I poked her with my erection as the sun rose but she didn’t reciprocate, so I was even hornier than the night before when she gave me two orgasms. I could have released the horniness later with a tug session, but there’s no glory in that. I’d have to go out again and hunt for a new girl.
I kept a light work schedule, skipped my usual cafe visit, and took a long two-hour nap, but I still felt groggy. My body used to have an easier time handling the hunt. Not long ago I could go out three or four nights in a row with only a small degradation in my energy, but now even two nights in a row is a challenge. The last thing I wanted to do was flirt with girls, but the pressure in my ball sack could not be ignored. It demanded action that didn’t involve my right hand.
I started in a bar that was having karaoke night. It was almost 11pm and I hadn’t talked to anyone for most of the day. I didn’t want to think of the huge hurdle in front of me, of not only warming up to be social, but finding an attractive girl and then seducing her within a matter of hours to end the process with a successful instance of fornication.
There was a trio of girls near me. The bar had no dance floor or loud music to create a natural separation between groups, meaning patrons tended to have deeper conversations. I approached the three with a warm up: “Do you know if there’s another good bar around here?”
The girl I liked responded, but she had one eye on me and one eye on her friends, just like I expected. After two minutes of chatter, she showed not more than minimal interest. I ejected. The bar would be decent if I had at least one other wingman, but rolling solo in this type of environment was not optimal. I left for the club.
The previous night I fucked a girl whose face was pretty cute but whose body was average. It’s usually the opposite in Poland. I try not to bang sequential girls with the same flaw, so I found a girl with a fit frame. She told me she was 19 year old and had a boyfriend. I’ve been burned many times pursuing girls with boyfriends, but such a large percentage of girls have them that it’s worth trying to crack it every now and then. I tried a new routine to destroy the boyfriend:
“I’m actually glad you have a boyfriend. Every girl should have one to satisfy her emotional needs. He should talk to her every day, help her with her problems, make her feel better about life, and give her compliments. I don’t know how to do those things, so if a girl has a boyfriend, that makes it easier for me. I can give her excitement and adventure.”
It wasn’t a horrible first attempt, but it seemed too obvious and blatant. I needed to sell my offering through a story instead, maybe how one of the best relationships I had was with a girl who already had her emotional needs attended to by a beta. The girl responded neutrally, and we did talk for a while longer, but eventually she left for the dance floor with her friends.
Not long after, a tall girl came within my view. Her body checked out so I said, “I’m taller than you.” She frowned and replied, “Yeah, so?”
“I bet you came to the club thinking you’d be the tallest, but… you’re not.”
She smiled and then I noticed her shorter friend, a blonde with a cute face but chubby body. I sensed the blonde liked me. Without any respect for the tall friend I approached first, she weaseled her way into the conversation and initiated touching on my hairy arm.
To the blonde’s credit, she was much more interesting and lively than her beanpole friend. Though the blonde’s body was subpar, with a similar flaw to the girl from the night before, my boner awakened and approved of the meat cut that was before it.
All ego aside, I’d say my overall value in Poland is an 8 out of 10. The two points I’m missing stem from not speaking Polish and not having any local status that would come from professional or social connections. The blonde girl was a 6. When I go two points underneath my value, I know that not only will it be easy, but she will go out of her way to provide me with sensual pleasures that girls in the 8 and above range often don’t bother to do.
The blonde invited me to the dance floor where she quickly assumed the position of her ass on my crotch. Her skirt had an outer shell resembling a disco ball, with thousands of plastic squares covering it, so I couldn’t properly feel the consistency of her ass. I got a boner nonetheless and stood motionless making prolonged eye contact with other men and women while she furiously grinded on my crotch.
We made out not long after that and she put extra attention into kissing my neck, a dying behavior in the loveless world of casual hookups. With the grind and the kissing and the lewd touching, she was giving me way more sexual pleasure than the last beautiful girl I was with, who assumed my crotch came with an electronic pump mechanism that yielded a boner from her plain gaze alone.
We found her friend moping at the bar. I suggested we change the venue, hoping that I could isolate the blonde to my apartment. This, unfortunately, did not go according to plan. At the next bar, I had to entertain both at the same time, decreasing the sexual connection between me and the blonde. I also learned that they were roommates and came out with only one key. The blonde lost her key or some other such nonsense and couldn’t separate from her friend.
“How exactly do you not have your own key?” I asked, frustrated.
“Because we live together! There’s no point in having two keys.”
Pulling the blonde aside, I offered her my solution. “How about this: we all take a taxi to your apartment, you get the key, and then we come back to the center and have another drink or two. You’re not tired, right?”
“No, not really.”
“Perfect then, because it doesn’t look like your friend wants to stay out longer, anyway.”
The plan was accepted. We found a taxi and took the ten minute ride to their apartment. I waited in the cab and told the taxi driver in Russian to wait for the blond to return (older Polish people still remember Russian from the days of communism).
“I think there’s a 50% chance the blonde will return,” I mused out loud.
“Really?” the taxi driver replied. “I think there’s a 0% chance, absolutely none.”
That tested my confidence in the girl’s attraction for me, and after six minutes passed with no sign of the girl, I started to consider that he might be right.
And then the blonde came back.
“So I have some bad news,” she said. “My roommate won’t give me the key and she has to leave at 6am to the train station.”
“That’s fine, we’ll be back before then. You can knock on the door.”
“No I don’t think we’ll be back before then.”
“Why not? We’re just going for a drink to talk some more.” I did not want to reveal my one-night stand intent.
“Why don’t you just get my number?” she asked. “I’ll be free on Monday and we can hang out then.”
“Number? But I’m free to hang out right now. I don’t know if I’ll be alive by Monday.”
“Just take my number.”
“No, I don’t want your number right now. Come join me for a drink first. It’s not late and I’ll get you home soon.”
She thought about it for a few seconds, but I knew my fate was already sealed.
“You’re being stubborn,” she said, upset. “So you’re not going to get my number then?”
I shook my head no. She stared at me and I broke the silence by telling her to have a good night. She rolled her eyes and turned away, perhaps in disbelief that a sure thing would go nowhere. Not the first time for her, I’m sure.
I instructed the taxi driver to take me back to the club. Perhaps he was satisfied for being right, but I didn’t ask. The round trip fare was more expensive than I thought at $23. I didn’t have anything to show for it except lost time, but I wasn’t ready to give up. At least I was warmed up and my boner was both eager and ready for sex.
The first thing I did back in the club was use the bathroom. It’s then that I noticed a red spot on my penis in the area that came into contact with her disco ball dress. My cock was injured. Penis tissue doesn’t like being roughly rubbed on hard plastic for a prolonged period of time. This injury was most disastrous since a healthy boner is required for sexual intercourse, but since it was only red and not bleeding, I felt I could still perform sexually.
I approached a girl at the bar who gave me the boyfriend line. I copy-pasted my boyfriend destroyer but all it did was destroy the conversation because she walked off. I went to the bar, ordered a drink, took a few deep breaths, and approached another girl beside me.
She had dark features with bodacious breasts and ass. She introduced herself as Beata, something like the Polish version of Betty, and said she was 19. Her English was weak but the approach hooked and we talked for a few minutes while her friend waited at a table, appearing agitated. I mentally made a note that the friend might cockblock me. “So why are you in this club?” I asked.
“Just to dance with my friend. She’s never been here before.”
“You’re not trying to meet the man of your dreams?” I joked.
She laughed. “No! I’m looking for a serious relationship that has a future to it. I’m not looking to meet a man in a club.”
When I was in Ukraine, it was generally safe to take a girl’s word for it when it came to her saying what she wanted. Most girls there genuinely wanted a relationship, so it was smart to minimize obvious player vibes, at least initially. But in Poland I got burned two weeks before by a girl who told me she wanted a relationship and then lost interest when I mirrored her sentiments. And then after that I had a case in a club with a girl who said she wanted to only “have fun” but got immediately turned off when I went full creep mode. I could no longer take a Polish girl’s word at face value.
My strategy with Beata was to ignore what she said and run the game that I think every girl in the club wanted: a smooth, aloof, sexy man who doesn’t make her feel like a slut. I’d escalate at a reasonable pace without showing any indication that I wanted something serious while also not being too sleazy.
Remembering how dancing opened up the blonde from earlier, I grabbed Beata’s hand and took her to the dance floor. I put my injured cock in the opposite direction to prevent greater trauma to the skin. She grinded me at such a professional level that I started to wonder if she had lived in America before (she hadn’t). Since Beata’s beauty was definitely high—much higher than the blonde—she made no bonus effort to please me with passionate kisses or intimate gestures. My wounded boner didn’t care—it was ready to go.
Now that attraction with Beata was mostly established, I’d have to win over her friend. We went back to her table and I asked her some boring personal questions. She eventually declared that she loved American culture and was excited to meet me. I lowered the threat level on the cockblock.
Though she wasn’t as pretty as Beata, we did connect better. Then I found out she was only visiting town for a couple days and staying in Beata’s apartment. The choice of who to pursue was easy, and it helped that Beata was as intoxicated as me while her friend was essentially sober, but the revelation that the friend was staying with Beata did force me to pause and think of what to do next.
Continue Reading: Part 2