She Is Bitch (Part 3 of 5)


The taxi driver made a left turn onto a deserted road surrounded by abandoned lots and buildings. I went into fight-or-flight mode. This was how otherwise smart people get fucked, by putting their trust into someone else and letting their guard down at the exact moment they shouldn’t. It was my opportunity to escape, new friendship be damned.

I grabbed the cab driver’s chair and yelled, “Stop! Stop the fucking cab right here!”

The taxi driver was rattled and pulled off to the side. Everyone got out and Luigi and I paid the driver.

“Alright, I’m gone,” I said. “This is bullshit.”

“Don’t be nervous,” the tall girl said.

“Oh shut up. Both of you are scam artists.”

Luigi took me aside as we stood next to an empty lot by the side of the road. “Look,” he said, “this is probably a scam. I agree with you. I can smell the shit, but I want to see the shit to make sure.”

“You want to rub your nose in it? Are you fucking insane? Jesus Christ man, just give them your money now.”

“The bar is right around the corner,” the tall girl said.

“Let’s just go walk there,” Luigi said.


“You don’t want to check it out?”

“No. Look at that corner—the burned-out building, the lack of lights. You really think there’s a bar there?”

Nothing was going to convince me at that moment.

Then the tall girl gently took my arm, telling me it would be fun, but I backed away, checking my pockets to make sure everything was still there. I looked at the girls and said, “Do you know how I know this is a scam? Because I’m calling you out, insulting you, yet you still want me to come with you. You’re total amateurs.”

I started walking away. Luigi yelled, “I beg you as a friend to stay and come with me.”

“You’re asking way too much for a two-hour friendship,” I said. “Even if you were my brother, I’d say no.”

“Okay, just wait for a second.”

I waited for a minute by myself, off to the side until he reluctantly joined me. The girls disappeared into the darkness.

“You know I saved your ass, right?” I said.

“Yeah I think so, but the brunette was so pretty. I was only thinking with my dick. I knew something was wrong when we went into that neighborhood. I used to live there and it’s not a place you want to be.”

“So why did you want to keep going?”

“Because I wanted to see the shit. I wanted to be 100% sure so I could cuss at the girls and call them bitch. I wanted the evidence in front of me.”

“I think in that case getting the evidence would have been too costly. Maybe there were guys waiting with bats.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Okay, let’s not talk about it anymore. Let’s go back to the club.”

We walked back to the Scandal club in Old Town. I bought a round of drinks, happy that we were out of danger. I looked at the crowd and was surprised that there were more girls than guys. It seemed strange for a Wednesday night.

“I can’t believe there are so many girls here,” I told Luigi.

“Think about it. It’s two a.m. on a Wednesday night. These girls don’t have jobs and they don’t go to school. They’re full-time bitch. Their job is to go out and take as much as they can from foreign men. The game is to fuck them without getting fucked.”

“That’s a new game for me.”

“Well not for me. I’m from Sicily. I learned very early that to get anything you have to be smart and fuck other people before they fuck you. This is the same thing, but with pussy.”

Twenty minutes after we arrived, who showed up but the two girls who tried to scam us. They had lied about not being able to get in. I saw the brunette flirting with the DJ, eventually writing her phone number for him on a piece of a paper. I was offended that she had considered us marks, stupid enough to fall for her amateur hour scam, while a local guy experienced the normal version of her. What got to me most was the acting—how a girl could make up a completely new persona to get paid.

As an experiment, I bought a drink for a girl Luigi said was “definitely bitch.” That one drink gave me twenty minutes of her attention, where she smiled at me, danced with me, and grinded against my cock. But when she realized that I wasn’t going to buy another drink, she went off to another foreign guy. Looking around, I noticed that all the girls were in pairs, which Luigi said was “the sign of the bitch.”

His lessons made it easy to categorize the girls. If I saw a pair of girls who were decked out in sexy clothes and heels, talking little between themselves and giving eye contact with everyone, they were bitches and could be bought in some way. But if the girls were smiling and dressing normal, hanging out in large groups with an occasional local guy, they were normal girls who had to be treated as such. Looking around Scandal, I saw no normal girls.

“The bitch,” Luigi said, “doesn’t care about you at all. Look at how I’m dressed, very simple, no? The bitch doesn’t know style. Look at that guy over there with the champagne bottle. He looks like shit but he has a hot girl, right? All they care about is what’s in your wallet.”

“But the normal girls don’t care about that.”

“Yeah they don’t, but good luck getting anywhere with them. You need to give up on meeting a normal girl who wants to talk like girls in America. That doesn’t exist here.”

He was presenting me with two extremes that lacked any middle ground. I didn’t want to believe him, but he was making a strong case.

Toward the end of the night there was a commotion at the bar. A large woman fell from her stool and rolled onto the floor. It was the fat girl Luigi had approached on the street. She was trashed. She walked up to him and he turned to me and gave a sour face as if saying, “This girl is gross.”

When I was ready to leave, Luigi said he was going to stay a bit longer. The next day he told me that he had taken the fat girl home and fucked her four times.

The following night we went to a bar I usually went to, a locals-only spot with girls who were tough to crack.

“Do you think American girls like money?” I asked.

“They do, but it’s in a different way. They just talk about your job or career. In America the girls ask about your work faster than anywhere else.”

I started to wonder if he was living a self-fulfilling prophecy. He’s going into every environment thinking that girls only wanted money, so of course he found only that. He was in one of the most notorious sex tourist cities in Eastern Europe, a place he knew was stacked with semi-pros and corrupted by money, with girls trying to run scams nightly, yet he begged for more. I asked him about the contradiction. Why did he keep coming if he hated it?

“Well here I can fuck every night,” he said.

So whatever his values were, being able to stick his dick into something was above finding a normal girl. I couldn’t say the same.

To continue my experiment from the previous night, I bought a young Latvian girl and her friend a shot. Like before, there was a burst of friendliness for a time, but then a male friend eventually whisked her away.

“See how buying these girls drinks makes a major difference?” Luigi said. “You got to buy it within the first few minutes, even with normal girls. They don’t like cheap men here.”

“I would never do this in America,” I said.

“Yes, because in America that doesn’t work. Find out what the girls want in the country you’re in, then give it to them.”

“What do the girls in this bar want?”

“A Latvian man. It’s obvious. Look around. Do you see any foreigners?”

“No, we’re the only ones.”

“Be smart. Why do you think that is? The girls in this place don’t want foreigners. In other countries, girls would die to get the chance to kiss your feet, and in the past it was like this here, too, but things have changed. Now you have to go to bitch clubs to get laid. That’s just how it is.”

I started seeing the futility of it all. Luigi was right. His words were matching almost perfectly with my experience, and the saddest truth of all was that the scammer girls would provide you with more action than the normal chicks.

“How about the fat girl you porked last night? What category would you put her in?”

“Desperate. Ugly girls here will fuck anything.”

“Why did you take her home?”

“I hate being alone. Every night I need a woman in my bed. I can’t even go out alone. I didn’t call you five times today because I want your dick but because I want to make sure you come out with me. I need to be with people, to talk to them. I don’t like it otherwise.”

Luigi was the first man I ever met who was so needy that it actually helped him take girls home. I thought I was persistent in staying out all night to get a girl, but Luigi simply wouldn’t go home until he found a girl. When we parted ways at around 4:00 a.m., he went to every other club that was open until he finally found a girl to take home. She didn’t fuck him, but he was satisfied nonetheless.

I didn’t see him on Friday. He met a girl from the Internet, had a cappuccino with her at the coffee shop, then took her home and fucked. When we met on Saturday night I asked him how she looked. “She was fat, but not as fat as the girl from the first night!”

For him it sounded like being with anyone was more important than being with a reasonable chick, but since those girls were giving him boners, I could argue that life was easier for Luigi than for myself.

We started at one of my favorite clubs. As expected, we were getting blown out left and right. I knew why, but it didn’t take away the sting of failure.

Luigi said, “In Latvia you have to sell the dream, the fantasy, that you’re her Prince Charming. Your energy has to be positive, you have to keep the drinks coming, and dance like it’s the last night in the world. Then you ask her to come to your apartment. If she says no, forget it, the dream ends and you must find another girl, because it must happen the same night. She maybe ask for money when you get to your place, but then you can bargain her down to a low price. If a girl asks for 20 lats, give it to her. She’s poor and has no money. That’s nothing to you.”

“That would be $40 to fuck a girl that for the most part will treat me like a normal guy instead of a john. That sounds reasonable, but I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Even if you can do it, it’s not going to happen in this club. There is no bitch here. Look, last night I fuck a girl from only buying her a cappuccino, because she wanted to fuck a foreigner. Do you see any foreigners here? The girls don’t care about us. I know of another place.”

“What’s it called?”


It’s impossible not to hear about Essential after setting foot in Riga. It used to be one of those foreign-friendly places where a girl wanted to meet an Italian dude for the night, but word on the street said that it was now scammer central. I made it a point not to go there.

I said, “I hear Essential is where all the prostitutes go.”

“Yeah but they love foreigners.”

“Prostitutes who love foreigners, how romantic.”

“Roosh, do you think you’re going to pick up in this club tonight?”


“Can we at least check out Essential? It’s still early so if it sucks we can come back.”

I admit that I was at least curious about the club and wanted to see what it was all about. After paying $15 to get in, we walked into the main hall. Every single guy in there was a foreigner. Every single girl was a local. I felt like I was in Help in Rio, the infamous club where prostitutes went to get business from gringos. Essential might as well have been their Eastern European franchise.


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