One week before I moved to my logistically superior Zagreb apartment, I encountered a 20-year-old girl at a taxi stand late at night. We ended up talking and I got her to come with me to an after-hours bar. We kissed. We met up again a few days later but she insisted on not drinking. We kissed some more and my hand passed over her vagina for 300 milliseconds. It didn’t go farther than that.
I was anxious on the day I moved to my new apartment. It was the longest I’ve ever gone without a flag. At the tail end of a long European trip that contained many easy notches, I had absolutely zero motivation to play the dating grind. I was dropping girls off my pipeline for minor transgressions that I wouldn’t have two years prior. Croatian girls aren’t the easiest but I was confident that bad logistics was requiring me to date instead of banging on the same night. But after moving, what if I still failed? What excuse will I use if I still couldn’t get my flag? My pride was at stake.
I went out the first night with two guys, one American and the other British. The American has been living in Croatia for a while and was amused at my flagging mission, while the British guy was in the same boat as I was, still after his first Croatia bang as well. The Brit and I exchanged many “so close yet so far” stories. He had what ended up being a dud date that night while I went with the American to a bar near my house.
At the bar I met a tall girl with a nose stud. She was very pretty and after a short while she ordered a shot, took it, kissed me, and then ejaculated it into my mouth. It felt gay but I went along with it. Later I touched her and she said, “Don’t touch me.”
I replied, “I’ll touch you if I want. If you don’t like it then walk away.”
“I like that,” she said. She liked the hard game, so I gave it to her. We walked out of the bar and sat on a bench, a mere three minutes away from my apartment.
She went over to the next bench about 30 feet away and asked for a light from a random group of kids, but when she came back she realized it wasn’t lighted. Then she asked me to take her cigarette and go re-light it because her “feet hurt.” Based on the game she was responding to inside the bar, I knew my best option was to say no. It was a test, and I’d pass the test by refusing to be her puppy dog.
I was wrong.
She was furious I didn’t light the cigarette, saying I was “cold” and not a “gentleman.” She stormed off, disappearing into a taxi. I was stunned. It seemed like such a sure thing. Most times you’re allowed to make a couple mistakes but this was all she wrote. I went home, unable to recover.
The second night I went out solo to the same bar. My first two approaches went nowhere. I didn’t want to continue. Then I got a text message from the Brit, saying he just got his flag from a last-minute date. I couldn’t give up now. Then who do I see with her friends but the taxi stand girl, Maya. She was curt, not giving me much affection. I sarcastically asked her if she wanted me to pretend I didn’t know her.
Eventually she warmed up and kissed me out of view of her friends, but would leave every five minutes to “find” them. I didn’t feel safe to hit on other girls while she was watching, yet it was primetime Saturday night—I’m not going to stand around like an idiot. To cover my ass, I told her, “By the way I know a lot of people here. If you see me talking to someone, either guy or girl, don’t feel shy. I’ll introduce you to them.” Truth is I didn’t know anyone there.
When she was right out of view I got into a conversation with a young Croatian girl who looked a bit Estonian with her chubby cheeks. She had a huge booty and a good vibe. During the conversation it turned out that she loved America and men with beards. She accidentally touched my stomach, felt that it was hard, and licked her lower lip like I was a piece of steak. Maya saw me talking to her so I waved her over, knowing she’d refuse to join.
As a test I told the new girl, “How about we go into that corner over there and make out?” Most girls would laugh that off, but she looked in the corner and said nothing. She might as well have yelled, “Take me, you hairy stud!” Then I asked myself why go for the silver when you can go for the gold? I said, “Actually I’m kind of annoyed by this crowd and all the smoke. How about we go for a walk?” She agreed. I steered her into the direction of my apartment. Halfway there we sat down and made out.
She said, “I have to use the bathroom,” and walked towards a tree to urinate. I told her not to act like an animal and use my bathroom right down the block instead. I said, “After you use the bathroom we can have a quick drink and then come back to the bar.” Once in my apartment, we were fucking within ten minutes. She begged me to give it to her hard and I obliged. When it was done she said, “You broke me.” I liked that.
It didn’t take long for her to receive a shrieking “Where are you?!” call from her girlfriend. She fixed herself up in the bathroom, taking away the tell-tale signs that she just got her pussy pounded, and gave me a kiss goodbye. Her friends will never know she banged a guy barely 45 minutes after meeting him.
I was content with my flag, but not too much since it was something that should have been coming anyway. Still, in the most vivid way I confirmed how important logistics are and thought of my Washington DC days when I lived in the boonies. I wondered how many dozens of notches that cost me.
I sent a text message to the Brit: “Croatian flag!!! Finally, damn.” Then I remembered Maya. I texted her a lie: “I went to meet up my friend real quick. Are you still at the bar?” After nearly an hour I didn’t get a response. I thought that was odd, and when I looked at my phone more closely, I realized it had crashed. I restarted it and she did in fact reply, saying she was still there. I casually asked if she wanted to meet for a drink before she went home, and when she said yes, I took a quick shower and met her near my front door. I said, “We can go to the after-hours bar, but how about you come see my new apartment? It’s very nice.” She came in.
Once inside, she went to my bedroom and we got down to business. The resistance was token. The only problem was that the other girl was a 8 out of 10 on sexual ability while Maya was a 2. Her kisses were average and she wasn’t doing much to turn me on. I got her naked, put on a condom, but had trouble putting it in. Not only was her pussy tight like an anus, but the angle of entry was all weird. I was fumbling around while she laid there, not helping. I penetrated her by a hair and then my dick started going soft. There was no way I could get it in.
I took off the condom and regrouped. I explored the topography of her pussy with my fingers to loosen it and figure out how it was constructed. I looked down and saw that my hand was covered by blood. Then I looked at my crotch and saw more blood. I asked her if she was a virgin but she said no. We cuddled for a bit and once the shock of the blood wore off I started getting hard again. My dick, that son of a bitch, wasn’t ready to give up. At the height of my new boner I put on another condom, slathered it with lube, and properly laid pipe to get the notch.
Afterwards, I wasn’t surprised to see that the lower half of her body was bloody. She took a shower while I examined the scene. This has happened to me so many times before that I knew what to do with the sheets (soak it in cold water). She was deeply embarrassed and I reassured her that it was okay. I changed the sheets and told her she could spend the night but she declined and took a taxi. As soon as she was out the door, I sent another text to the Brit: “Another notch!!! Hahahaha!!!!!”
In my sex afterglow I thought about what just happened. In the previous month I tried my hardest and only banged one German girl but no Croatians despite working hard at it. Then by merely having a better located apartment I was able to get my flag and a bonus bang within two days of moving.
I can’t deny that my game has changed. It used to be marathon jog of dating, of driving around town and going to hotel bars and cooking dinner for girls. Now it’s a 50 meter dash. I want to be the Usain Bolt of game, of hitting girls with a fast-paced performance and capping it off with a short walk to a nearby apartment where sex is inevitable. In marathon game, when you’re building a real connection with someone, logistics aren’t a dealbreaker, but in the sprint, it’s everything. The next time I go out, I will look around the room and use all the experience I’ve gained to identify the one girl who wants to have sex with me right now. I won’t accept anything less.