More on the daily burden of horniness

Following the basic rules of peacocking*, I bought the stylish detective/moviestar hat I'd secretly always wanted to wear as an accessory (Perhaps I'm secretly metrosexual? Who knows? Who cares?). Adding that to my basic gear of suit jacket, some carefully applied eyeliner, witty repartée and the Mystery Method, I was ready to take on the nightlife. Also starring in today's arduous deed was Mike, in preparation for his madventure to India.

A quick analysis on the evening: Finnish girls seem to be generally less approached than the ladies in say, the vicinity of Mystery's homesquares. Which would suggest that the bullshit-detectors around here either aren't so sensitive, or my outfit made a bigger impact than I first thought possible. So the negs and routines intended to turn off loser-detectors needed to be tuned down a bit. And when I mean a bit, I'm talking about switching your elephant hunting rifle for the pea-shooting gun, more suited for the job of taking down the annoying badger in your garden.

Events turned interesting as I ran into the blockhead-girl from the past. She introduced us to her friends and we were quick to own the company. Resulting was two ladies and a follow-up at their place. Which was a nice change of pace, it'd been a while since I'd been invited, well, anywhere, by strangers. As the dedicated driver, though, I was getting mighty tired at this point, so we called it a night and headed home with the (t)rusty old Mazda6.

The next evening I had an cunning gameplan: Take the girls from the previous night as pivots* to gather some more (feminine) company. That plan didn't work too well though, as I was the only one bouncing around the bar talking to strangers. And even my energy levels were close to nothing at this point. Why push it, I thought, the parties aren't going anywhere. So we left to play some cards at the nearby pub. Not a real card game like poker, mind you, it was one of those fake ones where luck plays a part.

As we walked the girls home I found myself wondering if my priorities were quite correctly arranged. I mean, I'd prepared myself to sarge clubs for at least six months to find some or even any action. And I'm talking about dragging home any female creature under 300kg. But here I was, chatting and joking with this beautiful girl I'd met the day before, with no sign of mutual boredom or suicidal tendencies. Now I don't find too many people interesting, and that goes double for the ladies. But still, until this girl turns out to be a 45-year old manwoman from the failed sex change experiments in deep Siberia, I gotta say I've been in worse situations.

So my pickup-guide for losers got me a date this week. How do ya like them apples?

*peacocking = accessorizing yourself to appear different and exquisite
*pivot = a girlfriend who helps raise social value

The daily burden of horniness

Amidst the arduous deeds done by Janne

Fed up with the nutjobs I seem to end up meeting, I decided to seriously dig into the psychology behind male/female interaction. Find out what I'm doing wrong and how to fix it. A friend of mine introduced me to a book called "The Game" (Neil Strauss, 2005), which opened my eyes towards human interaction in a totally reformed perspective.

"The Game? That silly pickup-guidebook? Isn't that for losers to learn tricks on how to pick up women?" I hear you ask as a huge silent entourage. Well, to me, learning the principles behind the utmost primal group behavioural instincts, that's the interesting stuff. Besides, imagine what a nuisance it'll be to have some blogging loser snagging up all the ladies. Now that's a goal to be sought for.

Anyway, I took some of Mystery's ideas to the field. I still was quite clueless as to what I was doing, so I ended up randomly approaching just about anyone and breaking the ice with an indirect opener, designed to avoid inducing the regular fuckoff-response. Even though I didn't make any real conversation that night, the results were surprising. First of all, I noticed people were checking me out a lot more once they realized I had a higher value than the average guy. And the girls weren't even trying to get rid of me. Damned, I thought, I get this right and I'll own the clubs.

The women weren't the most interesting thing happening that night, though. We ended up with this alpha male-type in our group. He seemed to be annoyed by me not looking up to him, but rather nonchalantly making conversation with everyone. And stealing his attention. These guys derive their confidence from having other guys look up to them. It's the regular schoolyard bully-syndrome, needing a huge gang of people behind them to boost their rickety self-esteem structure. I'd imagine a dashing bloke such as myself, dressed up properly with a tad of makeup would crawl under the kill-list quite rapidly.

And there it was, the "so what the fuck is it with the eyeliner"-line. I patted the guy's bald head and asked if he had anything more original coming my way. He didn't get the hint and tried the old ganging up routine on me. Fortunately, I couldn't care less and no one was interested in a cock fight. So I returned to my approach-exercise, leaving the amog* jabbering. Later I thought if I should've told him to screw off, but I didn't see the point nor gain.

Demonstrating high value was the point of the evening. After seeing me chat up about a dozen women, the amog joined me at the bar and noted that the eyeliner must be having a positive effect since I attract so many women. He had realized I was not just some random freak he could dominate, so he tried to crawl under my wing, because it clearly would benefit him more. At that point I realized just how pathetic these bully types are.

*amog = alpha male of the group (Mystery)

To be continued..