I decided that I had to get my Icelandic flag no matter what. If I had to fuck a fatty, I’d put an honest effort into doing so and there would be no bitching or complaining until the deed was done. I had to release the unbearable pressure.
The only problem was that I couldn’t come up with the motivation to approach. I just didn’t want to do it. I sat at the bar for over an hour, talking on and off to the Belgian bartender. His coworker was a cute girl from the Czech Republic.
“You’re totally blind,” she said. “That girl with the curly hair was staring at you.”
“Oh, I saw that, but she’s way too stocky for me. I like my women around your height, about 110 pounds.”
“I weigh 50 kilograms—what is that in pounds?”
“Let me check.” I pulled out my cell phone and used one of the tools to convert 110 pounds to kilograms. Then I looked at her and said, “My phone says that 110 pounds is 49.9 kilograms. Soooo… what are you doing next week?”
We laughed and she playfully hit my hand. I would have loved to ravage her, but unfortunately I already had a Czech flag and my next fuck had to be Icelandic. I didn’t want to be in the dangerous position of running out of time before flag attainment.
Why was I putting such pressure on myself? One reason was that it would be a fucking travesty to be in a country for two months and not get a bang. Toss in a big dollop of ego, in that it “should” happen quickly for me since I teach this shit, and the pressure was even higher. I’ve arrived at the point where if I don’t get laid within two hours of landing in a country, I’m a phony who no one should listen to.
I did a couple of warm-up approaches and they went how they normally went. The girls were polite until we got interrupted or they ditched. I had trouble sustaining things and couldn’t transition from superficial conversation to playful teasing and flirting.
Later I saw a cute dark-haired girl with olive skin. I approached and she turned out to be Australian, on vacation with two girlfriends. I actually had more trouble understanding their accents than with the Icelandic girls.
I said, “Alright, I’m going to guess which city you guys are from just by hearing you talk.”
“Go ahead,” one said.
There was a chorus of “Oh my god, how did you know? That’s so awesome!”
It was a lucky guess.
I was accepted into the group and the other girls allowed me to isolate the cute one. We talked for quite a while until I felt a kick on my shin. I looked to my right and it was a girl who dipped on me earlier. I leaned into her and said, “You ditch when I’m talking to you but then you see me talking to another girl and now you want to chat? I see how it is.” I then ignored her because I never let a girl reject me twice.
The girlfriends of the Australian eventually came back and wanted to drag us to the louder part of the bar to dance. I went reluctantly. Once we were there, I realized I’d have to stay with those girls for the rest of the night for an opportunity to bang, because they weren’t going to separate any time soon. Just like when talking to the Czech girl, I got on myself for losing focus. I returned back to my spot. I had to get the Icelandic flag first.
Then I saw the girl I had gotten to within a few feet of my front door. I hadn’t contacted her and it had been a week, so I wasn’t surprised when she shot me a visible scowl and turned around. A player always keeps his options open, so what I had done a few days earlier to prepare for this very scenario was change one digit of her number on my phone. I knew there was a good chance I’d be desperate and horny if I ever saw her again.
I went up to her and said, “Hey, I think I know you.” She was visibly annoyed and didn’t even look me in the eyes.
“What happened? I texted you and you didn’t write back,” I said.
“You didn’t text me.”
“I definitely did.”
“Well, I didn’t get any text, so—” she said, looking away.
“Well, that’s weird. Let me see.” I pulled up her number on my phone and said, “This is your number, right?”
“Yeah that’s my num—wait! No, you got it wrong.”
“Oh, shit. I must’ve entered it incorrectly,” I said, putting on a performance that would have gotten me nominated for an Oscar. She told me the digit to change, but it didn’t register in my brain.
“Hey, I have to leave right now to go to another bar, but text me later,” she said, giving me a big smile that let me know I was back in it.
I watched her walk away and thought about my brilliant execution of the old “I put it in wrong” trick. Then I looked at my phone to correct the number, but I had forgotten which digit was wrong. Fuck, so much for brilliant execution.
I did more approaches, but it was the same shit—an okay start to a conversation that went nowhere. The girls gave me absolutely nothing to work with and it felt like I was having a monologue with myself.
Last call came. It was my fifth night out in Iceland and I had to admit I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. My game had been only marginally effective on one girl out of the thirty or so I had approached in the country so far. I was throwing everything and anything out there, hoping something would work, but none of my best prospects for the night were from Iceland. The Czech and Australian were fun girls who knew how to flirt, and I felt like I had a solid chance of getting somewhere if I had pursued them, but how could I elicit such a reaction in Icelandic girls?
It turned out I was asking the wrong question. Instead of trying to elicit a certain reaction, I had to ask myself if I needed to elicit that reaction. I assumed all girls went through the same progression of flirting and touching and so on, but could it be possible that some girls don’t need that in order to have sex?
The next thirty minutes went by quickly. First there was the tall ballerina. She was drop-dead gorgeous, but the conversation ended quickly. Then there was the girl with custom feather earrings. That conversation lasted three minutes. Then there was her friend, who actually asked me questions, but that died out, too. Then there was the friend of that friend. She barely spoke to me but did something peculiar upon leaving. As she was walking away, she gave me a long stare. I’m standing there, waving goodbye as if she was leaving on a ship, while she stared with her head craned around to face me. Did she want me to follow her? Was that a sign?
The back bar shut down, but the bartenders let me stay with them. I did a shot with the Belgian and gave him a recap of the night. Then he said, “You know, it’s funny, sometimes after work I go sit on a bench outside and some girl starts talking to me and takes me home.”
“Wait, right on the street?” I asked.
“Yeah, right here,” he laughed. “It just happens… they pick you.”
“How many times have you banged a girl that way?”
“A few times.”
“Yeah, man, it’s weird here. It’s hard to explain.”
I helped him clean for a few minutes and then went to the part of the bar that was still open. I stood next to the window and looked outside while a girl stared at me. I asked her when the bar closed.
“It closes now,” she said.
“Do you want to come with me and my friends?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
“Do you want to do cocaine?”
“I don’t mind weed, but, um—”
“Come on let’s go!” She grabbed my arm and led me outside to meet her friends. The only problem was her ugliness; she actually had a tooth missing on the bottom row. Two blocks away we stopped for a minute and I decided I just couldn’t sleep with her. She sensed it and walked away, leaving me alone on the street corner.
I looked around for a bench and found one, but concluded it was ridiculous to even try. I gave up for the night. I still hadn’t gotten a flag in a country where sex was supposed to be easy. I was a failure and a total fraud.
During the walk home, I slowed my pace to relive the night’s approaches and to identify my weaknesses, stretching a ten-minute walk into more than twice that, but nothing was coming to me. I was tired and intoxicated and just wanted to go to bed.
What I’m about to share with you next will seem like fiction. If I read it, I’d automatically assume it was false, regardless of who had written it.
I was almost within sight of my front door, walking slow with my head facing the ground. I heard a woman’s footsteps behind me, but I was so dejected that I didn’t bother to look back to see if she was attractive or not. The footsteps got louder, and then I heard a voice.
“Are you okay?”
“Who, me?” I said.
“Yeah, you. Are you sick?”
She was decent-looking, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a petite body. She wasn’t quite pretty enough to approach a few hours prior, but at six in the morning I couldn’t believe I was in the game with a bangable prospect so close to my house.
I livened up. “Oh, I’m fine. I’m just a little tired. I’m not used to staying out so late like you Icelanders.”
“Where are you from?” We stopped walking at the exact same corner where the girl from the previous week had escaped into a cab.
“I’m from the States.”
“I love foreigners!” she said, taking out a cigarette as if to say she wanted to stick around for a while.
The hardest place to pick a girl up is on the street. It’s such a pain that I don’t bother unless the nightlife sucks, so for a girl to approach me so late at night on the street was something I’d never experienced in my life. If I had seen an approach go down like that in a movie, I would have been disgusted and turned it off, yet it was happening to me.
I said, “You spoke to me in English. How did you know?”
“Oh, just by the way you dress and look. It was easy.”
We talked about Icelandic culture, American culture, and what I was doing in Iceland. She was about to finish her cigarette when I asked if she was tired.
“Not really,” she said.
“Well, do you want to have a drink with me before you go home? I live right there,” I said, pointing to my front door.
“You live right there?”
“Yes, I live right there.”
“Who are you staying with?”
“No one. I’m alone,” I said, maintaining eye contact.
“Sure, I can use a drink.”
I made her a scotch on the rocks. She took off her shoes and settled on my bed while I put on some music.
“Do you think I’m a slut?” she asked out of the blue.
“What do you mean?” I said, needing time to think.
“I mean, don’t you think it’s weird that a girl will come home with you after only a few minutes?”
“Not at all. We had a nice conversation and the natural thing to do is to share a drink and get to know each other better. You have to understand that in America things can move really quickly. If you get along with someone, anything can happen.”
She smiled and took off her jacket. “That makes sense.”
I played it slow, and by slow, I mean I didn’t join her on the bed for about two minutes. I tinkered with the music queue on my laptop and changed into shorts and a t-shirt in front of her. Only then did I join her on the bed. We kissed.
She pulled away and said, “Icelanders don’t date. We’re not like Americans. Only Americans date.”
Obviously she hasn’t been in other parts of the world. “So, what do Icelanders do?” I asked, humoring her.
“We meet at night and have sex. Then we say goodbye the next morning and run into each other some other time.”
“But how about if you like the person?”
It seemed to me that she was trying to prove that she didn’t get attached to guys. She calmed down on the tough-guy crap and her clothes started coming off. Then I heard the sweetest five words a girl could ever say: “Do you have a condom?”
There was maybe only two minutes of total kissing time before I violated her vagina. I felt so little investment in the bang that I didn’t even make the slightest effort to delay my orgasm by changing positions. I simply went directly for the nut then rolled over and fell asleep. It was the most impersonal sex I’d ever had. She might as well have been a prostitute.
In the middle of the night I got another boner, put on a condom, and jammed it back in while she was half-asleep. I came and passed out again with the condom still on my dick.
In the morning, she lingered longer than I would have suspected for someone who “doesn’t date.” I fiddled around on my laptop, hoping she would leave.
“What song are you playing?” she asked.
“This is something by Empire of the Sun,” I said.
“Oh, I’ve heard of them before. They have the same singer as MGMT.”
“No, that’s a different band.”
“But their singers are the same.”
“I assure you, they’re not.”
“No, I’m sure they are,” she insisted.
You stupid dumb bitch. I went on Wikipedia and proved her wrong, but she still remained skeptical.
“So,” I said, “do you need help getting home?”
I walked her to the door and then said, “Well, if you get horny next weekend, I’ll check the street corner at exactly six a.m. to see if you’re there.”
I gave myself a fist pump when the door closed, then went back to sleep.
The above story is from Bang Iceland, an 80-page book that teaches you how to sleep with Icelandic women during a visit to the country. It contains tourist tips, game advice, and five additional sex stories that give you all the information you need to pillage creamy white Icelandic women, with extra details not released on the blog. It’s available in both paperback and ebook. Read sample pages or learn more about the book.