I sat in front of my phone and stared at Dalene Kurtis's number every evening. But I couldn't bring myself to call. I wasn't confident and good-looking enough for this perfect specimen of femininity. I mean, what was I going to do on a date with her?

I remember meeting a girl named Elisa for lunch at a summer job when I was seventeen. I was so nervous, I couldn't stop my hands from shaking or my voice from quavering. And the more awkward I became, the more urn comfortable she grew. By the time the food arrived, I was too self-conscious even to chew in front of her. It was a disaster—and it wasn't even a date. So what hope did I have with the Playmate of the Year?

There's a word for this: unworthiness. I felt unworthy.

So I waited three days to call, then put it off to the next day, and then decided that calling on the weekend would sound like I had no social life, so I figured I'd call her Monday. And by then a week had passed. She'd probably forgotten about me. We'd talked for ten minutes at most, and it had been, admittedly, a soft close. I was just some weird, interesting guy she had met in an office-supply store. There was no reason this woman, who could have her choice of any man in the hemisphere, would want to see me again. So I never called.

I was my own worst enemy.

My first legitimate success didn't come until a week later. Extramask, from Mystery's workshop, dropped by my apartment in Santa Monica unannounced one Monday night. He was very excited because he'd just made a fascinating discovery.

"I always used to think jerking off and pain came hand in hand," he announced the moment I opened the door.

Extramask looked different. He had dyed and spiked his hair, pierced his ears, and bought rings, a necklace, and punk-looking clothes. He actor ally appeared cool. In his hands, he had an Anthony Robbins book, Unlimited Power. We were clearly on the same path.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Okay. I beat oft; clean up, and then pull up my underwear, right?" He walked inside and flopped onto my couch.

"I guess I follow."

"But what I didn't realize until yesterday was that I still had cum in my penis hole. So I'd go to sleep, and the cum would harden in my cockhole. Then I'd wake up in the morning and take a pee, but the pee wouldn't come out." He put a hand on his crotch and wiggled it to illustrate the point. "So I'd push harder and a chunk of jizz would fly out of my penis and smash into the wall or some shit."

"You're out of your mind." I'd never experienced or even heard of this phenomenon before. Extramask was the strange result of a repressive Catholic education and an expansive stand-up comedy ambition. I could never tell if he was experiencing serious angst or just trying to entertain me.

"It hurt like a fucker," he continued. "It was so bad I even stopped jerking off for a week because I didn't want the pain. But last night I squeezed that shit right out of the cock as soon as I blew a load."

"And now you can masturbate to your heart's delight?"

"Exactly," he said. "And I haven't even told you the good news yet."

"I thought that was the good news."

He raised his voice excitedly. "I can pee beside people now! It's all about confidence. So the stuff I learned in Mystery's workshop isn't just for chicks after all."

"That's true."

"It's used for pissing too."

We drove to La Salsa for burritos. At a table nearby, there was an attractive but slightly unkempt woman stuffing receipts into a bulging Filofax. She had long, curly brown hair; tiny ferret-like features; and immense breasts that refused to be concealed by her sweatshirt. I broke the three-second rule by about two hundred and fifty seconds but finally worked up the confidence to approach. I didn't want to look like an AFC in front of Extramask.

"I've been taking a course in handwriting analysis," I told her. "While we're waiting for our food, do you mind if I practice on you?" She looked at me skeptically but then decided I was harmless and consented. I handed her my notebook and told her to write a sentence in it.

"Interesting," I said. "Your handwriting has no slant. It's straight up and down, which means you're a self-sufficient person and don't always need to be around others to feel good about yourself."

I made sure she was nodding in agreement, and then continued. This was a technique I had learned from a book on cold-reading that exposed the truisms and body-language-reading techniques that sham psychics use. 'You don't have a great organizational system to your writing, which means that in general you're not good at keeping yourself organized and sticking to a schedule."

With each tidbit I told her, she leaned in closer and nodded her head more vigorously. She had a wonderful smile and was easy to talk to. She'd just finished a comedy class nearby, she said, and offered to read me some jokes from her notebook.

"I open my shows with this one," she said after my analysis. "I just got back from the gym, and boy are my arms tired." This was her opener. She had it on a cheat sheet that she kept in her back pocket. Picking up women, I realized, was a lot like stand-up comedy or any other performing art. They each require openers, routines, and a memorable close, plus the ability to make it all seem new every time.

She said she was spending the night at a hotel in town, so I offered to drive her there. As I dropped her off I pointed to my cheek and said, "Kiss goodbye." She kissed my cheek. Extramask kicked the back of my seat excitedly. Then I told her I had work to do, but that I'd call her for a drink when I was finished.

"Do you want to go out clubbing with Vision and me tonight?" Extra-mask asked after she left.

"No, I should see this girl."

"Well, I'm going out anyway," he said. "But when I get home afterward, I'm going to pound out the biggest batch thinking about that girl who just kissed you."

Before leaving to pick her up that night, I printed one of the forbidden Ross Jeffries patterns Grimble had e-mailed me. I was determined to make up for my recent mistake.

We went to a dive bar and had a drink. She had changed into a frayed blue sweater and saggy jeans, which made her look somewhat dumpy. Nonetheless, I was happy to be on an actual date with a woman I'd picked up. Finally, I had an opportunity to experiment with more advanced material.

"There's a way," I told her, "that you can bring better focus to your goals and your life." I felt like Grimble in T.G.I. Friday's.

"What is that?" she asked.

"It's a visualization exercise. A friend taught it to me. I don't know it by heart, but I can read it to you."

She wanted to hear it.

"Good." I said, as I unfolded the paper with the pattern on it and began reading. "Maybe you can try to remember the last time you felt happiness or pleasure. As you feel it now, where in your body are those feelings?"

She pointed to the center of her chest.

"And how good does it feel on a scale of one to ten?"


"Okay, now, as you focus in on this feeling right here, notice that you can begin now to see a color flowing from this feeling. What is the color?"

"Purple," she said, as she closed her eyes.

"Good, now what would it be like if you were to allow all of the purple flowing from that spot to fill with warmth and intensity? With each breath that you take, I want you to let the purple grow just a little bit brighter."

Her body began to relax; I could see her chest rise and fall through her sweater. I was doing it now—evoking a response like the one I had seen Ross Jeffries get at California Pizza Kitchen. I continued with the pattern more confidently, making the color expand and grow in intensity inside her as she fell deeper into trance. I imagined Twotimer mouthing the word evil in the background.

"How do you feel now, on a scale of one to ten?" I asked.

"Ten," she said. I guess it was working.

Then I had her shrink the color to a tiny purple pea that contained all the power and intensity of the pleasure she was feeling. I had her place the imaginary pea in my hand. Then I traced my hand all along her body, first at a distance and then lightly touching it.

"Notice how my touch can become like a paintbrush, transferring those colors and that sensation up your wrist, through your arm, and to the surface of the face."

To be honest, I had no idea whether this was turning her on or not. She was listening, and she seemed to be enjoying it, but she didn't start sucking my fingers like the girl in Grimble's story. In fact, I felt not only a little stupid but also lecherous using the pretext of hypnosis to touch her. I didn't like these forbidden patterns. I got into the game to learn confidence, not mind control.

I stopped and asked her what she thought. "It felt good," she said, and smiled her ferret smile. I couldn't tell whether she was humoring me or not, but I suppose most people are willing to try something new if it seems safe.

I folded the piece of paper, put it in my pocket, and drove her back to her hotel. But instead of dropping her off, I pulled into the garage. We climbed out of the car, and I followed her to her room. I was too scared to say a word, afraid she might suddenly turn on me and ask, "Why are you following me?" But she seemed to have mentally consented: It looked like we were going to have sex tonight. I couldn't believe my luck. After all that practice, I was finally getting results.

According to Mystery, it takes roughly seven hours for a woman to be comfortably led from meet to sex These seven hours can take place all in one night, or over several days: approaching and talking for an hour; speaking on the phone for an hour; meeting for drinks for two hours; talking on the phone for another hour; and then, on the next meeting, hanging out for two more hours before going to bed together.

Waiting seven hours or more is what Mystery calls solid game. But occasionally a woman either goes out with the specific intention of taking someone home, or can be easily led to sex in a shorter amount of time. Mystery calls this fool's mate. I had spent an hour with this girl at La Salsa and two hours at the bar. I was about to experience my first fool's mate.

She put the card key in the lock of her room and the green light appeared—an omen, I felt, of the night of passion to come. She opened the door, and I followed her inside. She sat on the foot of the bed—just like in the movies—and pulled her shoes off First the left, then the right. She was wearing white socks, which I found rather endearing. She flexed the toes of both feet upward, then curled them downward as she collapsed backward on the bed.

I took a step toward her, prepared to fall on her in an embrace. But suddenly the foulest smell I have ever encountered assailed my nostrils. It literally pushed me backward. It was the exact rancid-cheese smell that homeless alcoholics on New York subways have. The kind that clears the whole subway car. No matter how many steps back I took, the intensity of the smell did not diminish. It filled the entire room, every available space.

I looked at her, lying back on the bed, wanton, oblivious. It was her feet. Her feet were stinking up the room.

I had to get out of there.


Every night after outings and dates, seduction students and masters post online breakdowns of their experiences, called field reports. The goals in chronicling their adventures vary: Some want help with mistakes, others want to share new techniques, and a few just want to brag.

The day after my misadventure with the stinky-footed comedian, Extramask posted afield report online. Evidently, he had experienced his own odd adventure that same night. His time in the seduction community had already paid off. He could pee in toilet stalls next to other men; he could masturbate without hurting himself, and, now, at the age of twenty-six, he had finally lost his virginity— though not in the way he expected.

MSN GROUP Mystery's Lounge SUBJECT: Field Report—I F-closed a Girl! AUTHOR: Extramask

I, Extramask, have f-closed a girl for the first time—eliminating my virgin status (even though I didn't blow my load). I'll start from the beginning.

On Monday, I went sarging with Vision. We went to this three-story club that had about fifteen rooms, each with its own individual bar. We pretty much sarged the whole place.

Overall for the night, I was feeling out of state, and it was reflecting in my sarges. I wasn't doing as well as I normally do. I went to the second floor and found Vision. Some girl was wearing his scarf and he couldn't find her. So I was talking to him about this, and then this girl, WideFace, walked by and gave me serious eye contact. She said, "Hi."

Chicks rarely open me, so I said to her, "Hey, have you seen this guy's scarf?"

I just talked bullshit. I knew it didn't matter what I said by the look on her wide face.

After scarf chat:

WIDEFACE: You are very beautiful [spoken with a quarter Chinese/quarter

English/quarter rich Chinese/quarter Zsa Zsa Gabor accent] EXTRAMASK: Is that rights Thank you WIDEFACE: So, when did you get here2

As you can see, the conversation was lame, but I knew it was on I knew if I ran my routines on her, then I'd be going backward in the sarge

We talked about standard shit work, what we did tonight, brief history of ourselves, etc We moved to a location that wasn't as crowded (She requested the move ) As we stood around chatting, Vision gave me social proof by occasionally walking by and patting me on the shoulder and shit like that It all helps

WIDEFACE: What are you looking for tonights EXTRAMASK: (Thinking Holy Shit—I think I'm gonna get laid ) EXTRAMASK: I don't know What are you looking for? WIDEFACE: I am looking for excitement

EXTRAMASK: Yeah, Im looking for excitement too (spoken casually) WIDEFACE: Would you like to come with my friend and me2 EXTRAMASK: Sure, |ust let me tell my friend that Im leaving WIDEFACE: Okay, I'll be right over there

I went looking for Vision

EXTRAMASK: Dude, its on I think Im gonna get laid VISION: Go, go Get out of here

Okay, so I found WideFace and her Serbian girlfriend We held hands and walked to her car, which was about fifteen minutes away I was pretty nervous about the whole thing Then I calmed the fuck down

What did we talk about on the way to her car2 Nothing much, |ust lame talk about how cold it was, what I do, and other general chitchat It was so implied that this was a one-night stand We got to her car and her friend said she wanted pizza Here's what Extramask was thinking


Conveniently, WideFace forgot about the pizza and accidentally passed by the store We dropped her friend off, and I moved to the front seat I was looking at her mediocre body thinking, "This is cool I'm gonna get to touch all of that shit"

Again, the conversation in the car wasn't about sex It was lame chitchat When I previously asked her what course she was taking in school, she said, "I'll tell you later" I asked her this about three times, and each time she got more frustrated with me I didn't care It fucking bugged me that this was the only thing she wouldn't tell me

She ended up telling me when we were alone in her car It was some lamo general college course It was a nonissue Then she told me her "dream |ob " I asked her about it, even though I didn't give a shit

WIDEFACE: I want to be a police officer

EXTRAMASK: (Thinking You'd be the worst police officer on the planet You'll never be a police officer)

EXTRAMASK: Why don't you pursue your dream2

WIDEFACE: Blah blah blah, drivel drivel drivel, jibber jabber jibber jabber

We got to her place She lives in the penthouse of this big fucking condo with a roommate Her room was fucking huge She had this big Trinitron TV in it She told me to choose some music, because she was going to the bathroom for a bit I put on some hip hop channel since she said she liked that kind of stuff earlier

She came out in her pajamas I pinned her to the ground and bukkaked her! No, seriously she came out in her pa|amas and told me I could go use the bathroom. I didn't need to, but I figured this was part of the whole sex thing, so I went. Remember, brothers, I was virgin at this point— I had no clue So I went to the bathroom and just kinda stood there. I didn't wash my cock or anything The only thing I thought of doing was calling Vision to tell him that I was about to fuck her, but I thought that would be lame

So, I was thinking, should I walk out totally nude? Hmm. I decided to walk out the same way I went in, which was wearing everything except for my dress shirt Imagine if I walked out totally nude with a throbbing boner |ust pulsating in the air?

The lights were off She was lying on the bed. I walked over and started making out with her I kissed her neck and her earlobes Then she took my hand and put it on her right boobie! So I started rubbing that while kissing her. Then somehow I started rubbing her vagina (over her pajamas). She was moaning and shit. So I took my pants off, but I left my underwear on. I bet you fuckers didn't think I'd be writing this much detail, did you? So I was kissing her and rubbing her poon down. This was pretty hard. I couldn't concentrate on kissing her and rubbing her at the same time. I was doing my best though.

She started rubbing my cock, and it felt pretty cool. LOL

WIDEFACE: Fuck me Extramask. EXTRAMASK: Okay.

So I tore off my fucking underwear. I kneeled there on her bed with my rock-hard boner pulsating, throbbing—you know it.

WIDEFACE: Put on a condom. I have one. EXTRAMASK: I have one of my own.

I didn't want to use hers. I was freaked out about it for some reason, like she would sabotage it or some shit.

WIDEFACE: What brand? EXTRAMASK: Sheik.

Again, I was a virgin at this point and I didn't know how to properly put a condom on.

EXTRAMASK: Put the condom on, it turns me on. WIDEFACE: Okay.

She couldn't get the condom on, so she went to get hers. As she went and got hers, I ended up getting my own on. Then I fucked her!

I fucked her and fucked her and fucked her and fucked her and fucked her and fucked her.

About fifteen minutes into the whole thing, I was thinking, "This fucking sucks. This is fucking sex? I hate this. I want to leave." I legitimately wanted to leave. I was thinking, "I busted my fucking balls for months for this?"

I was sitting there pumping this girl missionary style for fifteen minutes getting no feeling.

She was all moaning and shit, and I'm just pumping away like a tool. So I decided to move her around and try some positions—just like in the porno movies!

I had her on top. I had always fantasized about this. So she was on top of me and I was thinking, "Holy shit, this fucking hurts. My cock is gonna fucking snap off."

After about two minutes, I changed positions because it hurt so much. I got her into doggy-style position. I thought this would be interesting. So I had her from behind and I was trying to find the slot, but I couldn't. I was sitting there fishing around her ass and upper legs looking for the entry. It was horrible, just like the sex. I couldn't find the hole. She started to whine because of the long delay. I was thinking, "You're whining? Calm it down, China—seriously." I wasn't getting any arousal out of this deal.

I got it in for two strokes, then it popped out. Then she started whining again. So I switched positions and, for some reason, I went to the her-on-top position again. Dumb move, Extramask. I feared my cock would break right the fuck off. After about four minutes of that, we went back to missionary, and I slammed her hard.

Hey, she said she wanted it.

I was saying shit like:

'You like that?"

"Say my name!"

'You like it hard?"

Keep in mind, I was bored out of my mind during this whole experience. I was pretty disappointed. LOL

After thirty minutes:

WIDEFACE: Change your condom.

EXTRAMASK: (Thinking: I guess this is something you do after a half hour of sex. But overall I was pissed that the sex wasn't over.)

So I took my condom off and opened a new one.

WIDEFACE: What are you doing?

EXTRAMASK: I'm putting on another condom.


EXTRAMASK: I thought you said you wanted me to?


I didn't care. I was happy with that.

So then we just lay naked together and kissed a bit. She wanted to cuddle. I didn't really want to, but I did.

This was a mistake on my part. After sex I should have ripped my condom off, sat on her bed, and jerked off until completion. I should have wacked my load all over the place, her face, and her Trinitron TV set.

WIDEFACE: Lie down and rest for five minutes. Then I will call a cab. EXTRAMASK: What? Five minutes? Why are you trying to rush me out of here?

WDEFACE: No, I didn't mean it like that. Its just good to rest after sex for five minutes. EXTRAMASK: What's with the five minutes thing? WDEFACE: No. Just relax. EXTRAMASK: But why five minutes?

Five minutes later she called a cab. She was on hold with the cab company, and she started getting all frustrated because she had to wait, which was annoying. So I got ready to leave.

I chatted with her a bit more. She said she noticed in the club that I had lots of energy. She liked it.

WDEFACE: What are you going to do now? [It was 3:30 AM.) EXTRAMASK: I'm going to another club to hook up with my friends. [Igot even more energetic. I jumped around.)

She totally didn't like that I said I was going out again. And I really wasn't. I just lied to her. I did it because I was pissed that she was trying to get rid of me so quickly. Overall, I wanted to leave her place immediately—I just wanted to leave on my terms.

So the cab arrived and I left her place. We kissed about three times before my exit.

I didn't get her number because:

1. I didn't want to fuck her again.

2. It was obvious this was a one-night stand.

Just to be on the safe side, I made sure I wrote down her exact address when I left—just in case I forgot shit there. I would rather have it than not have it.

So that's it. I stuck my junk in a chick. I lost my virginity. The sex was horrible. I felt a bit dirty and used after the act.

Overall, I don't feel any different compared to when I was a virgin. However, I believe this will help me subconsciously in my sarges. I mean, I've had sex now. I know this. So from here on in, any girl I chat with, I'll be even more like, "Who gives a fuck? I don't need what you got."



How do you kiss a girl?

The distance between you and her is just three inches. It's not a long stretch, by any standard. You barely even have to move your body to bridge the gap. Yet it is the most difficult three inches a man has to move in his life. It is the moment when the male must concede all the privileges that are his birthright; put his pride, ego, esteem, and hard work aside; and just hopehope that she doesn't deflect it with her cheek or, even worse, the let's-just-be-friends speech.

As I went out every night training to wing Mystery's workshop, I soon developed a routine that worked—at least to a point. Rejection wasn't an option. I knew how to open a group, respond to most contingencies, and leave with a phone number and a plan to meet again.

Every time I went home, I reviewed the events of the night, looking for parts of a sarge that I could have done better. If the approach didn't work, I thought of ways to improve it—angles of advance, backturns, takeaways, time constraints. If I didn't get the phone number, I didn't blame it on the girl for being cold or bitchy, as so many other sargers did. I blamed myself and analyzed every word, gesture, and reaction until I pinpointed a tactical error.

I had read in a book called Introducing NLP that there is no such thing as failure, only learning lessons. I wanted the learning lessons to take place in my head, so that in the field I was flawless. I would have to prove myself to Mystery's students, just as Sin had proven himself to me. And one public failure would discredit everything. The students would post reviews saying that Style was an imposter, a joke.

But there was still one problem I couldn't work through. Though an opener, a neg, and a demonstration of higher value were enough to get anyone's phone number, I had no idea what to do next. No one had taught me.

I mean, I technically knew the words of the Mystery kiss-close: "Would you like to kiss me?" But I was too petrified to actually speak them. After spending so much time bonding with a girl (whether for a half hour in a club or several hours at our next meeting), I was too scared to break the rapport and trust I had built. Unless she gave me a clear indication that she was sexually interested in me, I felt like trying to kiss her would disappoint her and she'd think I was just like all the other guys.

It was such stupid AFC thinking. There was still a nice guy lurking in my head that I had to get rid of But, unfortunately, there wasn't going to be time to do so before Belgrade.


I'd learned several sleights of hand, a principle of magic called equivoque, the fundamentals of rune reading, and a way to make lit cigarettes disappear. It had been the most productive plane trip of my life. And now Mystery and I were in Belgrade at probably the worst time of the year. Ice and slush lay heavy on the street as Marko drove us to his apartment in a silver 1987 Mercedes that had a habit of stalling every time he put it into second gear.

Mystery, hair unwashed and held back in a greasy ponytail, fumbled through his backpack in the front seat, producing a long black overcoat. He had cut away the bottom third of the coat and sewn in its place black fabric covered with stars. It looked like something one would wear to a Renaissance fair. Mystery had made his ring himself, too, painting an eyeball on the plastic surface. He was clearly more of a geek than I had ever been. His greatest illusion was transforming himself into a good-looking player every night he went out.

"You're going to have to shave your head," he said as he looked at me.

"No thanks. What if I have a strange-shaped skull, or weird marks on my head like my dad?"

"Look at you. You're wearing glasses because your vision sucks. You have a hat on to cover a huge bald spot. You're ghostly white. And you look like you haven't seen the inside of a gym since grade school. You're doing well because you're smart and you're a fast learner. But looks count too. You're Style, so start being Style. Just snap: shave your head, get Lasik, join

He was a very persuasive geek.

He turned to Marko: "Is there a barbershop around here?"

Unfortunately, there was. Marko pulled in front of a small building, and we walked inside to find an elderly Serbian man presiding over an empty shop. Mystery sat me in a chair, told Marko to instruct the barber to remove my tumbleweeds, and then supervised the procedure to make sure the barber shaved down to the skull.

"Balding is not a choice, but bald is a choice," he said. "If anyone asks you why your head is shaved, tell them, 'I used to have it down past my ass, but then I realized I was covering up my best feature.'" He laughed. "Or you could say, 'Well, most Greco-Roman wrestlers shave their heads." I made a mental note to add both replies to my cheat sheet.

When the barber finished, I looked in the mirror and saw a chemo patient staring back at me.

"It looks good," Mystery said. "Let's see if there's a tanning salon around here. We'll have you looking like a thug in no time."

"Okay. But I'm not getting Lasik in Serbia."

My first thought once I was shaven-headed and tan was: What took me so long? I looked much better. I had transformed from a 5 to a 6.5 on the attractiveness scale. This trip was turning out to be a good idea.

Marko looked as if he could use a makeover himself. A big-boned six foot three, he was much stockier than most Serbians, with an olive complexion and the out-of-proportion head of a Peanuts character. He wore an overcoat that was one size too big, a thick gray Brooks Brothers sweater with flecks of white, and a cream-colored turtleneck that actually made him look like a turtle.

Marko had been unable to live his dream of being a high-society socialite after graduating from college in America, so he'd moved to a smaller pond, Serbia, where his father was a well-known artist.

He drove us to his one-bedroom apartment, which contained only a cot and a twin bed. Because there was no sleeping bag or even a couch, we agreed to take turns sharing the larger bed.

While Mystery showered, Marko pulled me aside.

"What are you doing with this guy?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, he's totally superficial. We went to the Latin School of Chicago. We went to Vassar College. This is not the kind of guy who can fit in at these places. He's not one of us."

"I know. I know. You're right. But trust me, this guy will change your life."

"Well," Marko said. "We'll see. I met a girl last month who's different than all the rest, and I want to do it right. So make sure Mystery doesn't ruin it with all his pickup tricks and embarrass me."

Marko hadn't dated a single woman since he'd moved to Belgrade. But a few months ago, through friend of his, he'd met a girl named Goca, and he was sure she was the one. He took her out on dates, bought her flowers, treated her to dinner, and dropped her off at home afterward, like a perfect gentleman.

"Have you slept with her yet?" I asked him.

"No. I haven't even kissed her."

"Dude, you're behaving like a total AFC. One day a guy is going to walk up to her in a club, say, 'Do you think magic spells work?' and take her home. She wants an adventure. She wants to have sex All girls do."

"Well," Marko said, "she's different from all those girls. People have more class here than they do in LA."

The PUAs have a name for this: They call it one-itis. It's a disease AFCs get: They become obsessed with a girl they're neither dating nor sleeping with, and then start acting so needy and nervous around her that they end up driving her away. The cure for one-itis, PUAs like to say, is to go out and have sex with a dozen other girls-and then see if this flower is still so special.


The prop bag I wore to the Belgrade workshop was black, Armani, and the size of a hardcover novel, with a single shoulder strap so that it could be slung artfully across my torso. With so many magic tricks, gimmicks, and other tools of the trade necessary to use in the field, it was impossible to fit everything into just four pants pockets. So nearly every PUA in the game had a prop bag. The contents of mine were as follows:


No matter how good your game is, you're not going to get a kiss-close if your breath reeks.

1 PACK OF CONDOMS, TROJAN, LUBRICATED Necessary not only in case you have sex but also for the psychological boost of knowing you're prepared to.


For writing down phone numbers, taking notes, performing magic tricks, and analyzing handwriting.

Continue reading here: Box Of Tic Tacs

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