Slave To The Flag

A concept I shared with you almost four years ago is keeping me heavily invested in the game. It’s the flag, the act of simply banging a girl from another country.

My first obsession when I got into the game was the notch. I wanted to get my count high enough to where I felt like a man, and once I got there, I had to be either really horny or the girl had to be well above-average for me to put in a scrap of work. Am I horny? No. Is the girl a great catch? No. Alright then young man take a sip of your scotch and stare at the wall because you don’t have to do a damn thing. For the first time in my life there was no pressure to “prove myself” by getting laid.

Then I planned for Iceland. Before leaving I told myself, “You cannot leave Iceland until you get the flag. No exceptions.” Simple goal, you may think, but it ratcheted up the pressure to where I felt like I was a virgin again. After just one night out without capturing the flag I had a mild panic attack. I’m never going to get the flag! This sucks! And so on. On subsequent nights I wanted to pork anything just to release the tension that was strangling me, but then I lost count how many times I put effort on a homely girl only to realize that I wouldn’t be able to get my dick up for her. The flag had to be quality.

I took notes on game like I was 23 again. I went out often and stayed out until last call, putting in five or six hour sessions that made me feel like I was punching the clock. I approached girls literally everywhere. Even when I had a nasty cold I still went out because the pressure was eating me. I didn’t care how sick I was.

And It worked. I got my flag on my fifth night out. Stuffing that Icelandic hole felt pretty damn close to pure happiness. During that blitzkrieg I figured out the most pickup-friendly places in Reykjavik and little tricks that eventually developed into a full-blown strategy. In two months learned more about Icelandic women than the local men.

I wasn’t thinking of this pressure when I originally shared the flag concept. I did it as a way to make our travels more interesting, but it has become its own beast. For some guys it now serves as their main motivation for travel. Men like myself have taken it to its obsessive extreme, just like where we took notches. Looking back I want to say that wanting notches was lame, but it worked. No matter how meaningless a notch seemed, I learned a shit-ton about how to fuck women by relentlessly going after them, developing an expertise that is a reason you’re reading me right now. I want to say that traveling just to capture flags makes a man a shallow whoremonger, but in the process of getting that flag he’s going to learn a whole lot more about culture than your average tourist (especially one who pays for prostitutes). The notch isn’t perfect and the flag isn’t perfect but goddamnit they make men feel like men. I’ve let go of the notch, but the flag is doing me in the butt right now. It’s my master.

My next country is Denmark. I cannot leave Denmark until I get the flag. No exceptions.

POSTSCRIPT: I got lucky and captured the Danish flag during my last week in Iceland, after I originally wrote this post. The crushing pressure will have to wait…

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