By the third week of my recent DC visit, I fully internalized the horror that became of the city’s night scene. While there were glimpses of pretty girls if you happened to step foot in the right bar on the right day at the right hour, there definitely was a decrease in attractive women who were open to being approached or even capable of having a conversation with a new man. It didn’t help that there was an increase in large mixed-set groups that were hostile to strangers.
On a Friday night a friend and I bar hopped to find a venue that was tolerable. Our fourth try was successful—we found a rooftop bar where the ratio was 1:1. I was actually getting eye contact from most of the women present, an early Christmas miracle in DC. Even though the scene was worse than what I was used to in Eastern Europe, I couldn’t contain my excitement, and it didn’t take long for a petite girl to give me unambiguous eye contact. I approached her without difficulty.
Now I must state that her hair was short, barely reaching the bottom of her neck. I like to think of myself as having low thirst, but DC is a harsh environment and I had few pans simmering on the stove. I decided to be a touch looser with my standards.
Her face was plain and pale, without any makeup, but it was symmetrical and free of deformities. The best part was her body. In a city of mostly overweight people, she was tiny, on par to what I am used to in Eastern Europe. It also helped that she was young (23). I decided to pursue the interaction with full vigor.
There was some natural chemistry between us, helped by our “foreign” status, with her being from England and me a tourist in my own city. My clown game was received well and I successfully passed her tests of my masculinity. For example, she asked me what I did for a living. I replied, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t talk about it.”
“Are you some type of spy?” she asked.
“That’s not something I can talk about.”
“If you don’t tell me what you do, I’m going to leave.”
“You are a free woman and so can do what you wish, but unfortunately I am unable to share details of my employment with someone I hardly know and don’t yet trust. What do you do?”
The matter was dropped with me gaining value in her eyes as a possible criminal or secret government agent.
Another test she dropped on me was, “I can’t kiss you in public.” After accessing my memory stores for the optimum answer based on 13 years of running game, I replied with, “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t want to kiss you.” This only encouraged her further and she attempted to tease me by narrowing the space between us. By the time we hit one hour of interaction time, I felt like I was playing a video game, with hurdles that were not especially hard but nonetheless required some quick thinking.
An additional test was when she inquired what I wanted to do at the moment. “Do you want to have sex?” she asked.
I said, “Sex? No I just want to go for a walk. I don’t like crowded places. Why don’t we step outside for a few minutes and then come back?”
“Okay but I have to tell my friends. I won’t take my jacket so we’re forced to come back.”
“You are free to come back, but it is a little bit chilly outside so it would be a shame if you caught a cold.”
“You’re right, I’ll take my jacket.”
We walked to a quiet bar where things got more intimate. My boner was operating at warp speed power and I was indeed ready to have sex. As if reading my mind, she said, “I’m unable to have sex tonight.”
“Unable” is a very specific word. “So you’re on your period,” I replied.
“Yes! How did you know?”
Instinct, young girl, instinct. I gave her my whole “I’ll drink the blood” spiel but she didn’t seem too keen, and for the first time in my life I seriously wondered if I really wanted to fuck a hole that was bloody. Instead, she suggested we “cuddle” at my apartment. Was this plausible deniability for her to bang me or did she really want to cuddle? There was only one way to find out, but before we left for my apartment, she said a couple things which gave me pause.
“Right now I just want to have fun since I’m young,” she said, “but one day I want to fall in love and make babies.”
My brain’s response: “She is on the cock centrifuge. When she’s tired of getting stuffed by men who don’t want to have a relationship with her, she will ensnare a hopeless dweeb. At least we’re in line to be one of the random cocks.”
My response to her: “I think it’s important to explore your sexuality while you’re still young to find out what you want out of life before you make any large commitments.”
She said: “I am a feminist. Like, there is still the wage gap issue where women make only 77% of men.”
My brain’s response: “We’re selling out if we don’t object to this, but then again that body is nice.”
My response to her: “I see.”
She said: “The problem with guys these days is that they are too nice. They don’t know how to be aggressive. They don’t know how to read body language or know when a girl really wants to do more.”
My brain’s response: “Give her a fake number, fake job, fake everything!”
My response to her: “A lot of people these days have lost sexual instinct, both women and men.”
I let the feminist remark slide. I did not object to it and I did not walk away, all because I was horny at that moment, strongly wanted to get laid, and was close to making it happen. It’s quite easy to make proclamations of not having sex with feminists when you’re in Eastern Europe and there aren’t any feminists around, but when you meet the feminist and she gives you a throbbing boner, those intellectual objections go out the window and you revert back to your animalistic state. My brain, however, would not let me get away with this act of hypocrisy before the night was over.
We took a taxi to my place and dare I say she was a bit affectionate, much more than a typical American girl. I’m not surprised because my experiences with British girls have not been so bad, and while my sample size is tiny, I like their sense of humor, their accent, and the ease at which they spread their legs.
My apartment was acceptable to her. She called it a “little bachelor pad,” the biggest compliment she gave me all night. She then made it clear where the interaction was going by grabbing me and kissing passionately. I grabbed a towel and said, “I will leave this beside the bed.” She let me take off her shirt and bra. She massaged my cock through my jeans and unbuckled my belt. Nine times out of ten with such de-robing, sex is going to occur. My brain geared up for this, but then she suddenly stopped and said, “No I can’t. I’m on my period. If we were lovers I would do it.” I tried to smooth talk my way into accessing her bloody vagina but it did not work. Then I moved to plan B by guiding her head to my crotch. She didn’t get the hint and tried to curl up next to me like she wanted to sleep. “Let’s cuddle,” she said.
She did not understand what it’s like to be a man and experience the sexual torture of being fully aroused while laying next to a half naked woman without any possibility of release. A decade prior, I would endure the night, get her number, and wait four days for a date, but I wanted an orgasm right then. I didn’t want a relationship with her and I didn’t want to date her. I also had already bought her one alcoholic beverage (ten dollar investment). There is nothing about her that is superior to my prior pussy average, and I do value a good night’s sleep more than a possibly future sexual encounter a few days later, with absolutely no guarantee she’d show up. So my brain made me say the following: “But your mouth isn’t bleeding.”
She exploded in anger, immediately getting dressed and calling me “weird.” She made a comment that she had been with “many guys” but not one said such a horrible thing. Telling her to “calm down” did quite the opposite, and she left abruptly. Stating my sexual needs in a crude manner caused her to lose all attraction she had for me. I shrugged my shoulders, masturbated, then had a pleasant slumber without any ache in my testicles, without any anxiety of having had sex with an emotional feminist who may have some slut guilt and revise the night’s events the morning after in front of the magistrate (or when she writes about it for xojane.com).
I wasn’t mad at this British girl. From her perspective, she did the right thing. She has tons of options in the city with men who will “cuddle” with her all night without caring if they get laid or not, who won’t request her delicate lips on his genitalia. There are men who will wait three or four dates to have sex with her, so I will be the first to admit that in DC she has high value. While she did have attraction for me, there was no reason to forgive my offensive wow-just-wow statement because the very next night she could find another man higher than me in attractiveness who makes her aroused and puts her sexual needs before his own.
In the end, I was disappointed in myself. I tolerated pronouncements that went against my values just so I could get laid, but both my behavior and hers were logical based on the environment we were in. The supply of pretty girls are lacking so a man will lower his standards. Guys are not lacking so a woman will raise hers, expecting a man to—more or less—be perfect, without making her feel uncomfortable at any point in the interaction.
I would fear living in DC for the long term, not just because it would decrease my overall happiness, but because of what it would reduce me to. After a night like this, I couldn’t help but recall what it has reduced me to in the past.