The King Of Warsaw (Part 2 of 2)


On a Thursday night I went to a club alone. In order to recapture the glory days where I was the approach machine, I decided to do ten solid approaches.

My first approach was on my ideal type of girl, but ten minutes in her friend dragged her to dance. I did more approaches, not because I wanted to get laid, but because I was supposed to hit ten. The alcohol wasn’t loosening me up and I was getting more withdrawn as the night went on. My opening line felt stiff. My mouth was actively moving but my brain had left the building and was waiting outside. I made it to eight approaches, kissed a girl I only got a half boner for, and left.

There’s no physical reason why I couldn’t do something that I’ve done dozens of times before, but the desire wasn’t there, even though I would have happily banged 50% of the girls present. I’m now only willing to work for a certain type of girl who I know can give me immense pleasure with minimal investment. Otherwise I have to be especially horny, something that may happen one or two nights a month.

I met Kamal once again at the lounge and he told me that the random girl who messaged him on Facebook the other night was coming with three other friends. They eventually arrived and his girl was the cutest. The second cutest wasn’t bad, but she didn’t want to chat and went with the other two to dance.

Kamal and his girl talked next to me and I could tell that he would get far based on how she was smiling and giggling at most things he said. I remembered when she took out her phone to text someone and he said, “Why are you texting me, I’m right here!” He never put out an arrogant vibe or displayed anger. He was a gentleman with style, something that plays very well in a country that lacks such men. He built the foundation with his logistics, personal attributes, and social circle investment, and could now cash it in for years to come. All he needs to do is show up. While he was talking to the girl, I was thinking about which parts of him I wanted to implement into my own game.

I did a handful of approaches but it was tough. In one of the snobbiest bars in Warsaw, the cold approach was getting me less mileage than even industrial Ukraine.

Kamal came up to me and said, “We’re going to a new club. I took a girl there yesterday and bought a bottle but she didn’t drink so they saved it for us tonight. We have to kill it.”

“But how about your girl?”

“She’s going to meet me later. She wants to spend time with her friends.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to leave her? It’s okay if you need to stay with her, I can find something to do.”

“No, it’s better I leave. I want to play around a bit and then meet her later.”

We went to the club and got to work on the vodka bottle. In the VIP section there were many guys older than me dressed in suits and smoking cigars. Opposing them were women in their late 20s who seemed like they would accept cash for sex. A couple of them had bobblehead body language, physically present but not mentally. The main crowd had average talent of somewhat older people.

I started talking to one of the club’s dancers, a privilege that the VIP access gave. She was surprisingly receptive, asking me questions and deflecting cockblocks from her fellow dancer friends. She went to dance and actually came back. I offered her a drink from Kamal’s bottle and she accepted, later inviting me to dance. I tried to touch, a suitable move after our 30 minute conversation, but she pulled back and said, “I need space.” I replied, “I’ll give you space” then walked away.

She came back to me later, a huge sign of interest, but there would be no extraction on this night. My need to stay in one city was now stronger than ever. The optimum strategy of scoring top talent was being painted in my head with three colors: game, residency, and local value. As long as I only had one, I would always have to work.

After killing the bottle, we stumbled out of the club and walked to another. Kamal eventually got the text from his girl and left. I went home not long after, alone.

The next afternoon we met at a café to review the night. I said, “Now before you tell me what happened, I’m going to guess that you came close to banging but didn’t get quite there. It seemed like it would take one more date.”

“When I went to the club she was at, she was dancing with another guy.”

“Uh oh.”

“But then when she saw me, she immediately stopped dancing and came to me. She didn’t look at the guy again. We danced for a little while and I asked her if she wanted to come over for a drink. She said she wanted to but that her friend was drunk and needed to come with us. I said, ‘I wouldn’t mind hanging out with your friend, but I just had the maid clean my apartment and I don’t want her puking in it. I can tell she doesn’t look well.’ She asked what she could do. ‘Let’s put her in a cab. It’s the best thing for her.’ The three of us went outside and we shoved her in there.”

“Cockblock disabled, nice.”

“Yes. Then we went to my place. I made drinks but on the couch she was playing really hard to get, like she didn’t want to kiss me.”

“Did you kiss before?”

“Not much, just short kisses.”

“That’s not good.”

“Yeah, so I told her, ‘Look you need to open up, you’re being cold and I don’t like that.’ And then finally she kissed me. After a while she asked me if I wanted to have sex. I said, ‘No, of course not, I’m not that easy.’ So we’re playing this dance, back and forth, until finally I suggested we go to my room. She said yes and then we banged.”

“Boom!” I gave him a high five. “It was nice to be there for most of it to see it go down. She seemed a little aloof but I guess her plan was to get banged all along.”

“She had really sexy underwear, like she knew she was going to get laid. She just broke up with her boyfriend and was ready to be bad.”

“That’s inspiring, man. What you got is what I want. I just need to find my city.”

“You’ll find it.”

“I hope so, but I will say that you were the right person to meet at the right time in the right country. It’s like god put you in front of me, giving me the answer of what I have to do next. It’s like he said, ‘Roosh, I know you’re having problems right now figuring out what you want to do. I want you to meet this guy named Kamal.’”

He laughed, not minding my melodrama.

“What you’ve done here,” I went on, “such as being a regular at a couple good spots and getting in with the staff, I’ve done a bit of in other cities, but it was mostly accidental. Just like how I’m conscious with game, I need to be conscious with being king of a city. I don’t see why it can’t be done.”

“It can be done.”

For the previous two years I was searching hard for poosy paradise. I believed that within the first week a city should slap me across the face and announce if it was paradise or not, but Kamal did the opposite. He went to a city that wasn’t poosy paradise and made it so. He created paradise from something mediocre by putting in his blood and sweat, while I was living the life of a wandering gypsy, expecting paradise to be handed to me merely from my ability to hop on an airplane. I saw the flaw in my approach, and on the bus ride to my next city, I was ready to change the game that I’ve been running for all of my adult life.

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