. There are four girls for every guy. The girls are feminine, beautiful, affectionate, and a pleasure to talk to. Most are wearing short skirts and 4-inch heels.”

American women and their beta-male apologists would have you believe that you’re a creep and a douche bag for going to Poonani Paradise Bar. Their argument is that you should “man up” by going to Cuntfest Bar, which is close to how I see America.

By going to Poonani Paradise Bar and refusing to put up with bad behavior, obesity, and so on, you have declared war on American women. You are now the enemy. They will begin to use all sorts of weaponry to make you feel ashamed for going to Poonani Paradise Bar, because they know that the less people who believe in Cuntfest Bar, the less power they have. Anything you do that increases your ability to be sexually successful while decreasing your dependence on dating American women will result in them trying to isolate and disparage you. The quickest way to enrage an American girl or her beta male orbiter is to state that you don’t need American pussy.

Imagine for a second if every man in the United States not only knew about Poonani Paradise Bar but also the means to go and stay there. What would happen? Withdrawal of penis from the American dating market. The most valuable and sharpest men would abstain from relationships with American women, who would gradually lose their power and have to make adjustments. While I don’t think this will happen in my lifetime, women are only willing to make changes when the number of men trying to fuck them decrease. To keep the line of desperate men long and obedient, they will do all they can to spread the word that Cuntfest Bar is the only acceptable bar for men to drink at.

Their growing problem, however, is that too many men have been to Poonani Paradise Bar, also known as the “third world” (a tag given for any country not in predominately white North America or Western Europe). These guys are now starting to tell their friends. They’re going on forums and writing positive reviews praising Poonani Paradise Bar:

“5 stars for thin girls”
“Fell in love, will visit again”
“A++++ says my dick”

Women can continue to call me and my brothers-in-arms losers and creeps for going to the “third world,” but we still won’t accept their obese and sloppy appearance, we still won’t put up with their shitty attitudes, we still won’t marry them, and we still won’t give up the prime of our lives to be with them. If being happier means being outcast by low-quality women who don’t even act like women, then so be it. South America, Southeast Asia, and Eastern Europe, here we come.

When you go to a new country with no knowledge of the local women, your instinct will be to ask a local guy in your age range. Since he’s more of an expert than you are, he must have some golden tips to help your cause, right? Unfortunately you’re wrong. The last person you should ask for pickup tips is a local guy, for two reasons:

1. A local guy picking up a girl will always be different from a foreign guy doing the same. The approach will be different, the conversation will be different, the vibe will be different, and the length of time to get her in bed will be different. His typical bang will not mirror yours.

2. Local guys love to cockblock foreign men. Let’s be real: you’re going to his country to fuck his women and he knows it. Since chances are he has much more pride for his country’s women than you do for American women, he will steer you down the wrong path and give you bullshit advice. I’ve lost count of how many times foreign guys gave me pickup advice that was the opposite of what ended up working. Was he ignorant or trying to trick me? Probably a combination of both. While an American player is more likely to believe in a model of abundance and is more willing to share game with another guy, foreign guys think that if you get laid it will come directly at his expense.

If you want to learn basic knowledge from foreign men, one way is to listen to his actual stories. Make him tell you about the last few girls he’s fucked and how it went down while ignoring his editorial comments. That may give you some useful information, but the problem with that is they lie. The most beta foreign guy will make it seem like he fucks all the time and sex is easy for him, even though his body language and lack of women or game skill suggest otherwise. Two weekends of hard work in any country will tell me more about game than any local guy can.

If you want to build a social circle, befriend local girls in the 6 range, who don’t mind welcoming foreign guys into their group (there is sure to be at least one available 7 or 8 in that crew). If a local guy wants to be your friend, I’ll bet one month of book sales he doesn’t know any cute girls who are single. Why would a local guy welcome a competitor if his social circle has hot girls he wants to fuck? I know I wouldn’t, and I’m one of the most generous guys I know.

When it’s time for you to get tips on the local women, ask men from your country who have traveled there. Avoid interactions with local guys as much as possible because they will cockblock you at some point, whether consciously or not. I’m real hesitant to mix with local guys who deep inside I know don’t want me to pillage their women. Don’t underestimate the amount of shame a local guy feels when you’re fucking his women and he’s not.

Here are the four main methods in capturing a flag, from easiest to hardest:

1. Fucking a foreign girl who lives in your home city. This is how I got my first flags before traveling. The common example is a girl who was born somewhere else then moved to America where she fully assimilated to French fries and iPhones. Another case is the au pair who is here for a year or two. Banging her will be almost no different from banging an American girl, though the subtle differences may open your eyes to the wide world of foreign poon. My pleasant Puerto Rican flag was like a gateway drug that turned me onto Latin culture, helping drive me to South America. Her magical booty changed my life.

2. Fucking a foreign girl while neither in her home city or yours. This happened to me recently in Reykjavik when I got my Danish flag. I was abroad, she was abroad, and the boning happened without delay. A more common example could be a man living in Rio banging a Brazilian girl traveling from Belo Horizonte (it doesn’t matter that she’s still in her home country—the fact that she’s traveling makes the pussy open ten times faster). These bangs are especially easy if she doesn’t have many friends with her and wouldn’t mind a little excitement by riding a semi-anonymous foreign cock.

3. Fucking a foreign girl who is vacationing in your home city. This is marginally harder than the two above cases because of timing and logistical issues. Unless you live in a tourist hotspot like New York, Washington DC, Miami, or Los Angeles, it may be wholly unavailable to you. It doesn’t help that the American government has cockblocked the fuck out of the American man by making it harder for rich and slutty foreign girls to get tourist visas.

If she does manage to visit, she will usually be here for a short time and her grasp of English may be weak, but the fact that she’s traveling and likely doesn’t count foreign cock in her scorecard means it shouldn’t be too hard to bone her, especially since you’re a studly representative of the country she’s obviously interested in learning about. This is how I got my Spanish flag, when I wasn’t even close to getting it during my two-week trip through Spain.

4. Fucking a foreign girl in her home city. Call me naive but several years ago I thought this would be the easiest way to get a flag. In fact it’s the hardest, for a multide of reasons: many locals girls are completely closed off to foreigners, there may be serious communication issues, the culture she’s plugged into may have significantly slower sexual norms than what you’re used to, she doesn’t want the stigma of banging a foreigner in the vicinity of her peer group, and finally there exists the logistical issue of finding attractive women. On the other hand, it’s the most satisfying method of flag capture.

Every country I go to, I work like a dog to get the flag. I always encounter stories about guys being greeted by open labia in the arrivals gate at the airport, but that has never happened to me (except in Poland). As an average-looking guy with an average skin tone that isn’t too dark or too light, I have never gotten especially warm reactions (except in Poland), and for me getting a flag with a local girl is significantly harder than getting laid in my home city (except in Poland).

I will eventually say goodbye to Poland one day and continue to work hard to get the girls I want, because that’s what I do. I don’t anticipate many easy flags in the future.