The Ditch Move

My new Danish roommate, a 22-year-old student, figured out that it was a whole lot easier to get laid if he let girls come to him. He set up a CouchSurfing profile that advertised his apartment as being “just a few steps” from the central train station. He sorted through a dozen requests each week from hippie travelers, only responding to cute girls. At first glance, it seemed like the perfect scam to get laid without any effort, but there were two big problems.

The first was that the quality on CouchSurfing was laughably low, comprised mostly of ugly girls who were bottom of the barrel from their respective countries. The second was that their photos were grossly misleading, just like you’d encounter on a regular Internet dating site.

Both factors were in full effect with our first CouchSurfer, a young American girl. She gained entry into our house even though she had the ugliest face I had seen in months. “She looked good in the photos,” my roommate said with a disapointed look on his face.

“You underestimate a woman’s skill in misrepresenting herself on the Internet,” I replied.

Two more female CouchSurfers came the following day—a Russian girl who didn’t like talking and a chubby French girl with a sexy accent who was obviously looking to screw. My roommate and his Danish buddies all competed for the French girl while the Russian and American faded into the background. It was a typical scene of young guys fighting it out for one chick, ensuring that no one would get her (it took a second stay a month later for the French girl to get fucked by one of the guys).

I left the crowded apartment to join my original Danish roommate from Rio, Henrik, at a party thrown by one of his friends. His date was a Brazilian girl he’d been trying to seduce for three years. A couple weeks earlier they had masturbated in front of each other on Skype, where she made many positive comments about his penis size. All signs pointed to a bang.

The first thing he said when I arrived at the party was, “I fucked up.”

“What happened?”

“I tried to kiss Camilla, but she wouldn’t let me. Now it’s all ruined.”

“Okay, slow down,” I said. “Tell me what led up to it.”

“We were in the kitchen, standing really close. I looked at her and said, ‘I’m going to kiss you now.’ Then I leaned in, but she turned away.”

“That doesn’t sound that bad. How long had you guys been out before you tried to kiss?”

“About two hours.”

“And she’s Brazilian, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I mean, you were in Rio with me. The girls kissed at way under two hours, and that was without any Skype sex. She has known you for three years, she’s seen your cock, and she didn’t want to kiss? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yeah, I don’t get it.”

“It sounds like she’s playing some weird game. Why would a girl go out with a dude on a weekend night unless she’s at least trying to get some action?” I wondered out loud. “I bet that living in Denmark for so long has poisoned her Brazilian vibe. It’s the same thing with Brazilian girls I meet in America. They act colder and more strange.”

“So what should I do?” he asked.

“How are things right now?”

“Well, I pulled back. We haven’t talked in about twenty minutes.”

“Let me think of a plan. You still have options.”

While Henrik moped in the kitchen, looking for alcohol, his friend Paul came up to me with a copy of my book, A Dead Bat In Paraguay. Henrik had told him about me and my blog after returning from Brazil.

They’d been talking about the book before I arrived, so the four girls there were eager to meet the guy behind it. They asked all sorts of questions as if I was famous. Unfortunately, they were ugly, but I didn’t mind the attention, since it was the closest I’ll ever get to an official book signing.

“Can you read from the book?” Paul asked.

“You mean read out loud?”

“Yeah, out loud.”

He handed me the book and I scanned for passages a mixed-gender, liberal crowd would enjoy. Should I read the part about when I had explosive diarrhea in the Peruvian mountains? The part when I wet the bed in Bolivia? How about one of the dozens of nights when I masturbated after failing to get laid?

“The book is sexist and foul,” I finally said. “The girls won’t like it.”

He insisted, but I refused. While I’ve always gotten satisfaction in knowing that girls who read my work are offended, I didn’t want to be the center of attention at a party where there was no girl I was interested in.

One ugly girl ended up reading several pages. Then she pulled me aside and asked if I was “arrogant” and “anti-feminist.” She seemed proud to be confronting me, but I just smiled and nodded my head, refusing to engage her in the debate she’d obviously been mentally rehearsing. It would have just fucked up my mood.

Henrik came up to me looking upset. “Dude, you won’t believe what just happened. You know that bottle of Jameson I brought to the party?”

“The bottle that’s now empty?”

“Yeah, that one. Camilla still had a glass half full of Jameson. I grabbed her glass to pour some into mine, but she said, ‘Stop taking my whiskey!’ She yelled at me!”

I scratched my beard. “This is bad,” I said. “You’re not getting laid tonight.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“First the head-turn, and now denying you whiskey that you brought. She’s being cold. A bitch, even.”

“Plus she mentioned she may try to meet up with her friends in a bit.”

“Wow, that is bad. It’s over, bro.”

“Damn it.” He tightened his mouth and looked down.

“But there is one thing you can do,” I said.

“Tell me, please.”

“Now there’s no guarantee it will work, and for tonight you have to completely forget about getting laid, but it’s your best shot at fucking her at some indeterminable point in the future.”

“What is it?” He was eager now, and I paused a few seconds to heighten the tension.



“Yup, just leave without saying anything. That drives a girl crazy. She’ll blow up your phone and call you a lot of nasty names, but at the same time it will make her pussy incredibly moist like carrot cake. She loves a guy who doesn’t want her, and there’s nothing like the ditch move to let her know that.”

“What does it involve?”

“Tell her you’re going to the bathroom, exit the building, then don’t answer her texts or calls for at least a day.”

“I can’t do that. That’s so mean.”

“That’s the whole point, dummy. It’s your best bet. Otherwise, I’m afraid she’s going to ditch you first. All signs point to that.”

I could tell he was torn. He was a nice guy who loved the art of romance now being asked to be a supreme dick. The only reason he finally agreed to my plan was that I had never let him down in the past. Everything I had ever told him worked, especially in Rio, where thanks to me he had fucked his dream girl. He knew it was in his best interest to do exactly what I had told him.

We began putting the plan into action. First, I loudly complained about wanting to go to a bar, but expressed confusion on how to navigate from the residential area we were in. I took out a map and pretended to be studying it.

Then he told Camilla, “I’m going to put him on the right path because he wants to go to some bar. He’s a stupid American and he doesn’t know how to get there. I’ll be right back.” Of course he had no intention of returning.

We walked out of the apartment together, hurrying our pace once on the sidewalk. “My heart is pounding,” he said.

“Yeah, because you just disrespected the fuck out of someone,” I laughed, “but when you do it enough times, you don’t even feel anything.”

“You’re a monster, Roosh.”

“Thank you. I consider that a compliment.”

We were in line at a rock bar when I advised Henrik to turn off his phone. I was afraid he’d respond if she called.

“Now understand that it’s over for tonight. We must meet new girls. Tomorrow night she’ll blow up your phone, probably after 6:00.”

“Are you sure?”

“While I don’t like to guarantee anything involving female behavior, I absolutely guarantee that she’ll contact you tomorrow. This move never fails to help a man regain the upper hand.”

We waited in line for at least fifteen minutes, pumped at the prospect of meeting some new girls, when suddenly Paul came up to us. “Where did you go?” he said. In the back of the line was everyone from the party, including Camilla.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! What do I do now?” Henrik said.

“Oh, man, you’re fucked,” I said. “This has never happened before. You weren’t supposed to see her for the rest of the night.”

“No shit!”

“Did you tell anyone you were coming here?” Copenhagen was too big a city for such a coincidence to occur.

“Well, I told Paul earlier that we should come here.”

I shook my head in disgust, wondering if the beta male in him had subconsciously sabotaged the move. We walked into the bar, leaving them still waiting in line.

“Look, just don’t make eye contact with her. If she comes up to you, say, ‘Yeah I intended to come back, but then I realized we weren’t having a good time, so I decided to stay with Roosh. I didn’t want to have my whole night ruined.'”

I actually rehearsed it with him twice by pretending to be Camilla. Since asshole game wasn’t in him, I didn’t want to take any more chances.

Through sheer luck, Henrik recognized a girl he had fucked in the past. He talked to her just long enough for the time it took Camilla to come in and witness it.

Henrik eventually came back to me and said, “Let’s forget the move. I want to talk to Camilla and smooth things over.”

Doing so would have completely demolished the value he had gained from the ditch move, so I convinced him that the best course of action was to leave. I began doubting that he was even capable of running the ditch move to its completion. I felt that giving him the move was like giving a nuclear bomb to a country that didn’t have any missiles to launch it.

We went to a seedy bar close my house. The American bartender hooked me up with a whiskey on the rocks that was filled almost all the way to the top. The first Danish girl I talked to said, “What weak drink are you having? Just ginger ale?” I insisted she take a sip and she nearly choked on the drink, something I thoroughly enjoyed.

It took only three days in Denmark to tell my first Danish girl to fuck off. I put zero effort into tempering my character to better mesh with their combative and aggressive personalities. My beginning game wasn’t trying to figure out how to bang Danish girls, but approaching in huge quantities to find one “normal” girl who wanted to have fast sex with a confident, slightly arrogant man. That turned out to be a fool’s errand.

Attempts to share my stories with them failed because it made it seem like I knew more than they did, breaking the cultural rules set forth in Jante Law. Things got worse when I offered my conclusions or generalizations based on those experiences. I couldn’t even insinuate my positive qualities, which is a big chunk of what seduction is about. The parts of my game that had helped me get laid elsewhere were completely useless when it came to the average Danish girl.

By the night of the party, I had only been in Denmark for two weeks, but I had already started to miss Iceland. It’s true that the girls there don’t have a whole lot to say and are just as combative, but at least they’ll fuck you. I put up with Icelandic girls because I knew I would be rewarded with fast sex, but Danish girls give you a lot of shit before they give up the pussy. Because Danish girls are so alpha, any attempt at being alpha yourself will only lead to conflict. Up to that point, the only cool chick I met out of a couple dozen approaches was a shy girl who lived on a farm.

At the end of the night, I got into a conversation with a girl I immediately pegged as bitter. I held the line and she finally opened up when she mentioned that she painted in her spare time. I took an interest in it and she showed me a picture of one of her most recent paintings on her iPhone. I looked and made a nice comment about the colors. Then she said, “Well I don’t care what you think since I do it for myself.”

I went ballistic. I called her “fucking insane” for showing me something with the intention of discounting any reaction she would receive. I ended my tirade with, “You must be single.” I looked at her friend and said, “Your friend is single, right?”


Earlier in the conversation, I noticed two Icelandic girls I had talked to earlier, off in the distance smoking cigarettes. I remembered how my Iceland bangs went down: hitting up a girl at the end of the night for an instant venue change to my apartment. Those girls could smoke on their walk home; they didn’t have to wait there. I concluded that they were waiting for a pair of guys to swoop them up.

For some reason, I continued talking to the Danish artist, even though I knew she was a lost cause. By the time of the iPhone moment, the Icelandic girls were gone. I passed on a good opportunity to have sex in order to talk to a girl whose main goal was showing that she didn’t care about what I thought.

The next day, Camilla contacted Henrik at 4:30 in the afternoon. He didn’t answer, as I had instructed him. She called two more times, and eventually they got into a chat on Facebook. I was online at the same time, telling him exactly what to write. While he regained the upper hand, she was too tough and combative in subsequent encounters, never lowering her aggression to allow humor to bring them back together.

The problem, I told Henrik, was she had become too Danish.

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